18565	----	A LITTLE SWISS SOJOURN BY W. D. HOWELLS ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 1893 ILLUSTRATIONS _Tourists at Montreux_ (frontispiece) _Sign of the White Cross Inn_ _Entrance to Villeneuve_ _Post-office, Villeneuve_ _The Castle of Chillon_ _A Railroad Servant_ _A Bit of Villeneuve_ _The Prisoner of Chillon_ _One of the Fountains_ _"They helped to make the hay in the marshes"_ _Cattle at the Fountains_ _Washing Clothes in the Lake_ _Flirtation at the Fountains_ _The Wine-press_ _Castle of Aigle_ _The Market at Vevay_ _The Market, Vevay--A Bargain before the Notary_ _Germans at Montreux_ _Church Terrace, Montreux_ _Tour up the Lake_ A LITTLE SWISS SOJOURN First Paper [Illustration: _Sign of the White Cross Inn_] I Out of eighty or ninety days that we passed in Switzerland there must have been at least ten that were fair, not counting the forenoons before it began to rain, and the afternoons when it cleared up. They said that it was an unusually rainy autumn, and we could well believe it; yet I suspect that it rains a good deal in that little corner of the Canton Vaud even when the autumn is only usually rainy. We arrived late in September and came away early in December, and during that time we had neither the fevers that raged in France nor the floods that raged in Italy. We Vaudois were rather proud of that, but whether we had much else to be proud of I am not so certain. Of course we had our Alpine scenery, and when the day was fair the sun came loafing up over the eastern mountains about ten o'clock in the morning, and lounged down behind the western tops about half-past three, after dinner. But then he left the eternal snows of the Dent-du-Midi all flushed with his light, and in the mean time he had glittered for five hours on the "_bleu impossible_" of the Lake of Geneva, and had shown in a hundred changing lights and shadows the storied and sentimentalized towers of the Castle of Chillon. Solemn groups and ranks of Swiss and Savoyard Alps hemmed the lake in as far as the eye could reach, and the lateen-sailed craft lent it their picturesqueness, while the steamboats constantly making its circuit and stopping at all the little towns on the shores imparted a pleasant modern interest to the whole effect, which the trains of the railroad running under the lee of the castle agreeably heightened. II The Swiss railroad was always an object of friendly amusement with the children, who could not get used to having the trains started by a small Christmas-horn. They had not entirely respected the English engine, with the shrill falsetto of its whistle, after the burly roar of our locomotives; and the boatswain's pipe of the French conductor had considerably diminished the dignity of a sister republic in their minds; but this Christmas-horn was too droll. That a grown man, much more imposingly uniformed than an American general, should blow it to start a real train of cars was the source of patriotic sarcasm whenever its plaintive, reedy note was heard. We had come straight through from London, taking the sleeping-car at Calais, and rolling and bounding over the road towards Basle in a fashion that provoked scornful comparisons with the Pullman that had carried us so smoothly from Boston to Buffalo. It is well to be honest, even to our own adulation, and one must confess that the sleeping-car of the European continent is but the nervous and hysterical daughter of the American mother of sleeping-cars. Many express trains are run without any sleeper, and the charges for berths are ludicrously extravagant--five dollars apiece for a single night. It is not strange that the native prefers to doze away the night bolt-upright, or crouched into the corners of his repellently padded carriage, rather than toss upon the expensive pallet of the sleeping-car, which seems hung rather with a view to affording involuntary exercise than promoting dear-bought slumber. One advantage of it is that if you have to leave the car at five o'clock in the morning, you are awake and eager to do so long before that time. At the first Swiss station we quitted it to go to Berne, which was one of the three points where I was told by the London railway people that my baggage would be examined. I forget the second, but the third was Berne, and now at Delemont I looked about for the customs officers with the anxiety which the thought of them always awakens in the human heart, whether one has meant to smuggle or not. Even the good conscience may suffer from the upturning of a well-packed trunk. But nobody wanted to examine our baggage at Delemont, or at the other now-forgotten station; and at Berne, though I labored hard in several dialects with all the railway officials, I could not get them to open one of our ten trunks or five valises. I was so resolute in the matter that I had some difficulty to keep from opening them myself and levying duty upon their contents. III It was the first but not the last disappointment we suffered in Switzerland. A friend in London had congratulated us upon going to the Vaud in the grape season. "For thruppence," he said, "they will let you go into the vineyards and eat all the grapes you can hold." Arrived upon the ground, we learned that it was six francs fine to touch a grape in the vineyards; that every field had a watch set in it, who popped up between the vines from time to time, and interrogated the vicinity with an eye of sleepless vigilance; and that small boys of suspicious character, whose pleasure or business took them through a vineyard, were obliged to hold up their hands as they passed, like the victims of a Far Western road agency. As the laws and usages governing the grape culture run back to the time of the Romans, who brought the vine into the Vaud, I was obliged to refer my friend's legend of cheapness and freedom to an earlier period, whose customs we could not profit by. In point of fact, I could buy more grapes for thruppence in London than in the Vaud; and the best grapes we had in Switzerland were some brought from Italy, and sold at a franc a pound in Montreux to the poor foreigners who had come to feast upon the wealth of the local vineyards. It was the rain that spoiled the grapes, they said at Montreux, and wherever we complained; and indeed the vines were a dismal show of sterility and blight, even to the spectator who did not venture near enough to subject himself to a fine of six francs. The foreigners had protected themselves in large numbers by not coming, and the natives who prosper upon them suffered. The stout lady who kept a small shop of ivory carvings at Montreux continually lamented their absence to me: "Die Fremden kommen nicht, dieses regenes Wetter! Man muss Geduldt haben! Die Fremden kommen nicht!" She was from Interlaken, and the accents of her native dialect were flavored with the strong waters which she seemed always to have been drinking, and she put her face close up to that of the good, all-sympathizing Amerikaner who alone patronized her shop, and talked her sorrows loudly into him, so that he should not misunderstand. [Illustration: _Entrance to Villeneuve_] IV But one must not be altogether unreasonable. When we first came in sight of the lake the rain lifted, and the afternoon sun gushed out upon a world of vineyards. In other words, the vines clothe all the little levels and vast slopes of the mountain-sides as far up as the cold will let the grapes grow. There is literally almost no other cultivation, and it is a very pretty sight. On top of the mountains are the chalets with their kine, and at a certain elevation the milk and the wine meet, while below is the water of the lake, so good to mix with both. I do not know that the Swiss use it for that purpose, but there are countries where something of the sort would be done. When the train put us down at Villeneuve, among railway people as indifferent as our own at country stations, and much crosser and more snubbing, the demand for grapes began with the party who remained with the baggage, while a party of the second part went off to find the _pension_ where we were to pass the next three months. The grape-seekers strolled up the stony, steaming streets of the little town, asking for grapes right and left, at all the shops, in their imperfect French, and returned to the station with a paper of gingerbread which they had bought at a jeweller's. I do not know why this artist should have had it for sale, but he must have had it a long time, for it was densely inhabited. Afterwards we found two shops in Villeneuve where they had the most delicious _petits gâteaux_, fresh every day, and nothing but the mania for unattainable grapes prevented the first explorers from seeing them. In the mean time the party of the second part had found the pension--a pretty stone villa overlooking the lake, under the boughs of tall walnut-trees, on the level of a high terrace. Laurel and holly hemmed it in on one side, and southward spread a pleasant garden full of roses and imperfectly ripening fig-trees. In the rear the vineyards climbed the mountains in irregular breadths to the belt of walnuts, beyond which were only forests and pastures. I heard the roar of the torrent that foamed down the steep; the fountain plashed under the group of laurels at the kitchen door; the roses dripped all round the house; and the lake lapped its shores below. Decidedly there was a sense of wet. The house, which had an Italian outside covered with jasmine and wistarias, confessed the North within. There was a huge hall stove, not yet heated, but on the hearth of the pleasant salon an acceptable fire of little logs was purring. Beside it sat a lady reading, and at a table her daughter was painting flowers. A little Italian, a very little English, a good deal of French, helped me to understand that mademoiselle the landlady was momentarily absent, that the season was exceptionally bad, and that these ladies were glad of the sunshine which we were apparently bringing with us. They spoke with those Suissesse voices, which are the sweetest and most softly modulated voices in the world, whether they come from the throat of peasant or of lady, and can make a transaction in eggs and butter in the market-place as musical as chanted verse. To the last these voices remained a delight, and the memory of them made most Italian women's voices a pang when we heard them afterwards. V At first we were the only people in the house besides these Swiss ladies and their son and brother, but later there came two ladies from Strasburg, and with them our circle was complete at the table and around the evening lamp in the drawing-room. I am bound to say for the circle, outside of ourselves, that it was a cultivated and even intellectual company, with traits that provoked unusual sympathy and interest. But those friendly people are quite their own property, and I have no intention of compelling them to an involuntary celebrity in these pages, much as I should like to impart their quality to my narrative. In the Strasbourgeoises we encountered again that pathos of an insulted and down-trodden nationality which had cast its melancholy over our Venice of Austrian days. German by name and by origin, these ladies were intensely French in everything else. They felt themselves doomed to exile in their own country, they abhorred their Prussian masters, and they had no name for Bismarck that was bad enough. Our Swiss, indeed, hated him almost as bitterly. Their sympathies had been wholly with the French, and they could not repress a half-conscious dread of his principle of race nationality, which would be fatal to Switzerland, one neither in race nor religion, but hitherto indivisible in her ancient freedom. While he lives this fear can never die in Swiss hearts, for they know that if he will, he can, in a Europe where he is the only real power. Mademoiselle sat at the chief place of the table, and led the talk, imparting to it a flavor of humorous good sense very characteristic. The villa had been her father's country-house, and it abounded in a scholar's accumulations of old books in divers languages. She herself knew literature widely in the better way that it was once read. The memories of many years spent in Florence made common Italian ground for us, and she spoke English perfectly. As I wish to give a complete notion of our household, so far as it may be honestly set down, I will add that the domestics were three. Two of them, the cook and the housemaid, were German Swiss, of middle class, who had taken service to earn what money they could, but mainly to learn French, after the custom of their country, where the young people of a French or Italian canton would in like manner resort to a German province. The third was Louis, a native, who spoke his own _patois_, and found it sufficient for the expression of his ideas. He was chiefly employed about the grounds; in-doors his use was mostly to mount the peculiar clogs used for the purpose, and rub the waxed floors till they shone. These floors were very handsome, of hard woods prettily inlaid; and Louis produced an effect upon them that it seemed a pity to mar with muddy shoes. I do not speak of Alexis, the farmer, who appeared in domestic exigencies; but my picture would be incomplete without the portrait of Poppi. Poppi was the large house-dog, who in early life had intended to call himself Puppy, but he naturally pronounced it with a French accent. He was now far from young, but he was still Poppi. I believe he was the more strictly domestic in his habits because an infirmity of temper had betrayed him into an attack upon a neighbor, or a neighbor's dog, and it was no longer safe for him to live much out-of-doors. The confinement had softened his temper, but it had rendered him effeminate and self-indulgent. He had, in fact, been spoiled by the boarders, and he now expected to be present at meals, and to be fed with choice morsels from their plates. As the cold weather came on he developed rheumatism, and demanded our sympathy as well as our hospitality. If Elise in waiting on table brushed him with her skirts, he set up a lamentable cry, and rushed up to the nearest guest, and put his chin on the table for his greater convenience in being comforted. At a dance which we had one evening Poppi insisted upon being present, and in his efforts to keep out of the way and in the apprehensions he suffered he abandoned himself to moans and howls that sometimes drowned the piano. Yet Poppi was an amiable invalid, and he was on terms of perfect friendship with the cats, of which there were three generations--Boulette, Boulette's mother, and Boulette's grandmother. They were not readily distinguishable from one another, and I really forget which it was that used to mount to the dining-room window without, and paw the glass till we let her in; but we all felt that it was a great accomplishment, and reflected credit upon us. VI The vineyard began immediately behind the laurels that enclosed the house, and at a little distance, where the mountain began to lift from the narrow plateau, stood the farmer's stone cottage, with the stables and the wine-vaults under the same roof. Mademoiselle gave us grapes from her vines at dinner, and the walnut-trees seemed public property, though I think one was not allowed to knock the nuts off, but was only free of the windfalls. A little later they were all gathered, and on a certain night the girls and the young men of the village have the custom to meet and make a frolic of cracking them, as they used in husking corn with us. Then the oil is pressed out, and the commune apportions each family its share, according to the amount of nuts contributed. This nut oil imparts a sentiment to salad which the olive cannot give, and mushrooms pickled in it become the most delicious and indigestible of all imaginable morsels. I have had dreams from those pickled mushrooms which, if I could write them out, would make my fortune as a romantic novelist. The Swiss breakfast was our old friend the Italian breakfast, with butter and Gruyère cheese added to the milk and coffee. We dined at one o'clock, and at six or seven we supped upon a meal that had left off soup and added tea, in order to differ from the dinner. For all this, with our rooms, we paid what we should have paid at a New Hampshire farm-house; that is, a dollar a day each. But the air was such as we could not have got in New Hampshire for twice the money. It restored one completely every twenty-four hours, and it not only stimulated but supported one throughout the day. Our own air is quite as exciting, but after stirring one up, it leaves him to take the consequences, whereas that faithful Swiss air stood by and helped out the enterprise. I rose fresh from my forenoon's writing and eager to walk; I walked all afternoon, and came in perfectly fresh to supper. One can't speak too well of the Swiss air, whatever one says of the Swiss sun. [Illustration: _Post-office, Villeneuve_] VII Whenever it came out, or rather whenever the rain stopped, we pursued our explorations of the neighborhood. It had many interesting features, among which was the large Hôtel Byron, very attractive and almost empty, which we passed every day on our way to the post-office in Villeneuve, and noted two pretty American shes in eye-glasses playing croquet amid the wet shrubbery, as resolutely cheerful and as young-manless as if they had been in some mountain resort of our own. In the other direction there were simple villas dropped along the little levels and ledges, and vineyards that crept to the road's edge everywhere. There was also a cement factory, busy and prosperous; and to make us quite at home, a saw-mill. Above all, there was the Castle of Chillon; and one of the first Sundays after our arrival we descended the stone staircased steps of our gardened terrace, dripping with ivy and myrtle, and picked our steps over the muddy road to the old prison-fortress, where, in the ancient chapel of the Dukes of Savoy, we heard an excellent sermon from the _pasteur_ of our parish. The castle was perhaps a bow-shot from our pension: I did not test the distance, having left my trusty cross-bow and cloth-yard shafts in Boston; but that is my confirmed guess. In point of time it is much more remote, for, as the reader need not be reminded, it was there, or some castle like it, almost from the beginning, or at least from the day when men first began to fight for the possession of the land. The lake-dwellers are imagined to have had some sort of stronghold there; and it is reasonably supposed that Romans, Franks, and Burgundians had each fortified the rock. Count Wala, cousin of Charlemagne, and grandson of Charles Martel, was a prisoner in its dungeon in 830 for uttering some words too true for an age unaccustomed to the perpetual veracity of our newspapers. Count Wala, who was also an abbot, had the misfortune to speak of Judith of Bavaria as "the adulterous woman," and when her husband, Louis le Debonair, came back to the throne after the conspiracy of his sons, the lady naturally wanted Wala killed; but Louis compromised by throwing him into the rock of Chillon. This is what Wala's friends say: others say that he was one of the conspirators against Louis. At any rate, he was the first great captive of Chillon, which was a political prison as long as political prisoners were needed in Switzerland. That is now a good while ago. [Illustration: _The Castle of Chillon_] Chillon fell to the princes of the house of Savoy in 1033, and Count Peter, whom they nicknamed Little Charlemagne for his prowess and his conquests, built the present castle, after which the barons of the Pays de Vaud and the Duke of Cophingen (whoever he may have been) besieged Peter in it. Perhaps they might have taken him. But the wine was so good, and the pretty girls of the country were so fond of dancing! They forgot themselves in these delights. All at once Little Charlemagne was upon them. He leaves his force at Chillon, and goes by night to spy out the enemy at Villeneuve, returning at dawn to his people. He came back very gayly; when they saw him so joyous, "What news?" they asked. "Fine and good," he answers; "for, by God's help, if you will behave yourselves well, the enemy is ours." To which they cried with one voice, "Seigneur, you have but to command." They fell upon the barons and the duke, and killed a gratifying number of their followers, carrying the rest back to Chillon, where Peter "used them not as prisoners, but feasted them honorably. Much was the spoil and great the booty." Afterwards Peter lost the castle, and in retaking it he launched fifty thousand shafts and arrows against it. "The castle was not then an isolated point of rock as we now see it, but formed part of a group of defences." VIII Two or three centuries later--how quickly all those stupid, cruel, weary years pass under the pen!--the spirit of liberty and protestantism began to stir in the heads and hearts of the burghers of Berne and of Geneva. A Savoyard, Francis de Bonivard, prior of St. Victor, sympathized with them. He was noble, accomplished, high-placed, but he loved freedom of thought and act. Yet when a deputation of reformers came to him for advice, he said: "It is to be wished, without doubt, that the evil should be cast out of our midst, provided that the good enters. You burn to reform our Church; certainly it needs it; but how can you reform it, deformed as you are? You complain that the monks and priests are buffoons; and you are buffoons; that they are gamblers and drunkards, and you are the same. Does the hate you bear them come from difference or likeness? You intend to overthrow our clergy and replace them by evangelical ministers. That would be a very good thing in itself, but a very bad thing for you, because you have no happiness but in the pleasures the priests allow you. The ministers wish to abolish vice, but there is where you will suffer most, and after having hated the priests because they are so much like you, you will hate their successors because they are so little like you. You will not have had them two years before you will put them down. Meanwhile, if you trust me, do one of two things: if you wish to remain deformed, as you are, do not wonder that others are like you; or, if you wish to reform them, begin by showing them how." [Illustration: _A Railroad Servant_] This was very odd language to use to a deputation of reformers, but I confess that it endears the memory of Bonivard to me. He was a thoroughly charming person, and not at all wise in his actions. Through mere folly he fell twice into the hands of his enemies, suffered two years' imprisonment, and lost his priory. To get it back he laid siege to it with six men and a captain. The siege was a failure. He trusted his enemy, the duke, and was thrown into Chillon, where he remained a sort of guest of the governor for two years. The duke visited the castle at the end of that time. "Then the captain threw me into a vault lower than the lake, where I remained four years. I do not know whether it was by order of the duke or from his own motion, but I do know that I then had so much leisure for walking that I wore in the rock which formed the floor of the dungeon a _pathlet_ [_vionnet_], or little path, as if one had beaten it out with a hammer." He was fastened by a chain four feet in length to one of the beautiful Gothic pillars of the vault, and you still see where this gentle scholar, this sweet humorist, this wise and lenient philosopher, paced to and fro those weary years like a restless beast--a captive wolf, or a bear in his pit. But his soul was never in prison. As he trod that _vionnet_ out of the stone he meditated upon his reading, his travels, the state of the Church and its reform, politics, the origin of evil. "His reflections often lifted him above men and their imperfect works; often, too, they were marked by that scepticism which knowledge of the human heart inspires. 'When one considers things well,' he said, 'one finds that it is easier to destroy the evil than to construct the good. This world being fashioned like an ass's back, the fardel that you would balance in the middle will not stay there, but hangs over on the other side.'" Bonivard was set free by the united forces of Berne and Geneva, preaching political and religious liberty by the cannon's mouth, as has had so often to happen. That too must have seemed droll to Bonivard when he came to think it over in his humorous way. "The epoch of the Renaissance and the Reformation was that of strong individualities and undaunted characters. But let no one imagine a resemblance between the prior of St. Victor and the great rebels his contemporaries, Luther, Zwinglius, and Calvin. Like them he was one of the learned men of his time; like them he learned to read the Evangels, and saw their light disengage itself from the trembling gleams of tradition; but beyond that he has nothing in common with them. Bonivard is not a hero; he is not made to obey or to command; he is an artist, a kind of poet, who treats high matters of theology in a humorous spirit; prompt of repartee, gifted with happy dash; his irony has lively point, and he likes to season the counsels of wisdom with _sauce piquante_ and rustic bonhomie.... He prepares the way for Calvin, while having nothing of the Calvinist; he is gay, he is jovial; he has, even when he censures, I know not what air of gentleness that wins your heart." [Illustration: _A Bit of Villeneuve_] IX This and all the rest that I know of Bonivard I learn from a charming historical and topographical study of Montreux and its neighborhood, by MM. Rambert, Lebert, etc.; and I confess it at once, for fear some one else shall find me out by simply buying the book there. It leaves you little ground for classifying Bonivard with the great reformers, but it leaves you still less for identifying him historically with Byron's great melodramatic Prisoner of Chillon. If the Majority have somewhere that personal consciousness without which they are the Nonentity, one can fancy the liberal scholar, the humorous philosopher, meeting the romantic poet, and protesting against the second earthly captivity that he has delivered him over to. Nothing could be more alien to Bonivard than the character of Byron's prisoner; and all that equipment of six supposititious brothers, who perish one by one to intensify his sufferings, is, it must be confessed, odious and ridiculous when you think of the lonely yet cheerful sceptic pacing his _vionnet_, and composing essays and verses as he walked. Prisoner for prisoner, even if both were real, the un-Byronic Bonivard is much more to my mind. But the poet had to make a Byronic Bonivard, being of the romantic time he was, and we cannot blame him. The love of his sentimentality pervades the region; they have named the nearest hotel after him, and there is a _Sentier Byron_ leading up to it. But, on the other hand, they have called one of the lake steamboats after Bonivard, which, upon the whole, I should think would be more satisfactory to him than the poem. At any rate, I should prefer it in his place. X The fine Gothic chapel where we heard our pasteur preach was whitewashed out of all memory of any mural decoration that its earlier religion may have given it; but the gloss of the whitewash was subdued by the dim light that stole in through the long slits of windows. We sat upon narrow wooden seats so very hard that I hope the old dukes and their court were protected by good stout armor against their obduracy, and that they had not to wait a quarter of an hour for the holy father to come walking up the railroad track, as we had for our pasteur. There were but three men in the congregation that day, and all the rest were Suissesses, with the hard, pure, plain faces their sex wear mostly in that country. The choir sat in two rows of quaintly carved seats on each side of the pulpit, and the school-master of the village led the singing, tapping his foot to keep time. The pastor, delicate and wan of face, and now no longer living, I came afterwards to know better, and to respect greatly for his goodness and good sense. His health had been broken by the hard work of a mountain parish, and he had vainly spent two winters in Nice. Now he was here as the assistant of the superannuated pastor of Villeneuve, who had a salary of $600 a year from the Government; but how little our preacher had I dare not imagine, or what the pastor of the Free Church was paid by his parishioners. M. P---- was a man of culture far above that of the average New England country minister of this day; probably he was more like a New England minister of the past, but with more of the air of the world. He wore the Genevan bands and gown, and represented in that tabernacle of the ancient faith the triumph of "the Religion" with an effectiveness that was heightened by the hectic brightness of his gentle, spiritual eyes; and he preached a beautiful sermon from the beautiful text, "Suffer little children," teaching us that they were the types, not the models, of Christian perfection. There was first a prayer, which he read; then a hymn, and one of the Psalms; then the sermon, very simply and decorously delivered; then another hymn, and prayer. Here, and often again in Switzerland, the New England that is past or passing was recalled to me; these Swiss are like the people of our hill country in their faith, as well as their hard, laborious lives; only they sang with sweeter voices than our women. The wood-carving of the chapel, which must have been of the fourteenth century or earlier, was delightfully grotesque, and all the queerer for its contrast with the Protestant, the Calvinistic, whitewash which one of our fellow-boarders found here in the chapel and elsewhere in the castle _un peu vulgaire_--as if he were a Boston man. But the whole place was very clean, and up the corner of one of the courts ran a strip of Virginia-creeper, which the Swiss call the Canada vine, blood-red with autumn. There was also a rose-tree sixty years old stretching its arms abroad, over the ancient masonry, and feeling itself still young in that sheltered place. We saw it when we came later to do the whole castle, and to revere the dungeon where Bonivard wore his _vionnet_ in the rock. I will not trouble the reader with much about the Hall of Justice and the Chamber of Tortures opening out of it, with the pulley for the rack formerly used in cross-questioning prisoners. These places were very interesting, and so were the bedchambers of the duke and duchess, and the great Hall of the Knights. The wells or pits, armed round with knife points, against which the prisoner struck when hurled down through them into the lake, have long had their wicked throats choked with sand; and the bed hewn out of the rock, where the condemned slept the night before execution, is no longer used for that purpose--possibly because the only prisoners now in Chillon are soldiers punished for such social offences as tipsiness. But the place was all charmingly mediæval, and the more so for a certain rudeness of decoration. The artistic merit was purely architectural, and this made itself felt perhaps most distinctly in the prison vaults, which Longfellow pronounced "the most delightful dungeon" he had ever seen. A great rose-tree overhung the entrance, and within we found them dry, wholesome, and picturesque. The beautiful Gothic pillars rose like a living growth from the rock, out of which the vault was half hewn; but the iron rings to which the prisoners were chained still hung from them. The columns were scribbled full of names, and Byron's was among the rest. The _vionnet_ of Bonivard was there, beside one of the pillars, plain enough, worn two inches deep and three feet long in the hard stone. Words cannot add to the pathos of it. [Illustration: _The Prisoner of Chillon_] XI Nothing could be more nobly picturesque than the outside of Chillon. Its base is beaten by the waves of the lake, to which it presents wide masses of irregularly curving wall, pierced by narrow windows, and surmounted by Mansard-roofs. Wild growths of vines and shrubs break the broad surfaces of the wall, and out of the shoulders of one of the towers springs a tall young fir-tree. The water at its base is intensely blue and unfathomably deep. This is what nature has done; as for men, they have hugely painted the lakeward wall of the castle with the arms of the Canton Vaud, which are nearly as ugly as the arms of Ohio; and they have wrought into the roof of the tallest tower with tiles of a paler tint the word "Chillon," so that you cannot possibly mistake it for any other castle. [Illustration: _One of the Fountains_] XII First and last, we hung about Chillon a good deal, both by land and by water. For the latter purpose we had to hire a boat; and deceived by the fact that the owner spoke a Latin dialect, I attempted to beat him down from his demand of a franc an hour. "It's too much," I cried. "It's the price," he answered, laconically. Clearly I was to take it or leave it, and I took it. We did not find our fellow-republicans flatteringly polite, but we found them firm, and, for all I know, honest. At least they seemed as honest as we were, and that is saying a great deal. What struck us from the beginning was the surliness of the men and the industry of the women; and I am persuaded that the Swiss Government is really carried on by the house-keeping sex. At any rate, the postmaster of Villeneuve was a woman; her little girl brought the mail up from the railway station in a hand-cart, and her old mother helped her to understand my French. They were rather cross about it, and one day, with the assistance of a child in arms, they defeated me in an attempt I made to get a postal order. I dare say they thought it quite a triumph; but it was not so very much to be proud of. At that period my French, always spoken with the Venetian accent of the friend with whom I had studied it many years before, was taking on strange and wilful characteristics, which would have disabled me in the presence of a much less formidable force. I think the only person really able to interpret me was the amiable mistress of the Croix Blanche, to whose hostelry I went every day for my after-dinner coffee. She knew what I wanted whenever I asked for it, and I simplified my wants so as to meet her in the same spirit. The inn stood midway of the village street that for hundreds of yards followed the curve of the lake shore with its two lines of high stone houses. At one end of it stood a tower springing out of an almost fabulous past; then you came to the first of three plashing fountains, where cattle were always drinking, and bareheaded girls washing vegetables for the pot. Aloft swung the lamps that lighted the village, on ropes stretching across the street. I believe some distinction was ascribed to Villeneuve for the antiquity of this method of street-lighting. There were numbers of useful shops along the street, which wandered out into the country on the levels of the Rhone, where the mountains presently shut in so close that there was scarcely room for the railway to get through. What finally became of the highway I don't know. One day I tried to run it down, but after a long chase I was glad to get myself brought back in a diligence from the next village. [Illustration: _"They helped to make the hay in the marshes"_] The road became a street and ceased to be so with an abruptness that admitted nothing of suburban hesitation or compromise, and Villeneuve, as far as it went, was a solid wall of houses on either side. It was called Villeneuve because it was so very, very old; and in the level beyond it is placed the scene of the great Helvetian victory over the Romans, when the Swiss made their invaders pass under the yoke. I do not know that Villeneuve witnessed that incident, but it looks and smells old enough to have done so. It is reasonably picturesque in a semi-Italian, semi-French fashion, but it is to the nose that it makes its chief appeal. Every house has a cherished manure heap in its back yard, symmetrically shaped, with the projecting edges of the straw neatly braided: it is a source of family pride as well as profit. But it is chiefly the odor of world-old human occupation, otherwise indescribable, that pervades the air of Villeneuve, and makes the mildest of foreign sojourners long for the application of a little dynamite to its ancient houses. Our towns are perhaps the ugliest in the world, but how open to the sun and wind they are! how free, how pure, how wholesome! On week-days a cart sometimes passed through Villeneuve with a most disproportionate banging over the cobble-stones, but usually the walls reverberated the soft tinkle of cow-bells as the kine wound through from pasture to pasture and lingered at the fountains. On Sundays the street was reasonably full of young men in the peg-top trousers which the Swiss still cling to, making eyes at the girls in the upper windows. These were the only times when I saw women of any age idle. Sometimes through the open door I caught a glimpse of a group of them busy with their work, while a little girl read to them. Once in a crowded café, where half a hundred men were smoking and drinking and chattering, the girl who served my coffee put down a volume of Victor Hugo's poems to bring it. But mostly their literary employments did not go beyond driving the cows to pasture and washing clothes in the lake, where they beat the linen with far-echoing blows of their paddles. They helped to make the hay on the marshes beyond the village, and they greatly outnumbered the men in the labors of the vintage. They were seldom pretty either in face or figure; they seemed all to have some stage of goitre; but their manners were charming, and their voices, as I have said, angelically sweet. Our pasteur's wife said that there was a great deal of pauperism in Villeneuve, "because of the drunkenness of the men and the disorder of the women;" but I saw only one man drunk in the streets there, and what the disorders of the women were I don't know. Possibly their labors in the field made them poor house-keepers, though this is mere conjecture. Divorce is theoretically easy, but the couple seeking it must go before a magistrate every four months for two years and insist that they continue to desire it. This makes it rather uncommon. [Illustration: _Cattle at the Fountains_] If the women were not good-looking, if their lives of toil stunted and coarsened them, the men, with greater apparent leisure, were no handsomer. Among the young I noticed the frequency of what may be called the republican face--thin and aquiline, whether dark or fair. The Vaudois as I saw them were at no age a merry folk. In the fields they toiled silently; in the cafés, where they were sufficiently noisy over their new wine, they talked without laughter, and without the shrugs and gestures that enliven conversation among other Latin peoples. They had a hard-favored grimness and taciturnity that with their mountain scenery reminded me of New England now and again, and gave me the bewildered sense of having dropped down in some little anterior America. But there was one thing that marked a great difference from our civilization, and that was the prevalence of uniforms, for which the Swiss have the true European fondness. This is natural in a people whose men all are or have been soldiers; and the war footing on which the little republic is obliged to keep a large force in that ridiculous army-ridden Europe must largely account for the abandonment of the peaceful industries to women. But the men are off at the mountain chalets too, and they are away in all lands, keeping hotels, and amassing from the candle-ends of the travelling public the fortune with which all Swiss hope to return home to die. [Illustration: _Washing Clothes in the Lake_] XIII Sometimes the country people I met greeted me, as sometimes they still do in New Hampshire, but commonly they passed in silence. I think the mountains must have had something to do with hushing the people: far and near, on every hand, they rise such bulks of silence. The chief of their stately company was always the Dent-du-Midi, which alone remains perpetually snow-covered, and which, when not hooded in the rain-bearing mists of that most rainy autumn, gave back the changing light of every hour with new splendors, though of course it was most beautiful in the early sunsets. Then its cold snows warmed and softened into something supernally rosy, while all the other peaks were brown and purple, and its vast silence was thrilled with a divine message that spoke to the eye. Across the lake and on its farther shores the mountains were dimly blue; but nearer, in the first days of our sojourn, they were green to their tops. Away up there we could see the lofty steeps and slopes of the summer pastures, and set low among them the chalets where the herdsmen dwelt. None of the mountains seemed so bare and sterile as Mount Washington, and though they were on a sensibly vaster scale than the White Mountains generally, I remembered the grandeur of Chocorua and Kearsarge in their presence. But my national--not to say my hemispheric--pride suffered a terrible blow as the season advanced. I had bragged all my life of the glories of our American autumnal foliage, which I had, in common with the rest of my countrymen, complacently denied to all the rest of the world. Yet here, before my very eyes, the same beautiful miracle was wrought. Day after day the trees on the mountain-sides changed, and kindled and softly smouldered in a thousand delicate hues, till all their mighty flanks seemed draped in the mingling dyes of Indian shawls. Shall I own that while this effect was not the fiery gorgeousness of our autumn leaves, it was something tenderer, richer, more tastefully lovely? Never! [Illustration: _Flirtation at the Fountains_] The clouds lowering, and as it were loafing along, among the tops and crags, were a perpetual amusement, and when the first cold came it was odd to see a cloud in a sky otherwise clear stoop upon some crest, and after lingering there awhile drift off about its business, and leave the mountain all white with snow. This grew more and more frequent, and at last, after a long rain, we looked out on the mountains whitened all round us far down their sides, while it was still summer green and summer bloom in the valley. The moon rose and blackened the mountains below the crags of snow, which shone out above like one of her own dead landscapes. Slowly the winter descended, snow after snow, keeping a line beautifully straight along the mountain-sides, till it reached the valley and put out our garden roses at last. The hard-wood trees lost their leaves, and stretched dim and brown along the lower ranges; the pines straggled high up into the snows. The Jura, far across the lake; was vaguely roseate, with an effect of perpetual sunset; the Dent-du-Midi lost the distinction of its eternal drifts; and the cold not only descended upon us, but from the frozen hills all round us hemmed us in with a lateral pressure that pierced and chilled to the marrow. The mud froze, and we walked to church dry-shod. It was quite time to fire the vestibule stove, which, after fighting hard and smoking rebelliously at first, sobered down to its winter work, and afforded Poppi's rheumatism the comfort for which he had longed pined. Second Paper I The winter and the vintage come on together at Villeneuve, and when the snows had well covered the mountains around, the grapes in the valley were declared ripe by an act of the Commune. There had been so much rain and so little sun that their ripeness was hardly attested otherwise. Fully two-thirds of the crop had blackened with blight; the imperfect clusters, where they did not hang sodden and mildewed on the vines, were small and sour. It was sorrowful to see them; and when, about the middle of October, the people assembled in the vineyards to gather them, the spectacle had none of that gayety which the poets had taught me to expect of it. Those poor clusters did not "reel to earth Purple and gushing," but limply waited the short hooked knife with which the peasants cut them from their stems; and the peasants, instead of advancing with jocund steps and rustic song to the sound of the lute and tabor and other convenient instruments, met in obedience to public notice duly posted about the Commune, and set to work, men, women, and children alike silent and serious. So many of the grapes are harvested and manufactured in common that it is necessary the vintage should begin on a fixed day, and no one was allowed to anticipate or postpone. Some cut the grapes, and dropped them into the flattish wooden barrels, which others, after mashing the berries with a long wooden pestle, bore off and emptied frothing and gurgling into big casks mounted on carts. These were then driven into the village, where the mess was poured into the presses, and the wine crushed out to the last bitter dregs. The vineyards were a scene of activity, but not hilarity, though a little way off they looked rather lively with the vintagers at work in them. We climbed to one of them far up the mountain-side one day, where a family were gathering the grapes on a slope almost as steep as a house roof, father, mother, daughter, son-in-law, big boy, and big girl all silently busy together. There were bees and wasps humming around the tubs of crushed grapes in the pale afternoon sun; the view of the lake and the mountains was inspiring; but there was nothing bacchanalian in the affair, unless the thick calves of the girl, as she bent over to cut the clusters, suggested a Mænad fury. These poor people were quite songless, though I am bound to say that in another vineyard I did hear some of the children singing. It had momentarily stopped raining; but it soon began again, and the vintage went sorrowfully on in the mud. All Villeneuve smelt of the harsh juice and pulp arriving from the fields in the wagons, carts, tubs, and barrels which crowded the streets and sidewalks, and in divers cavernous basements the presses were at work, and there was a slop and drip of new wine everywhere. After dark the people came in from the fields and gossiped about their doors, and the red light of flitting lanterns blotched the steady rainpour. Outside of the village rose the black mountains, white at the top with their snows. [Illustration: _The Wine-press_] In the cafés and other public places there were placards advertising American wine-presses, but I saw none of them in use. At a farm-house near us we looked on at the use of one of the old-fashioned Swiss presses. Under it lay a mighty cake of grapes, stems, and skins, crushed into a common mass, and bulging farther beyond the press with each turn of the screw, while the juice ran in a little rivulet into a tub below. When the press was lifted, the grapes were seen only half crushed. Two peasants then mounted the cake, and trimmed it into shape with long-handled spades, piling the trimmings on top, and then bringing the press down again. They invited us with charming politeness to taste the juice, but their heavy boots bore evidence of too recent a visit to the cherished manure heap, and we thanked them with equal courtesy. This grape cake, when it had yielded up its last drop, would be broken to pieces and scattered over the fields as a fertilizer. The juice would meanwhile have been placed to ferment in the tuns, twelve and thirteen feet deep, which lay in the adjoining cellar. For weeks after the vintage people were drinking the new wine, which looked thick and whitish in the glasses, at all the cafés. It seemed to be thought a dainty beverage, but our scruples against it remained, and I cannot say what its effect upon the drinkers might be. Perhaps it had properties as a "sweet, oblivious antidote" which rendered necessary the placard we saw in the café of the little Hôtel Chillon: "Die Rose blüht, Der Dorn der sticht; Wer gleich bezahlt Vergisst es nicht." Or, in inadequate English: The roses bloom, The thorns they stick; No one forgets Who settles quick. The relation of the ideas is not very apparent, but the lyric cry is distinctly audible. II One morning, a week before the vintage began, we were wakened by the musical clash of cow-bells, and for days afterwards the herds came streaming from the chalets on all the mountains round to feed upon the lowland pastures for a brief season before the winter should house them. There was something charming to ear and eye in this autumnal descent of the kine, and we were sorry when it ended. They thronged the village in their passage to the levels beside the Rhone, where afterwards they lent their music and their picturesqueness to the meadows. With each herd there were two or three goats, and these goats thought they were cows; but, after all, the public interest of this descent of the cows was not really comparable to that of the fall elections, now coming on with handbills and newspaper appeals very like those of our own country at like times. In the cafés, the steamboats, the railway stations, the street corners, vivid posters warned the voters against the wiles of the enemy, and the journals urged the people of the Canton Vaud to be up and doing; they declared the issue before them a vital one, and the crisis a crisis of the greatest moment. [Illustration: _Castle of Aigle_] In the mean time the people in our pension, who were so intelligent and well informed about other things, bore witness to the real security of the State, and the tranquillity of the Swiss mind generally concerning politics, by their ignorance of the name of their existing President. They believed he was a man of the name of Schultz; but it appeared that his name was not at all Schultz, when we referred the matter to our pasteur. It was from him, indeed, that I learned nearly all I knew of Swiss politics, and it was from his teaching that I became a conservative partisan in the question, then before the voters, of a national free-school law. The radicals, who, the pasteur said, wished Switzerland to attempt the role "_grande nation_," had brought forward this measure in the Federal legislature, and it was now, according to the sensible Swiss custom, to be submitted to a popular vote. It provided for the establishment of a national bureau of education, and the conservatives protested against it as the entering wedge of centralization in government affairs. They contended that in a country shared by three races and two religions education should be left as much as possible to the several cantons, which in the Swiss constitution are equivalent to our States. I am happy to say that the proposed law was overwhelmingly defeated; I am happy because I liked the pasteur so much, though when I remember the sympathetic bric-à-brac dealer at Vevay, who was a radical, but who sold me some old pewters at a very low price, I can't help feeling a little sorry too. However, the Swiss still keep their old school law, under which each canton taxes itself for education, as our States do, though all share in the advantages of the universities, which are part of the public-school system. The parties in Switzerland are fortunately not divided by questions of race or religion, but the pasteur owned that the Catholics were a difficult element, and had to be carefully managed. They include the whole population of the Italian cantons, and part of the French and German. In Geneva and other large towns the labor question troublesomely enters, and the radicals, like our Democrats, are sometimes the retrograde party. The pasteur spoke with smiling slight of the Père Hyacinthe and the Döllinger movements, and he confessed that the Protestants were cut up into too many sects to make progress among the Catholic populations. The Catholics often keep their children out of the public schools, as they do with us, but these have to undergo the State examinations, to which all the children, whether taught at home or in private schools, must submit. He deplored the want of moral instruction in the public schools, but he laughed at the attempts in France to instil non-religious moral principles: when I afterwards saw this done in the Florentine ragged schools I could not feel that he was altogether right. He was a member of the communal school committee, and he told me that this body was appointed by the syndic and council of each commune, who are elected by the people. To some degree religion influences local feeling, the Protestant Church being divided into orthodox and liberal factions; there is a large Unitarian party besides, and agnosticism is a qualifying element of religious thought. Outside of our pension I had not many sources of information concerning the political or social life at Villeneuve. I knew the village shoemaker, a German, who had fixed his dwelling there because it was so _bequem_, and who had some vague aspirations towards Chicago, whither a citizen of Villeneuve had lately gone. But he was discouraged by my representation, with his wax, his awl, and his hammer, successively arranged as New York, Cleveland, and Chicago, on his shoe-bench, of the extreme distance of the last from the seaboard. He liked his neighbors and their political system; and so did the _portier_ at the Hôtel Byron, another German, with whom I sometimes talked of general topics in transacting small affairs of carriage hire and the like, and who invited me to notice how perfectly well these singular Swiss, in the midst of a Europe elsewhere overrun with royalties, got on without a king, queen, or anything of the kind. In his country, he said, those hills would be covered with fortifications, but here they seemed not to be thought necessary. [Illustration: _The Market at Vevey_] I made friends with the _instituteur_ of the Villeneuve public school, who led the singing at church, and kept the village book-store; and he too talked politics with me, and told me that all elections were held on Sunday, when the people were at leisure, for otherwise they would not take the time to vote. He was not so clear as to why they were always held in church, but that is the fact; and sometimes the sacred character of the place is not enough to suppress boisterous party feeling, though it certainly helps to control it. After divine service on election Sunday I went to the Croix Blanche for my coffee, to pass the time till the voting should begin. On the church door was posted a printed summons to the electors, and on the café billiard tables I found ballots of the different parties scattered. Gendarmes had also distributed them about in the church pews; they were enclosed in envelops, which were voted sealed. On a table before the pulpit the ballot-box--a glass urn--was placed; and beside it sat the judges of election, with lists of the registered voters. But in any precinct of the canton an elector who could prove that he had not voted at home might deposit his ballot in any other. The church bell rang for the people to assemble, and the voting began and ended in perfect quiet. But I could not witness an election of this ancient republic, where Freedom was so many centuries old, without strong emotion; it had from its nature and the place the consecration of a religious rite. III The church itself was old--almost as old as Swiss freedom, and older than the freedom of the Vaud. The Gothic interior, which had once, no doubt, been idolatrously frescoed and furnished with statues, was now naked and coldly Protestant; one window, partly stained, let in a little colored light to mix with the wintry day that struck through the others. The pulpit was in the centre of the church, and the clerk's desk diagonally across from it. The floor was boarded over, but a chill struck through from the stones below, and the people seemed to shiver through the service that preceded the election. When the pasteur mounted the pulpit they listened faithfully, but when the clerk led the psalm they vented their suffering in the most dreadful groaning that ever passed for singing outside of one of our country churches. It was all very like home, and yet unlike it, for there is much more government in Switzerland than with us, and much less play of individuality. In small communes, for example, like Villeneuve, there are features of practical socialism, which have existed apparently from the earliest times. Certain things are held in common, as mountain pasturage and the forests, from which each family has a provision of fuel. These and other possessions of the commune are "confided to the public faith," and trespass is punished with signal severity. The trees are felled under government inspection, and the woods are never cut off wholesale. When a tree is chopped down a tree is planted, and the floods that ravage Italy from the mountains denuded of their forests are unknown to the wiser Swiss. Throughout Switzerland the State insures against fire, and inflicts penalties for neglect and carelessness from which fires may result. Education is compulsory, and there is a rigid military service, and a show of public force everywhere which is quite unknown to our unneighbored, easy-going republic. I should say, upon the whole, that the likeness was more in social than in political things, strange as that may appear. There seemed to be much the same freedom among young people, and democratic institutions had produced a kindred type of manners in both countries. But I will not be very confident about all this, for I might easily be mistaken. The Swiss make their social distinctions as we do; and in Geneva and Lausanne I understood that a more than American exclusivism prevailed in families that held themselves to be peculiarly good, and believed themselves very old. Our excursions into society at Villeneuve were confined to a single tea at the pasteur's, where we went with mademoiselle one evening. He lived in a certain Villa Garibaldi, which had belonged to an Italian refugee, now long repatriated, and which stood at the foot of the nearest mountain. To reach the front door we passed through the vineyard to the back of the house, where a huge dog leaped the length of his chain at us, and a maid let us in. The pasteur, in a coat of unclerical cut, and his wife, in black silk, received us in the parlor, which was heated by a handsome porcelain stove, and simply furnished, much like such a room at home. Madame P----, who was musical, played a tempestuously representative composition called "L'Orage" on the upright piano, and joined from time to time in her husband's talk about Swiss affairs, which I have already allowed the reader to profit by. They offered us tea, wine, grapes, and cake, and we came away at eleven, lighted home through the vineyards by Louis, the farm boy, with his lantern. [Illustration: _The Market, Vevay--A Bargain before the Notary_] Another day mademoiselle did us the pleasure to take us to her sister, married, and living at Aigle--a clean, many-hotelled, prosperous town, a few miles off, which had also the merit of a very fine old castle. We found our friends in an apartment of a former convent, behind which stretched a pretty lawn, with flowers and a fountain, and then vineyards to the foot of the mountains and far up their sides. We entered the court by a great stone-paved carriage-way, as in Italy, and we found the drawing-room furnished with Italian simplicity, and abounding in souvenirs of the hostess's long Florentine sojourn; but it was fortified against the Swiss winter by the tall Swiss stove. The whole family received us, including the young lady daughter, the niece, the well-mannered boys and their father openly proud of them, and the pleasant young English girl who was living in the family, according to a common custom, to perfect her French. This part of Switzerland is full of English people, who come not always for the French, but often for the cheapness which they find equally there. Mr. K---- was a business man, well-to-do, well educated, agreeable, and interesting; his house and his table, where we sat down to the mid-day dinner of the country, were witness to his prosperity. I hope it is no harm, in the interest of statistics, to say that this good Swiss dinner consisted of soup, cold ham put up like sausage, stuffed roast beef which had first been boiled, cauliflower, salad, corn-starch pudding, and apples stewed whole and stuck full of pine pips. There was abundance of the several kinds of excellent wine made upon the estate, both white and red, and it was freely given to the children. Mr. K---- seemed surprised when we refused it for ours; and probably he could have given us good reason for his custom. His boys were strong, robust, handsome fellows; he had a charming pride in showing us the prizes they had taken at school; and on the lawn they were equally proud to show the gymnastic feats they had learned there. I believe we are coming to think now that the American schools are better than the Swiss; but till we have organized something like the Swiss school excursions, and have learned to mix more open air with our instruction, I doubt if the Swiss would agree with us. After dinner we went to the _vente_, or charitable fair, which the young ladies of the town were holding in one of the public buildings. It was bewilderingly like the church fair of an American country town, socially and materially. The young ladies had made all sorts of pretty knick-knacks, and were selling them at the little tables set about the room; they also presided, more or less alluringly, at fruit, coffee, and ice-cream stands; and--I will not be sure, but I _think_--some of them seemed to be flirting with the youth of the other sex. There was an auction going on, and the place was full of tobacco smoke, which the women appeared not to mind. A booth for the sale of wine and beer was set off, and there was a good deal of amiable drinking. This was not like our fairs quite; and I am bound to say that the people of Aigle had more polished manners, if not better, than our country-town average. To quit this scene for the castle of Aigle was to plunge from the present into my favorite Middle Ages. We were directly in the times when the Lords of Berne held the Vaud by the strong hand, and forced Protestant convictions upon its people by the same vigorous methods. The castle was far older than their occupation, but it is chiefly memorable as the residence of their bailiffs before the independence of the Vaud was established after the French Revolution. They were hard masters, but they left political and religious freedom behind them, where perhaps neither would have existed without them. The castle, though eminently picturesque and delightfully Gothic, is very rudely finished and decorated, and could never have been a luxurious seat for the bailiffs. It is now used by the local courts of law; a solitary, pale, unshaven old prisoner, who seemed very glad of our tribute-money, inhabited its tower, and there was an old woman carding wool in the baronial kitchen. Her little grandson lighted a candle and showed us the _oubliettes_, which are subterranean dungeons, one above the other, and barred by mighty doors of wood and iron. The outer one bore an inscription, which I copied: "Doubles grilles a gros cloux, Triples portes, fortes Verroux, Aux âmes vraiment méchantes Vous représentez l'Enfer; Mais aux âmes innocentes Vous n'êtes que du bois, de la pierre, & du fer!" [Illustration: _Germans at Montreux_] But these doors, thus branded as representing the gates of hell to guilty souls, and to the innocent being merely wood, stone, and iron, sufficed equally to shut the blameless in, and I doubt if the reflection suggested was ever of any real comfort to them. For one thing, the captives could not read the inscription; it seems to have been intended rather for the edification of the public. We visited the castle a second time, to let the children sketch it; and even I, who could not draw a line, became with them the centre of popular interest. Half a dozen little people who had been playing "snap-the-whip" left off and crowded round, and one of the boys profited by the occasion to lock into the barn, near which we sat, a peasant who had gone in to fodder his cattle. When he got out he criticised the pictures, and insisted that one of the artists should put in a certain window which he had left out of the tower. Upon the whole, we liked him better as a prisoner. "What would you do," I asked the children, "if I gave you a piece of twenty-five centimes?" They reflected, and then evidently determined to pose as good children. "We would give it to our mamma." "Now don't you think," I pursued, "that it would be better to spend it for little cakes?" This instantly corrupted them, and they cried with one voice, "Oh yes!" Out of respect to me the oldest girl made a small boy pull up his stocking, which had got down round his ankle, and then they took the money and all ran off. Later they returned to show me that they had got it changed into copper and shared equally among them. They must have spent an evening of great excitement talking us over. The October sun set early, chill, and disconsolate after a rain. A weary peasant with a heavy load on his back, which he looked as if he had brought from the dawn of time, approached the castle gate, and bowed to us in passing. I was not his feudal lord, but his sad, work-worn aspect gave me as keen a pang as if I had been. IV The Pays de Vaud is also the land of castles, and the visitor to Vevay should not fail to see Blonay Castle, the seat of the ancient family which, with intervals of dispossession, has possessed it ever since the Crusades. It is only a little way off, on the first rise of the hills, from which it looks over the vineyards on inexpressible glories of lake and distant mountains, and it is most nobly approached through steeps of vine and grove. Apparently it is kept up in as much of the sentiment of the past as possible, and one may hire its baronial splendor fully furnished; for the keeper told it had been occupied by an English family for the last three winters. The finish, like that of the castle of Aigle, is rude, but the whole place is wonderfully picturesque and impressive. The arched gateway is alone worth a good rent; the long corridors from which the chambers open are suitable to ghosts fond of walking exercise; the superb dining-room is round, and the floor is so old that it would shake under the foot of the lightest spectre. The _répertoire_ of family traditions is almost inexhaustible, and doubtless one might have the use of them for a little additional money. One of the latest is of the seventeenth century, when the daughter of the house was "the beautiful Nicolaïde de Blonay, before whom many adorers had bent the knee in vain. Among them, a certain Tavel de Villars, vanquished the proud beauty by his constancy. But the marriage was delayed. Officer in the service of France, Tavel was detained by his military duties. In the mean time Jean-François de Blonay, of another branch of the family, the Savoyard branch, fell in love with his cousin, and twice demanded her in marriage. Twice he was refused. Then, listening only to his passion, he assembled some of his friends, and hid himself with them near the castle. They watched the comings and goings of the baron, and suddenly profiting by his absence, they entered his dwelling and carried off the fair Nicolaïde, who, transported to Savoy, rewarded the boldness of her captor by becoming his wife. This history, which resembles that of the beautiful Helen, and is not less authentic, kindled the fiercest hostilities between the Tavel and Blonay families; the French and Italian ambassadors intervened; and it all ended in a sentence pronounced at Berne against the Blonays--a sentence as useless as it was severe--for the principal offenders had built a nest for their loves in domains which they possessed in Savoy. The old baron alone felt its effects. He was severely reprimanded for having so ill fulfilled his paternal duties." The good burghers of Berne--the Lords as they called themselves--were in fact very hard with all their Vaudois subjects. "Equally merciless to the vanities and the vices, they confounded luxury and drunkenness in their rules, pleasures and bad manners. They were no less the enemies of innovations. Coffee at its introduction was stigmatized as a devilish invention; tea was no better; as to tobacco, whether snuffed or smoked, it was worse yet. Low-necked dresses and low-quartered shoes were rigorously forbidden. Games and all dances, 'except three modest dances on wedding-days,' were unlawful.... The Sabbath was strictly observed; silence reigned in the villages, even those remotest from the church, until the divine service of the afternoon was closed; no cart might pass in the street, and no child play there.... In short, all their ordinances and regulations witness a firm design on the part of their Excellencies 'to revive among all those under their domination a life and manners truly Christian.' The Pays de Vaud under this régime acquired its moral and religious education. A more serious spirit gradually prevailed. The Bible became the book _par excellence_, the book of the fireside, and on Sunday the exercises of devotion took the place of the public amusements." [Illustration: _Church Terrace, Montreux_] When the regicides fled from England after the Restoration they could not have sought a more congenial refuge than such a land as this. One of them, as is known, died in Vevay by the shot of an assassin sent to murder him by Charles II.; with another he is interred in the old Church of St. Martin there; and I went there to revere the tombs of Ludlow and Broughton. While I was looking about for them a familiar name on a tablet caught my eye, and I read that "William Walter Phelps, of New Jersey, and Charles A. Phelps, of Massachusetts, his descendants beyond the seas," had set it there in memory of the brave John Phelps, who was so anxious to be known as clerk of the court which tried Charles Stuart that he set his name to every page of its record. That tablet was the most interesting thing in the old church; but I found Vevay quaint and attractive in every way. It is, as all the world knows, the paradise of pensions and hotels and boarding-schools, and one may live well and study deeply there for a very little money. It was part of our mission to lunch at the most gorgeous of the hotels, and to look upon such of our fellow-countrymen as we might see there, after our long seclusion at Villeneuve; and we easily found all the splendor and compatriotism we wanted. The hotel we chose stood close upon the lake, with a superb view of the mountains, and its evergreens in tubs stood about the gravelled spaces in a manner that consoled us with a sense of being once more in the current of polite travel. The waiter wanted none of our humble French, but replied to our timorous advances in that tongue in a correct and finally expensive English. Under the stimulus of this experience we went to a bric-à-brac shop and bought a lot of fascinating old pewter platters and flagons, and then we went recklessly shopping about in all directions. We even visited an exhibition of Swiss paintings, which, from an ethical and political point of view, were admirable; and we strolled delightedly about through the market, where the peasant women sat and knitted before their baskets of butter, fruit, cheese, flowers, and grapes, and warbled their gossip and their bargains in their angelic Suissesse voices, while their husbands priced the cattle and examined the horses. It was all very picturesque, and prophesied of the greater picturesqueness of Italy, which we were soon to see. V In fact, there was a great deal to make one think of Italy in that region; but the resemblance ended mostly with the Southern architecture and vegetation. Our lake coast had its own features, one of the most striking of which was its apparent abandonment to the use and pleasure of strangers. It is scarcely an exaggeration to say that the water was everywhere bordered by hotels and pensions. Such large places as Vevay and Lausanne had their proper life, of course, but of smaller ones, like Montreux, the tourist seemed to be in exclusive possession. In our walks thither we met her--when the tourist was of that sex--young, gay, gathering the red leaves of the Virginia-creeper from the lakeward terraces of the highway; we met him, old, sick, pale, munching the sour grapes, and trying somehow to kill the time. Large listless groups of them met every steamboat from which we landed, and parties of them encountered us on every road. "A hash of foreigners," the Swiss call Montreux, and they scarcely contribute a native flavor to the dish. The Englishman no longer characterizes sojourn there, I should say; the Americans, who pay and speak little or no French, and the Russians, who speak beautiful French but do not pay, are there in about equal abundance; there are some French people; but if it came to my laying my hand upon my heart, I should say there seemed more Germans than any other nationality at Montreux. They are not pretty to look at, and apparently not pleasant; and it is said that the Swiss, who digest them along with the rest of us, do not like them. In fact, the Germans seem everywhere to take their new national consequence ungraciously. Besides the foreigners, there is not much to see at Montreux, though one must not miss the ancient church which looks out from its lofty place over the lake, and offers the visitor many seats on its terrace for the enjoyment of the same view. The day we went he had pretty well covered the gravel with grape-skins; but he had left the prospect undisturbed. What struck me principally in Montreux was its extreme suitability to the purposes of the international novelist. It was full of sites for mild incidents, for tacit tragedies, for subdued flirtations, and arrested improprieties. I can especially recommend the Kursaal at Montreux to my brother and sister fictionists looking about for a pretty _entourage_. Its terrace is beaten by the billows of the restless lake, and in soft weather people sit at little tables there; otherwise they take their ices inside the café, and all the same look out on the Dent-du-Midi, and feel so bored with everybody that they are just in the humor to be interested in anybody. There is a very pretty theatre in the Kursaal, where they seldom give entertainments, but where, if you ever go, you see numbers of pretty girls, and in a box a pale, delicate-looking middle-aged Englishman in a brown velvet coat, with his two daughters. The concert will be very good, and a young man of cultivated sympathies and disdainful tastes could have a very pleasant time there. For the rest, Montreux offers to the novelist's hand perhaps the crude American of the station who says it is the cheapest place he has struck, and he is going to stick it out there awhile; perhaps the group of chattering American school-girls; perhaps the little Jewish water-color painter who tells of his narrow escape from the mad dog, which having broken his chain at Bouveret, had bitten six persons on the way to Clarens, and been killed by the gendarmes near Vevay; perhaps two Englishwomen who talk for half an hour about their rooms at the hotel, and are presently joined by their husbands, who pursue the subject. These are the true features of modern travel, and for a bit of pensive philosophy, or to have a high-bred, refined widow with a fading sorrow encountered by a sensitive nature of the other sex, there is no better place than the sad little English church-yard at Montreux. It is full of the graves of people who have died in the search for health far from home, and it has a pathos therefore which cannot be expressed. The stones grow stained and old under the laurels and hollies, and the rain-beaten ivy creeps and drips all over the grassy mounds. Yes, that is a beautiful, lonely, heart-breaking place. Now and again I saw black-craped figures silently standing there, and paid their grief the tribute of a stranger's pang as I passed, happy with my children by my side. VI I did not find Aigle and Blonay enough to satisfy my appetite for castles, and once, after several times passing a certain _château meublé à louer_ in the levels of the Rhone Valley, I made bold to go in and ask to look at it. I loved it for the certain Louis XV. grandiosity there was about it; for the great clock in the stable wall; for the balcony frescos on the front of the garden-house, and for the arched driveway to the court. It seemed to me a wonderfully good thing of its kind, and I liked Napoleon's having lodged in it when his troops occupied Villeneuve. It had, of course, once belonged to a rich family, but it had long passed out of their hands into those of the sort of farmer-folk who now own it, and let it when they can. It had stood several years empty, for the situation is not thought wholesome, and the last tenant had been an English clergyman, who kept a school in it for baddish boys whom no one else could manage, and who were supposed to be out of harm's way there. I followed a young man whom I saw going into the gateway, and asked him if I could see the house. He said "Yes," and summoned his mother, a fierce-looking little dame, in a black Vaudois cap, who came out of a farm-house near with jingling keys, and made him throw open the whole house, while she walked me through the sad, forgotten garden, past its silent fountain, and through its grove of pine to the top of an orchard wall, where the Dent-du-Midi showed all its snow-capped mass. Within, the château was very clean and dry; the dining-room was handsomely panelled, and equipped with a huge porcelain stove; the shelves of the library were stocked with soberly bound books, and it was tastefully frescoed; the pretty chambers were in the rococo taste of the fine old rococo time, with successive scenes of the same history painted over the fireplaces throughout the suite; the drawing-room was elegant with silk hangings and carved mirrors; and the noble staircase, whose landing was honored with the bust of the French king of the château's period, looked as if that prince had just mounted it. All these splendors, with the modern comfort of hot and cold water wherever needed, you may have, if you like, for $500 a year; and none of the castles I saw compared with this château in richness of finish or furnishing. I am rather particular to advertise it because a question, painfully debating itself in my mind throughout my visit, as to the sum I ought to offer the woman was awkwardly settled by her refusing to take anything, and I feel a lingering obligation. But, really, I do not see how the reader, if he likes solitary state, or has "daughters to educate," or baddish boys to keep out of mischief, or is wearing out a heavy disappointment, or is suffering under one of those little stains or uneasy consciences such as people can manage so much better in Europe--I say I do not see how he could suit himself more perfectly or more cheaply than in that pensively superb old château, with its aristocratic seclusion, and possibly malarious, lovely old garden. [Illustration: _Tour up the Lake_] VII Early in October, before the vintage began, we seized the first fine day, which the Dent-du-Midi lifted its cap of mists the night before to promise, and made an early start for the tour of the lake. Mademoiselle and her cousins came with us, and we all stood together at the steamer's prow to watch the morning sunshine break through the silvery haze that hung over Villeneuve, dimly pierced by the ghostly poplars wandering up the road beside the Rhone. As we started, the clouds drifted in ineffable beauty over the mountain-sides; one slowly dropped upon the lake, and when we had sailed through it we had come in sight of the first town on the French border, which the gendarmes of the two nations seemed to share equally between them. All these lake-side villages are wonderfully picturesque, but this first one had a fancy in chimney-tops which I think none of the rest equalled--some were twisted, some shaped like little chalets; and there were groups of old wood-colored roofs and gables which were luxuries of color. A half-built railroad was struggling along the shore; at times it seemed to stop hopelessly; then it began again, and then left off, to reappear beyond some point of hill which had not yet been bored through or blown quite away. I have never seen a railroad laboring under so many difficulties. The landscape was now grand and beautiful, like New England, now pretty and soft, like Old England, till we came to Evains-les-Bains, which looked like nothing but the French watering-place it was. It looked like a watering-place that would be very gay in the season; there were lots of pretty boats; there was a most official-looking gendarme in a cocked hat, and two jolly young priests joking together; and there were green, frivolous French fishes swimming about in the water, and apparently left behind when the rest of the brilliant world had flown. Here the little English artist who had been so sociable all the way from Villeneuve was reinforced by other Englishmen, whom we found on the much more crowded boat to which we had to change. Our company began to diversify itself: there were French and German parties as well as English. We changed boats four times in the tour of the lake, and each boat brought us a fresh accession of passengers. By-and-by there came aboard a brave Italian, with birds in cages and gold-fish in vases, with a gay Southern face, a coral neck button, a brown mustache and imperial, and a black-tasselled red fez that consoled. He was the vividest bit of color in our composition, though we were not wanting in life without him. There began to be some Americans besides ourselves, and a pretty girl of our nation, who occupied a public station at the boat's prow, seemed to know that she was pretty, but probably did not. She will recognize herself in this sketch; but who was that other pretty maiden, with brown eyes wide apart, and upper lip projecting a little, as if pulled out by the piquant-nose? I must have taken her portrait so carefully because I thought she would work somewhere into fiction; but the reader is welcome to her as she is. He may also have the _spirituelle_ English girl who ordered tea, and added, "I want some kätzchens with my tea." "Kätzchens! Kätzchen is a little cat." "Yes; it's a word of my own invention." These are the brilliant little passages of foreign travel that make a voyage to Europe worth while. I add to this international gallery the German girl in blue calico, who had so strong a belief that she was elegantly dressed that she came up on deck with her coffee, and drank it where we might all admire her. I intersperse also the comment that it is the Germans who seem to prevail now in any given international group, and that they have the air of coming forward to take the front seats as by right; while the English, once so confident of their superiority, seem to yield the places to them. But I dare say this is all my fancy. I am sure, however, of the ever-varying grandeur and beauty of the Alps all round us. Those of the Savoyard shore had a softer loveliness than the Swiss, as if the South had touched and mellowed them, as it had the light-colored trousers which in Geneva recalled the joyous pantaloons of Italy. These mountains moulded themselves one upon another, and deepened behind their transparent shadows with a thousand dimmer and tenderer dyes in the autumnal foliage. From time to time a village, gray-walled, brown-roofed, broke the low helving shore of the lake, where the poplars rose and the vineyards spread with a monotony that somehow pleased; and at Nyon a twelfth-century castle, as noble as Chillon, offered the delight of its changing lines as the boat approached and passed. At Geneva we had barely time to think Rousseau, to think Calvin, to think Voltaire, to drive swiftly through the town and back again to the boat, fuming and fretting to be off. There is an old town, gravely picturesque and austerely fine in its fine old burgherly, Calvinistic, exclusive way; and outside the walls there is a new town, very clean, very cold, very quiet, with horse-cars like Boston, and a new Renaissance theatre like Paris. The impression remains that Geneva is outwardly a small moralized Bostonian Paris; and I suppose the reader knows that it has had its political rings and bosses like New York. It also has an exact reproduction of the Veronese tombs of the Scaligeri, which the eccentric Duke of Brunswick, who died in Geneva, willed it the money to build; like most fac-similes, they are easily distinguishable from the original, and you must still go to Verona to see the tombs of the Scaligeri. But they have the real Mont Blanc at Geneva, bleak to the eye with enduring snow, and the Blue Rhone, rushing smooth and swift under the overhanging balconies of quaint old houses. With its neat quays, azure lake, symmetrical hotel fronts, and white steamboats, Geneva was like an admirable illustration printed in colors, for a holiday number, to imitate a water-color sketch. When we started we were detained a moment by conjugal affection. A lady, who had already kept the boat waiting, stopped midway up the gang-plank to kiss her husband in parting, in spite of the captain's loud cries of "Allez! Allez!" and the angry derision of the passengers. We were in fact all furious, and it was as much as a mule team with bells, drawing a wagon loaded with bags of flower, and a tree growing out of a tower beside the lake, could do to put me in good-humor. Yet I was not really in a hurry to have the voyage end; I was enjoying every moment of it, only, when your boat starts, you do not want to stop for a woman to kiss her husband. Again we were passing the wild Savoyard shore, where the yellow tops of the poplars jutted up like spires from the road-sides, and on the hill-sides tracts of dark evergreens blotted their space out of the vaster expanses of autumn foliage; back of all rose gray cliffs and crags. Now and then we met a boat of our line; otherwise the blue stretch of the water was broken only by the lateen-sails of the black-hulked lake craft. At that season the delicate flame of the Virginia-creeper was a prominent tint on the walls all round the lake. Lausanne, which made us think Gibbon, of course, was a stately stretch of architecture along her terraces; Vevay showed us her quaint market square, and her old church on its heights; then came Montreux with its many-hotelled slopes and levels, and chalets peeping from the brows of the mountains that crowd it upon the lake. All these places keep multitudes of swans, whose snow reddened in the sunset that stained the water more and more darkly crimson till we landed at Villeneuve. VIII When December came, and the vintage and elections were over, and the winter had come down into the valley to stay, Italy called to us more and more appealingly. Yet it was not so easy to pull up and go. I liked the row-boat on the lake, though it was getting too cold and rough for that; I liked the way the railway guards called out "Verney-Montreux!" and "Territey-Chillon!" as they ran alongside the carriages at these stations; I liked the pastel portraits of mademoiselle's grandmothers on the gray walls of our pretty chamber that overlooked the lake, and overheard the lightest lisp of that sometimes bellowing body of water; I liked the notion of the wild-ducks among the reeds by the Rhone, though I had no wish to kill them; I liked our little corner fireplace, where I covered a log of the _grand bois_ every night in the coals, and found it a perfect line of bristling embers in the morning; I liked Poppi and the three generations of Boulettes; and, yes, I liked mademoiselle and all her boarders; and I hated to leave these friends. Mademoiselle made a grand Thanksgiving supper in honor of the American nation, for which we did our best to figure both at the table, where smoked a turkey driven over the Alps from his Italian home for that fête (there are no Swiss turkeys), and in the dance, for which he had wellnigh disabled us. Poppi was in uncommon tune that night, and the voice of this pensive rheumatic lent a unique interest to every change of the Virginia reel. But these pleasures had to end; it grew colder and colder; we had long since consumed all the old grape-roots which constituted our _petit bois_, and we were ravaging our way through an expensive pile of _grand bois_ without much effect upon the climate. One morning the most enterprising spirit of our party kindled such a mighty blaze on our chamber hearth that she set the chimney on fire, thus threatening the Swiss republic with the loss of the insurance, and involving mademoiselle in I know not what penalties for having a chimney that could be set on fire. By the blessing of Heaven, the vigor of mademoiselle, and the activity of Louis and Alexis the farmer, the flames were subdued and the house saved. Mademoiselle forgave us, but we knew it was time to go, and the next Sunday we were in Florence. THE END 
33122	----	generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) [Illustration: VILLAGE OF CHAMONIX. 1 Summit of Mont Blanc. 2 Bosses du Dromadaire. 3 Dôme du Goûté. 4 Aiguille du Goûté. 5 Grands Mulets. 6 Glacier des Bossons. 7 Montagne de la Côte. 8 Glacier de Taconnaz.] AN IMPROMPTU ASCENT OF MONT BLANC: BY _W. H. LE MESURIER._ LONDON: ELLIOT STOCK, PUBLISHER, 62 PATERNOSTER ROW. BIRKENHEAD: E. GRIFFITH & SON, HAMILTON STREET. 1882. BIRKENHEAD: E. Griffith & Son, Printers, "Caxton" Works, Hamilton Street [Illustration] PREFACE The interest which still follows individual ascents of Mont Blanc, notwithstanding the attraction of other mountain peaks, must be my apology for once again repeating an oft-told tale; but with this endeavour, to make the narrative a true and unvarnished account of what we did and how we did it, and to present the accompanying illustrations (which, for the most part, are taken from photographs) free from exaggeration. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. Evening at Chamonix--Excursion to the Brévent--View of the Mont Blanc chain. CHAPTER II. Commencement of the ascent--Pierre Pointue--Crossing the Glacier des Bossons--An awkward bit--"Cabane" on the Grands Mulets. CHAPTER III. View from the Grands Mulets--A foreign invasion--Trying to sleep--Preparation for a night march. CHAPTER IV. The start at midnight--Ascending the Montées--Arrival at the Petit Plateau--An attempt at breakfast on the Grand Plateau--The expedition jeopardised through mountain sickness--Churlish "foreigners"--The ascent resumed--Repose on the Rochers des Bosses--Climbing the Mauvaise Arête--The final assault--The goal reached. CHAPTER V. Descending the "back bone"--Approach of clouds--An unfortunate slip--Floundering in the snow--In danger--An awkward descent--In and out of the snow--The "Cabane" at last--Delicious repose--The journey resumed--Re-crossing the Glacier--A thunderstorm in the Forest des Pélerins--Welcome back. CHAPTER VI. A few words on our complexions--Certificates procured--Ladies' preparation for an attempt--Nipped in the bud--Concluding remarks. APPENDIX. A brief account of some of the most noted ascents--Routes to Chamonix from the Lake of Geneva. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE THE VALLEY OF CHAMONIX _Frontispiece._ MONT BLANC FROM THE BRÉVENT, SHEWING THE ROUTE 13 THE GLACIER DES BOSSONS 18 THE "CABANE" ON THE GRANDS MULETS 26 MONT BLANC FROM THE COL DE BALME 42 COMING DOWN THE GLACIER DES BOSSONS 50 DIAGRAM SHEWING THE RELATIVE HEIGHTS OF MONT BLANC AND SNOWDON 56 MAP OF ROUTES TO CHAMONIX 72 _CHAPTER I._ "And thou, fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains, Why are ye beautiful?" On a delightful evening in the month of July, 1881, table d'hôte being over, my friend S---- and myself were seated under the verandah of the hotel d'Angleterre at Chamonix; there were many others besides ourselves, chiefly English and Americans, grouped in parties, some taking their coffee, others smoking, and all devoting their attention to the summit of Mont Blanc whose diadem of snow was being warmed in colour if not in reality by the last rays of the setting sun. Though seven miles off as the crow flies it seemed much nearer, and it was hard to realize that some twelve or fourteen hours of incessant toil must be undergone before the foot could be planted on that rounded crest of eternal snow, that guide and porter must be employed, and that ropes and ice-axes must be brought into requisition before those apparently gently-sloping hills of pure white down could be traversed. They looked so smooth, so inviting, and so incapable of doing any one harm. The summit changed from gold to grey, the dome and Aiguille du Goûté faded from view, the Grands Mulets were no longer to be seen, and the form of the Glacier des Bossons could scarcely be distinguished from the Montagne de la Côte. Gradually and imperceptibly they vanished into night, the stars came out, the guests retired, and following their example I climbed up to my room on the sixth floor. We had left Martigny at four in the morning, and had walked most of the way to Forclaz, and the whole of it from thence over the Col de Balme, so I was not sorry to get to bed. Not having the remotest intention of making the ascent my slumbers were undisturbed by the excitement which they say invariably precedes the undertaking, from which even professionals are said not to be exempt. On getting up next morning I was very agreeably surprised to find that the sun was shining brightly on the summit which was entirely free from clouds--a somewhat unusual circumstance, as lofty mountain peaks more often than otherwise are enveloped in them, especially in the morning. Feeling lazy and somewhat stiff after our long walk of the previous day, we loitered about till nearly twelve o'clock, and then decided upon taking advantage of the splendid weather by making an excursion to the Brévent, a mountain on the north side of the valley, from which the view of the Mont Blanc chain is one of the finest in the neighbourhood. A mule was hired with a boy to attend it, and a stout muscular young guide named François Ravanel was employed--not that there was any need of his good services, but the rules and regulations of the "Bureau des Guides" must be complied with, and one of these stipulates that a guide must in all cases accompany a mule. After crawling upwards for a couple of hours, we arrived at a newly erected hut, where refreshment was provided, and here the remainder of the afternoon was devoted to the inspection of the magnificent scenery which surrounded us on every side. The Valley of Chamonix lies nearly east and west, and is so narrow that it might almost be termed a ravine. It is rather more than ten miles long and less than half a mile in width. The mountains of the Mont Blanc range on the south, and those of the Brévent, on the north, rise abruptly on either side, their bases being covered with thick forests of pine for some two thousand feet above the valley. On the south side countless "aiguilles" pierce the sky, from le Tour on the east to the Aiguille du Goûté on the west. These graceful spires are of warm tinted rock, and here and there streaks of snow are to be seen in the crevices and gullies which are shaded from the sun. Several large glaciers descend from the northern slopes of the Mont Blanc chain, the first at the east or upper end being the Glacier du Tour; the next is the Glacier d'Argentière, which is the largest of them all, being no less than seven miles long between its upper and lower extremities and about a mile wide for two-thirds of its length, at which point it tapers off--as all glaciers do on approaching the valley. Three miles further to the west is the Glacier des Bois, the termination of the famous Mer de Glace. Between it and the village of Chamonix there are two or three unimportant glaciers which do not quite reach the forest. The Glaciers des Bossons and Taconnaz complete the list, the latter being ten miles from the Glacier du Tour. These gigantic streams of ice, hundreds of feet thick, are formed in the upper regions of the mountains, and slowly and with irresistible force slide down towards the valley, moving at a rate which varies according to the season and other circumstances, but which seldom exceeds three feet per day. They do not, however, quite reach the foot of the mountain, for, as the temperature is excessively hot during the summer months, the ice thaws rapidly, and the water thus formed rushes out in a roaring torrent through a tunnel-like hole at the extremity or "Snout." [Illustration: VIEW OF MONT BLANC FROM THE BRÉVENT. 1 Forest des Pélerins. 2 Pierre Pontue. 3 Glacier des Bossons. 4 Grands Mulets. 5 Petit Plateau. 6 Grand Plateau. 7 Bosses du Dromadaire. 8 Summit of Mont Blanc. A Aiguille du Midi. B Mont Blanc du Tacul. C Mont Maudit. D Dôme du Goûté. E Aiguille du Goûté. F Montagne de la Côte. G Glacier de Taconnaz. H Montagne de la Côte. NOTE.--_The route to the Summit is indicated by the dotted line._] These torrents flow into the Arve, which in summer time roars along the valley, leaping wildly over a bed of rocks and boulders in its headlong course to mingle with the waters of the Rhone at Geneva. The view of Mont Blanc from this spot was magnificent. His snow-capped head, glistening against a cloudless sky, formed the centre of the picture. Slightly on his left, and a little lower, was the Mont Maudit, separated by a thin line from the Mont Blanc du Tacul, and below the rocky base of the former several dark-looking pointed specks could be seen on the snow, the lower being the Grands-Mulets rocks, the upper the Aiguilles à Pichner. Lower yet are the Glaciers des Bossons and Taconnaz, on either side of the Montagne de la Côte, their delicately green tinted surfaces becoming more rugged and sparkling as they neared the valley. Apparently within rifle range the Aiguille du Midi raised its mitred summit 12,600 feet above the sea, the precipitous naked rock contrasting with the snow which here and there found lodgment, or lay in detached fields some 5,000 feet above the valley. On the right of the "Monarch of the Mountains" the Dôme and Aiguille du Goûté with their silver robes completed the scene. On our way down the following arrangements were made for the next day's excursion:--We were to visit the Grands Mulets, and in order to be back for dinner were to start at six in the morning. A porter was to be engaged, not to carry us or our belongings, but to act as the rear-guard when the rope was used in dangerous places, and François undertook to find a suitable man for that purpose. A mule was to be hired, François remarking "you shall have the same mule and the same boy you had to-day; you know them both." _CHAPTER II._ "Around his waist are forests braced, The Avalanche in his hand." "Friend! have a care, Your next step may be fatal!--for the love Of Him who made you, stand not on that brink!" The day broke bright and clear, and at six we were introduced by François to his friend, Jules Tairraz, who looked very business-like with a knapsack on his back and carrying an ice-axe and a coil of rope. The mule having overslept himself, we went on without him, and awaited his arrival under the trees at the foot of the mountain. At last the lazy brute hove in sight, walking in his usual style; then our coats, the knapsack, rope, etc., were strapped on, and by way of adding to his comfort I got into the saddle, and thus the ascent was begun. The route lay through the forest des Pélerins, and for some distance ran parallel with the Arve, crossing the torrents which flow into that river, over picturesque wooden bridges. Then, on approaching the lower extremity of the Glacier des Bossons, it wound to the left and zig-zagged up the base of the mountain. As we ascended the steep and narrow track an occasional gap in the trees afforded a sight of the glacier and enabled us to perceive that substantial progress was being made. The first stage of mountain climbing in these parts is decidedly tiresome; the forest is so thick one can see little else besides, and there is a monotony in the operation that would be unendurable were it not for the end in view. The trees at length became more scarce and stunted, and after two hours of this unexciting work they disappeared altogether; Pierre Pointue was reached, and the first stage of our journey was thus accomplished. Here we breakfasted. I spent some time in sketching this spot with its unassuming little buildings, and the Aiguille du Goûté in the back ground. We then moved on without the mule and boy, and worked our way round the face of the mountain, the rock being perpendicular to the left, and on our right a precipice, but the track was sufficiently wide to enable us to walk in comfort and without experiencing any of those feelings of nervousness which Albert Smith felt when passing over the same ground thirty years ago. Three quarters of an hour after leaving Pierre Pointue, we reached Pierre à l'Echelle, against whose side was reared a strong ladder which is kept for use when the crevasses are too wide to be crossed without its assistance. Its services were not, however, required on this occasion. Before introducing my readers to the Glacier des Bossons, which we were about to traverse, I may remark that opinions differ widely as to the difficulties and dangers of the undertaking. Some make very light of them, while others lead one to suppose that nothing short of cat-like agility, combined with heroic courage, could surmount the obstacles. The fact is, that leaving out of consideration experience, nerve, and surefootedness, the crossing of the Glacier may be comparatively easy one day, and beset with dangers another, the difficulties varying with the state of the ice, which is constantly changing. New crevasses are being formed, and those already in existence alter from day to day, so that great skill is required on the part of the guides to select a feasible route. Then, again, a snow bridge, consisting of a mere lump of snow jammed into the upper part of a wide crevasse, may bear one's weight or not according to a variety of circumstances, so after making due allowance for the disparagement of difficulties on the one hand, and the exaggeration of them on the other, it may fairly be said that walking over the Bossons is not exactly child's play. At about eleven o'clock we stepped on the ice and were agreeably surprised to find that there was no tendency to slip, our boots having been well studded with nails before starting, and as yet the points had not become rounded through wear. For the first half hour walking was fairly easy, the surface, though irregular, being in no way difficult. After this we reached a queer-looking place, where the ice was split up with yawning crevasses whose edges twisted and turned in the most extraordinary way. Here there was a bit of climbing in which both hands and feet had to take their part. François helped S----, Jules helped me, and we each helped the other until all were safely across; and then turning to look at the gulf we had just passed we noticed that the _face_ of the ice (not the surface) was exquisitely tinted with the most delicate green and blue, deepening into azure until it was lost in the abyss. Between this spot and the junction of the Glaciers des Bossons and Taconnaz, the ice was tolerably regular, and being free from snow there were no unseen crevasses to be guarded against; until we reached the "junction," where these mighty Glaciers part company. They seem to part in anger, for here the ice is in a frightful state of confusion, with the "seracs" (ice-bergs) heaped about in all directions, and with fathomless crevasses on every side. [Illustration: GLACIER DES BOSSONS.] A halt was called, and François uncoiled the rope which he measured out, forming a loop at every twelve feet or thereabouts; we were tied round the chest, and having been cautioned to keep our distances, and on no account to let the cord be slack, we proceeded on our way very slowly, and with the greatest care. This was by far the most trying part of the Glacier, and just before quitting this chaos our nerves were put to a severe test, for the only method of advance was over a ridge of ice about a foot wide, twisting about, and having a very irregular surface. François went first and cut some rude steps with his ice-axe, then we walked after him at a snail's pace, at one moment seeking for a good foot-hold, and the next looking into the crevasses on either side, the azure blue of which was more beautiful than ever. We crossed without a slip, and François remarked, "the most difficult part of the ascent to the summit has now been accomplished." This observation, however, was not borne out by the facts which shall be narrated in due course; but small blame to him, poor fellow! He was a young guide, having only just passed his examination and obtained his certificate, consequently he was naturally anxious to lead a party to the top; besides this there was another motive, his fee would be increased five-fold, twenty francs being the regulation charge to the Grands Mulets, a hundred to the summit. For the next half hour or so numerous crevasses barred the way; when they did not exceed four feet or a little more we jumped across, and although we soon became accustomed to the work it was not always an easy operation, for putting aside the ugly look of the chasm, the foot-hold not being secure, it was a somewhat difficult matter to spring from the slippery brink of ice on which we stood. Sometimes we crossed over a snow-bridge but a few feet wide, François first prodding it with the handle of his axe; then, being satisfied that it would bear, he stepped forward, while we stood on the alert to save him from an untimely death should the snow give way. The difficulties lessened as we advanced, and, our attention not being constantly directed to our footsteps, we were enabled to look about us a little more. The dark-coloured Grands Mulets, no longer insignificant but rising some hundreds of feet above the snow, their wedge-like forms leaning well forward, seemed to defy the mighty downward pressure of avalanche and ice. The colour of the sky was of the deepest blue, almost indigo, the intensity of which far exceeded anything we had ever seen, or could have imagined possible, and it was not until we had been in the "Cabane" on the Grands Mulets for some time that we discovered that the sky is the same here as in any ordinary atmosphere at a lower level. The cause of the deception is easily explained; our eyes had been rivetted on ice and shining snow for several hours, consequently the colour appeared deeper by contrast. At length we quitted the Glacier, and the remainder of the journey was on slopes of snow. In some respects it was pleasanter than before; there was a nice soft feeling about it, there was no fear of slipping, and no particular care had to be exercised. On the other hand the work was more fatiguing, and worst of all our boots were getting wet through. The base of the Grands Mulets was nearly reached when our arrival was announced by Jules, who gave a genuine Alpine shout which was answered from the "Cabane," and, having clambered up the rocks, at 1.30 we entered the little hut. Prior to Albert Smith's ascent there was no refuge of any kind in this wild and exposed situation. But as the number of excursionists spending a night on the rocks to see the glories of sunset and sunrise was on the increase, a rude hut fourteen feet long by seven wide was erected by the guides in 1854. The walls were formed of flat blocks and splinters of the rock, and the roof was of boards. The existing "Cabane" is somewhat larger. It is divided into three compartments, two of which are furnished with a couple of beds covered with coarse rugs, a deal table and two stools. The other room is fitted with a small cooking-stove, and is used by the man and woman in charge, and by passing guides and porters. On the north side there is a narrow walk about a yard in width protected by a hand-rail, and on the west a short sloping path leading to the snow. Hence it is plain that the life of those who dwell on this barren rock during the season is not unlike that of lighthouse keepers. True it is that they may stretch their legs on the snow, but the only out of door exercise they can take in comfort is the narrow walk, some forty or fifty feet in length, referred to. Supplies are as a matter of course brought to this isolated place with difficulty and at considerable expense, consequently the prices charged, though high, are not exorbitant, more especially as the proprietor pays a large sum to the Commune for his license. Luncheon was just over when a foreigner, accompanied by two guides and a porter, joined us in the hut. He was on his way back to Chamonix, having successfully made the ascent. There was an air of joy in his countenance, and satisfaction in his every movement, and we fondly hoped to be in the same happy frame of mind at the expiration of twenty-four hours or so. Having rested for a while, he with his party quitted the "Cabane," and, roped together, crept down the rocks. Just as they reached the snow I shouted to the guide, "Will you have the kindness to tell them at the hotel d'Angleterre that we mean to go to the top?" "Very well, sir, I shall not forget." Then leaning over the post and rail-fence, we watched them going down the slopes till they disappeared from view among the "seracs." _CHAPTER III._ "The world is all before me; I but ask Of Nature that with which she will comply-- It is but with her summer's sun to bask, To mingle in the quiet of her sky, To see her gentle face without a mask, And never gaze on it with apathy." Then we were left alone. "All heaven and earth are still, though not in sleep." The sun shone brightly on the pure white snow by which we were surrounded; the air was motionless, and not a sound disturbed the stillness of that memorable afternoon. At our feet lay the Glacier des Bossons. "Heaven-descended in its origin, it yet takes its mould and conformation from the hidden womb of the mountain which brought it forth. At first soft and ductile, it acquires a character and firmness of its own, as an inevitable destiny urges it on its onward career. Jostled and constrained by the crosses and irregularities of its prescribed path, hedged in by impassable barriers which fix limits to its movements, it yields groaning to its fate, and still travels forward seamed with the scars of many a conflict of opposing obstacles. All this while, though wasting, it is renewed by an unseen power,--it evaporates, but is not consumed. "On its surface it bears the spoils which, during the progress of its existence, it has made its own; often weighty burdens devoid of beauty or value, at times precious masses, sparkling with gems or ore. Having at length attained its greatest width and extension, commanding admiration by its beauty and power, waste predominates over supply, the vital springs begin to fail; it stoops into an attitude of decrepitude--it drops the burdens one by one it had borne so proudly aloft--its dissolution is inevitable. But as it is resolved into its elements, it takes all at once a new, and livelier, and disembarrassed form; from the wreck of its members it arises 'another, yet the same'--a noble, full-bodied, arrowy stream, which leaps rejoicing over the obstacles which had stayed its progress, and hastens through fertile valleys towards a freer existence, and a final union in the ocean with the boundless and the infinite." Northward on the opposite side of the valley rose the Brévent. The buttress up which we had ridden the day before seemed quite vertical and inaccessible from this point of view. The pine forest clothing its base resembled turf, while the zig-zag paths above appeared as fine yellow threads. Turning towards the west, vast fields of sloping snow formed the foreground, and towering above them rose the imposing Dôme du Goûté, relieved here and there by dark-coloured patches of rock; further to the left the base of the Aiguille à Pichner, the upper of the two little specks we had noticed at Chamonix and from the Brévent. Time passed rapidly; what with sketching, discussing the prospects of a successful ascent (concerning which our fellows had not the slightest misgiving, although we had two guides less than the regulation number), perusing the traveller's book, looking at the scenery, and basking in the sun, we had a most delightful time of it. At five we sat down to a plain dinner, although it consisted of several courses; and having indulged in our usual smoke, we lay down to rest during the few hours which remained before our re-commencing the ascent. Although it was rather early for sleep we might have done something in that direction had not our attempts been rudely interfered with. When we lay down all was still as death, and remained so for a time; then there was a terrific noise of stones rattling against the wooden walls of the hut. The cause of all this was that an addition to the building is about to be made, and the levelling of the rock for its reception is done by the men who bring up the materials from Pierre Pointue, and the only time they give to it is before retiring at night. What muscles these fellows must have! They had crossed the Glacier _twice_ that day with heavy loads of wood on their backs, and not contented they must needs set to work at sunset to the discomfort of those who, like good children, had gone to bed at an early hour. At length this diabolical noise ceased, and we again courted sleep, and were on the verge of attaining it when voices were heard outside followed by a thundering kick at the door, which was opened by the inconsiderate fellow who had bestowed it, and who, on perceiving that the beds were occupied, uttered a "Pardon, Messieurs," and slamming it disappeared. But this was not the last of him and his friend, who, occupying the next room to ours, made as much noise as if they were doing it by contract. The partition being thin I heard nearly every word they said, and was somewhat amused and very disgusted at the following dialogue which was carried on in French between one of the tourists and a guide. [Illustration: Aiguille à Pichner. Dôme du Goûté. "CABANE" ON THE GRANDS MULETS.] "What are the regulations as to the payment of your expenses here?" "There are no regulations, sir; you are not obliged to pay for us; but as a fact we have never paid; our employers have invariably done so." "Oh, very well, we don't object, only we think that if you let it be understood that you would have to pay, they would probably charge somewhat less!" Exit guide. To this interesting conversation succeeded the clattering of knives and forks; later on subdued talking, which ended finally in regular and prolonged snores. These interruptions effectually drove sleep away, coax it as we would. With closed eyes and in a half dreamy state I saw the "seracs" and crevasses, and passed over the ground we had traversed in the morning. Then regaining the full possession of my faculties, I asked myself if I was not bent on taking part in an idiotic action by starting in the middle of the night to clamber up some thousands of feet of snow and ice. Should I be repaid for the trouble and discomfort? Most likely there would be clouds or mist to hide the scenery, and even if there were not, would the game be worth the candle? Would not my friends say, "Very wrong, and very foolish, too; you ought to have known better?" Inclination tried hard to make me change my resolve, but was beaten in the attempt; and I am glad of it, for I was repaid, and amply, too. Later on, in the perfect stillness of that calm night, I heard a loud rattling report caused by the falling of a mighty avalanche. It was now ten o'clock; rolling restlessly about, I waited for the knock which was to summon us at a quarter to twelve. At last it came; a shuffling of feet was heard which approached nearer and nearer, then the signal was given, and in a few minutes we were ready for François to put on our half dried and dreadfully stiff boots (despite the grease) and to tie on the gaiters. I ate some bread and cheese, and drank a glass of water, but S---- took nothing. My flask was filled with brandy; some provisions, two bottles of Bordeaux, and one of Champagne, were stowed away in Jules' knapsack, and we each took a packet of raisins, prunes, and chocolate, which we were assured would be very acceptable later on. As to our clothing, S---- had on an alpaca coat and knickerbockers, whilst I wore an ordinary light summer suit. We were unprovided with top coats, wrappers, and had _no_ gloves. S---- had bought a pair of coloured spectacles some day previously, but, having nothing of the kind, I was fortunate in being able to procure a pair of goggles at the Grands Mulets, without which I could not have made the ascent, as the glare of the snow would in all probability have produced snow blindness. We were now at an elevation of 10,000 feet, the goal we hoped to reach at six or seven in the morning was 15,780 feet above the sea, consequently the portion _yet_ to be ascended was no less than 5,780 feet, or nearly twice the height of Snowdon. Midway between the Grands Mulets and the summit is the Grand Plateau, and to reach it three gigantic snow-slopes or steps, each some 900 feet high, have to be surmounted, then the remaining portion of the journey is over the Bosses du Dromadaire, the Mauvaise Arête, and the final slope. _CHAPTER IV._ "The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains.--Beautiful!" Our modest preparations being now completed, the rope was stretched along the narrow path, loops were made, and we were tied in the following order--François, S----, myself, then Jules. All being ready, François moved forward with a lantern, and in a couple of minutes we were fairly on the snow. All thoughts of difficulties, dangers, and what our friends would say, were left in the "Cabane," and our sole attention was devoted to the breasting of the gigantic slopes which are called Les Montées. The night was fine but dark, the moon not having risen yet. Onwards and upwards we went in silence, and with slow and measured tread, keeping at distances of about twelve feet apart. We had not proceeded very far before we came to a dead stop, and on enquiring of S---- what it meant, he replied that François' nose was bleeding. This is one of the many inconveniences to which one is liable at these altitudes. On looking back we saw a light advancing, and as it came nearer and nearer we made out the figures of a party of six men crawling slowly in our direction. They were the noisy foreigners who had not added to our comfort in the "Cabane." On drawing near a great deal of talk went on between their guides and ours in patois. Then they went ahead, and, François having recovered, we followed them closely, as soon as the route--concerning which there appeared to be some doubt--had been agreed upon. The work was tiresome, with nothing to look at besides the snow under our feet, and no excitement of any description, not even the jumping of a crevasse. To add to the monotony, talking was prohibited, for, having made some remarks to Jules as we went along, I was advised by him not to speak; and no doubt he was right, as a certain amount of exertion was necessary to carry on a conversation, separated as we were by an interval of several yards. This portion of the journey was decidedly uphill work, figuratively as well as literally. At about two o'clock the moon appeared above the tops of the mountains, and although it had just entered the last quarter, it afforded sufficient light to enable François to dispense with the lantern, which he left on the snow; on several occasions we stopped a considerable time while mounting the steep slopes, without any apparent reason. At last, becoming quite impatient, I asked S---- to pass the word to François to get ahead of the "foreigners." He preferred, however, to follow in their path, thinking that the track must be rather more easy by being beaten down. Although so thinly clad I did not suffer in the least from cold, except in my feet, which was not to be wondered at, considering that my socks were cotton, and that my boots, damp at starting, were now wet through. On nearing the Petit Plateau we went up a slope which was nearly perpendicular. It was not snow, for that substance could not have stood at so steep an angle; and it was not hard ice, but névé--its consistence was much the same as that of an ice pudding; by giving a smart kick the foot entered sufficiently to afford a good hold. It was really very steep, and at the same time a particularly easy bit of climbing; but, had we been photographed, the uninitiated would have marvelled at our daring. After this we walked on the level for a short distance, and arrived in full sight of the Petit Plateau before reaching which we we went along some very narrow ridges of ice with deep crevasses on either side, then up some snow slopes, at the top of which we stood on the Plateau. This we crossed at as rapid a pace as circumstances permitted on account of the danger of falling avalanches that beset this spot. The guides will have it that the slightest disturbance of the atmosphere, such as can be created by the human voice, is sufficient to cause a disaster; and as it is always as well to practice obedience, we proceeded on our way without uttering a word. So far I had not experienced any difficulty of breathing, nor had I suffered from thirst; but soon after quitting the Grands Mulets I felt a dryness in the mouth and throat, and then I tried the effects of a raisin; but not being satisfied with the result, took a prune, and, discarding the fruit, rolled the stone in my mouth, from which process I derived great benefit. Plodding steadily upwards, we asked from time to time whether we were not yet half way? "No, sir; not till we arrive at the Grand Plateau, and it is some distance off yet." How we longed for day-light, that the monotony of this night excursion might be broken by the sight of the grand scenery which, though surrounding, was almost invisible to us! Before the Grand Plateau was reached we stopped for refreshment. We had been tramping for nearly four hours, and it was needed. The knapsack was opened, and a bottle of wine produced, but what about the corkscrew? Left behind of course! So François volunteered to operate with his ice-axe, but as he was far less expert in decapitating a bottle than in hewing steps, a considerable portion of the contents was lost. It was not long before we resumed our march, and having nearly traversed the Grand Plateau another halt was made, and this time we meant to eat as well as drink. Not feeling hungry I was told by our fellows that no one had much appetite up here. Then the remaining bottle of claret was uncorked with care, and after we had partaken of its contents sparingly, it was deposited in the snow for our return. Much as we should have liked to sit down and rest we could not do so, for reposing on a bed of snow was not to be thought of. Resuming our journey we soon came up with and passed the other party who were grouped together apparently engaged in our late occupation. Dawn now began to break, and stopping for a few minutes at the foot of a long and regular incline I said to S---- "Well, have have you had enough of it?" To my inexpressible surprise, he answered "Yes, I feel so ill that I do not think I shall be able to go on, and the summit seems as far off as ever." It was now broad day-light, and we were little more than half-way. "Oh! come on, women have done it, and why should not we?" "I am ill, and your talking in that way only makes me worse." Then I called François, who made light of it, remarking that feelings of sickness are often experienced in this locality; the flask was produced, and we took a little nip all round, and went on. After going a short distance, S---- said, "I feel dreadfully ill, I never felt so bad in my life, it is impossible for me to go on. I could not reach the Plateau for £10,000. Go on, and I will find my way back to the Grands Mulets, somehow." "That's out of the question; you can't get there alone, and as there is no help for it, we must all go back." Then I told François, and the poor fellow's countenance at once fell below zero. This was his first ascent as guide, although he had accompanied other parties as porter on eleven previous occasions. Matters certainly looked gloomy at this moment. S---- not only appeared the picture of misery, but was undoubtedly very ill--suffering, in fact, from mountain sickness; he complained of internal cold and shivered all over, besides experiencing other sensations which are best described in his own words,--"It seemed as though all power had departed from my limbs, my eyes were dim and incapable of vision, and I more than once put my hand to them and my ears and mouth to make sure that blood was not spurting forth." Feeling averse to beat a hasty retreat after all the toil that had been undergone, and when the end was so comparatively near, and hoping against hope that S---- might yet be able to reach the summit, we tried to make him as comfortable as possible. A seat was made on the snow with alpenstocks and ice-axe handles, and Jules goodnaturedly took off his jacket, in which he wrapped the invalid. It was near this very spot that Sir Thomas Talfourd's expedition was forced to return through the same cause in 1843. At this time the other party came in sight, crawling slowly up the slope of snow, walking in single file, and roped together. On moving past us and noticing that there was something amiss, one of the guides observed to me: "You are all right, or you would not be able to smoke." They then discovered that we were going back, and the same fellow who had just spoken to me said, "Do you wish to make the ascent, sir?" "Of course I do; that is why I am here." "Then untie yourself and fasten on to our line, and come on." "Yes, with pleasure, if your employers are willing." Whispering was carried on, and, after some conversation in patois, François announced that they were _not_ willing. Then S---- rose up, quietly remarking: "We had better get on." "You can't do it, man; you are far too ill." "I will, if I die for it!" Without further talk we made a fresh start up this interminable slope. The indignation S---- felt at the churlish behaviour of the "foreigners" completely restored him, the effect produced being the same as intense excitement on those who are suffering from _mal-de-mer_. I pictured to myself the fun we should have on our way back, and the railway speed with which we should come down, but I quite left out of the calculation what the condition of the snow might be a few hours hence. It was broad day-light when we reached the top of the incline, and the sun's welcome rays were beginning to brighten up the aiguilles and peaks on our left. Looking back the spectacle was not only grand and beautiful but weird-like, and the perfect stillness that reigned made it all the more impressive. The valley of Chamonix was filled with clouds, not mere fog or mist, but real clouds rolling beneath us, and slowly rising up the mountains whose rugged peaks and sharp-pointed aiguilles reared their graceful heads against a back ground of unclouded sky. The scene was one to be remembered, and we felt that we were beginning to reap the fruits of our five hours toil. Travelling was fairly easy, the snow being in splendid condition, and as there was no danger to be guarded against we were able to devote the whole of our attention to the scenery. The summit shining white certainly appeared nearer than it did from the Hotel d'Angleterre, but not so close as we should have expected after the hours we had spent in journeying towards it. Arriving at the Rochers des Bosses, some low, flat rocks, scarcely rising above the surrounding snow, their surfaces rent by the severity of the climate into thousands of sharp jagged pieces of stone, we sat down to rest for the first time since quitting the Grands Mulets. Lying down on this hard but welcome couch, and warmed by the sun now shining brightly upon us, we surveyed the remaining portion of the task before us--the 1,500 feet and more--yet to be mounted, immense fields of snow to be traversed, les Bosses du Dromadaire to be climbed--and then the final slope. Having "lighted up" I felt in a very contented mood, then an involuntary nod reminded me that we had not slept since the night before last,--puff--nod--puff--then a longer doze. "François, I should like to have a snooze." "You must not, sir!" "It can't do any harm." "You must not!" "Then the sooner we are off the better, for there is a lot of work to be done yet." Getting up lazily, we buckled to once more, and surmounting first the Grande and then the Petite Bosse, we approached a pure white ridge, sharp as a knife, and apparently vertical. Wondering how François would steer, whether to the right or left, so as to scale one of the sides, I was surprised to see him direct his steps to the centre. "Surely he does not intend to go up that frightful ridge! He does, though!" and on reaching it he informed us that it was the Mauvaise Arête; and a more wicked _back-bone_ could scarcely be conceived. This was the spot which was visited by Pierre Balmat, Marie Couttet, François Paccard, and several others, when exploring the mountain on the 8th of June, 1786. They described it as a "huge ridge which connected the top of Mont Blanc with the Dôme du Goûté, but it was so steep and narrow that its passage was impossible;" and having concluded that the summit was inaccessible by this route, they returned to Chamonix. The Corridor and Mur de la Côte is the route generally followed, but this one is somewhat shorter and less fatiguing, though more difficult. It cannot, however, be made use of unless the weather is calm. Speaking for myself, I did not relish the prospect of climbing that knife edge, which was frightfully steep, scarcely a foot in width, apparently several hundred feet high, and its sides not very far removed from the perpendicular. Acting on the principle that when a disagreeable thing has to be done the sooner the better, we did not linger at the base, but went straight at it, slowly and with the greatest care, for we were now on ice. Before taking a step our alpenstocks were firmly driven in, which was a most laborious operation, although the surface was sufficiently soft to enable us to do so by stabbing it several times on each occasion. François had by far the heaviest task to perform, for he had constantly to use his axe in cutting steps. How long this went on I am unable to say, perhaps half an hour, most likely more; all I know is that ultimately we found ourselves standing in a happy frame of mind on the snow, which was almost level, and here we rested, panting, after our exertions, and then walking forward almost on a level the foot of the last slope was soon reached, and now the final assault was begun. The work was very stiff, though by no means difficult or dangerous, and we stopped more than once. Feeling very tired I remarked to François: "Well, I confess that I am fatigued." "And so are we, sir," was his laconic reply. During the whole of the ascent I had not experienced so much difficulty in walking as now. I felt as though I had a greater weight to support, and compare the work to carrying a heavy load up a long flight of stairs. And this was not to be wondered at, considering that the density of the air at this elevation is as nearly as possible half that at the level of the sea. Going up the Arête the pause between each step, whilst the alpenstock was being driven in, was sufficiently long to afford a rest. Then again, the mind was so occupied that fatigue, though doubtless present, passed unnoticed. But neither at this nor at any other time did I experience any difficulty of breathing or feelings of suffocation. At last the goal was reached!--we stood on the summit of Mont Blanc! The customary salute of three guns was fired from Chamonix; the bottle of champagne was drunk with the usual toasts; and, having shaken hands all round, we turned our attention to the world below--on which we did not seem to stand, but rather on some huge white cloud. Above the sky was a clear, unbroken atmosphere of blue; far beneath the spot on which we stood detached fields of clouds covered the landscape, and, uniting with the horizon, had the appearance of a vast sea; some of them, rising above the rest, resembled island rocks, while others towered up like gigantic cliffs. Monte Rosa, the rival of Mont Blanc, though rearing its proud head far above the ocean of clouds, seemed but a mere rock. The Jura was scarcely visible; the Brévent was indistinct; the Mont Maudit, Tacul, and the other peaks of the Mont Blanc range, though near and unclouded, were dwarfed into insignificance as we looked down upon them. There was no inclination to identify mountain, lake, or city, but rather to gaze in silence on that vast and weird-like scene. [Illustration: MONT BLANC FROM THE COL DE BALME.] "There is a calm upon me-- Inexplicable stillness! which till now Did not belong to what I knew of life. ... It will not last, But it is as well to have known it, though but once; It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense, And I within my tablets would note down ... That there is such a feeling." _CHAPTER V._ "The mists boil up around the glaciers; clouds Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury." Would that our stay could have been prolonged! but frail human nature cannot perform impossibilities. We had been on foot nine hours, and had a long day's work before us; furthermore we were thinly clad, and were exposed to a chilly breeze, from which no shelter could be found; so, casting a look on this indescribable scene, and with feelings of grim satisfaction that its awful stillness would never be profaned by crowds of noisy tourists and vendors of cheap articles, we commenced to retrace our steps. The Mauvaise Arête, bad as we had found it going up, was infinitely worse coming down; the ridge seemed narrower, and the slopes on either side much steeper. Several times our fellows called out "you must not look down, gentlemen;" but fortunately neither S---- nor myself were troubled with nervousness, and we did look down the steep inclines, whose end to all appearance was eternity. Slowly and cautiously the descent was made, each one minding his neighbour as well as himself, and taking special care that the rope should not be slack. We did not walk in step like soldiers on the march, but advanced in a succession of jerks as it were. François having made a step, stood still; S---- having followed his example, I did the same, and when Jules had completed his part of the performance, the opera was repeated. Some idea of the steepness of the ridge may be formed, when I say that at one exceptionally steep place I leaned back, and rested my shoulders against it. Jules at once called out, "Don't do that, sir, you are more likely to slip; trust to your heels." So following his advice I dug them well in and by dint of care the foot was safely reached, and we all looked forward to an easy and enjoyable return. But the end had not come yet! At the Rochers des Bosses we felt very much inclined to lie down, and to take it easy, but François urged us on, not liking the appearance of a cloud which was drifting in our direction. Clouds are one of the sources of danger on the mountain, through which cause eleven lives were lost a few years since. The poor fellows being unable to find their way perished of cold and exposure. We were marching down the rocks in a leisurely manner, and I, forgetful that we were roped, was paying no attention whatever to those who preceded me, the foot-hold being secure, when suddenly I felt a terrific jerk, and before there was time to plant myself firmly on my feet I had lost my balance, and was on the point of falling headlong, when to my great satisfaction a violent backward pull arrested a very ugly fall, which would probably have resulted in a broken limb if not something worse. The cause of this was an unseen piece of ice upon which S---- had placed his foot--slipped--and, falling suddenly, had communicated his misfortune to me through the agency of the rope. The alpenstock was jerked violently out of his hand, and went glissading down the snow for a distance of a hundred yards at least. It stopped, however, in a place that fortunately was accessible. The snow was now no longer in the same condition as in the early morning, the heat, though temperate, being sufficient to soften the crust, and render walking very laborious; and as we reached the top of the incline, where the expedition nearly came to an abrupt termination, and down which we had expected to glissade, we found the snow so soft that we sank in it to the knee and occasionally to the waist. Floundering along, and with an occasional grumble at a style of work for which we had not bargained, we slowly and gradually descended this unlucky slope, till its foot was reached. Parched and weary we went on, keeping a sharp look out for the wine we had left in the snow. "There it is!" "No! that belongs to the foreigners." "Then ours can't be far off;" and sure enough it was found in the same place where we had left it. Our stock of drinkables was now exhausted. Nearing the Petit Plateau we were enabled to examine the much-feared avalanches, which were almost invisible during the ascent. In appearance they were not unlike chalk cliffs, cracked here and there as though the foundation had yielded. On the whole, these huge blocks looked safe enough, with the exception of one some thirty feet in height which was hanging over, ripe for a fall at any moment. Under the very shadow of this threatening mass of consolidated snow we were bound to pass, and, eyeing it with suspicion, we increased our pace to the utmost possible speed, when, as luck would have it, S---- sank into a mixture of ice and snow just as we were immediately underneath. François turned back, and tugged away; Jules went forward to assist, but their united efforts proving of no avail they resorted to their ice-axes, and finally succeeded in quarrying out the imprisoned limb. This was probably the most hair-breadth escape during the whole expedition. With feelings of relief we walked on in silence, and crossed the same uninviting ridges, high walls of ice, with crevasses on the right hand and on the left; as it was softer than on our way up, there was a feeling of suspicion that the material might give way at any moment. However, it held good, and once again we exclaimed, "All right." Moving cautiously along, we reached the brink of the nearly vertical slope referred to in the ascent, and now that it was visible we wondered how we had climbed it. Looking down it appeared quite perpendicular, and its condition was so changed by the influence of the sun that going down in the same free and easy way that we had climbed up was quite out of the question. "François, cannot we get round that way?" "It is impossible, sir." "Well, what is to be done?" "Oh! we shall manage very well!" We were now untied, then each one in turn was fastened round the chest with an end of the rope, the other being held by those above. S---- went first and disappeared over the brink; my turn came next, and holding the rope firmly, and kicking my feet into the soft névé, I joined him below; then François followed, and lastly Jules, and a very trying time it must have been for him, for he was obliged to descend by his own unaided exertions. The rope being fastened round his waist, we held the other end, carefully taking in the slack as he came down, so that in the event of a fall we might prevent him from slipping into eternity down the slope on which we stood. As he worked his way down by kicking his feet into the partially-melted névé, and retaining his vertical position by means of the ice-axe, he seemed like a fly on a wall, and was more to be admired than envied; but to his credit he descended the forty-five feet without a slip. Pausing for a few minutes, we commenced the descent of les Montées in a very matter-of-fact way, glissading being quite out of the question on account of the soft condition of the snow, for the weather was now excessively hot. Although we were going downhill, the work was trying enough, and to make matters worse the flask was empty! However, the Grands Mulets were in sight, and the thought of the "Cabane," and the refreshment contained therein, encouraged us as we alternately buried and extricated our legs in and out of the yielding snow. The much-desired haven seemed so very near, that I remarked in a diffident way, "Another quarter of an hour, Jules?" "Three quarters, sir." Deceived again! How provokingly distinct it appeared through the pure atmosphere, unpolluted with smoke, gas, and the many other impurities to which we are subject in England. The remaining thousand feet or thereabouts having been descended without any incident worth recording, we entered the "Cabane" at two o'clock, tired, parched, and our lower extremities wet through. S---- forthwith threw himself on a bed, and was sound asleep in a moment. Our trusty fellows disappeared, and having taken off my boots I had some luncheon, with a bottle of beer, which was perfect nectar. I lay down on one of the beds, and smoked the pipe of peace. We had allowed ourselves a rest of an hour and a half; at 3-30 p.m., time being up, we once more and for the last time got into harness, and ten minutes afterwards quitted the "Cabane." We worked our way down the rugged rocks at a quick pace, for the weather had changed and a thunderstorm was rapidly approaching. Heavy clouds were rolling up the valley, and ever and anon a clap of thunder pealed forth, reverberating amongst the mountains. "I am very anxious to cross the glacier before the rain comes down." "Very well, François, go ahead as fast as you like, and we won't stop you." So down the slopes of snow we went at a rapid pace, soon arriving on the ice. Our route was not the same as on going up, in consequence of a change in the crevasses; they are always changing, for the glacier, as I have before explained, never remains still, moving forward at the rate of some three feet or even more per day. [Illustration: COMING DOWN THE GLACIER DES BOSSONS.] On the whole we found the work less trying than on the previous day. Whether it was really so, or only by comparison, I cannot tell; however, there were one or two awkward bits to dispose of, one, especially, which was a perpendicular face of ice forming the side of a deep crevasse, along which we worked our way by stepping into holes cut into it at every two or three feet, and by gripping the ice in notches which were hewn out for this purpose. Then the ropes were untied, and we felt like colts unloosed. The remaining portion of the glacier was speedily crossed; the rocky base of the Aiguille du Midi was traversed at a run; the little torrents were bounded over; the rude zig-zag paths, covered with rolling stones, were scampered down, and Pierre Pointue was safely reached. Here we paid our bill for board and lodging at the Grands Mulets, and whilst refreshing ourselves, we were rather amused at hearing an altercation between the "foreigners"--who, by the way, had made the ascent--and the landlord respecting the price of a bottle of wine! This was the last we saw of them. We now commenced the final stages of our journey, and a wet one it proved, for the storm was overhead, the lightning flashed, and the rain began to fall; and by the time we entered the Forest des Pélerins, it came down in torrents. Being without top-coats or umbrellas, it was not long in penetrating our thin clothing. But what did it signify? The journey was nearly over, and the thought that our impromptu expedition had been so successful cheered us as we strode down the zig-zags, which seemed never ending. The bottom, however, was reached at last, and, gaining the level, we soon found ourselves on the outskirts of the village. The populace did not turn out, neither did we attempt to form a procession, _à la_ Albert Smith, but quietly, and in the same unostentatious manner that we had left on the previous day, we directed our way to the Hotel; on approaching which we were rather astonished at being again saluted by cannon, and much more so at finding the entrance hall of the Hotel filled with guests, who had hurriedly left the table d'hôte to welcome our safe arrival. It was very good of them to give, and very pleasant for us to receive, their kind and unexpected congratulations. Our wet clothes having been changed, we spent a pleasant evening sitting under the verandah, and talking over our adventures. _CHAPTER VI._ "Here are the Alpine landscapes which create A fund for contemplation; to admire Is a brief feeling of a trivial date; But something worthier do such scenes inspire." On getting up next morning I felt rather stiff, and there was a burning sensation all over my face and ears, as though they had undergone a mild scorching. The effect of the sun's rays and radiation from the snow is very remarkable, and in a few hours the complexion is dyed the colour of mahogany. Much to our surprise, François and Jules, weather-beaten and sun-burnt as they were before going up, were several shades darker on their return. As for S---- his condition was simply deplorable, and he suffered great inconvenience for more than a week afterwards. For several days he presented an indescribably unwholesome appearance, and it was not until the whole of his skin had fallen off--which it did piecemeal and in huge flakes--that his good looks were restored. After breakfast our trusty fellows were paid for their services, François receiving one hundred and Jules fifty francs, which with one hundred and fifty-two francs for board and lodging at the Grands Mulets, brought up our expenses to three hundred and two francs, or about £6 each, exclusive of a few extras that are not worth noting; I may say, however, that the ascent is rarely made for so moderate a sum. The regulation number of guides is as follows, viz., two guides and one porter for a traveller, and one extra guide for each additional person, by which we ought to have had three guides and one porter, but not having intended to go further than the Grands Mulets we went with half the usual number, and although we were perfect novices at the work, we got on admirably, and do not quite see what advantage would have been gained by having a larger number of attendants. The next thing to be done was to pay a visit to the guides' office, and on our way there François said, "Sir, will you explain to the chief that when we started we had not intended going further than the Grands Mulets, otherwise we shall be fined, because we were not on turn for the ascent?" The chief listened attentively to my explanation, and then remarked, "In that case they shall not be punished." We then signed our names in the record book, and afterwards obtained certificates surmounted by comical-looking sketches, supposed to represent the summit with a party of tourists and guides in a variety of absurd attitudes. These documents were numbered 768, which means that this was the seven hundred and sixty-eighth ascent from Chamonix since Balmat successfully reached the top on the 8th August, 1786. They were dated 20th July, 1881, and were signed by François, Jules, and Frederic Payot, the chief guide. Whilst lolling about during the remainder of the day, we were "interviewed" pretty frequently, and the interest taken in our adventures appeared to be as deep as though the ascent was a matter of very rare occurrence. The first question invariably asked was, "Did you suffer from the rarified air?" The answer to which was, "Not at all as regards breathing, but we none of us had any appetite at a higher elevation than the Grands Mulets." They did not, however, put the second question, which one is always asked in England, "Did it repay you?" How many are there, of the thousands who visit Chamonix every year, who would not go to the top of Mont Blanc if the journey could be as easily performed as on the Rigi? But risk to life and limb, mountain sickness, wet feet, and rather more walking than they have a fancy for, keeps them in the lower regions, from which they content themselves with viewing the mountain. Amongst those who took a special interest in our late achievement were two ladies, who, accompanied by a gentleman, were to make an attempt the following morning. The route had been carefully studied, experienced guides and porters had been engaged, wrappers, veils, and better fare than can be procured at the Grands Mulets, had been provided. The weather, too, was magnificent, the thunderstorm having completely passed away at sunset, so as far as one could foresee they were likely to be favoured by the weather, which is half the battle. At six next morning, having hurried down to wish them success, I found the party all ready for a start. Two mules, which had been hired to carry their fair burdens to Pierre Pointue, were flapping their long ears and looking as if they thought getting up early a horrid bore. The guides and porters were fully equipped, and amongst other things they were provided with coils of brand new rope, which was indicative of precaution. On coming up to them, one of the ladies, with something very like tears in her eyes, said, "Couttet won't go; the weather has changed; there are clouds on the mountain; so our excursion must be put off." Turning to the guide who was responsible for this decision, he remarked in a most disconsolate tone, "Ah, monsieur, c'est impossible;" and no doubt he was right, for the summit down to the Glacier des Bossons was completely obscured; and what made it all the more vexatious was that in other respects the weather was everything that could be desired. Having expressed my warmest sympathy, I hastened to my room to prepare for our departure by the diligence, which was to leave at seven o'clock. [Illustration: DIAGRAM SHEWING THE RELATIVE HEIGHTS OF MONT BLANC AND SNOWDON] In bringing my narrative to a conclusion, I may say that although the ascent of Mont Blanc is no longer considered difficult or dangerous, I submit that in all probability the route is practically the same as when Balmat made the first ascent. The zig-zags to Pierre Pointue may have been slightly improved, and possibly the path which Albert Smith describes as so trying to the nerves on the way to Pierre à l'Echelle may be a few inches wider, but I doubt whether the Glacier des Bossons, the Montées, the Plateaux, and the Bosses du Dromadaire, have undergone any appreciable change; and I would point out that, although nearly eight hundred ascents have been made in a hundred years, the failures are not recorded. These, I am informed, far exceed the successes; therefore let those whose ambition it is to stand upon the highest point in Europe be prepared to meet with disappointments; for not only may they be unequal to the physical exertion that is necessary, but their expedition may be brought to an untimely end by various causes, and above all by the weather; but, on the other hand, should they be favoured as we were, and succeed in reaching the "diadem of snow," I promise them ample repayment. The fatigue undergone, the discomforts endured, and the dangers encountered, will soon be forgotten. But the deep impressions made when viewing the sublimest works of nature from those regions of eternal snow will last as long as life. APPENDIX. In 1760, De Saussure paid his first visit to Chamonix, and, feeling convinced that the summit was accessible, he promised a handsome reward to anyone who discovered a practicable route, and even offered to pay the wages of all those who attempted the ascent. His guide, Pierre Simon, tried twice--once by the Tacul and once by the Bossons--but returned without success. 1775.--Four peasants managed to reach a valley of snow which appeared to lead directly to the summit, but they suffered so acutely from the rarified air that they were compelled to return. 1783.--Three guides, Jean Marie Couttet, Lambard Meunier, and Joseph Carrier, attained a great elevation, when one of the party was seized with drowsiness and could proceed no further, so the attempt was abandoned. Having returned to Chamonix, Lambard Meunier stated "that the sun almost scorched him; that they had no appetite to eat even a crumb; and that if he tried the excursion again, he should only take with him a parasol and a bottle of scent!" During the same season, M. Bourrit, of Geneva, accompanied by two chamois hunters, reached the foot of a steep rock--probably the Aiguille du Bionassay--but being exhausted he could go no further. One of the guides remained with him, whilst the other went on until he reached the foot of the dome of Mont Blanc, from which he was only separated by a ridge of ice, and he was of opinion that had he only had time and some assistance he could have gained the summit. 1785.--De Saussure, accompanied by M. Bourrit and his son, started from the village of Bionassay on the 13th of September, and having climbed to the foot of the Aiguille du Goûté, they passed the night in a rude hut, eight feet by seven, which had been specially prepared for them. M. Bourrit, as well as his son, was afflicted by the rarified air and could not eat anything. At six next morning they started again. The route was dangerous, being over some snow drifts and blocks of ice. After five hours one of the guides, Pierre Balmat, proposed a halt, whilst he went on to reconnoitre the condition of the snow. In an hour he returned, and said that it was in such a treacherous state it would not be advisable to proceed. So the attempt was abandoned. They regained their cabin in safety, De Saussure remaining there another night to make scientific observations, but M. Bourrit, with his son, started off for Bionassay, not having a fancy for another night at this elevation. 1786.--Pierre Balmat, Marie Couttet, and another guide reached the top of the Dôme du Goûté, by the Aiguille of the same name, on the 8th June, suffering acutely from the rarifaction of the air. Here they fell in with François Paccard and three other guides, who had ascended by La Côte. Uniting their forces they went onwards and upwards, until they were brought to a stand by a ridge of ice--the Mauvaise Arête--which they considered to be inaccessible, and on their return they were nearly lost in a fearful storm of snow and hail. "It so happened that one of Paccard's party, named Jacques Balmat, who appears just at this time not to have been very popular in the valley, had presented himself without invitation, and followed them against their will. When they turned to descend, they did not tell this poor man of their intention. Being on unfriendly terms with them, he had kept aloof; and whilst stopping to look for some crystals he lost sight of them, just as the snow began to fall, which rapidly obliterated their traces. The storm increasing, he resolved to spend the night alone in the centre of this desert of ice, and at an elevation of 14,000 feet above the level of the sea! He had no food; he got under the lee of a rock and formed a kind of niche in the snow; and there, half dead from cold he passed the long hours of that terrible night. At last morning broke--the storm had cleared away; and as Balmat endeavoured to move his limbs he found that his feet had lost all sensation--they were frost-bitten! Keeping up his courage he spent the day in surveying the mountain, and he was rewarded: he found that if the crevasses that border the Grand Plateau were once crossed, the path to the top of Mont Blanc was clear, and he then traced out the route which has, with little variation, been followed ever since. Balmat returned that evening to Chamonix. He took to his bed, and did not leave it for weeks. He kept his secret close, until moved with gratitude to Dr. Paccard, the village physician, the line of road was hinted at, and an attempt agreed upon as soon as Balmat recovered." On the 7th of August these two started alone. They ascended La Côte, and slept there. Before daybreak next morning they were on their march again. At three o'clock in the afternoon they were still uncertain as to the results of the enterprise. At last they arrived at the Summit, at sunset. Here they waited half an hour, and then returning got back to their night bivouac, where they again slept, by midnight. On the following morning they reached Chamonix by eight o'clock. Their faces were swollen and excoriated--their eyes nearly closed; and for the next week Balmat was scarcely recognisable. 1787.--De Saussure, accompanied by eighteen guides, started from Chamonix on the 1st August. The summit of the Montagne de la Côte was reached in about six hours, and then the party encamped for the night. At four o'clock in the afternoon of the following day they prepared to pass the night on the snow, at an elevation of 12,300 feet above the level of the sea. De Saussure suffered considerably, and a raging thirst added to his discomfort. Next morning they crossed the Grand Plateau, and, after suffering much discomfort, succeeded in reaching the Summit; there they remained several hours, and then commenced to retrace their steps at half-past three in the afternoon. Towards evening they arrived at the Grands Mulets, where they bivouaced for the night. At six the next morning--that of the fourth day of the journey--they left the rocks, crossed the Glacier de Taconnaz, descended the Montagne de la Côte, and finally reached Chamonix in safety. 1788.--The indefatigable M. Bourrit made his fifth--unsuccessful--and last attempt in the autumn of this year. Regardless of expense, he engaged seventeen guides, and took provisions enough to last six days. Just before starting he was joined by Mr. Woodley, an Englishman, and Mr. Camper, a Dutchman, who were attended by five guides. This large party passed the first night on the Côte, and attempted to reach the Summit the next day. Mr. Woodley, with four guides, distanced the others, some of whom gave in on the Grand Plateau and returned to the Grands Mulets. MM. Bourrit and Camper commenced to beat a retreat after having nearly reached the foot of the last slope; then a mist came on, which added to their difficulties, but they managed to find their way to the tent, where, towards night, they were rejoined by Mr. Woodley and his guides, the former with his feet frost-bitten. The following morning they returned to Chamonix. Mr. Woodley was obliged to keep his feet in snow and salt for a fortnight; one of the Balmats was blind for three weeks; Cachat had his hands frozen, and poor M. Bourrit made up his mind never to try it again! 1791.--Two of the guides accompanying four Englishmen were seriously injured by a fall of rocks on La Côte--one of them sustaining a broken leg, the other a fractured skull. 1802.--On the 10th of August, M. Forneret and Baron Doorthensen reached the Summit after suffering acutely from the rarified air. M. Forneret compared the agony he endured to that of a man whose lungs were being violently torn from his chest! 1820.--The first recorded fatal accident occurred in this year. Dr. Hamel, accompanied by M. Selligue and two Oxford men--Messrs. Durnford and Henderson--and twelve guides, reached the Grands Mulets the first day. Here they were detained all the next by bad weather. At two the following morning the storm passed off, and day broke most beautifully. All were anxious to proceed, with the exception of M. Selligue, who considered that a married man had no right to risk his life in such a perilous adventure. Remonstrances proving of no avail, he was left behind with two guides, who were much disgusted with the arrangement. At twenty minutes past eight in the morning the party reached the Grand Plateau, where they made an attempt at breakfast, but there was no great appetite amongst them. At half-past ten they had arrived nearly below the Rochers Rouges, and shortly afterwards a frightful disaster happened, which is thus described by Mr. Durnford:-- "I was obliged to stop half a minute to arrange my veil; and the sun being at that moment concealed behind a cloud, I tucked it up under the large straw hat which I wore. In the interval, my companion, H----, and three of the guides, passed me, so that I was now the sixth on the line, and, of course, the centre man. H---- was next before me; and as it was the first time we had been so circumstanced during the whole morning, he remarked it, and said we ought to have one guide at least between us in case of accident. This I over-ruled by referring him to the absence of all appearance of danger at that part of our march; to which he assented. I did not then attempt to recover my place in front--though the wish more than once crossed my mind--finding, perhaps, that my present one was much less laborious. To this apparently trivial circumstance I was indebted for my life. A few minutes after the above conversation, my veil being still up, and my eyes turned at intervals towards the summit of the mountain--which was on the right, as we were crossing obliquely the long slope above described, which was to conduct us to Mont Maudit--the snow suddenly gave way beneath our feet, beginning at the head of the line, and carried us all down the slope on our left. I was thrown instantly off my feet, but was still on my knees and endeavouring to regain my footing, when, in a few seconds, the snow on our right--which, of course, was above us--rushed into the gap thus suddenly made, and completed the catastrophe by burying us all at once in its mass, and hurrying us downwards towards two crevasses about a furlong below us and nearly parallel to the line of our march. The accumulation of snow instantly threw me backwards, and I was carried down, in spite of all my struggles. In less than a minute I emerged, partly from my own exertions and partly because the velocity of the falling mass had subsided. I was obliged to resign my pole in the struggle, feeling it forced out of my hand. A short time afterwards I found it on the very brink of the crevass. This had hitherto escaped our notice from its being so far below us, and it was not until some time after the snow had settled that I perceived it. At the moment of my emerging I was so far from being alive to the danger of our situation, that, on seeing my two companions at some distance below, up to the arms in snow and sitting motionless and silent, a jest was rising to my lips, till a second glance shewed me that, with the exception of Mathieu Balmat, they were the only remnants of the party visible. Two more, however, being those in the interval between myself and the rear of the party, having quickly re-appeared, I was still inclined to treat the affair as a perplexing though ludicrous delay, in having sent us down so many hundred feet lower, than in the light of a serious accident, when Mathieu Balmat cried out that some of the party were lost, and pointed to the crevass, which had hitherto escaped our notice, into which he said they had fallen. A nearer view convinced us of the sad truth. The three front guides, Pierre Carrier, Pierre Balmat, and Auguste Tairraz, being where the slope was somewhat steeper, had been carried down with greater rapidity, and to a greater distance, and had thus been hurried into the crevass, with an immense mass of snow upon them, which rose nearly to the brink. Mathieu Balmat, who was fourth in the line, being a man of great muscular strength, as well as presence of mind, had suddenly thrust his pole in the firm snow beneath, when he felt himself going, which certainly checked, in some measure, the force of his fall. Our two hindermost guides were also missing, but we were soon gladdened by seeing them make their appearance, and cheered them with loud and repeated hurrahs. One of these, Julien Devoussaud, had been carried into the crevass where it was very narrow, and had been thrown with some violence against the opposite brink. He contrived to scramble out without assistance. The other, Joseph Marie Couttet, had been dragged out by his companions quite senseless, and nearly black from the weight of snow which had been upon him. It was a long time before we could convince ourselves that the others were past hope, and we exhausted ourselves fruitlessly for some time in fathoming the snow with our poles." After relating how every effort had been made to recover the poor fellows, the abandonment of the ascent, and the melancholy return to Chamonix, he goes on to explain the cause of the accident. "During two or three days a pretty strong southerly wind had prevailed, which, drifting gradually a mass of snow from the summit, had caused it to form a sort of wreath on the northerly side, where the angle of its inclination to the horizon was small enough to allow it to settle. In the course of the preceding night that had been frozen, but not so hard as to bear our weight. Accordingly, in crossing the slope obliquely, as above described, with the summit on our right, we broke through the outer crust and sank in nearly up to the knees. At the moment of the accident a crack had been formed quite across the wreath; this caused the lower part to slide down under our weight on the smooth slope of snow beneath it, and the upper part of the wreath, thus bereft of its support, followed it in a few seconds and was the grand contributor to the calamity." The route (l'Ancien Passage) followed on this occasion is no longer used--indeed, the guides are forbidden to go that way. On the 12th August, 1861, or thirty-nine years later, the remains of the three unfortunate men who had lost their lives in this ill-fated expedition were discovered at the orifice or "Snout" of the Glacier des Bossons. Besides the fragments of human bodies were found portions of clothing, boots, a lantern, and a boiled leg of mutton. These relics were identified by Couttet, who had formed one of the party when the accident occurred. 1843.--In the early part of September Sir Thomas Talfourd, with his son Francis, and Messrs. Bosworth and Cross, formed a party, and, attended by guides and porters, reached the Grands Mulets rocks, where they rested for some hours before starting for the summit. Sir Thomas, however, was compelled to return after having reached the spot where S---- was taken ill (_vide_ page 35). The start at midnight, and the cause of his return, is thus described by his own pen: "I slept till the guides roused me at ten minutes before twelve from deep and sweet slumber. There was no moonlight--the only elemental felicity wanting to our enterprise--but the stars and snow relieved the darkness, which was also broken by numerous lanterns, which were already lighted, and shone among the bristling cornices of the rock below me like huge dull glow-worms. After the first sensation of cold and stiffness had subsided, and the mistiness that hangs over the perception of a suddenly-awakened sleeper in a strange place had dispersed, I took my pole, and picked my way down the rock, my steps being lighted by Julien's lantern, and soon found myself in the midst of the long procession of travellers and guides, slowly pacing the plain of snow which lies between the rock and the first upward slope. When we began to ascend, the snow was found so hard and so steep, that we were obliged to pause every ten paces, while the guides with hatchets cut steps. Every one, I believe, performs some part well; at least, few are without grace or power, which they are found to possess in a peculiar degree, if the proper occasion occurs to rouse it into action; and I performed the stopping part admirably. While we stood still I felt as if able to go on; and it is possible that if the progress had always been as difficult, and consequently as slow and as replete with stoppages, I might eventually have reached the summit--unless first frozen. But unluckily for me, these occasions of halting soon ceased; for the snow became so loose, as to present no obstacle excepting the necessity of sinking to the knees at every step. The line of march lay up long slopes of snow; nothing could ever be discovered but a waste of snow ascending in a steep inclination before us; no crevice gave us pause; there was nothing to vary the toil or the pain except that as fatigue crept on, and nature began to discriminate between the stronger and the weaker, our line was no longer continuous, but broken into parties, which, of course, rendered the position of the hindermost more dispiriting. The rarity of the atmosphere now began to affect us; and as the disorder resulting from this cause was more impartial than the distribution of muscular activity, our condition was, for a short time, almost equalized; even Mr. Bosworth felt violent nausea and headache; while I only felt, in addition to the distress of increasing weakness, the taste or scent of blood in the mouth, as if it were about to burst from the nostrils. We thus reached the Grand Plateau--a long field of snow in the bosom of the highest pinnacles of the mountain--which, being nearly level, was much less distressing to traverse than the previous slopes; but just before the commencement of the next ascent, which rose in a vast dim curve, the immediate occasion of my failure occurred. Mr. Bosworth, who was in advance, turned back to inform me that my son was so much affected by the elevation, that his guides thought it necessary that he should return. We halted till we were joined by him and his guides, on two of whom he was leaning, and who explained that he was sick and faint, and wished to lie down for a few minutes, to which they would not consent, as, if he should fall asleep on the snow, he might never awake. The youth himself was anxious to proceed--quite satisfied, if he might only rest for a very little time, he could go on--but they shook their heads; and as their interests and wishes were strongly engaged for our success, I felt it was impossible to trifle with such a decision. I could not allow him to return without me; and therefore determined at once to abandon the further prosecution of the adventure; a determination which I should not else have formed _at that moment_, but which I believe I must have adopted soon from mere prostration of strength; and which, therefore, I do not lay in the least to the charge of his indisposition. He was still light of limb, and courageous in heart; only afflicted by the treachery of the stomach, and dizziness produced by the rarity of the air; whereas, if I had been supported and dragged (as perhaps I might have been) to the foot of the steep La Côte, which is the last difficulty of the ascent, I do not believe I should have had muscular pliancy left to raise a foot up a step of the long staircase, which the guides are obliged to cut in the frozen snow. While the guides were re-arranging matters for the descent, I took one longing, lingering glance at the upward scenery, and perceived sublime indications of those heights I was never to climb." 1851.--In the month of August, Albert Smith made an ascent, which was rendered famous by the graphic account he gave of his adventures, during a period of several years, at the Egyptian Hall, in London. He was accompanied by three English gentlemen, and attended by no less than fifteen guides, as well as a small army of porters, who were employed to carry the provisions, wrappers, rugs, &c., as far as the Glacier des Bossons. The party started from Chamonix at half-past seven in the morning, and reached the Grands Mulets at four in the afternoon. Shortly after midnight they resumed their journey, and having traversed the Grand Plateau they took the Corridor route, and arrived at their destination at nine in the morning. During the latter part of the ascent, Albert Smith seems to have been in a state bordering on delirium: "With the perfect knowledge of where I was, and what I was about--even with such caution as was required to place my feet on particular places in the snow--I conjured up such a set of absurd and improbable phantoms about me, that the most spirit-ridden intruder upon a Mayday festival on the Hartz Mountains was never more beleaguered. I am not sufficiently versed in the finer theories of the psychology of sleep, to know if such a state might be; but I believe for the greater part of this bewildering period I was fast asleep with my eyes open, and through them the wandering brain received external impressions; in the same manner, as upon awaking, the phantasms of our dreams are sometimes carried on, and connected with objects about the chamber. It is very difficult to explain the odd state in which I was, so to speak, entangled. A great many people I knew in London were accompanying me, and calling after me, as the stones did after Prince Pervis, in the Arabian Nights. Then there was some terribly elaborate affair that I could not settle, about two bedsteads, the whole blame of which transaction, whatever it was, lay on my shoulders; and then a literary friend came up, and told me he was sorry we could not pass over his ground on our way to the summit, but that the King of Prussia had forbidden it. Everything was as foolish and unconnected as this, but it worried me painfully; and my senses were under such little control, and I reeled and staggered about so, that when we had crossed the snow prairie, and arrived at the foot of an almost perpendicular wall of ice, four or five hundred feet high--the terrible Mur de la Côte--up which we had to climb, I sat down again on the snow, and told Tairraz that I would not go any further, but they might leave me there if they pleased." Having stayed on the summit for half an hour, they retraced their steps, reaching the Grands Mulets at one o'clock, and Chamonix in the evening. One of the most remarkable things in connection with this memorable ascent was the vast quantity of liquids and solids consumed, viz:-- 93 Bottles of wine, 3 Cognac, 7 Lemonade and syrup, 20 Loaves, 10 Cheeses, 8 Joints of mutton, 6 " veal, 46 Fowls; besides packages of raisins, prunes, sugar, salt, and wax candles! The cost of this amounted to 456 francs, which, added to 1881 francs for the guides' fees, &c., brought up the sum total to 2337 francs, or £93 10s., which sum, divided by four--the number of tourists--gives £23. 7s. 6d. each. Thanks to the enterprising individual who manages the "Cabanes" at Pierre Pointue and the Grands Mulets, it is no longer necessary to take provisions; therefore, reader, should you ever visit those stations, do not grumble at the bill, but remember Albert Smith![A] [Footnote A: This and the foregoing ascents are condensed from Albert Smith's "Mont Blanc."] 1866.--Sir George Young, with his brothers James and Albert, succeeded in reaching the Summit without guides or porters. Shortly after commencing the descent one of the brothers fell a depth of twenty feet and broke his neck. The survivors managed to reach the Grands Mulets at two in the morning. An hour later six guides arrived from Chamonix, and although Sir George had been on foot twenty-four hours he placed himself at the head of these men to recover his brother's body. In the meanwhile another party had come up, but they did not proceed further than the Grands Mulets. Early in the afternoon six of these guides went forward to render what assistance they could; and at five three more followed, carrying refreshments with them. At half-past seven the whole party returned, bringing the corpse with them. Sir George at once went down to Chamonix, which he reached about three in the morning, having been on foot for two days and two nights! 1870.--One of the most disastrous events, and which resulted in the loss of no less than eleven lives, occurred during this year. On the 5th September, Messrs. Randall, Bean, and Corkindale, accompanied by three guides and five porters, spent the night in the "Cabane" on the Grands Mulets, and next morning resumed their journey. All seems to have gone on well till they began to descend from the Summit, which they had reached at half-past two in the afternoon. About that time a cloud enveloped the highest parts of the mountain and obscured their movements. At ten o'clock the man in charge of the "Cabane," feeling uneasy at their not having arrived, sent to Chamonix for assistance. In the meanwhile a violent storm had set in, and it was with the greatest difficulty that the relief party managed to get to the Grands Mulets; and there they were forced to remain a whole week, during which time the storm raged with unabated fury. At last the weather cleared, and they went forward. On nearing the Summit they came upon five bodies, and a little further on upon five more; the eleventh could not be discovered. The poor fellows, being unable to find their way, had died of starvation and exposure. This, I believe, is the last fatal accident that has taken place on Mont Blanc. Although the misfortunes related in the foregoing are somewhat numerous, they are not large when compared with the number of individuals who have successfully gained the Summit, and which must have amounted to about 8,000; and do not, probably, exceed the proportion of sporting accidents, if all those who have visited the Grands Mulets, and even higher elevations, are taken into consideration. ROUTES TO CHAMONIX. The valley, as before stated, lies in an easterly and westerly direction; and as there are no cross country roads, it follows that there are only two ways of reaching it. ROUTE A. From Lausanne you may take the train direct to Martigny; or go by steamer from Ouchy to Villeneuve, then by rail to Martigny, and thence by private conveyance viâ Forclaz and the Tête Noire. At Forclaz you may proceed on foot and walk over the Col de Balme, giving directions to your driver to meet you at Le Tour on the other side. We started from Ouchy--a small village near Lausanne--at mid-day, and steamed along the northern shore of the lake, touching at several stations, and passing close to the celebrated Castle of Chillon. At half-past one we landed at Villeneuve, where we had to wait for about an hour for the train, and then proceeded on our journey up the Valley of the Rhone. The scenery is very fine, gigantic mountains rising up on either side, so close and so lofty that their summits can only be seen under difficulties from the railway carriage. There are waterfalls in abundance, and the grey-coloured Rhone roars and bounds along the line of railway on its course to the Lake of Geneva. We arrived at Martigny at half-past four, and ordered a carriage from the hotel (Clerc) for the following morning. This we were obliged to do, as there are no diligences or public conveyances of any description to Chamonix. Having decided upon walking over the Col de Balme, we made arrangements to leave at four in the morning. The weather being excessively hot, we deemed it advisable to start at this early hour in order to reach Forclaz before the great mid-day heat. This arrangement, however, did not meet with the approval of the hotel authorities, who did their best to persuade us to delay our departure till six or seven o'clock, so that breakfast might be included in the bill! This little secret was let out by our driver on the way, and he wound up by saying, "I received a good blowing up for not having got you to do as they wished!" Punctually at four we were all ready for a start; and the luggage having been secured at the back of a liliputian carriage, drawn by a pair of horses, we set off. After clearing the village the gradient becomes very steep, and there is no proper road for a considerable portion of the way, but simply a track which winds up the pass, amongst walnut and other trees, the fragrance from which, at that early hour of the day, was very agreeable. We made comparatively little use of the conveyance, but preferred to take short cuts; and, whilst waiting for it to come up, to sketch or merely admire the view as the fancy took us. At half-past eight we reached the little wayside inn on the Col de Forclaz (5,000 feet above the sea). Here we breakfasted, and exchanged our carriage for one that had just conveyed a party from Chamonix. This is an arrangement that is commonly made for the convenience of the coachmen. At about half-past nine we set off on foot for the Col de Balme, having first given directions to our new man to meet us at Le Tour at two o'clock. Having descended the western slope of the hill, we reached a valley and crossed the torrent issuing from the extremity of the Glacier du Trient, and immediately began to ascend the eastern side of the mountain. The zig-zag paths were well shaded by pine trees for a considerable distance, but in spite of this we found it very hot work. The fact is we were utterly ignorant of the first principles of mountain climbing, and walked too quickly. The consequence was that we were fagged at the expiration of the second hour. There is no greater mistake than to move rapidly on such expeditions, for by so doing one's heart, lungs, and muscles, are unduly taxed, and when lofty ascents are being made, such action would be fatal to the undertaking; for, _if once the legs fail_--as a guide remarked to me when conversing with him on the subject--it is useless attempting to go on. You may rest for a while, and feel recruited, but the effect will not last, and a few minutes after resuming the journey a painful sensation will be experienced in the muscles of the legs, which will necessitate another and perhaps a longer halt; and finally you will have to give in, and return home. Fortunately for us, there were only a few hundreds of feet to be mounted when the pace began to tell, or we might have been put to serious inconvenience. [Illustration] At about eleven o'clock we had left the last tree behind, and continuing our upward journey, the only vegetation to be seen consisted of small plants--the pretty Alpine rose, a species of rhododendron, and turf. Further on we came to large patches of snow, on reaching which there was a marked diminution in the temperature, although the sun was shining brightly and the air was calm. Nearing the summit, we passed a rude hut, inhabited by two or three men, whose occupation is to look after a herd of cows, the tinkling of whose bells was the only sound to be heard in that wild place. As the snow gradually disappears from the mountain side, the cows are driven higher and higher, until the last available blade of grass has been reached; and the milk, which could not be otherwise used, by reason of the distance from the towns and villages, is converted into cheese. Having interchanged a few words with the occupiers of this lonely, though beautifully-situated dwelling, we passed on. Threading our way between patches of snow, we reached the summit of the Col (7,212 feet) at noon. The sight which now presented itself was inexpressibly grand, and no adequate idea of it can be conveyed by pen or pencil. Mont Blanc, the "Monarch of Mountains," with his girdle of ice and his diadem of snow, rising thousands of feet above the valley of Chamonix, was _the_ feature of the scene, and he looked every inch a king, surrounded by his subjects, in the form of graceful aiguilles and lofty peaks! Before quitting this spot (where, by the way, we were able to procure luncheon), I may remark that Mont Blanc, to be appreciated, must be seen from this or some equally advantageous point of view--if such there be--at a high elevation. The descent on the west side was easy, and was soon accomplished. We found the carriage waiting for us at Le Tour, and at four o'clock were set down at the Hotel d'Angleterre. ROUTE B. From Geneva viâ Bonneville, Cluses, and Sallenches. There is no necessity for hiring a private carriage, as there is a regular service of diligences the whole way. If possible, secure a top front seat, and if that cannot be done, take the conductor's place; he will readily give it up for a few francs. You must, however, be prepared to work the brake going down hill. Between Geneva and Bonneville the immediate scenery is not very interesting, and in dry weather this portion of the road is exceptionally dusty. Hence, to Chamonix, the mountains grow in size, and tremendous precipices of perpendicular rock, with cascades pouring down, are to be seen within a short distance of the road. The view of Mont Blanc from Sallenches is said to be very fine, but unfortunately the upper portion of the mountain was enveloped in clouds when we were there, so I cannot speak from experience. The time occupied in performing the whole journey of forty-nine miles is about nine hours. 
11179	----	SEEING EUROPE WITH FAMOUS AUTHORS EDITED BY FRANCIS W. HALSEY CONTENTS OF VOLUME VI Germany, Austria-Hungary and Switzerland Part Two VI. HUNGARY--(_Continued_) HUNGARIAN BATHS AND RESORTS--By H. Tornai de Kövër THE GIPSIES--By H. Tornai de Kövër VII. AUSTRIA'S ADRIATIC PORTS TRIESTE AND POLA--By Edward A. Freeman SPALATO--By Edward A. Freeman RAGUSA--By Harry De Windt CATTARO--By Edward A. Freeman VIII. OTHER AUSTRIAN SCENES CRACOW--By Mènie Muriel Dowie ON THE ROAD TO PRAGUE--By Bayard Taylor THE CAVE OF ADELSBERG--By George Stillman Hillard THE MONASTERY OF MÖLK--By Thomas Frognall Dibdin THROUGH THE TYROL--By William Cullen Bryant IN THE DOLOMITES--By Archibald Campbell Knowles CORTINA--By Amelia B. Edwards IX. ALPINE RESORTS THE CALL OF THE MOUNTAINS--By Frederick Harrison INTERLAKEN AND THE JUNGFRAU--By Archibald Campbell Knowles THE ALTDORF OF WILLIAM TELL--By W.D. M'Crackan LUCERNE--By Victor Tissot ZURICH--By W.D. M'Crackan THE RIGI--By W.D. M'Crackan CHAMOUNI--AN AVALANCHE--By Percy Bysshe Shelley ZERMATT--By Archibald Campbell Knowles PONTRESINA AND ST. MORITZ--By Victor Tissot GENEVA--By Francis H. Gribble THE CASTLE OF CHILLON--By Harriet Beecher Stowe BY RAIL UP THE GORNER-GRAT--By Archibald Campbell Knowles THROUGH THE ST. GOTHARD INTO ITALY--By Victor Tissot X. ALPINE MOUNTAIN CLIMBING FIRST ATTEMPTS HALF A CENTURY AGO--By Edward Whymper FIRST TO THE TOP O THE MATTERHORN--By Edward Whymper THE LORD FRANCIS DOUGLAS TRAGEDY--By Edward Whymper AN ASCENT OF MONTE ROSA (1858)--By John Tyndall MONT BLANC ASCENDED, HUXLEY GOING PART WAY--By John Tyndall THE JUNGFRAU-JOCH--By Sir Leslie Stephen XI. OTHER ALPINE TOPICS THE GREAT ST. BERNARD HOSPICE--By Archibald Campbell Knowles AVALANCHES--By Victor Tissot HUNTING THE CHAMOIS--By Victor Tissot THE CELEBRITIES OF GENEVA--By Francis H. Gribble LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS VOLUME VI Frontispiece THE MATTERHORN KURSAAL AT MARIENBAD MARIENBAD, AUSTRIA MONASTERY OF ST. ULRIC AND AFRA, AUGSBURG MONASTERY OF MÖLK ON THE DANUBE ABOVE VIENNA MEMORIAL TABLET AND ROAD IN THE IRON GATE OF THE DANUBE QUAY AT FIUME ROYAL PALACE IN BUDAPEST HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT, BUDAPEST SUSPENSION BRIDGE OVER THE DANUBE AT BUDAPEST STREET IN BUDAPEST CATHEDRAL OF SPALATO REGUSA, DALMATIA MIRAMAR GENEVA REGATTA DAY ON LAKE GENEVA VITZNAU, THE LAKE TERMINUS OF THE RIGI RAILROAD RHINE FALLS NEAR SCHAFFHAUSEN PONTRESINA IN THE ENGADINE ST. MORITZ IN THE ENGADINE FRIBOURG BERNE VIVEY, LAKE GENEVA THE TURNHALLE, ZURICH INTERLAKEN LUCERNE VIADUCTS ON AN ALPINE RAILWAY THE WOLFORT VIADUCT BALMAT--SAUSSURE MONUMENT IN CHAMONIX ROOFED WOODEN BRIDGE AT LUCERNE THE CASTLE OF CHILLON CLOUD EFFECT ABOVE INTERLAKEN DAVOS IN WINTER [Illustration: THE KURSAL AT MARIENBAD] [Illustration: MARIENBAD, AUSTRIA] [Illustration: THE MONASTERY OF ST. ULRIC AND AFRA, AT AUGSBURG IN BAVARIA] [Illustration: THE MONASTERY OF MÖLK ON THE DANUBE ABOVE VIENNA] [Illustration: MEMORIAL TABLET AND ROAD IN THE IRON GATE OF THE DANUBE] [Illustration: THE QUAY OF THE FIUME AT THE HEAD OF THE ADRIATIC] [Illustration: THE ROYAL PALACE AT BUDAPEST] [Illustration: THE HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT AT BUDAPEST] [Illustration: THE SUSPENSION BRIDGE OVER THE DANUBE AT BUDAPEST] [Illustration: STREET IN BUDAPEST] [Illustration: THE CATHEDRAL OF SPALATO Burial-place of the Emperor Diocletian] [Illustration: REGUSA, DALMATIA] [Illustration: MIRAMAR Long the home of the ex-Empress Carlotta of Mexico] [Illustration: GENEVA] [Illustration: REGATTA DAY ON LAKE GENEVA] [Illustration: VITZNAU, THE LAKE TERMINUS OF THE RIGI RAILROAD] [Illustration: THE RHINE FALLS NEAR SCHAFFHAUSEN] VI HUNGARY (_Continued_) HUNGARIAN BATHS AND RESORTS[1] BY H. TORNAI DE KÖVËR In Hungary there are great quantities of unearthed riches, and not only in the form of gold. These riches are the mineral waters that abound in the country and have been the natural medicine of the people for many years. Water in itself was always worshiped by the Hungarians in the earliest ages, and they have found out through experience for which ailment the different waters may be used. There are numbers of small watering-places in the most primitive state, which are visited by the peasants from far and wide, more especially those that are good for rheumatism. Like all people that work much in the open, the Hungarian in old age feels the aching of his limbs. The Carpathians are full of such baths, some of them quite primitive; others are used more as summer resorts, where the well-to-do town people build their villas; others, again, like Tátra Füred, Tátra Lomnicz, Csorba, and many others, have every accommodation and are visited by people from all over Europe. In former times Germans and Poles were the chief visitors, but now people come from all parts to look at the wonderful ice-caves (where one can skate in the hottest summer), the waterfalls, and the great pine forests, and make walking, driving, and riding tours right up to the snow-capped mountains, preferring the comparative quiet of this Alpine district to that of Switzerland. Almost every place has some special mineral water, and among the greatest wonders of Hungary are the hot mud-baths of Pöstyén. This place is situated at the foot of the lesser Carpathians, and is easily reached from the main line of the railway. The scenery is lovely and the air healthy, but this is nothing compared to the wondrous waters and hot mire which oozes out of the earth in the vicinity of the river Vág. Hot sulfuric water, which contains radium, bubbles up in all parts of Pöstyén, and even the bed of the cold river is full of steaming hot mud. As far back as 1551 we know of the existence of Pöstyén as a natural cure, and Sir Spencer Wells, the great English doctor, wrote about these waters in 1888. They are chiefly good for rheumatism, gout, neuralgia, the strengthening of broken bones, strains, and also for scrofula. On the premises there is a quaint museum with crutches and all sort of sticks and invalid chairs left there by their former owners in grateful acknowledgment of the wonderful waters and mire that had healed them. Of late there has been much comfort added; great new baths have been built, villas and new hotels added, so that there is accommodation for rich and poor alike. The natural heat of the mire is 140 degrees Fahrenheit. Plenty of amusements are supplied for those who are not great sufferers--tennis, shooting, fishing, boating, and swimming being all obtainable. The bathing-place and all the adjoining land belongs to Count Erdödy. Another place of the greatest importance is the little bath "Parád," hardly three hours from Budapest, situated in the heart of the mountains of the "Mátra." It is the private property of Count Kárólyi. The place is primitive and has not even electric light. Its waters are a wonderful combination of iron and alkaline, but this is not the most important feature. Besides the baths there is a strong spring of arsenic water which, through a fortunate combination, is stronger and more digestible than Roncegno and all the other first-rate waters of that kind in the world. Not only in northern Hungary does one find wondrous cures, it is the same in Transylvania. There are healing and splendid mineral waters for common use all over the country lying idle and awaiting the days when its owners will be possest by the spirit of enterprise. Borszek, Szováta, and many others are all wonders in their way, waters that would bring in millions to their owners if only worked properly. Szováta, boasts of a lake containing such an enormous proportion of salt that not even the human body can sink into its depths. In the south there is Herkulesfürdö, renowned as much for the beauty of its scenery as for its waters. Besides those mentioned there are all the summer pleasure resorts; the best of these are situated along Lake Balaton. The tepid water, long sandbanks, and splendid air from the forests make them specially healthy for delicate children. But not only have the bathing-places beautiful scenery from north to south and from east to west, in general the country abounds in Alpine districts, waterfalls, caves, and other wonders of nature. The most beautiful tour is along the river Vág, starting from the most northerly point in Hungary near the beautiful old stronghold of Árva in the county of Árva. All those that care to see a country as it really is, and do not mind going out of the usual beaten track of the globe-trotter, should go down the river Vág. It can not be done by steamer, or any other comfortable contrivance, one must do it on a raft, as the rapids of the river are not to be passed by any other means. The wood is transported in this way from the mountain regions to the south, and for two days one passes through the most beautiful scenery. Fantastic castles loom at the top of mountain peaks, and to each castle is attached a page of the history of the Middle Ages, when the great noblemen were also the greatest robbers of the land, and the people were miserable serfs, who did all the work and were taxed and robbed by their masters. Castles, wild mountain districts, rugged passes, villages, and ruins are passed like a beautiful panorama. The river rushes along, foaming and dashing over sharp rocks. The people are reliable and very clever in handling the raft, which requires great skill, especially when conducted over the falls at low water. Sometimes there is only one little spot where the raft can pass, and to conduct it over those rapids requires absolute knowledge of every rock hidden under the shallow falls. If notice is given in time, a rude hut will be built on the raft to give shelter and make it possible to have meals cooked, altho in the simplest way (consisting of baked potatoes and stew), by the Slavs who are in charge of the raft. If anything better is wanted it must be ordered by stopping at the larger towns; but to have it done in the simple way is entering into the true spirit of the voyage. THE GIPSIES[2] BY H. TORNAI DE KÖVËR Gipsies! Music! Dancing! These are words of magic to the rich and poor, noblemen and peasant alike, if he be a true Hungarian. There are two kinds of gipsies. The wandering thief, who can not be made to take up any occupation. These are a terribly lawless and immoral people, and there seems to be no way of altering their life and habits, altho much has been written on the subject to improve matters; but the Government has shown itself to be helpless as yet. These people live here and there, in fact everywhere, leading a wandering life in carts, and camp wherever night overtakes them. After some special evil-doing they will wander into Rumania or Russia and come back after some years when the deed of crime has been forgotten. Their movements are so quick and silent that they outwit the best detectives of the police force. They speak the gipsy language, but often a half-dozen other languages besides, in their peculiar chanting voice. Their only occupation is stealing, drinking, smoking, and being a nuisance to the country in every way. The other sort of gipsies consist of those that have squatted down in the villages some hundreds of years ago. They live in a separate part of the village, usually at the end, are dirty and untidy and even an unruly people, but for the most part have taken up some honest occupation. They make the rough, unbaked earth bricks that the peasant cottages are mostly made of, are tinkers and blacksmiths, but they do the lowest kind of work too. Besides these, however, there are the talented ones. The musical gipsy begins to handle his fiddle as soon as he can toddle. The Hungarians brought their love of music with them from Asia. Old parchments have been found which denote that they had their songs and war-chants at the time of the "home-making," and church and folk-songs from their earliest Christian period. Peasant and nobleman are musical alike--it runs in the race. The gipsies that have settled among them caught up the love of music and are now the best interpreters of the Hungarian songs. The people have got so used to their "blackies," as they call them, that no lesser or greater fête day can pass without the gipsy band having ample work to do in the form of playing for the people. Their instruments are the fiddle, 'cello, viola, clarinet, tárogato (a Hungarian specialty), and, above all, the cymbal. The tárogato looks like a grand piano with the top off. It stands on four legs like a table and has wires drawn across it; on these wires the player performs with two little sticks, that are padded at the ends with cotton-wool. The sound is wild and weird, but if well played very beautiful indeed. The gipsies seldom compose music. The songs come into life mostly on the spur of the moment. In the olden days war-songs and long ballads were the most usual form of music. The seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were specially rich in the production of songs that live even now. At that time the greatest gipsy musician was a woman: her name was "Czinka Panna," and she was called the Gipsy Queen. With the change of times the songs are altered too, and now they are mostly lyric. Csárdás is the quick form of music, and tho' of different melodies it must always be kept to the same rhythm. This is not much sung to, but is the music for the national dance. The peasants play on a little wooden flute which is called the "Tilinko," or "Furulya," and they know hundreds of sad folk-songs and lively Csárdás. While living their isolated lives in the great plains they compose many a beautiful song. It is generally from the peasants and the musical country gentry that the gipsy gets his music. He learns the songs after a single hearing, and plays them exactly according to the singer's wish. The Hungarian noble when singing with the gipsies is capable of giving the dark-faced boys every penny he has. In this manner many a young nobleman has been ruined, and the gipsies make nothing of it, because they are just like their masters and "spend easily earned money easily," as the saying goes. Where there is much music there is much dancing. Every Sunday afternoon after church the villages are lively with the sound of the gipsy band, and the young peasant boys and girls dance. The Slovaks of the north play a kind of bagpipe, which reminds one of the Scotch ones; but the songs of the Slovak have got very much mixed with the Hungarian. The Rumanian music is of a distinct type, but the dances all resemble the Csárdás, with the difference that the quick figures in the Slav and Rumanian dances are much more grotesque and verging on acrobatism. VII AUSTRIA'S ADRIATIC PORTS TRIESTE AND POLA[3] BY EDWARD A. FREEMAN Trieste stands forth as a rival of Venice, which has, in a low practical view of things, outstript her. Italian zeal naturally cries for the recovery of a great city, once part of the old Italian kingdom, and whose speech is largely, perhaps chiefly, Italian to this day. But, a cry of "Italia Irredenta," however far it may go, must not go so far as this. Trieste, a cosmopolitan city on a Slavonic shore, can not be called Italian in the same sense as the lands and towns so near Verona which yearn to be as Verona is. Let Trieste be the rival, even the eyesore, of Venice, still Southern Germany must have a mouth. We might, indeed, be better pleased to see Trieste a free city, the southern fellow of Lübeck, Bremen and Hamburg; but it must not be forgotten that the Archduke of Austria and Lord of Trieste reigns at Trieste by a far better right than that by which he reigns at Cattaro and Spizza. The present people of Trieste did not choose him, but the people of Trieste five hundred years back did choose the forefather of his great-grandmother. Compared with the grounds of which kingdoms, duchies, counties, and lordships, are commonly held in that neighborhood, such a claim as this must be allowed to be respectable indeed. The great haven of Trieste may almost at pleasure be quoted as either confirming or contradicting the rule that it is not in the great commercial cities of Europe that we are to look for the choicest or the most plentiful remains of antiquity. Sometimes the cities themselves are of modern foundation; in other cases the cities themselves, as habitations of men and seats of commerce, are of the hoariest antiquity, but the remains of their early days have perished through their very prosperity. Massalia,[4] with her long history, with her double wreath of freedom, the city which withstood Cæsar and which withstood Charles of Anjou, is bare of monuments of her early days. She has been the victim of her abiding good fortune. We can look down from the height on the Phôkaian harbor; but for actual memorials of the men who fled from the Persian, of the men who defied the Roman and the Angevin, we might look as well at Liverpool or at Havre. Genoa, Venice herself, are hardly real exceptions; they were indeed commercial cities, but they were ruling cities also, and, as ruling cities, they reared monuments which could hardly pass away. What are we to say to the modern rival of Venice, the upstart rebel, one is tempted to say, against the supremacy of the Hadriatic Queen? Trieste, at the head of her gulf, with the hills looking down to her haven, with the snowy mountains which seem to guard the approach from the other side of her inland sea, with her harbor full of the ships of every nation, her streets echoing with every tongue, is she to be reckoned as an example of the rule or an exception to it? No city at first sight seems more thoroughly modern; old town and new, wide streets and narrow, we search them in vain for any of those vestiges of past times which in some cities meet us at every step. Compare Trieste with Ancona;[5] we miss the arch of Trajan on the haven; we miss the cupola of Saint Cyriacus soaring in triumph above the triumphal monument of the heathen. We pass through the stately streets of the newer town, we thread the steep ascents which lead us to the older town above, and we nowhere light on any of those little scraps of ornamental architecture, a window, a doorway, a column, which meet us at every step in so many of the cities of Italy. Yet the monumental wealth of Trieste is all but equal to the monumental wealth of Ancona. At Ancona we have the cathedral church and the triumphal arch; so we have at Trieste; tho' at Trieste we have nothing to set against the grand front of the lower and smaller church of Ancona. But at Ancona arch and duomo both stand out before all eyes; at Trieste both have to be looked for. The church of Saint Justus at Trieste crowns the hill as well as the church of Saint Cyriacus at Ancona; but it does not in the same way proclaim its presence. The castle, with its ugly modern fortifications, rises again above the church; and the duomo of Trieste, with its shapeless outline and its low, heavy, unsightly campanile, does not catch the eyes like the Greek cross and cupola of Ancona. Again at Trieste the arch could never, in its best days, have been a rival to the arch at Ancona; and now either we have to hunt it out by an effort, or else it comes upon us suddenly, standing, as it does, at the head of a mean street on the ascent to the upper town. Of a truth it can not compete with Ancona or with Rimini, with Orange[6] or with Aosta. But the duomo, utterly unsightly as it is in a general view, puts on quite a new character when we first see the remains of pagan times imprisoned in the lower stage of the heavy campanile, still more so when we take our first glance of its wonderful interior. At the first glimpse we see that here there is a mystery to be unraveled; and as we gradually find the clue to the marvelous changes which it has undergone, we feel that outside show is not everything, and that, in point both of antiquity and of interest, tho' not of actual beauty, the double basilica of Trieste may claim no mean place among buildings of its own type. Even after the glories of Rome and Ravenna, the Tergestine church may be studied with no small pleasure and profit, as an example of a kind of transformation of which neither Rome nor Ravenna can supply another example.... The other ancient relic at Trieste is the small triumphal arch. On one side it keeps its Corinthian pilasters; on the other they are imbedded in a house. The arch is in a certain sense double; but the two are close together, and touch in the keystone. The Roman date of this arch can not be doubted; but legends connect it both with Charles the Great and with Richard of Poitou and of England, a prince about whom Tergestine fancy has been very busy. The popular name of the arch is Arco Riccardo. Such, beside some fragments in the museum, are all the remains that the antiquary will find in Trieste; not much in point of number, but, in the case of the duomo at least, of surpassing interest in their own way. But the true merit of Trieste is not in anything that it has itself, its church, its arch, its noble site. Placed there at the head of the gulf, on the borders of two great portions of the Empire, it leads to the land which produced that line of famous Illyrian Emperors who for a while checked the advance of our own race in the world's history, and it leads specially to the chosen home of the greatest among them.[7] The chief glory of Trieste, after all, is that it is the way to Spalato.... At Pola the monuments of Pietas Julia claim the first place; the basilica, tho' not without a certain special interest, comes long after them. The character of the place is fixt by the first sight of it; we see the present and we see the more distant past; the Austrian navy is to be seen, and the amphitheater is to be seen. But intermediate times have little to show; if the duomo strikes the eye at all, it strikes it only by the extreme ugliness of its outside, nor is there anything very taking, nothing like the picturesque castle of Pirano, in the works which occupy the site of the colonial capitol. The duomo should not be forgotten; even the church of Saint Francis is worth a glance; but it is in the remains of the Roman colony, in the amphitheater, the arches, the temples, the fragments preserved in that temple which serves, as at Nîmes,[8] for a museum, that the real antiquarian wealth of Pola lies.... The known history of Pola begins with the Roman conquest of Istria in 178 B.C. The town became a Roman colony and a flourishing seat of commerce. Its action on the republican side in the civil war brought on it the vengeance of the second Cæsar. But the destroyer became the restorer, and Pietas Julia, in the height of its greatness, far surpassed the extent either of the elder or the younger Pola. Like all cities of this region, Pola kept up its importance down to the days of the Carlovingian Empire, the specially flourishing time of the whole district being that of Gothic and Byzantine dominion at Ravenna. A barbarian king, the Roxolan Rasparasanus, is said to have withdrawn to Pola after the submission of his nation to Hadrian; and the panegyrists of the Flavian house rank Pola along with Trier and Autun among the cities which the princes of that house had adorned or strengthened. But in the history of their dynasty the name of the city chiefly stands out as the chosen place for the execution of princes whom it was convenient to put out of the way. Here Crispus died at the bidding of Constantine, and Gallus at the bidding of Constantius. Under Theodoric, Pola doubtless shared that general prosperity of the Istrian land on which Cassiodorus grows eloquent when writing to its inhabitants. In the next generation Pola appears in somewhat of the same character which has come back to it in our own times; it was there that Belisarius gathered the Imperial fleet for his second and less prosperous expedition against the Gothic lords of Italy. But, after the break up of the Frankish Empire, the history of medieval Pola is but a history of decline. It was, in the geography of Dante, the furthest city of Italy; but, like most of the other cities of its own neighborhood, its day of greatness had passed away when Dante sang. Tossed to and fro between the temporal and spiritual lords who claimed to be marquesses of Istria, torn by the dissensions of aristocratic and popular parties among its own citizens, Pola found rest, the rest of bondage, in submission to the dominion of Saint Mark in 1331.[9] Since then, till its new birth in our own times, Pola has been a failing city. Like the other Istrian and Dalmatian towns, modern revolutions have handed it over from Venice to Austria, from Austria to France, from France to Austria again. It is under its newest masters that Pola has at last begun to live a fresh life, and the haven whence Belisarius[10] sailed forth has again become a haven in more than name, the cradle of the rising navy of the united Austrian and Hungarian realm. That haven is indeed a noble one. Few sights are more striking than to see the huge mass of the amphitheater at Pola seeming to rise at once out of the land-locked sea. As Pola is seen now, the amphitheater is the one monument of its older days, which strikes the eye in the general view, and which divides attention with signs that show how heartily the once forsaken city has entered on its new career. But in the old time Pola could show all the buildings which befitted its rank as a colony of Rome. The amphitheater, of course, stood without the walls; the city itself stood at the foot and on the slope of the hill which was crowned by the capitol of the colony, where the modern fortress rises above the Franciscan church. Parts of the Roman wall still stand; one of its gates is left; another has left a neighbor and a memory.... Travelers are sometimes apt to complain, and that not wholly without reason, that all amphitheaters are very like one another. At Pola this remark is less true than elsewhere, as the amphitheater there has several marked peculiarities of its own. We do not pretend to expound all its details scientifically; but this we may say, that those who dispute--if the dispute still goes on--about various points as regards the Coliseum at Rome will do well to go and look for some further light in the amphitheater of Pola. The outer range, which is wonderfully perfect, while the inner arrangements are fearfully ruined, consists, on the side toward the town, of two rows of arches, with a third story with square-headed openings above them. But the main peculiarity in the outside is to be found in four tower-like projections, not, as at Arles and Nîmes, signs of Saracenic occupation, but clearly parts of the original design. Many conjectures have been made about them; they look as if they were means of approach to the upper part of the building; but it is wisest not to be positive. But the main peculiarity of this amphitheater is that it lies on the slope of a hill, which thus supplied a natural basement for the seats on one side only. But this same position swallowed up the lower arcade on this side, and it hindered the usual works underneath the seats from being carried into this part of the building. SPALATO[11] BY EDWARD A. FREEMAN The main object and center of all historical and architectural inquiries on the Dalmatian coast is, of course, the home of Diocletian, the still abiding palace of Spalato. From a local point of view, it is the spot which the greatest of the long line of renowned Illyrian Emperors chose as his resting-place from the toils of warfare and government, and where he reared the vastest and noblest dwelling that ever arose at the bidding of a single man. From an ecumenical point of view, Spalato is yet more. If it does not rank with Rome, Old and New, with Ravenna and with Trier, it is because it never was, like them, an actual seat of empire. But it not the less marks a stage, and one of the greatest stages, in the history of the Empire. On his own Dalmatian soil, Docles of Salone, Diocletian of Rome, was the man who had won fame for his own land, and who, on the throne of the world, did not forget his provincial birthplace. In the sight of Rome and of the world Jovius Augustus was more than this. Alike in the history of politics and in the history of art, he has left his mark on all time that has come after him, and it is on his own Spalato that his mark has been most deeply stamped. The polity of Rome and the architecture of Rome alike received a new life at his hands. In each alike he cast away shams and pretenses, and made the true construction of the fabric stand out before men's eyes. Master of the Rome world, if not King, yet more than King, he let the true nature of his power be seen, and, first among the Cæsars, arrayed himself with the outward pomp of sovereignty. In a smaller man we might have deemed the change a mark of weakness, a sign of childish delight in gewgaws, titles, and trappings. Such could hardly have been the motive in the man who, when he deemed that his work was done, could cast away both the form and the substance of power, and could so steadily withstand all temptations to take them up again. It was simply that the change was fully wrought; that the chief magistrate of the commonwealth had gradually changed into the sovereign of the Empire; that Imperator, Cæsar, and Augustus, once titles lowlier than that of King, had now become, as they have ever since remained, titles far loftier. The change was wrought, and all that Diocletian did was to announce the fact of the change to the world. Nor did the organizing hand of Jovius confine its sphere to the polity of the Empire only. He built himself a house, and, above all builders, he might boast himself of the house that he had builded. Fast by his own birthplace--a meaner soul might have chosen some distant spot--Diocletian reared the palace which marks a still greater epoch in Roman art than his political changes mark in Roman polity. On the inmost shore of one of the lake-like inlets of the Hadriatic, an inlet guarded almost from sight by the great island of Bua at its mouth, lay his own Salona, now desolate, then one of the great cities of the Roman world. But it was not in the city, it was not close under its walls, that Diocletian fixt his home. An isthmus between the bay of Salona and the outer sea cuts off a peninsula, which again throws out two horns into the water to form the harbor which has for ages supplanted Salona. There, not on any hill-top, but on a level spot by the coast, with the sea in front, with a background of more distant mountains, and with one peaked hill rising between the two seas like a watch-tower, did Diocletian build the house to which he withdrew when he deemed that his work of empire was over. And in building that house, he won for himself, or for the nameless genius whom he set at work, a place in the history of art worthy to rank alongside of Iktinos of Athens and Anthemios of Byzantium, of William of Durham and of Hugh of Lincoln. And now the birthplace of Jovius is forsaken, but his house still abides, and abides in a shape marvelously little shorn of its ancient greatness. The name which it still bears comes straight from the name of the elder home of the Cæsars. The fates of the two spots have been in a strange way the converse of one another. By the banks of the Tiber the city of Romulus became the house of a single man: by the shores of the Hadriatic the house of a single man became a city. The Palatine hill became the Palatium of the Cæsars, and Palatium was the name which was borne by the house of Cæsar by the Dalmatian shore. The house became a city; but its name still clave to it, and the house of Jovius still, at least in the mouths of its own inhabitants, keeps its name in the slightly altered form of Spalato.... We land with the moon lighting up the water, with the stars above us, the northern wain shining on the Hadriatic, as if, while Diocletian was seeking rest by Salona, the star of Constantine was rising over York and Trier. Dimly rising above us we see, disfigured indeed, but not destroyed, the pillared front of the palace, reminding us of the Tabularium of Rome's own capitol. We pass under gloomy arches, through dark passages and presently we find ourselves in the center of palace and city, between those two renowned rows of arches which mark the greatest of all epochs in the history of the building art. We think how the man who reorganized the Empire of Rome was also the man who first put harmony and consistency into the architecture of Rome. We think that, if it was in truth the crown of Diocletian which passed to every Cæsar from the first Constantius to the last Francis, it was no less in the pile which rose into being at his word that the germ was planted which grew into Pisa and Durham, into Westminster and Saint Ouen. There is light enough to mark the columns put for the first time to their true Roman use, and to think how strange was the fate which called up on this spot the happy arrangement which had entered the brain of no earlier artist--the arrangement which, but a few years later, was to be applied to another use in the basilica of the Lateran and in Saint Paul Without the Walls. Yes, it is in the court of the persecutor, the man who boasted that he had wiped out the Christian superstition from the world, that we see the noblest forestalling of the long arcades of the Christian basilica. It is with thoughts like these, thoughts pressing all the more upon us where every outline is clear and every detail is visible, that we tread for the first time the Court of Jovius--the columns with their arches on either side of us, the vast bell-tower rising to the sky, as if to mock the art of those whose mightiest works might still seem only to grovel upon earth. Nowhere within the compass of the Roman world do we find ourselves more distinctly in the presence of one of the great minds of the world's history; we see that, alike in politics and in art, Diocletian breathed a living soul into a lifeless body. In the bitter irony of the triumphant faith, his mausoleum has become a church, his temple has become a baptistery, the great bell-tower rises proudly over his own work; his immediate dwelling-place is broken down and crowded with paltry houses; but the sea-front and the Golden Gate are still there amid all disfigurements, and the great peristyle stands almost unhurt, to remind us of the greatest advance that a single mind ever made in the progress of the building art. At the present time the city into which the house of Diocletian has grown is the largest and most growing town of the Dalmatian coast. It has had to yield both spiritual and temporal precedence to Zara, but, both in actual population and all that forms the life of a city, Spalato greatly surpasses Zara and all its other neighbors. The youngest Dalmatian towns, which could boast neither of any mythical origin nor of any Imperial foundation, the city which, as it were, became a city by mere chance, has outstript the colonies of Epidauros, of Corinth, and of Rome. The palace of Diocletian had but one occupant; after the founder no Emperor had dwelled in it, unless we hold that this was the villa near Salona where the deposed Emperor Nepos was slain, during the patriciate of Odoacer. The forsaken palace seems, while still almost new, to have become a cloth factory, where women worked, and which therefore appears in the "Notitia" as a Gynæcium. But when Salona was overthrown, the palace stood ready to afford shelter to those who were driven from their homes. The palace, in the widest sense of the word--for of course its vast circuit took in quarters for soldiers and officials of various kinds, as well as the rooms actually occupied by the Emperor--stood ready to become a city. It was a chester ready made, with its four streets, its four gates, all but that toward the sea flanked with octagonal towers, and with four greater square towers at the corners. To this day the circuit of the walls is nearly perfect; and the space contained within them must be as large as that contained within some of the oldest chesters in our own island. The walls, the towers, the gates, are those of a city rather than of a house. Two of the gates, tho' their towers are gone, are nearly perfect; the "porta aurea," with its graceful ornaments; the "porta ferrea" in its stern plainness, strangely crowned with its small campanile of later days perched on its top. Within the walls, besides the splendid buildings which still remain, besides the broken-down walls and chambers which formed the immediate dwelling-place of the founder, the main streets were lined with massive arcades, large parts of which still remain. Diocletian, in short, in building a house, had built a city. In the days of Constantine Porphyrogenitus it was a "Káotpov"--Greek and English had by his day alike borrowed the Latin name; but it was a "Káotpov" which Diocletian had built as his own house, and within which was his hall and palace. In his day the city bore the name of Aspalathon, which he explains to mean "little palace." When the palace had thus become a common habitation of men, it is not wonderful that all the more private buildings whose use had passed away were broken down, disfigured, and put to mean uses. The work of building over the site must have gone on from that day to this. The view in Wheeler shows several parts of the enclosure occupied by ruins which are now covered with houses. The real wonder is that so much has been spared and has survived to our own days. And we are rather surprised to find Constantine saying that in his time the greater part had been destroyed. For the parts which must always have been the stateliest remain still. The great open court, the peristyle, with its arcades, have become the public plaza of the town; the mausoleum on one side of it and the temple on the other were preserved and put to Christian uses. We say the mausoleum, for we fully accept the suggestion made by Professor Glavinich, the curator of the museum of Spalato, that the present duomo, traditionally called the Temple of Jupiter, was not a temple, but a mausoleum. These must have been the great public buildings of the palace, and, with the addition of the bell-tower, they remain the chief public buildings of the modern city. But, tho' the ancient square of the palace remains wonderfully perfect, the modern city, with its Venetian defenses, its Venetian and later buildings, has spread itself far beyond the walls of Diocletian. But those walls have made the history of Spalato, and it is the great buildings which stand within them that give Spalato its special place in the history of architecture. RAGUSA[12] BY HARRY DE WINDT Viewed from the sea, and at first sight, the place somewhat resembles Monte Carlo with its white villas, palms, and background of rugged, gray hills. But this is the modern portion of the town, outside the fortifications, erected many centuries ago. Within them lies the real Ragusa--a wonderful old city which teems with interest, for its time-worn buildings and picturesque streets recall, at every turn, the faded glories of this "South Slavonic Athens." A bridge across the moat which protects the old city is the link between the present and past. In new Ragusa you may sit on the crowded esplanade of a fashionable watering place; but pass through a frowning archway into the old town, and, save in the main street, which has modern shops and other up-to-date surroundings, you might be living in the dark ages. For as far back as in the ninth century Ragusa was the capital of Dalmatia and an independent republic, and since that period her literary and commercial triumphs, and the tragedies she has survived in the shape of sieges, earthquakes, and pestilence, render the records of this little-known state almost as engrossing as those of ancient Rome. Until I came here I had pictured a squalid Eastern place, devoid of ancient or modern interest; most of my fellow-countrymen probably do likewise, notwithstanding the fact that when London was a small and obscure town Ragusa was already an important center of commerce and civilization. The republic was always a peaceful one, and its people excelled in trade and the fine arts. Thus, as early as the fourteenth century the Ragusan fleet was the envy of the world; its vessels were then known as Argusas to British mariners, and the English word "Argosy" is probably derived from the name. These tiny ships went far afield--to the Levant and Northern Europe, and even to the Indies--a voyage frought, in those days, with much peril. At this epoch Ragusa had achieved a mercantile prosperity unequalled throughout Europe, but in later years the greater part of the fleet joined and perished with the Spanish Armada. And this catastrophe was the precursor of a series of national disasters. In 1667 the city was laid waste by an earthquake which killed over twenty thousand people, and this was followed by a terrible visitation of the plague, which further decimated the population. Ragusa, however, was never a large city, and even at its zenith, in the sixteenth century, it numbered under forty thousand souls, and now contains only about a third of that number. In 1814 the Vienna Congress finally deprived the republic of its independence, and it became (with Dalmatia) an Austrian possession. Trade has not increased here of recent years, as in Herzegovina and Bosnia. The harbor, at one time one of the most important ports in Europe, is too small and shallow for modern shipping, and the oil industry, once the backbone of the place, has sadly dwindled of late years. Ragusa itself now having no harbor worthy of the name, the traveler by sea must land at Gravosa about a mile north of the old city. Gravosa is merely a suburb of warehouses, shipping, and sailor-men, as unattractive as the London Docks, and the Hotel Petko swarmed with mosquitoes and an animal which seems to thrive and flourish throughout the Balkan States--the rat. The old Custom House is perhaps the most beautiful building in Ragusa, and is one of the few which survived the terrible earthquake of 1667. The structure bears the letters "I.H.S." over the principal entrance in commemoration of this fact. Its courtyard is a dream of beauty, and the stone galleries around it are surrounded with inscriptions of great age. Ragusa is a Slav town, but altho' the name of streets appear in Slavonic characters, Italian is also spoken on every side and the "Stradone," with its arcades and narrow precipitous alleys at right angles, is not unlike a street in Naples. The houses are built in small blocks, as a protection against earthquakes--the terror of every Ragusan (only mention the word and he will cross himself)--and here on a fine Sunday morning you may see Dalmatians, Albanians, and Herzegovinians in their gaudiest finery, while here and there a wild-eyed Montenegrin, armed to the teeth, surveys the gay scene with a scowl, of shyness rather than ill-humor. Outside the café, on the Square (where flocks of pigeons whirl around as at St. Mark's in Venice), every little table is occupied; but here the women are gowned in the latest Vienna fashions, and Austrian uniforms predominate. And the sun shines as warmly as in June (on this 25th day of March), and the cathedral bells chime a merry accompaniment to a military band; a sky of the brightest blue gladdens the eye, fragrant flowers the senses, and the traveler sips his bock or mazagran, and thanks his stars he is not spending the winter in cold, foggy England. Refreshments are served by a white-aproned garçon, and street boys are selling the "Daily Mail" and "Gil Blas," just as they are on the far-away boulevards of Paris. CATTARO[13] BY EDWARD A. FREEMAN The end of a purely Dalmatian pilgrimage will be Cattaro. He who goes further along the coast will pass into lands that have a history, past and present, which is wholly distinct from that of the coast which he has hitherto traced from Zara--we might say from Capo d'Istria--onward. We have not reached the end of the old Venetian dominion--for that we must carry our voyage to Crete and Cyprus. But we have reached the end of the nearly continuous Venetian dominion--the end of the coast which, save at two small points, was either Venetian or Regusan--the end of that territory of the two maritime commonwealths which they kept down to their fall in modern times, and in which they have been succeeded by the modern Dalmatian kingdom.... The city stands at the end of an inlet of the sea fifteen or twenty miles long, and it has mountains around it so high that it is only in fair summer weather that the sun can be seen; in winter Cattaro never enjoys his presence. There certainly is no place where it is harder to believe that the smooth waters of the narrow, lake-like inlet, with mountains on each side which it seems as if one could put out one's hand and touch, are really part of the same sea which dashes against the rocks of Ragusa. They end in a meadow-like coast which makes one think of Bourget or Trasimenus rather than of Hadria. The Dalmatian voyage is well ended by the sail along the Bocche, the loveliest piece of inland sea which can be conceived, and whose shores are as rich in curious bits of political history as they are in scenes of surpassing natural beauty. The general history of the district consists in the usual tossing to and fro between the various powers which have at different times been strong in the neighborhood. Cattaro was in the reign of Basil the Macedonian besieged and taken by Saracens, who presently went on unsuccessfully to besiege Ragusa. And, as under Byzantine rule it was taken by Saracens, so under Venetian rule it was more than once besieged by Turks. In the intermediate stages we get the usual alternations of independence and of subjection to all the neighboring powers in turn, till in 1419 Cattaro finally became Venetian. At the fall of the republic it became part of the Austrian share of the spoil. When the spoilers quarreled, it fell to France. When England, Russia, and Montenegro were allies, the city joined the land of which it naturally forms the head, and Cattaro became the Montenegrin haven and capital. When France was no longer dangerous, and the powers of Europe came together to parcel out other men's goods, Austria calmly asked for Cattaro back again, and easily got it. In the city of Cattaro the Orthodox Church is still in a minority, but it is a minority not far short of a majority. Outside its walls, the Orthodox outnumber the Catholics. In short, when we reach Cattaro, we have very little temptation to fancy ourselves in Italy or in any part of Western Christendom. We not only know, but feel, that we are on the Byzantine side of the Hadriatic; that we have, in fact, made our way into Eastern Europe. And East and West, Slav and Italian, New Rome and Old, might well struggle for the possession of the land and of the water through which we pass from Ragusa to our final goal at Cattaro. The strait leads us into a gulf; another narrow strait leads us into an inner gulf; and on an inlet again branching out of that inner gulf lies the furthest of Dalmatian cities. The lower city, Cattaro itself, seems to lie so quietly, so peacefully, as if in a world of its own from which nothing beyond the shores of its own Bocche could enter, that we are tempted to forget, not only that the spot has been the scene of so many revolutions through so many ages, but that it is even now a border city, a city on the marchland of contending powers, creeds, and races.... The city of Cattaro itself is small, standing on a narrow ledge between the gulf and the base of the mountain. It carries the features of the Dalmatian cities to what any one who has not seen Traü will call their extreme point. But, tho' the streets of Cattaro are narrow, yet they are civilized and airy-looking compared with those of Traü, and the little paved squares, as so often along this coast, suggest the memory of the ruling city. The memory of Venice is again called up by the graceful little scraps of its characteristic architecture which catch the eye ever and anon among the houses of Cattaro. The landing-place, the marina, the space between the coast and the Venetian wall, where we pass for the last time under the winged lion over the gate, has put on the air of a boulevard. But the forms and costume of Bocchesi and Montenegrins, the men of the gulf, with their arms in their girdles, no less than the men of the black mountain, banish all thought that we are anywhere but where we really are, at one of the border points of Christian and civilized Europe. If in the sons of the mountains we see the men who have in all ages held out against the invading Turk, we see in their brethren of the coast the men who, but a few years back, brought Imperial, Royal, and Apostolic Majesty to its knees ... At Cattaro the Orthodox Church is on its own ground, standing side by side on equal terms with its Latin rival, pointing to lands where the Filioque[14] is unknown and where the Bishop of the Old Rome has even been deemed an intruder. The building itself is a small Byzantine church, less Byzantine in fact in its outline than the small churches of the Byzantine type at Zara, Spalato, and Traü. The single dome rises, not from the intersection of a Greek cross, but from the middle of a single body, and, resting as it does on pointed arches, it suggests the thought of Périgueux and Angoulême. But this arrangement, which is shared by a neighboring Latin church, is well known throughout the East. The Latin duomo, which has been minutely described by Mr. Neale,[15] is of quite another type, and is by no means Dalmatian in its general look. A modern west front with two western towers does not go for much; but it reminds us that a design of the same kind was begun at Traü in better times. The inside is quite unlike anything of later Italian work. The traveler whose objects are of a more general kind turns away from this border church of Christendom as the last stage of a pilgrimage unsurpassed either for natural beauty or for historic interest. And, as he looks up at the mountain which rises almost close above the east end of the duomo of Cattaro, and thinks of the land[16] and the men to which the path over that mountain leads, he feels that, on this frontier at least, the spirit still lives which led English warriors to the side of Manuel Komnênos, and which steeled the heart of the last Constantine to die in the breach for the Roman name and the faith of Christendom. VIII OTHER AUSTRIAN SCENES CRACOW[17] BY MÉNIE MURIEL DOWIE Cracow, old, tired and dispirited, speaks and thinks only of the ruinous past. When you drive into Cracow from the station for the first time, you are breathless, smiling, and tearful all at once; in the great Ring-platz--a mass of old buildings--Cracow seems to hold out her arms to you--those long sides that open from the corner where the cab drives in. You do not have time to notice separately the row of small trees down on one side, beneath which bright-colored women-figures control their weekly market; you do not notice the sort of court-house in the middle with its red roof, cream-colored galleries and shops beneath; you do not notice the great tall church at one side of brick and stone most perfectly time-reconciled, or the houses, or the crazed paving, or the innocent little groups of cabs--you only see Cracow holding out her arms to you, and you may lean down your head and weep from pure instinctive sympathy. Suddenly a choir of trumpets breaks out into a chorale from the big church tower; the melancholy of it I shall never forget--the very melody seemed so old and tired, so worn and sweet and patient, like Cracow. Those trumpet notes have mourned in that tower for hundreds of years. It is the Hymn of Timeless Sorrow that they play, and the key to which they are attuned in Cracow's long despair. Hush! That is her voice, the old town's voice, high and sad--she is speaking to you. Dear Cracow! Never again it seems to me, shall I come so near to the deathless hidden sentiment of Poland as in those first moments. It would be no use to tell her to take heart, that there may be brighter days coming, and so forth. Lemberg may feel so, Lemberg that has the feelings of any other big new town, the strength and the determination; but Cracow's day was in the long ago, as a gay capital, a brilliant university town full of princes, of daring, of culture, of wit. She has outlived her day, and can only mourn over what has been and the times that she has seen; she may be always proud of her character, of the brave blood that has made scarlet her streets, but she can never be happy remodeled as an Austrian garrison town, and in the new Poland--the Poland whose foundation stones are laid in the hearts of her people, and that may yet be built some day--in that new Poland there will be no place for aristocratic, high-bred Cracow. During my stay in the beautiful butter-colored palace that is now a hotel, I went round the museums, galleries, and universities, most if not all of which are free to the public. It would be unfair to give the idea that Cracow has completely fallen to decay. This is not the case. Austria has erected some very handsome buildings; and a town with such fine pictures, good museums, and two universities, can not be complained of as moribund. At the same time, I can only record faithfully my impression, and that was that everything new, everything modern, was hopelessly out of tone in Cracow; progress, which, tho' desirable, may be a vulgar thing, would not suit her, and does not seem at home in her streets. About the Florian's Thor, with its round towers of old, sorrel-colored brick, and the Czartoryski Museum, there is nothing to say that the guide-book would not say better. In the museum, a tattered Polish flag of red silk, with the white eagle, a cheerful bird with curled tail, opened mouth, chirping defiantly to the left, imprest me, and a portrait of Szopen (Chopin) in fine profile when laid out dead. For amusement, there was a Paul Potter bull beside a Paul Potter willow, delightfully unconscious of a coming Paul Potter thunderstorm, and a miniature of Shakespeare which did not resemble any of the portraits of him that I am familiar with. Any amount of Turkish trappings and reminiscences of Potocki and Kosciuszko, of course. As I had no guide-book, I am quite prepared to learn that I overlooked the most important relics. In the cathedral, away up on the hill of Wawel, above the river Vistula (Wisla) I prowled about among the crypts with a curious specimen of beadledom who ran off long unintelligible histories in atrocious Viennese patois about every solemn tomb by which we stood. So far as I was concerned it might just as well have been the functionary who herds small droves of visitors in Westminster Abbey. I never listen to these people, because (i) I do not care to be informed; and (ii) since I should never remember what they said, it is useless my even letting it in at one ear. The kindly, cobwebby old person who piloted me among those wonderful kings' graves in Cracow was personally not uninteresting, indeed a fine study, and his rigmaroles brought up infallibly upon three words which I could not fail to notice: these were "silberner Sarg vergoldet" (silver coffin, gilded). It had an odd fascination for me this phrase, as I stood always waiting for it; why, I wondered, should anybody want to gild a good solid silver coffin? At the time of my first visit, the excavation necessary to form the crypt for the resting-place of Mickiewicz[18] was in progress, and I went in among the limey, dusty workmen, with their tallow candles, and looked round. In return for my gulden, the beadle gave me a few immortelles from Sobieski's tomb, and some laurel leaves from Kosciuszko's; and remembering friends at home of refinedly ghoulish tastes, I determined to preserve those poor moldering fragments for them. Most of my days and evenings I spent wandering by the Vistula and in and out of the hundred churches. My plan was to sight a spire, and then walk to the root of it, so to speak. In this manner I saw the town very well. The houses were of brick and plaster, the rich carmine-red brick that has made Cracow so beautiful. On each was a beautiful façade, and pediments in renaissance, bas-relief work of cupids, and classic figures with ribands and roses tying among them, seeming to speak, somehow, of the dead princes and the mighty aristocracy which had cost Cracow so dear. In the Jews' quarter that loud lifelong market of theirs was going forward, which required seemingly only some small basinfuls of sour Gurken and a few spoonfuls of beans of its stock-in-trade. Mingling among the Jews were the peasants, of course; the men in tightly fitting trousers of white blanket cloth, rich embroidered on the upper part and down the seams in blue and red; the women wearing pink printed muslin skirts, often with a pale blue muslin apron and a lemon-colored fine wool cloth, spotted in pink, upon the head. They manifested a great appreciation of color, but none of form, and after the free dress of the Hucal women, these people, mummied in their red tartan shawls--all hybrid Stewarts, they seemed to me--were merely bright bundles in the sunshine. In the shops in Cracow, French was nearly always the language of attack, and a good deal was spoken in the hotel. I had occasion to buy a great many things, but, according to my custom, not a photograph was among them; therefore, when I go back, I shall receive perfectly new and fresh impressions of the place, and can cherish no vague memories, encouraged by an album at home, in which the nameless cathedrals of many countries confuse themselves, and only the Coliseum at Rome stands forth, not to be contradicted or misnamed. But it became necessary to put a period to my wandering, unless I wished to find myself stranded in Vienna with "neither cross nor pile." The references to money-matters have been designedly slight throughout these pages. It is not my habit to keep accounts. I have never found that you get any money back by knowing just how you have spent it, and a conscience-pricking record of expenses is very ungrateful reading. So, when a certain beautiful evening came, I felt that I had to look upon it as my last. Being too early for the train, I bid the man drive about in the early summer dark for three-quarters of an hour. To such as do not care for precise information and statistics in foreign places, but appreciate rather atmosphere and impression, I can recommend this course. In and out among the pretty garden woods, outside the town, we drove. Buildings loomed majestically out of the night; sometimes it was the tower of an unknown church, sometimes it was the house of some forgotten family that sprang suggestively to the eye, and I was grateful that I was left to suppose the indefinite type of Austrian bureau, which occupied, in all probability, the first floor. Then we came to the river, and later, Wawel stood massed out black upon the blue, the glorious gravestone of a fallen Power. All the stars were shining, and little red-yellow lights in the castle windows were not much bigger. Above the whisper of the willows on its bank came the deep, quiet murmur of the Vistula, and every now and then, over the several towers of the solemn old palaces and the spires of the church where Poland has laid her kings, and so recently the king of the poets, the stars were dropping from their places, like sudden spiders, letting themselves down into the vast by faint yellow threads that showed a moment after the star itself was gone. Later, as I looked from the open gallery of the train that was taking me away, I could not help thinking that, just a hundred years ago, Wawel's star was shining with a light bright enough for all Europe to see; but even as the stars fell that night and left their places empty, so Wawel's star has fallen and Poland's star has fallen too. ON THE ROAD TO PRAGUE[19] BY BAYARD TAYLOR I was pleasantly disappointed on entering Bohemia. Instead of a dull, uninteresting country, as I expected, it is a land full of the most lovely scenery. There is everything which can gratify the eye--high blue mountains, valleys of the sweetest pastoral look and romantic old ruins. The very name of Bohemia is associated with wild and wonderful legends of the rude barbaric ages. Even the chivalric tales of the feudal times of Germany grow tame beside these earlier and darker histories. The fallen fortresses of the Rhine or the robber-castles of the Odenwald had not for me so exciting an interest as the shapeless ruins cumbering these lonely mountains. The civilized Saxon race was left behind; I saw around me the features and heard the language of one of those rude Slavonic tribes whose original home was on the vast steppes of Central Asia. I have rarely enjoyed traveling more than our first two days' journey toward Prague. The range of the Erzgebirge ran along on our right; the snow still lay in patches upon it, but the valleys between, with their little clusters of white cottages, were green and beautiful. About six miles before reaching Teplitz we passed Kulm, the great battlefield which in a measure decided the fate of Napoleon. He sent Vandamme with forty thousand men to attack the allies before they could unite their forces, and thus effect their complete destruction. Only the almost despairing bravery of the Russian guards under Ostermann, who held him in check till the allied troops united, prevented Napoleon's design. At the junction of the roads, where the fighting was hottest, the Austrians have erected a monument to one of their generals. Not far from it is that of Prussia, simple and tasteful. A woody hill near, with the little village of Kulm at its foot, was the station occupied by Vandamme at the commencement of the battle. There is now a beautiful chapel on its summit which can be seen far and wide. A little distance farther the Czar of Russia has erected a third monument, to the memory of the Russians who fell. Four lions rest on the base of the pedestal, and on the top of the shaft, forty-five feet high, Victory is represented as engraving the date, "Aug. 30, 1813," on a shield. The dark pine-covered mountains on the right overlook the whole field and the valley of Torlitz; Napoleon rode along their crests several days after the battle to witness the scene of his defeat. Teplitz lies in a lovely valley, several miles wide, bounded by the Bohemian mountains on one side and the Erzgebirge on the other. One straggling peak near is crowned with a picturesque ruin, at whose foot the spacious bath-buildings lie half hidden in foliage. As we went down the principal street I noticed nearly every house was a hotel; we learned afterward that in summer the usual average of visitors is five thousand.[20] The waters resemble those of the celebrated Carlsbad; they are warm and practically efficacious in rheumatism and diseases of like character. After leaving Teplitz the road turned to the east, toward a lofty mountain which we had seen the morning before. The peasants, as they passed by, saluted us with "Christ greet you!" We stopt for the night at the foot of the peak called the Milleschauer, and must have ascended nearly two thousand feet, for we had a wide view the next morning, altho' the mists and clouds hid the half of it. The weather being so unfavorable, we concluded not to ascend, and descended through green fields and orchards snowy with blossoms to Lobositz, on the Elbe. Here we reached the plains again, where everything wore the luxuriance of summer; it was a pleasant change from the dark and rough scenery we left. The road passed through Theresienstadt, the fortress of Northern Bohemia. The little city is surrounded by a double wall and moat which can be filled with water, rendering it almost impossible to be taken. In the morning we were ferried over the Moldau, and after journeying nearly all day across barren, elevated plains saw, late in the afternoon, the sixty-seven spires of Prague below. I feel out of the world in this strange, fantastic, yet beautiful, old city. We have been rambling all morning through its winding streets, stopping sometimes at a church to see the dusty tombs and shrines or to hear the fine music which accompanies the morning mass. I have seen no city yet that so forcibly reminds one of the past and makes him forget everything but the associates connected with the scenes around him. The language adds to the illusion. Three-fourths of the people in the streets speak Bohemian and many of the signs are written in the same tongue. The palace of the Bohemian kings still looks down on the city from the western heights, and their tombs stand in the cathedral of St. John. When one has climbed up the stone steps leading to the fortress, there is a glorious prospect before him. Prague with its spires and towers lies in the valleys below, through which curves the Moldau with its green islands, disappearing among the hills which enclose the city on every side. The fantastic Byzantine architecture of many of the churches and towers gives the city a peculiar Oriental appearance; it seems to have been transported from the hills of Syria.... Having found out first a few of the locations, we haunted our way with difficulty through its labyrinths, seeking out every place of note or interest. Reaching the bridge at last, we concluded to cross over and ascend to the Hradschin, the palace of the Bohemian kings. The bridge was commenced in 1357, and was one hundred and fifty years in building. That was the way the old Germans did their work, and they made a structure which will last a thousand years longer. Every pier is surmounted with groups of saints and martyrs, all so worn and timebeaten that there is little left of their beauty, if they ever had any. The most important of them--at least to Bohemians--is that of St. John Nepomuk, now considered as the patron-saint of the land. He was a priest many centuries ago [1340-1393] whom one of the kings threw from the bridge into the Moldau because he refused to reveal to him what the queen confest. The legend says the body swam for some time on the river with five stars around its head. Ascending the broad flight of steps to the Hradschin, I paused a moment to look at the scene below. A slight blue haze hung over the clustering towers, and the city looked dim through it, like a city seen in a dream. It was well that it should so appear, for not less dim and misty are the memories that haunt its walls. There was no need of a magician's wand to bid that light cloud shadow forth the forms of other times. They came uncalled for even by Fancy. Far, far back in the past I saw the warrior-princess who founded the kingly city--the renowned Libussa, whose prowess and talent inspired the women of Bohemia to rise at her death and storm the land that their sex might rule where it obeyed before. On the mountain opposite once stood the palace of the bloody Wlaska, who reigned with her Amazon band for seven years over half Bohemia. Those streets below had echoed with the fiery words of Huss, and the castle of his follower--the blind Ziska, who met and defeated the armies of the German Empire--molders on the mountains above. Many a year of war and tempest has passed over the scene. The hills around have borne the armies of Wallenstein and Frederick the Great; the war-cry of Bavaria, Sweden and Poland has echoed in the valley, and the red glare of the midnight cannon or the flames of burning palaces have often gleamed along the "blood-dyed waters" of the Moldau... On the way down again we stept into the St. Nicholas Church, which was built by the Jesuits. The interior has a rich effect, being all of brown and gold. The massive pillars are made to resemble reddish-brown marble, with gilded capitals, and the statues at the base are profusely ornamented in the same style. The music chained me there a long time. There was a grand organ, assisted by a full orchestra and large choir of singers. It was placed above, and at every sound of the priest's bell the flourish of trumpets and deep roll of the drums filled the dome with a burst of quivering sound, while the giant pipes of the organ breathed out their full harmony and the very air shook under the peal. It was like a triumphal strain. The soul became filled with thoughts of power and glory; every sense was changed into one dim, indistinct emotion of rapture which held the spirit as if spellbound. Not far from this place is the palace of Wallenstein, in the same condition as when he inhabited it. It is a plain, large building having beautiful gardens attached to it, which are open to the public. We went through the courtyard, threaded a passage with a roof of rough stalactitic rock and entered the garden, where a revolving fountain was casting up its glittering arches. THE CAVE OF ADELSBERG[21] BY GEORGE STILLMAN HILLARD The night had been passed at Adelsberg, and the morning had been agreeably occupied in exploring the wonders of its celebrated cavern. The entrance is through an opening in the side of a hill. In a few moments, after walking down a gentle descent, a sound of flowing water is heard, and the light of the torches borne by the guides gleams faintly upon a river which runs through these sunless chasms, and revisits the glimpses of day at Planina, some ten miles distant. The visitor now finds himself in a vast hall, walled and roofed by impenetrable darkness of the stream, which is crossed by a wooden bridge; and the ascent on the other side is made by a similar flight of steps. The bridge and steps are marked by a double row of lights, which present a most striking appearance as their tremulous luster struggles through the night that broods over them. Such a scene recalls Milton's sublime pictures of Pandemonium, and shows directly to the eye what effects a great imaginative painter may produce with no other colors than light and darkness. Here are the "stately height," the "ample spaces," the "arched roof," the rows of "starry lamps and blazing cressets" of Satan's hall of council; and by the excited fancy the dim distance is easily peopled with gigantic forms and filled with the "rushing of congregated wings." After this, one is led through a variety of chambers, differing in size and form, but essentially similar in character, and the attention is invited to the innumerable multitude of striking and fantastic objects which have been formed in the lapse of ages, by the mere dropping of water. Pendants hang from the roof, stalagmites grow from the floor like petrified stumps, and pillars and buttresses are disposed as oddly as in the architecture of a dream. Here, we are told to admire a bell, and there, a throne; here, a pulpit, and there, a butcher's shop; here, "the two hearts," and there, a fountain frozen into alabaster; and in every case we assent to the resemblance in the unquestioning mood of Polonius. One of the chambers, or halls, is used every year as a ball-room, for which purpose it has every requisite except an elastic floor, even to a natural dais for the orchestra. Here, with the sort of pride with which a book collector shows a Mazarin Bible or a folio Shakespeare, the guides point out a beautiful piece of limestone which hangs from the roof in folds as delicate as a Cashmere shawl, to which the resemblance is made more exact by a well-defined border of deeper color than the web. Through this translucent curtain the light shines as through a picture in porcelain, and one must be very unimpressible not to bestow the tribute of admiration which is claimed. These are the trivial details which may be remembered and described, but the general effect produced by the darkness, the silence, the vast spaces, the innumerable forms, the vaulted roofs, the pillars and galleries melting away in the gloom like the long-drawn aisles of a cathedral, may be recalled but not communicated. To see all these marvels requires much time, and I remained under ground long enough to have a new sense of the blessing of light. The first glimpse of returning day seen through the distant entrance brought with it an exhilarating sense of release, and the blue sky and cheerful sunshine were welcomed like the faces of long absent friends. A cave like that of Adelsberg--for all limestone caves are, doubtless, essentially similar in character--ought by all means to be seen if it comes in one's way, because it leaves impressions upon the mind unlike those derived from any other object. Nature stamps upon most of her operations a certain character of gravity and majesty. Order and symmetry attend upon her steps, and unity in variety is the law by which her movements are guided. But, beneath the surface of the earth, she seems a frolicsome child, or a sportive undine, who wreaths the unmanageable stone into weird and quaint forms, seemingly from no other motive than pure delight in the exercise of overflowing power. Everything is playful, airy, and fantastic; there is no spirit of soberness; no reference to any ulterior end; nothing from which food, fuel, or raiment can be extracted. These chasms have been scooped out, and these pillars have been reared, in the spirit in which the bird sings, or the kitten plays with the falling leaves. From such scenes we may safely infer that the plan of the Creator comprehends something more than material utility, that beauty is its own vindictator and interpreter, that sawmills were not the ultimate cause of mountain streams, nor wine-bottles of cork-trees. THE MONASTERY OF MÖLK[22] BY THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN We had determined upon dining at Mölk the next day. The early morning was somewhat inauspicious; but as the day advanced, it grew bright and cheerful. Some delightful glimpses of the Danube, to the left, from the more elevated parts of the road, accompanied us the whole way, till we caught the first view, beneath a bright blue sky, of the towering church and Monastery of Mölk. Conceive what you please, and yet you shall not conceive the situation of this monastery. Less elevated above the road than Chremsminster, but of a more commanding style of architecture, and of considerably greater extent, it strikes you--as the Danube winds round and washes its rocky base--as one of the noblest edifices in the world. The wooded heights of the opposite side of the Danube crown the view of this magnificent edifice, in a manner hardly to be surpassed. There is also a beautiful play of architectural lines and ornament in the front of the building, indicative of a pure Italian taste, and giving to the edifice, if not the air of towering grandeur, at least of dignified splendor.... As usual, I ordered a late dinner, intending to pay my respects to the Principal, and obtain permission to inspect the library. My late monastic visits had inspired me with confidence; and I marched up the steep sides of the hill, upon which the monastery is built, quite assured of the success of the visit I was about to pay. You must now accompany the bibliographer to the monastery. In five minutes from entering the outer gate of the first quadrangle--looking toward Vienna, and which is the more ancient part of the building--I was in conversation with the Vice-Principal and Librarian, each of us speaking Latin. I delivered the letter which I had received at Salzburg, and proceeded to the library. The view from this library is really enchanting, and put everything seen from a similar situation at Landshut and almost even at Chremsminster, out of my recollection. You look down upon the Danube, catching a fine sweep of the river, as it widens in its course toward Vienna. A man might sit, read, and gaze--in such a situation--till he fancied he had scarcely one earthly want! I now descended a small staircase, which brought me directly into the large library--forming the right wing of the building, looking up the Danube toward Lintz. I had scarcely uttered three notes of admiration, when the Abbé Strattman entered; and to my surprise and satisfaction, addrest me by name. We immediately commenced an ardent unintermitting conversation in the French language, which the Abbé speaks fluently and correctly. I now took a leisurely survey of the library; which is, beyond all doubt, the finest room of its kind which I have seen upon the Continent--not for its size, but for its style of architecture, and the materials of which it is composed. I was told that it was "the Imperial Library in miniature,"--but with this difference, let me here add, in favor of Mölk--that it looks over a magnificently wooded country, with the Danube rolling its rapid course at its base. The wainscot and shelves are walnut tree, of different shades, inlaid, or dovetailed, surmounted by gilt ornaments. The pilasters have Corinthian capitals of gilt; and the bolder or projecting parts of a gallery, which surrounds the room, are covered with the same metal. Everything is in harmony. This library may be about a hundred feet in length, by forty in width. It is sufficiently well furnished with books, of the ordinary useful class, and was once, I suspect, much richer in the bibliographical lore of the fifteenth century. On reaching the last descending step, just before entering the church, the Vice-Principal bade me look upward and view the corkscrew staircase. I did so; and to view and admire was one and the same operation of the mind. It was the most perfect and extraordinary thing of the kind which I had ever seen--the consummation, as I was told, of that particular species of art. The church is the very perfection of ecclesiastical Roman architecture; that of Chremsminster, altho' fine, being much inferior to it in loftiness and richness of decoration. The windows are fixt so as to throw their concentrated light beneath a dome, of no ordinary height, and of no ordinary elegance of decoration; but this dome is suffering from damp, and the paintings upon the ceiling will, unless repaired, be effaced in the course of a few years. The church is in the shape of a cross; and at the end of each of the transepts, is a rich altar, with statuary, in the style of art usual about a century ago. The pews--made of dark mahogany or walnut tree, much after the English fashion, but lower and more tasteful--are placed on each side of the nave, or entering; with ample space between them. They are exclusively appropriated to the tenants of the monastery. At the end of the nave, you look to the left, opposite--and observe, placed in a recess--a pulpit, which, from top to bottom, is completely covered with gold. And yet, there is nothing gaudy or tasteless, or glaringly obtrusive, in this extraordinary clerical rostrum. The whole is in the most perfect taste; and perhaps more judgment was required to manage such an ornament, or appendage--consistently with the splendid style of decoration exacted by the founder, for it was expressly the Prelate Dietmayr's wish that it should be so adorned,--than may on first consideration be supposed. In fact, the whole church is in a blaze of gold; and I was told that the gilding alone cost upward of ninety thousand florins. Upon the whole, I understood that the church of this monastery was considered as the most beautiful in Austria; and I can easily believe it to be so. THROUGH THE TYROL[23] BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT I left this most pleasing of the Italian cities (Venice), and took the road for the Tyrol. We passed through a level fertile country, formerly the territory of Venice, watered by the Piave, which ran blood in one of Bonaparte's battles. At evening we arrived at Ceneda, where our Italian poet Da Ponte[24] was born, situated just at the base of the Alps, the rocky peaks and irregular spires of which, beautifully green with the showery season, rose in the background. Ceneda seems to have something of German cleanliness about it, and the floors of a very comfortable inn at which we stopt were of wood, the first we had seen in Italy, tho' common throughout Tyrol and the rest of Germany. A troop of barelegged boys, just broke loose from school, whooping and swinging their books and slates in the air, passed under my window. On leaving Ceneda, we entered a pass in the mountains, the gorge of which was occupied by the ancient town of Serravalle, resting on arcades, the architecture of which denoted that it was built during the Middle Ages. Near it I remarked an old castle, which formerly commanded the pass, one of the finest ruins of the kind I had ever seen. It had a considerable extent of battlemented wall in perfect preservation, and both that and its circular tower were so luxuriantly loaded with ivy that they seemed almost to have been cut out of the living verdure. As we proceeded we became aware how worthy this region was to be the birthplace of a poet. A rapid stream, a branch of the Piave, tinged of a light and somewhat turbid blue by the soil of the mountains, came tumbling and roaring down the narrow valley; perpendicular precipices rose on each side; and beyond, the gigantic brotherhood of the Alps, in two long files of steep pointed summits, divided by deep ravines, stretched away in the sunshine to the northeast. In the face of one of the precipices by the way-side, a marble slab is fixt, informing the traveler that the road was opened by the late Emperor of Germany in the year of 1830. We followed this romantic valley for a considerable distance, passing several little blue lakes lying in their granite basins, one of which is called the "Lago Morto" or Dead Lake, from having no outlet for its waters. At length we began to ascend, by a winding road, the steep sides of the Alps--the prospect enlarging as we went, the mountain summits rising to sight around us, one behind another, some of them white with snow, over which the wind blew with a wintry keenness--deep valleys opening below us, and gulfs yawning between rocks over which old bridges were thrown--and solemn fir forests clothing the broad declivities. The farm-houses placed on these heights, instead of being of brick or stone, as in the plains and valleys below, were principally built of wood; the second story, which served for a barn, being encircled by a long gallery, and covered with a projecting roof of plank held down with large stones. We stopt at Venas, a wretched place with a wretched inn, the hostess of which showed us a chin swollen with the goitre, and ushered us into dirty comfortless rooms where we passed the night. When we awoke the rain was beating against the windows, and, on looking out, the forest and sides of the neighboring mountains, at a little height above us, appeared hoary with snow. We set out in the rain, but had not proceeded far before we heard the sleet striking against the windows of the carriage, and soon came to where the snow covered the ground to the depth of one or two inches. Continuing to ascend, we passed out of Italy and entered the Tyrol. The storm had ceased before we went through the first Tyrolese village, and we could not help being struck with the change in the appearance of the inhabitants--the different costume, the less erect figures, the awkward gait, the lighter complexions, the neatly-kept inhabitations, and the absence of beggars. As we advanced, the clouds began to roll off from the landscape, disclosing here and there, through openings in their broad skirts as they swept along, glimpses of the profound valleys below us, and of the white sides and summits of mountains in the mid-sky above. At length the sun appeared, and revealed a prospect of such wildness, grandeur, and splendor as I have never before seen. Lofty peaks of the most fantastic shapes, with deep clefts between, sharp needles of rock, and overhanging crags, infinite in multitude, shot up everywhere around us, glistening in the new-fallen snow, with thin wreaths of mist creeping along their sides. At intervals, swollen torrents, looking at a distance like long trains of foam, came thundering down the mountains, and crossing the road, plunged into the verdant valleys which winded beneath. Beside the highway were fields of young grain, prest to the ground with the snow; and in the meadows, ranunculuses of the size of roses, large yellow violets, and a thousand other Alpine flowers of the most brilliant hues, were peeping through their white covering. We stopt to breakfast at a place called Landro, a solitary inn, in the midst of this grand scenery, with a little chapel beside it. The water from the dissolving snow was dropping merrily from the roof in a bright June sun. We needed not to be told that we were in Germany, for we saw it plainly enough in the nicely-washed floor of the apartment into which we were shown, in the neat cupboard with the old prayer-book lying upon it, and in the general appearance of housewifery; to say nothing of the evidence we had in the beer and tobacco-smoke of the travelers' room, and the guttural dialect and quiet tones of the guests. From Landro we descended gradually into the beautiful valleys of the Tyrol, leaving the snow behind, tho' the white peaks of the mountains were continually in sight. At Bruneck, in an inn resplendent with neatness--we had the first specimen of a German bed. It is narrow and short, and made so high at the head, by a number of huge square bolsters and pillows, that you rather sit than lie. The principal covering is a bag of down, very properly denominated the upper bed, and between this and the feather-bed below, the traveler is expected to pass a night. An asthmatic patient on a cold winter night might perhaps find such a couch tolerably comfortable, if he could prevent the narrow covering from slipping off on one side or the other. The next day we were afforded an opportunity of observing more closely the inhabitants of this singular region, by a festival, or holiday of some sort, which brought them into the roads in great numbers, arrayed in their best dresses--the men in short jackets and small-clothes, with broad gay-colored suspenders over their waistcoats, and leathern belts ornamented with gold or silver leaf--the women in short petticoats composed of horizontal bands of different colors--and both sexes, for the most part, wearing broad-brimmed hats with hemispherical crowns, tho' there was a sugar-loaf variety much affected by the men, adorned with a band of lace and sometimes a knot of flowers. They are a robust, healthy-looking race, tho' they have an awkward stoop in the shoulders. But what struck me most forcibly was the devotional habits of the people. The Tyrolese might be cited as an illustration of the remark, that mountaineers are more habitually and profoundly religious than others. Persons of all sexes, young and old, whom we meet in the road, were repeating their prayers audibly. We passed a troop of old women, all in broad-brimmed hats and short gray petticoats, carrying long staves, one of whom held a bead-roll and gave out the prayers, to which the others made the responses in chorus. They looked at us so solemnly from under their broad brims, and marched along with so grave and deliberate a pace, that I could hardly help fancying that the wicked Austrians had caught a dozen elders of the respectable Society of Friends, and put them in petticoats to punish them for their heresy. We afterward saw persons going to the labors of the day, or returning, telling their rosaries and saying their prayers as they went, as if their devotions had been their favorite amusement. At regular intervals of about half a mile, we saw wooden crucifixes erected by the way-side, covered from the weather with little sheds, bearing the image of the Savior, crowned with thorns and frightfully dashed with streaks and drops of red paint, to represent the blood that flowed from his wounds. The outer walls of the better kind of houses were ornamented with paintings in fresco, and the subjects of these were mostly sacred, such as the Virgin and Child, the Crucifixion, and the Ascension. The number of houses of worship was surprising; I do not mean spacious or stately churches such as we meet with in Italy, but most commonly little chapels dispersed so as best to accommodate the population. Of these the smallest neighborhood has one for the morning devotions of its inhabitants, and even the solitary inn has its little consecrated building with its miniature spire, for the convenience of pious wayfarers. At Sterzing, a little village beautifully situated at the base of the mountain called the Brenner, and containing, as I should judge, not more than two or three thousand inhabitants, we counted seven churches and chapels within the compass of a square mile. The observances of the Roman Catholic church are nowhere more rigidly complied with than in the Tyrol. When we stopt at Bruneck on Friday evening, I happened to drop a word about a little meat for dinner in a conversation with the spruce-looking landlady, who appeared so shocked that I gave up the point, on the promise of some excellent and remarkably well-flavored trout from the stream that flowed through the village--a promise that was literally fulfilled.... We descended the Brenner on the 28th of June in a snow-storm, the wind whirling the light flakes in the air as it does with us in winter. It changed to rain, however, as we approached the beautiful and picturesque valley watered by the river Inn, on the banks of which stands the fine old town of Innsbruck, the capital of the Tyrol. Here we visited the Church of the Holy Cross, in which is the bronze tomb of Maxmilian I. and twenty or thirty bronze statues ranged on each side of the nave, representing fierce warrior-chiefs, and gowned prelates, and stately damsels of the middle ages. These are all curious for the costume; the warriors are cased in various kinds of ancient armor, and brandish various ancient weapons, and the robes of the females are flowing and by no means ungraceful. Almost every one of the statues has its hands and fingers in some constrained and awkward position; as if the artist knew as little what to do with them as some awkward and bashful people know what to do with their own. Such a crowd of figures in that ancient garb, occupying the floor in the midst of the living worshipers of the present day, has an effect which at first is startling. From Innsbruck we climbed and crossed another mountain-ridge, scarcely less wild and majestic in its scenery than those we had left behind. On descending, we observed that the crucifixes had disappeared from the roads, and the broad-brimmed and sugar-loaf hats from the heads of the peasantry; the men wore hats contracted in the middle of the crown like an hour-glass, and the women caps edged with a broad band of black fur, the frescoes on the outside of the houses became less frequent; in short it was apparent that we had entered a different region, even if the custom-house and police officers on the frontier had not signified to us that we were now in the kingdom of Bavaria. We passed through extensive forests of fir, here and there checkered with farms, and finally came to the broad elevated plain bathed by the Isar, in which Munich is situated. IN THE DOLOMITES[25] BY ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL KNOWLES The Dolomites are part of the Southern Tyrol. One portion is Italian, one portion is Austrian, and the rivalry of the two nations is keen. Under a warm summer sun, the quaint little villages seem half asleep, and the inhabitants appear to drift dreamily through life. Yet this is more apparent than real for, in many respects, the people here are busy in their own way. Crossing this region are many mountain ranges of limestone structure, which by water, weather and other causes have been worn away into the most fantastic fissures and clefts and the most picturesque peaks and pinnacles. A very great charm is their curious coloring, often of great beauty. The region of the Dolomites is a great contrast to the rest of the Alps. Its characteristics do not make the same appeal to all. This is largely not only a matter of individual taste and temperament but also of one's mental or spiritual constitution, for the picture with its setting depends as much upon what it suggests as upon its constituent parts. The Dolomites suggest Italy in the contour of the country, in the grace of the inhabitants and in the colors which make the scene one of rich magnificence. The great artist Titian was born here[26] and he probably learned much from his observation of his native place. Many of the mountain ranges are of the usual gray but such is the atmospheric condition that they seem to reflect the rosy rays of the setting sun or the purplish haze that often is found. The peaks are not great peaks in the sense that we speak of Mont Blanc, the Jungfrau, the Matterhorn or Monte Rosa. They impress one more as pictures with wonderful lights and strange grouping.... If the reader intends some day to visit the Dolomites he is advised to enter from the north. Salzburg and the Salzkammergut, so much frequented by the Emperor Francis Joseph and the Austrian nobility, make a good introduction. Then by way of Innsbruck, one of the gems of the Tyrol, Toblach is reached, where the driving tour may properly begin. Toblach is a lovely place, if one stops long enough to see it and enjoy it! It is not very far to Cortina, the center of this beautiful region. The way there is very lovely. And driving is in keeping with the spirit of the place. It almost seems profane to rush through in a motor, as some do, for not only is it impossible to appreciate the scenery, but also it is out of harmony with the peace and quiet which reign. For a while there is traversed a little valley quite embowered in green, but presently this abruptly leads into a wild gorge, with jagged peaks on every side. Soon Monte Cristallo appears. This is the most striking of all the Dolomite peaks. At a tiny village, called Schluderbach, the road forks, that to the right going directly to Cortina, the other to the left proceeding by way of Lake Misurina. Lake Misurina is a pretty stretch of water, pale green in color and at an altitude of about 5,800 feet. On its shores are two very attractive and well-kept hotels, with charming walks, from which one looks on a splendid panorama, picturesque in extreme. From Misurina, the road again ascends, becoming very narrow and very steep. The top is called "Passo Tre Croci," the Pass of the Three Crosses. The outlook is very lovely, with the three serrated peaks Monte Cristallo, Monte Piano and Monte Tofana, standing as guardian sentinels over the little valley of Ampezzo far below, where lies Cortina sleeping in the sun, while in the distance shine the snow fields of the Marmolata. Just as steeply as it climbed up one side, the road descends on the other side, to Cortina. This place is the capital of the valley and altogether lovely; beautiful in its woods and meadows, beautiful in its mountain views, beautiful in the town itself and beautiful in its people. Cortina has much to boast of--an ancient church and some old houses; an industrial school in which the villagers are taught the most delicate and artistic (and withal comparatively cheap) filigree mosaic work; and a community of people, handsome in face and figure and possessing a carriage and refinement superior to any seen elsewhere among the mountaineers or peasantry. In the neighborhood of Cortina are many excursions and also extended rock climbs, but those who go there in the summer will be more apt to linger lazily amid the cool shade of the trees than to brave the hot Italian sun on the peaks! After a few days' stay at Cortina, the drive is continued. There are many ways out. You can return by a new route to Toblach and the Upper Tyrol. Or you can go south to Belluno and thence to northern Italy. Or a third way and perhaps the finest tour of all is that over a series of magnificent mountain passes to Botzen. This last crosses the Ampezzo Valley and then begins the ascent of Monte Tofana, which here is beautifully wooded. Steepness seems characteristic of this region! It is hard to imagine a carriage climbing a road any steeper than that one on the slopes of Monte Tofana! If narrow and steep is the way and hard and toilsome the climb this Monte Tofana route most certainly repays one when it reaches the Falzarego Pass (6,945 feet high) which is certainly an earthly Paradise! One can not aptly describe a view like that! It is all a picture; as if every part was purposely what it is, here rocky, here green, here snowy, with summits, valleys, ravines and villages and even a partly ruined castle to form a whole such as an artist or poet would revel in. After a pause on the summit of the Pass, again comes a steep descent, as the drive is resumed, which continues to Andraz, where déjeuner is taken. One can not live on air or scenery and even the most indefatigable sightseer sometimes turns with longing to luncheon! Then one returns with added zest to the feast of eye and soul. And at Andraz, as one lingers awhile after luncheon on that high mountain terrace, a lovelier scene than that spread before the eye could scarcely be imagined. Indeed it is a "dream-scene," and as seen in the sleepy stillness of the early afternoon, when the shadows are already playing with the lights and gradually overcoming them, it seems like fancy, not reality. Again the carriage is taken and soon the road is climbing once more, this time giving fine views of the Sella group of peaks and going through a series of picturesque valleys. At Arabba (5,255 feet), a pretty little village, the final ascent to Pordoi begins. The scenery undergoes a change. It becomes more wild and barren and the characteristics of the high Alps appear. The hour begins to be late and it becomes cold, but the light still lingers as the carriage reaches the summit of the pass and stops at the new Hôtel Pordoi (7,020 feet high) facing the weird, fantastic shapes of the Rosengarten and the Langkofel, on the one side and on the other the snowy Marmolata and the summits about Cortina.... The following morning the start is made for Botzen. The way steadily descends for hours, past the pretty hamlets of Canazei, Campitello and Vigo di Fassa, surrounded by an imposing array of Dolomite peaks. After crossing the Karer Pass the scenery becomes much more soft and pastoral. Below the pass, most beautifully situated is a little green lake called the Karer-See.... At Botzen the drive through the Dolomites ends. At best it gives but a glimpse of this delightful region! That glimpse leaves a lasting impression, not of snowy summits and glistening glaciers, but of wonderful rocks and more wonderful coloring and of great peaks of fantastic form, set in a garden spot of green. And Botzen is a fitting terminus. It dates far back to the Middle Ages. It boasts of churches, houses and public buildings of artistic merit and architectural beauty and over all there lingers an atmosphere of rest and refinement, refreshing to see, where there might have been the noisy bustle and hopeless vulgarity of so many places similarly situated. There is plenty going on, nevertheless, for Botzen is quite a little commercial center in its own way, but with it there is this charm of dignified repose. One wanders through the town under the cool colonnades, strolls into some ancient cloisters, kneels for a moment in some finely carved church and then goes out again to the open, to see far above the little city that beautiful background of the Dolomite peaks, dominated by the wonderfully impressive and fantastic Rosengarten range, golden red in the western sun. With such a view experience may well lapse into memory, to linger on so long as the mind possesses the power of recalling the past. CORTINA[27] BY AMELIA B. EDWARDS Situate on the left bank of the Boita, which here runs nearly due north and south, with the Tre Croci pass opening away behind the town to the east, and the Tre Sassi Pass widening before it to the west, Cortina lies in a comparatively open space between four great mountains, and is therefore less liable to danger from bergfalls than any other village not only in the Val d'Ampezo but in the whole adjacent district. For the same reason, it is cooler in summer than either Caprile, Agordo, Primiero, or Predazzo; all of which, tho' more central as stopping places, and in many respects more convenient, are yet somewhat too closely hemmed in by surrounding heights. The climate of Cortina is temperate throughout the year. Ball gives the village an elevation of 4,048 feet above the level of the sea; and one of the parish priests--an intelligent old man who has devoted many years of his life to collecting the flora of the Ampezzo--assured me that he had never known the thermometer drop so low as fifteen degrees[28] of frost in even the coldest winters. The soil, for all this, has a bleak and barren look; the maize (here called "grano Turco") is cultivated, but does not flourish; and the vine is unknown. But then agriculture is not a specialty of the Ampezzo Thal, and the wealth of Cortina is derived essentially from its pasture-lands and forests. These last, in consequence of the increased and increasing value of timber, have been lavishly cut down of late years by the Commune--too probably at the expense of the future interests of Cortina. For the present, however, every inn, homestead, and public building bespeaks prosperity. The inhabitants are well-fed and well-drest. Their fairs and festivals are the most considerable in all the South Eastern Tyrol; their principal church is the largest this side of St. Ulrich; and their new Gothic Campanile, 250 feet high, might suitably adorn the piazza of such cities as Bergamo or Belluno. The village contains about 700 souls, but the population of the Commune numbers over 2,500. Of these, the greater part, old and young, rich and poor, men, women, and children, are engaged in the timber trade. Some cut the wood; some transport it. The wealthy convey it on trucks drawn by fine horses which, however, are cruelly overworked. The poor harness themselves six or eight in a team, men, women, and boys together, and so, under the burning summer sun, drag loads that look as if they might be too much for an elephant.... To ascend the Campanile and get the near view over the village, was obviously one of the first duties of a visitor; so, finding the door open and the old bellringer inside, we mounted laboriously to the top--nearly a hundred feet higher than the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Standing here upon the outer gallery above the level of the great bells, we had the village and valley at our feet. The panorama, tho' it included little which we had not seen already, was fine all around, and served to impress the mainland marks upon our memory. The Ampezzo Thal opened away to north and south, and the twin passes of the Tre Croci and Tre Sassi intersected it to east and west. When we had fixt in our minds the fact that Landro and Bruneck lay out to the north, and Perarolo to the south; that Auronzo was to be found somewhere on the other side of the Tre Croci; and that to arrive at Caprile it was necessary to go over the Tre Sassi, we had gained something in the way of definite topography. The Marmolata and Civetta, as we knew by our maps, were on the side of Caprile; and the Marmarole on the side of Auronzo. The Pelmo, left behind yesterday, was peeping even now above the ridge of the Rochetta; and a group of fantastic rocks, so like the towers and bastions of a ruined castle that we took them at first sight for the remains of some medieval stronghold, marked the summit of the Tre Sassi to the west. "But what mountain is that far away to the south?" we asked, pointing in the direction of Perarolo. "Which mountain, Signora?" "That one yonder, like a cathedral front with two towers." The old bellringer shaded his eyes with one trembling hand, and peered down the valley. "Eh," he said, "it is some mountain on the Italian side." "But what is it called?" "Eh," he repeated, with a puzzled look, "who knows? I don't know that I ever noticed it before." Now it was a very singular mountain--one of the most singular and the most striking that we saw throughout the tour. It was exactly like the front of Notre Dame, with one slender aiguille, like a flagstaff, shooting up from the top of one of its battlemented towers. It was conspicuous from most points on the left bank of the Boita; but the best view, as I soon after discovered, was from the rising ground behind Cortina, going up through the fields in the direction of the Begontina torrent. To this spot we returned again and again, fascinated as much, perhaps, by the mystery in which it was enveloped, as by the majestic outline of this unknown mountain, to which, for want of a better, we gave the name of Notre Dame. For the old bellringer was not alone in his ignorance. Ask whom we would, we invariably received the same vague reply--it was a mountain "on the Italian side." They knew no more; and some, like our friend of the Campanile, had evidently "not noticed it before." IX ALPINE RESORTS THE CALL OF THE MOUNTAINS[29] BY FREDERIC HARRISON Once more--perhaps for the last time--I listen to the unnumbered tinkling of the cow-bells on the slopes--"the sweet bells of the sauntering herd"--to the music of the cicadas in the sunshine, and the shouts of the neat herdlads, echoing back from Alp to Alp. I hear the bubbling of the mountain rill, I watch the emerald moss of the pastures gleaming in the light, and now and then the soft white mist creeping along the glen, as our poet says, "puts forth an arm and creeps from pine to pine." And see, the wild flowers, even in this waning season of the year, the delicate lilac of the dear autumn crocus, which seems to start up elf-like out of the lush grass, the coral beads of the rowan, and the beech-trees just begun to wear their autumn jewelry of old gold. As I stroll about these hills, more leisurely, more thoughtfully than I used to do of old in my hot mountaineering days, I have tried to think out what it is that makes the Alpine landscape so marvelous a tonic to the spirit--what is the special charm of it to those who have once felt all its inexhaustible magic. Other lands have rare beauties, wonders of their own, sights to live in the memory for ever. In France, in Italy, in Spain, in Greece and in Turkey, I hold in memory many a superb landscape. From boyhood upward I thirsted for all kinds of Nature's gifts, whether by sea, or by river, lake, mountain, or forest. For sixty years at least I have roved about the white cliffs, the moors, the riversides, lakes, and pastures of our own islands from Penzance to Cape Wrath, from Beachy Head to the Shetlands. I love them all. But they can not touch me, as do the Alps, with the sense at once of inexhaustible loveliness and of a sort of conscious sympathy with every fiber of man's heart and brain. Why then is this so? I find it in the immense range of the moods in which Nature is seen in the Alps, as least by those who have fully absorbed all the forms, sights, sounds, wonders, and adventures they offer. An hour's walk will show them all in profound contrast and yet in exquisite harmony. The Alps form a book of Nature as wide and as mysterious as Life. Earth has no scenes of placid fruitfulness more balmy than the banks of one of the larger lakes, crowded with vineyards, orchards, groves and pastures, down to the edge of its watery mirror, wherein, beside a semi-tropical vegetation, we see the image of some medieval castle, of some historic tower, and thence the eye strays up to sunless gorges, swept with avalanches, and steaming with feathery cascades; and higher yet one sees against the skyline ranges of terrific crags, girt with glaciers, and so often wreathed in storm clouds. All that Earth has of most sweet, softest, easiest, most suggestive of langor and love, of fertility and abundance--here is seen in one vision beside all that Nature has most hard, most cruel, most unkind to Man--where life is one long weary battle with a frost bitten soil, and every peasant's hut has been built up stone by stone, and log by log, with sweat and groans, and wrecked hopes. In a few hours one may pass from an enchanted garden, where every sense is satiated, and every flower and leaf and gleam of light is intoxication, up into a wilderness of difficult crags and yawning glaciers, which men can reach only by hard-earned skill, tough muscle and iron nerves.... The Alps are international, European, Humanitarian. Four written languages are spoken in their valleys, and ten times as many local dialects. The Alps are not especially Swiss--I used to think they were English--they belong equally to four nations of Europe; they are the sanatorium and the diversorium of the civilized world, the refuge, the asylum, the second home of men and women famous throughout the centuries for arts, literature, thought, religion. The poet, the philosopher, the dreamer, the patriot, the exile, the bereaved, the reformer, the prophet, the hero--have all found in the Alps a haven of rest, a new home where the wicked cease from troubling, where men need neither fear nor suffer. The happy and the thoughtless, the thinker and the sick--are alike at home here. The patriot exile inscribed on his house on Lake Leman--"Every land is fatherland to the brave man." What he might have written is--"This land is fatherland to all men." To young and old, to strong and weak, to wise and foolish alike, the Alps are a second fatherland. INTERLAKEN AND THE JUNGFRAU[30] B.T. ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL KNOWLES It is hard to find a prettier spot than Interlaken. Situated between two lovely lakes, surrounded by wooded heights, and lying but a few miles from the snowy Jungfrau, it is like a jewel richly set. From Lucerne over the Brunig, from Meiringen over the Grimsel come the travelers, passing on their way the Lake of Brienz, with the waterfall of the Giessbach, on its southern side. From Berne over Lake Thun, from the Rhône Valley over the Gemmi or through the Simmenthal come the tourists, seeing as they come the white peaks of the Oberland. And Interlaken welcomes them all, and rests them for their closer relations with the High Alps by trips to the region of the Lauterbrunnen, Grindelwald, and Mürren, and the great mountain plateaux looking down upon them. Interlaken is not a climbing center. Consequently mountaineering is little in evidence, conversation about ascents is seldom heard, and ice-axes, ropes, and nailed boots are seen more often in shop windows than in the streets. Interlaken is not like some other Swiss towns. Berne, Geneva, Zurich, and Lucerne are places possessing notable churches, museums, and monuments of the past, having a social life of their own and being distinguished in some special way, as centers of culture and education. Interlaken, however, has little life apart from that made by the throngs of visitors who gather here in the summer. There is little to see except a group of old monastic buildings, and in Unterseen and elsewhere some fine old carved chalets, but none of these receives much attention. The attraction, on what one may call the natural side, centers in the softly beautiful panorama of woods and meadows, green hills and snow peaks which opens to the eye, and on the social side in the busy little promenade and park of the Höheweg, bordered with hotels, shops, and gardens. Here is ever a changing picture in the height of the season, in fact, quite kaleidoscopic as railways and steamboats at each end of Interlaken send their passengers to mingle in the passing crowd. All "sorts and conditions of men" are here, and representatives of antagonistic nations meet in friendly intercourse. On the hotel terraces and in the little cafés and tea rooms, one hears a babel of voices, every nation of Europe seeming to speak in its own native tongue. Life goes easily. There is a gaiety in the little town that is infectious. It is a sort of busy idleness. "To trip or not to trip" is the question. If the affirmative, then a rush to the mountain trains and comfortable cabs. If the negative, then a turning to the shops, where pretty things worthy of Paris or London are seen side by side with Swiss carvings and Swiss embroidery and many little superficial souvenirs. As the contents of the shops are exhibited in the windows, so the character of the visitors is shown by the crowds, and the life of the place is seen in the constant ebb and flow of the people on the Höheweg. Interlaken is undoubtedly a tourist center, for few trips to Switzerland overlook or omit this delightful spot. Thousands come here, who never go any nearer the High Alps. They are quite content to sit on the benches of the Höheweg, listening to the music and enjoying the view. There is a casino, most artistically planned, with plashing fountains, shady paths, and wonderful flowerbeds. Here many persons pass the day, and, contrary to what one might expect, it is quiet and restful, lounging in that parklike garden. For, notwithstanding "the madding crowd," Interlaken is a little gem of a mountain town, with an undertone of repose and nobility, as if the spirit of the Alps asserted herself, reigning, as one might say, for all not ruling. And always smiling at the people, as it were, is the majestic Jungfrau, ever seeming close at hand, altho' eight miles away.... The pleasures of this little Swiss resort are exhaustless. The wooded hills of the Rugen give innumerable walks amid beautiful forests, with all their wealth of pine and larch and hardwood, their moss-clad rocks and waving ferns. In that pleasant shade hours may be passed close to nature. The lakes not only offer delightful water trips, but also charming excursions along the wooded shores, sometimes high above the lakes, giving varying views of great beauty. While, ever as with beckoning fingers, the great peaks, snow-capped or rock-summitted, call one across the verdant meadows into the higher valleys of Kienthal, Lauterbrunnen, Grindelwaid, and Kandersteg, to the terraced heights above or up amid the great wild passes. Interlaken is, above all, a garden of green. Perhaps the unusual amount of rain which falls to the lot of this valley accounts for its verdure. In any event, park, woods, meadow, garden, even the mountain sides are green, a vari-colored green, and interspersed with an abundance of flowers. Nowhere is the eye offended by anything inartistic or unpicturesque, but, on the contrary, the charm is so comprehensive that the visitor looks from place to place, from this bit to that bit, and ever sees new beauty. To complete all, to accentuate in the minds of some this impression of green, is the majestic Jungfrau. Other views may be grander and more magnificent, but no view of the Jungfrau can compare in loveliness to that from Interlaken. A great white glistening mass, far up above green meadows, green forests, and green mountains, rises this peak, a shining summit of white. Fitly named the Virgin, the Jungfrau gives her benediction to Interlaken, serenely smiling at the valley and at the town lying so quietly at her feet--the Jungfrau crowned with snow, Interlaken drest in green! In the golden glory of the sun, in the silver shimmer of the moon, the Jungfrau beckons, the Jungfrau calls! "Come," she seems to say, "come nearer! Come up to the heights! Come close to the running waters! Come." And that invitation falls on no unwilling ears, but in to the Grindelwald and to the Lauterbrunnen and up to Mürren go those who love the majestic Jungfrau! What a wonderful trip this is! It may shatter some ideals in being taken to such a height in a railway train, but even against one's convictions as to the proper way of seeing a mountain, when all has been said, the fact remains that this trip is wonderful beyond words. There is a strangeness in taking a train which leaves a garden of green in the early morning and in a few hours later, after valley and pass and tunnel, puts one out on snow fields over 11,000 feet above the sea, where are seen vast stretches of white, almost level with the summit of the Jungfrau close at hand, and below, stretching for miles, on the one side the great Aletsch Glacier, and on the other side the green valleys enclosed by the everlasting hills! The route is by way of Lauterbrunnen, Wengen, and the Scheidegg, and after skirting the Eiger Glacier going by tunnel into the very bowels of the mountain. At Eigerwand, Rotstock, and Eismeer are stations, great galleries blasted out of the rock, with corridors leading to openings from which one has marvelous views.[31] Eismeer looks directly upon the huge sea of snow and ice, with immense masses of dazzling white so close as to make one reel with awe and astonishment. In fact, this view is really oppressive in its wild magnificence, so near and so grand is it. The Jungfraujoch is different. One is out in the open, so to speak; one walks over that vast plateau of snow over 11,000 feet high in the glorious sunlight, above most of the nearer peaks and looking down at a beautiful panorama. On one side of this plateau is the Jungfrau, on the other the Mönch, either of which can be climbed from here in about three hours. Yet the eye lingers longer in the direction of the Aletsch Glacier than anywhere else, this frozen river running for miles and turning to the right at the little green basin of water full of pieces of floating ice, called the Marjelen Lake, or See, at the foot of the Eggishorn, which is unique and lovely. Long ago it was formed in this corner of the glacier, and its blue waters are really melted snow, over which float icebergs shining in the sun. In such a position the lake underlaps the glacier for quite a distance, forming a low vaulted cavern in the ice. Every now and then one of these little bergs overbalances itself and turns over, the upper side then being a deep blue, and the lower side, which was formerly above, being a pure white. Again turning toward the green valleys, one with the eye of an artist, who can perceive and differentiate varying shades of color, can not but admit that the Bernese Oberland is "par excellence" first. Even south of the Alps the verdure does not excel or even equal that to be seen here. There is something incomparably lovely about the Oberland valleys. It is indescribable, indefinable, for when one has exhausted the most extravagant terms of description, he feels that he has failed to picture the scene as he desired. Yet if one word should be chosen to convey the impression which the Oberland makes, the word would be "color." For whether one regards the snow summits as setting off the valleys, or the green meadows as setting off the peaks, it matters not, for the secret of their beauty lies in the richness and variety of the exquisite coloring wherein many wonderful shades of green predominate. THE ALTDORF OF WILLIAM TELL[32] BY W.D. M'CRACKAN Let it be said at once that, altho' the name of Altdorf is indissolubly linked with that of William Tell, the place arouses an interest which does not at all depend upon its associations with the famous archer. From the very first it gives one the impression of possessing a distinct personality, of ringing, as it were, to a note never heard before, and thus challenging attention to its peculiarities. As you approach Altdorf from Flüelen, on the Lake of Lucerne, by the long white road, the first houses you reach are large structures of the conventional village type, plain, but evidently the homes of well-to-do people, and some even adorned with family coats-of-arms. In fact, this street is dedicated to the aristocracy, and formerly went by the name of the Herrengasse, the "Lane of the Lords." Beyond these fashionable houses is an open square, upon which faces a cosy inn--named, of course, after William Tell; and off on one side the large parish church, built in cheap baroco style, but containing a few objects of interest.... There is a good deal of sight-seeing to be done in Altdorf, for so small a place. In the town hall are shown the tattered flags carried by the warriors of Uri in the early battles of the Confederation, the mace and sword of state which are borne by the beadles to the Landsgemeinde. In a somewhat inaccessible corner, a few houses off, the beginnings of a museum have been made. Here is another portrait of interest--that of the giant Püntener, a mercenary whose valor made him the terror of the enemy in the battle of Marignano, in 1515; so that when he was finally killed, they avenged themselves, according to a writing beneath the picture, by using his fat to smear their weapons, and by feeding their horses with oats from his carcass. Just outside the village stands the arsenal, whence, they say, old armor was taken and turned into shovels, when the St. Gothard Railroad was building, so poor and ignorant were the people. If you are of the sterner sex, you can also penetrate into the Capuchin Monastery, and enter the gardens, where the terraces that rise behind the buildings are almost Italian in appearance, festooned with vines and radiant with roses. Not that the fame of this institution rests on such trivial matters, however. The brothers boast of two things: theirs is the oldest branch of the order in Switzerland, dating from 1581, and they carry on in it the somewhat unappetizing industry of cultivating snails for the gourmands of foreign countries. Above the Capuchins is the famous Bannwald, mentioned by Schiller--a tract of forest on the mountain-slope, in which no one is allowed to fell trees, because it protects the village from avalanches and rolling stones. Nothing could be fairer than the outskirts of Altdorf on a May morning. The valley of the Reuss lies bathed from end to end in a flood of golden light, shining through an atmosphere of crystal purity. Daisies, cowslips, and buttercups, the flowers of rural well-being, show through the rising grass of the fields; along the hedges and crumbling walls of the lanes peep timid primroses and violets, and in wilder spots the Alpine gentian, intensely blue. High up, upon the mountains, glows the indescribable velvet of the slopes, while, higher still, ragged and vanishing patches of snow proclaim the rapid approach of summer. After all, the best part of Altdorf, to make an Irish bull, lies outside of the village. No adequate idea of this strange little community can be given without referring to the Almend, or village common. Indeed, as time goes on, one learns to regard this Almend as the complete expression and final summing up of all that is best in Altdorf, the reconciliation of all its inconsistencies. How fine that great pasture beside the River Reus, with its short, juicy, Alpine grass, in sight of the snow-capped Bristenstock, at one end of the valley, and of the waters of Lake Lucerne at the other! In May, the full-grown cattle have already departed for the higher summer pastures, leaving only the feeble young behind, who are to follow as soon as they have grown strong enough to bear the fatigues of the journey. At this time, therefore, the Almend becomes a sort of vision of youth--of calves, lambs, and foals, guarded by little boys, all gamboling in the exuberance of early life. LUCERNE[33] BY VICTOR TISSOT A height crowned with embattled ramparts that bristle with loop-holed turrets; church towers mingling their graceful spires and peaceful crosses with those warlike edifices; dazzling white villas, planted like tents under curtains of verdure; tall houses with old red skylights on the roofs--this is our first glimpse of the Catholic and warlike city of Lucerne. We seem to be approaching some town of old feudal times that has been left solitary and forgotten on the mountain side, outside of the current of modern life. But when we pass through the station we find ourselves suddenly transported to the side of the lake, where whole flotillas of large and small boats lie moored on the blue waters of a large harbor. And along the banks of this wonderful lake is a whole town of hotels, gay with many colored flags, their terraces and balconies rising tier above tier, like the galleries of a grand theater whose scenery is the mighty Alps.... In summer Lucerne is the Hyde Park of Switzerland. Its quays are thronged by people of every nation. There you meet pale women from the lands of snow, and dark women from the lands of the sun; tall, six-foot English women, and lively, alert, trim Parisian women, with the light and graceful carriage of a bird on the bough. At certain hours this promenade on the quays is like a charity fair or a rustic ball--bright colors and airy draperies everywhere. Nowhere can the least calm and repose be found but in the old town. There the gabled houses, with wooden galleries hanging over the waters of the Reuss, make a charming ancient picture, like a bit of Venice set down amid the verdant landscape of the valley. I also discovered on the heights beyond the ramparts a pretty and peaceful convent of Capuchins, the way to which winds among wild plants, starry with flowers. It is delicious to go right away, far from the town swarming and running over with Londoners, Germans, and Americans, and to find yourself among fragrant hedges, peopled by warblers whom it has not yet occurred to the hotel-keepers to teach to sing in English. This sweet path leads without fatigue to the convent of the good fathers. In a garden flooded with sunshine and balmy with the fragrance of mignonette and vervain, where broad sunflowers erect their black discs fringed with gold, two brothers with fan-shaped beards, their brass-mounted spectacles astride on their flat noses, and arrayed in green gardening aprons, are plying enormous watering-cans; while, in the green and cool half-twilight under the shadowy trees, big, rubicund brothers walk up and down, reading their red-edged breviaries in black leather bindings. Happy monks! Not a fraction of a pessimist among them! How well they understand life! A beautiful convent, beautiful nature, good wine and good cheer, neither disturbance nor care; neither wife nor children; and when they leave the world, heaven specially created for them, seraphim waiting for them with harps of gold, and angels with urns of rose-water to wash their feet! Lucerne began as a nest of monks, hidden in an orchard like a nest of sparrows. The first house of the town was a monastery, erected by the side of the lake. The nest grew, became a village, then a town, then a city. The monks of Murbach, to whom the monastery of St. Leger belonged, had got into debt; this sometimes does happen even to monks. They sold to King Rudolf all the property they possest at Lucerne and in Unterwalden; and thus the town passed into the hands of the Hapsburgs. When the first Cantons, after expelling the Austrian bailiffs, had declared their independence, Lucerne was still one of Austria's advanced posts. But its people were daily brought into contact with the shepherds of the Forest Cantons, who came into the town to supply themselves with provisions; and they were not long in beginning to ask themselves if there was any reason why they should not be, as well as their neighbors, absolutely free. The position of the partizans of Austria soon became so precarious that they found it safe to leave the town.... The opening of the St. Gothard Railway has given a new impulse to this cosmopolitan city, which has a great future before it. Already it has supplanted Interlaken in the estimation of the furbelowed, fashionable world--the women who come to Switzerland not to see but to be seen. Lucerne is now the chief summer station of the twenty-two Cantons. And yet it does not possess many objects of interest. There is the old bridge on the Reuss, with its ancient paintings; the Church of St. Leger, with its lateral altars and its Campo Santo, reminding us of Italian cemeteries; the museum at the Town Hall, with its fine collection of stained glass; the blood-stained standards from the Burgundian wars, and the flag in which noble old Gundolfingen, after charging his fellow-citizens never to elect their magistrates for more than a year, wrapt himself as in a shroud of glory to die in the fight; finally, there is the Lion of Lucerne; and that is all. The most wonderful thing of all is that you are allowed to see this lion for nothing; for close beside it you are charged a franc for permission to cast an indifferent glance on some uninteresting excavations, which date, it is said, from the glacial period. We do not care if they do.... The great quay of Lucerne is delightful; as good as the seashore at Dieppe or Trouville. Before you, limpid and blue, lies the lake, which from the character of its shores, at once stern and graceful, is the finest in Switzerland. In front rises the snow-clad peaks of Uri, to the left the Rigi, to the right the austere Pilatus, almost always wearing his high cap of clouds. This beautiful walk on the quay, long and shady like the avenue of a gentleman's park, is the daily resort, toward four o'clock, of all the foreigners who are crowded in the hotels or packed in the boarding-houses. Here are Russian and Polish counts with long mustaches, and pins set with false brilliants; Englishmen with fishes' or horses' heads; Englishwomen with the figures of angels or of giraffes; Parisian women, daintily attired, sprightly, and coquettish; American women, free in their bearing, and eccentric in their dress, and their men as stiff as the smoke-pipes of steamboats; German women, with languishing voices, drooping and pale like willow branches, fair-haired and blue-eyed, talking in the same breath of Goethe and the price of sausages, of the moon and their glass of beer, of stars and black radishes. And here and there are a few little Swiss girls, fresh and rosy as wood strawberries, smiling darlings like Dresden shepherdesses, dreaming of scenes of platonic love in a great garden adorned with the statue of William Tell or General Dufour. ZURICH[34] BY W.D. M'CRACKAN If you arrive in Zurich after dark, and pass along the river-front, you will think yourself for a moment in Venice. The street lamps glow responsively across the dark Limmat, or trail their light from the bridges. In the uncertain darkness, the bare house walls of the farther side put on the dignity of palaces. There are unsuspected architectural glories in the Wasserkirche and the Rathhaus, as they stand partly in the water of the river. And if, at such times, one of the long, narrow barges of the place passes up stream, the illusion is complete; for, as the boat cuts at intervals through the glare of gaslight it looks for all the world like a gondola.... Zurich need not rely upon any fancied resemblance of this sort for a distinct charm of its own. The situation of the city is essentially beautiful, reminding one, in a general way, of that of Geneva, Lucerne, or Thun--at the outlet of a lake, and at the point of issue of a swift river. Approaching from the lakeside, the twin towers of the Grossmünster loom upon the right, capped by ugly rounded tops, like miters; upon the left, the simple spires of the Fraumünster and St. Peter's. A conglomeration of roofs denotes the city houses. On the water-front, extensive promenades stretch, crescent shaped, from end to end, cleverly laid out, tho' as yet too new to quite fulfil their mission of beauty. Some large white buildings form the front line on the lake--notably the theater, and a few hotels and apartment houses. Finally, there where the River Limmat leaves the lake, a vista of bridges open into the heart of the city--a succession of arches and lines that invite inspection. Like most progressive cities of Europe, Zurich has outgrown its feudal accouterments within the last fifty years. It has razed its walls, converted its bastions into playgrounds, and, pushing out on every side, has incorporated many neighboring villages, until to-day it contains more than ninety thousand inhabitants.[35] The pride of modern Zurich is the Bahnhof-strasse, a long street which leads from the railroad station to the lake. It is planted with trees, and counts as the one and only boulevard of the city. Unfortunately, a good view of the distant snow mountains is very rare from the lake promenade, altho' they appear with distinctness upon the photographs sold in the shops. Early every Saturday the peasant women come trooping in, with their vegetables, fruits, and flowers, to line the Bahnhof-strasse with carts and baskets. The ladies and kitchen-maids of the city come to buy; but by noon the market is over. In a jiffy, the street is swept as clean as a kitchen floor, and the women have turned their backs on Zurich. But the real center of attraction in Zurich will be found by the traveler in that quarter where stands the Grossmünster, the church of which Zwingli was incumbent for twelve years. It may well be called the Wittenberg church of Switzerland. The present building dates from the eleventh and twelfth centuries; but tradition has it that the first minster was founded by Charlemagne. That ubiquitous emperor certainly manifested great interest in Zurich. He has been represented no less than three times in various parts of the building. About midway up one of the towers, his statue appears in a niche, where pigeons strut and prink their feathers, undisturbed. Charlemagne is sitting with a mighty two-edged sword upon his knees, and a gilded crown upon his head; but the figure is badly proportioned, and the statue is a good-natured, stumpy affair, that makes one smile rather than admire. The outside of the minster still shows traces of the image breakers of Zwingli's time, and yet the crumbling north portal remains beautiful, even in decay. As for the interior, it has an exceedingly bare and stript appearance; for, altho' there is good, solid stonework in the walls, the whole has been washed a foolish, Philistine white. The Romanesque of the architectural is said to be of particular interest to connoisseurs, and the queer archaic capitals must certainly attract the notice even of ordinary tourists.... It is also worth while to go to the Helmhaus, and examine the collection of lake-dwelling remains. In fact, there is a delightful little model of a lake-dwelling itself, and an appliance to show you how those primitive people could make holes in their stone implements, before they knew the use of metals. The ancient guild houses of Zurich are worth a special study. Take, for instance, that of the "Zimmerleute," or carpenter with its supporting arches and little peaked tower; or the so-called "Waag," with frescoed front; then the great wainscoated and paneled hall of the "schmieden" (smiths); and the rich Renaissance stonework of the "Maurer" (masons). These buildings, alas, with the decay of the system which produced them, have been obliged to put up big signs of Café Restaurant upon their historic façades, like so many vulgar, modern eating-houses. The Rathhaus, or Town Hall, too, is charming. It stands, like the Wasserkirche, with one side in the water and the other against the quay. The style is a sort of reposeful Italian Renaissance, that is florid only in the best artistic sense. Nor must you miss the so-called "Rüden," nearby, for its sloping roof and painted walls give it a very captivating look of alert picturesqueness, and it contains a large collection of Pestalozzi souvenirs. Zurich has more than one claim to the world's recognition; but no department of its active life, perhaps, merits such unstinted praise as its educational facilities. First and foremost, the University, with four faculties, modeled upon the German system, but retaining certain distinctive traits that are essentially Swiss--for instance, the broad and liberal treatment accorded to women students, who are admitted as freely as men, and receive the same instruction. A great number of Russian girls are always to be seen in Zurich, as at other Swiss universities, working unremittingly to acquire the degrees which they are denied at home. Not a few American women also have availed themselves of these facilities, especially for the study of medicine.... Zurich is, at the present time, undoubtedly the most important commercial city in Switzerland, having distanced both Basel and Geneva in this direction. The manufacturing of silk, woolen, and linen fabrics has flourished here since the end of the thirteenth century. In modern times, however, cotton and machinery have been added as staple articles of manufacture. Much of the actual weaving is still done in outlying parts of the Canton, in the very cottages of the peasants, so that the click of the loom is heard from open windows in every village and hamlet. But modern industrial processes are tending continually to drive the weavers from their homes into great centralized factories, and every year this inevitable change becomes more apparent. It is certainly remarkable that Zurich should succeed in turning out cheap and good machinery, when we remember that every ton of coal and iron has to be imported, since Switzerland possesses not a single mine, either of the one or the other. THE RIGI[36] BY W.D. M'CRACKAN If you really want to know how the Swiss Confederation came to be, you can not do better than take the train to the top of the Rigi. You might stumble through many a volume, and not learn so thoroughly the essential causes of this national birth. Of course, the eye rests first upon the phalanx of snow-crests to the south, then down upon the lake, lying outstretched like some wriggling monster, switching its tail, and finally off to the many places where early Swiss history was made. In point of fact, you are looking at quite a large slice of Switzerland. Victor Hugo seized the meaning of this view when he wrote: "It is a serious hour, and full of meditations, when one has Switzerland thus under the eyes." ... The physical features of a country have their counterparts in its political institutions. In Switzerland the great mountain ranges divide the territory into deep valleys, each of which naturally forms a political unit--the Commune. Here is a miniature world, concentrated into a small space, and representing the sum total of life to its inhabitants. Self-government becomes second nature under these conditions. A sort of patriarchal democracy is evolved: that is, certain men and certain families are apt to maintain themselves at the head of public affairs, but with the consent and cooperation of the whole population. There is hardly a spot associated with the rise of the Swiss Confederation whose position can not be determined from the Rigi. The two Tell's chapels; the Rütli; the villages of Schwiz, Altdorf, Brunnen, Beckenried, Stans, and Sarnen; the battlefields of Morgarten and Sempach; and on a clear day the ruined castle of Hapsburg itself, lie within a mighty circle at one's feet. It was preordained that the three lands of Uri, Schwiz, and Unterwalden should unite for protection of common interests against the encroachment of a common enemy--the ambitious house of Hapsburg. The lake formed at once a bond and a highway between them. On the first day of August, 1291, more than six hundred years ago, a group of unpretentious patriots, ignored by the great world, signed a document which formed these lands into a loose Confederation. By this act they laid the foundation upon which the Swiss state was afterward reared. In their naïve, but prophetic, faith, the contracting parties called this agreement a perpetual pact; and they set forth, in the Latin, legal phraseology of the day, that, seeing the malice of the times, they found it necessary to take an oath to defend one another against outsiders, and to keep order within their boundaries; at the same time carefully stating that the object of the league was to maintain lawfully established conditions. From small beginnings, the Confederation of Uri, Schwiz, and Unterwalden grew, by the addition of other communities, until it reached its present proportions, of twenty-two Cantons, in 1815. Lucerne was the first to join; then came Zurich, Glarus, Zug, Bern, etc. The early Swiss did not set up a sovereign republic, in our acceptation of the word, either in internal or external policy. The class distinctions of the feudal age continued to exist; and they by no means disputed the supreme rule of the head of the German Empire over them, but rather gloried in the protection which this direct dependence afforded them against a multitude of intermediate, preying nobles. CHAMOUNI--AN AVALANCHE[37] BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY From Servoz three leagues remain to Chamouni--Mont Blanc was before us--the Alps, with their innumerable glaciers on high all around, closing in the complicated windings of the single vale--forests inexpressibly beautiful, but majestic in their beauty--intermingled beech and pine, and oak, overshadowed our road, or receded, while lawns of such verdure as I have never seen before occupied these openings, and gradually became darker in their recesses. Mont Blanc was before us, but it was covered with cloud; its base, furrowed with dreadful gaps, was seen above. Pinnacles of snow intolerably bright, part of the chain connected with Mont Blanc, shone through the clouds at intervals on high. I never knew--I never imagined--what mountains were before. The immensity of these aerial summits excited, when they suddenly burst upon the sight, a sentiment of ecstatic wonder, not unallied to madness. And, remember, this was all one scene, it all prest home to our regard and our imagination. Tho' it embraced a vast extent of space, the snowy pyramids which shot into the bright blue sky seemed to overhang our path; the ravine, clothed with gigantic pines, and black with its depth below, so deep that the very roaring of the untameable Arve, which rolled through it, could not be heard above--all was as much our own, as if we had been the creators of such impressions in the minds of others as now occupied our own. Nature was the poet, whose harmony held our spirits more breathless than that of the divinest. As we entered the valley of the Chamouni (which, in fact, may be considered as a continuation of those which we have followed from Bonneville and Cluses), clouds hung upon the mountains at the distance perhaps of 6,000 feet from the earth, but so as effectually to conceal not only Mont Blanc, but the other "aiguilles," as they call them here, attached and subordinate to it. We were traveling along the valley, when suddenly we heard a sound as the burst of smothered thunder rolling above; yet there was something in the sound that told us it could not be thunder. Our guide hastily pointed out to us a part of the mountain opposite, from whence the sound came. It was an avalanche. We saw the smoke of its path among the rocks, and continued to hear at intervals the bursting of its fall. It fell on the bed of a torrent, which it displaced, and presently we saw its tawny-colored waters also spread themselves over the ravine, which was their couch. We did not, as we intended, visit the Glacier des Bossons to-day, altho it descends within a few minutes' walk of the road, wishing to survey it at least when unfatigued. We saw this glacier, which comes close to the fertile plain, as we passed. Its surface was broken into a thousand unaccountable figures; conical and pyramidical crystallizations, more than fifty feet in height, rise from its surface, and precipices of ice, of dazzling splendor, overhang the woods and meadows of the vale. This glacier winds upward from the valley, until it joins the masses of frost from which it was produced above, winding through its own ravine like a bright belt flung over the black region of pines. There is more in all these scenes than mere magnitude of proportion; there is a majesty of outline; there is an awful grace in the very colors which invest these wonderful shapes--a charm which is peculiar to them, quite distinct even from the reality of their unutterable greatness. ZERMATT[38] BY ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL KNOWLES Those who would reach the very heart of the Alps and look upon a scene of unparalleled grandeur must go into the Valais to Zermatt. [Illustration: PONTRESINA IN THE ENGADINE] [Illustration: ST. MORITZ IN THE ENGADINE] [Illustration: FRIBOURG] [Illustration: BERNE] [Illustration: VIVEY ON LAKE GENEVA] [Illustration: THE TURNHALLE IN ZURICH Courtesy Swiss Federal Railway] [Illustration: INTERLAKEN] [Illustration: LUCERNE] [Illustration: VIADUCTS On the new Lötschberg route to the Simplon tunnel] [Illustration: WOLFORT VIADUCT On the Pilatus Railroad, Switzerland] [Illustration: THE BALMAT-SAUSSURE MONUMENT IN CHAMONIX (Mont Blanc in the distance)] [Illustration: ROOFED WOODEN BRIDGE AT LUCERNE] [Illustration: THE CASTLE OF CHILLON] [Illustration: CLOUD EFFECT ABOVE INTERLAKEN Courtesy Swiss Federal Railway] [Illustration: DAVOS IN WINTER] The way up the valley is that which follows the River Visp. It is a delightful journey. The little stream is never still. It will scarcely keep confined to the banks or within the stone walls which in many places protect the shores. The river dances along as if seeking to be free. For the most part it is a torrent, sweeping swiftly past the solid masonry and descending the steep bed in a series of wild leaps or artificial waterfalls, with wonderful effects of sunlight seen in the showers of spray. Fed as it is by many mountain streams, the Visp is always full, and the more so, when in summer the melting ice adds to its volume. Then it is a sight long remembered, as roaring, rollicking, rushing along it is a brawling mass of waters, often working havoc with banks, road, village, and pastures. If one never saw a mountain, the sight of the Visp would more than repay, but, as it is, one's attention is taxed to the uttermost not to miss anything of this little rushing river and at the same time get the charming views of the Weisshorn, the Breithorn, and the other snow summits which appear over the mountain spurs surrounding the head of the valley. The first impression on reaching the Zermatt is one of disappointment. Maps and pictures generally lead the traveler to think that from the village he will see the great semicircle of snow peaks which surround the valley, but upon arrival he finds that he must go further up to see them, for all of them are hidden from view except the Matterhorn. This mountain, however, is seen in all its grandeur, fierce and frowning, and to an imaginative mind bending forward as if threatening and trying to shake off the little snow that appears here and there on its side. It dominates the whole scene and leaves an indelible impress on the mind, so that one can never picture Zermatt without the Matterhorn. Zermatt as a place is a curious combination; a line of hotels in juxtaposition with a village of chalets, unsophisticated peasants shoulder to shoulder with people of fashion! There are funny little shops, here showing only such simple things as are needed by the dwellers in the Valais, there exhibiting really beautiful articles in dress and jewelry to attract the summer visitors, while at convenient spots are the inevitable tea-rooms, where "Thé, Café, Limonade, Confiserie" minister to the coming crowds of an afternoon.... Guides galore wait in front of all the large hotels; ice-axes, ropes, nailed boots, rucksacks, and all the paraphernalia of the mountains are seen on every side, and a walk along the one main thoroughfare introduces one into the life of a climbing center, interesting to a degree and often very amusing from the miscellaneous collection of people there. Perhaps the first thing one cares to see at Zermatt is the village church, with the adjoining churchyard. The church, dedicated to Saint Maurice, a favorite saint in the Valais and Rhône district, is plain but interesting and in parts is quite old. Near it is a little mortuary chapel. In most parts of Switzerland, it is the custom, after the bodies of the dead have been buried a certain length of time, to remove the remains to the "charnel house," allowing the graves to be used again and thus not encroaching upon the space reserved and consecrated in the churchyard, but we do not think this custom obtains at Zermatt. In the churchyard is a monument to Michel Auguste Croz, the guide, and near by are the graves of the Reverend Charles Hudson and Mr. Hadow. These three, with Lord Francis Douglas were killed in Mr. Whymper's first ascent of the Matterhorn.[39] The body of Lord Francis Douglas has never been found. It is probably deep in some crevasse or under the snows which surround the base of the Matterhorn.... For the more extended climbs or for excursions in the direction of the Schwarzsee, the Staffel Alp or the Trift, Zermatt is the starting point. The place abounds in walks, most of them being the first part of the routes to the high mountains, so that those who are fond of tramping but not of climbing can reach high elevations with a little hard work, but no great difficulty. Some of these "midway" places may be visited on muleback, and with the railway now up to the Gorner-Grat there are few persons who may not see this wonderful region of snow peaks. The trip to the Schwarzsee is the first stage on the Matterhorn route. It leads through the village, past the Gorner Gorges (which one may visit by a slight détour) and then enters some very pretty woods, from which one issues on to the bare green meadows which clothe the upper part of the steep slope of the mountain. As one mounts this zigzag path, it sometimes seems as if it would never end, and for all the magnificent views which it affords, one is always glad that it is over, as it exactly fulfils the conditions of a "grind." From the Schwarzsee (8,495 feet, where there is an excellent hotel), there is a fine survey of the Matterhorn, and also a splendid panorama, on three sides, one view up the glaciers toward the Monte Rosa, another over the valley to the Dent Blanche and other great peaks, and still another to the far distant Bernese Oberland. Near the hotel is a little lake and a tiny chapel, where mass is sometimes said. The reflection in the still waters of the lake is very lovely. From the Schwarzsee, trips are made to the Hörnli (another stage on the way to the Matterhorn), to the Gandegg Hut, across moraine and glacier and to the Staffel Alp, over the green meadows. The Hörnli (9,490 feet high) is the ridge running out from the Matterhorn. It is reached by a stiff climb over rocks and a huge heap of fallen stones and debris. From it the view is similar to that from the Schwarzsee, but much finer, the Théodule Glacier being seen to great advantage. Above the Hörnli towers the Matterhorn, huge, fierce, frowning, threatening. Every few moments comes a heavy, muffled sound, as new showers of falling stones come down. This is one of the main dangers in climbing the peak itself, for from base to summit, the Matterhorn is really a decaying mountain, the stones rolling away through the action of the storms, the frosts, and the sun. PONTRÉSINA AND ST. MORITZ[40] BY VICTOR TISSOT The night was falling fine as dust, as a black sifted snow-shower, a snow made of shadow; and the melancholy of the landscape, the grand nocturnal solitude of these lofty, unknown regions, had a charm profound and disquieting. I do not know why I fancied myself no longer in Switzerland, but in some country near the pole, in Sweden or Norway. At the foot of these bare mountains I looked for wild fjords, lit up by the moon. Nothing can express the profound somberness of these landscapes at nightfall; the long desert road, gray from the reflections of the starry sky, unrolls in an interminable ribbon along the depth of the valley; the treeless mountains, hollowed out like ancient craters, lift their overhanging precipices; lakes sleeping in the midst of the pastures, behind curtains of pines and larches, glitter like drops of quicksilver; and on the horizon the immense glaciers crowd together and overflow like sheets of foam on a frozen sea. The road ascends. From the distance comes a dull noise, the roaring of a torrent. We cross a little cluster of trees, and on issuing from it the superb amphitheater of glaciers shows itself anew, overlooked by one white point glittering like an opal. On the hill a thousand little lights show me that I am at last at Pontrésina. I thought I should never have arrived there; nowhere does night deceive more than in the mountains; in proportion as you advance toward a point, it seems to retreat from you. Soon the black fantastic lines of the houses show through the darkness. I enter a narrow street, formed of great gloomy buildings, their fronts like a convent or prison. The hamlet is transformed into a little town of hotels, very comfortable, very elegant, very dear, but very stupid and very vulgar, with their laced porter in an admiral's hat, and their whiskered waiters, who have the air of Anglican ministers. Oh! how I detest them, and flee them, those hotels where the painter, or the tourist who arrives on foot, knapsack on his back and staff in hand, his trousers tucked into his leggings, his flask slung over his shoulder, and his hat awry, is received with less courtesy than a lackey. Besides those hotels, some of which are veritable palaces, and where the ladies are almost bound to change their dress three times a day, there is a hotel of the second and third class; and there is the old inn; the comfortable, hospitable, patriarchal inn, with its Gothic signboard.... On leaving the village I was again in the open mountain. In the distance the road penetrated into the valley, rising always. The moon had risen. She stood out sharply cut in a cloudless sky, and stars sparkling everywhere in profusion; not like nails of gold, but sown broadcast like a flying dust, a dust of carbuncles and diamonds. To the right, in the depths of the amphitheater of the mountains, an immense glacier looked like a frozen cascade; and above, a perfectly white peak rose draped in snow, like some legendary king in his mantle of silver. Bending under my knapsack, and dragging my feet, I arrive at last at the hotel, where I am received, in the kindest manner in the world, by the two mistresses of the establishment, two sisters of open, benevolent countenance and of sweet expression. And the poor little traveler who arrives, his bag on his back and without bustle, who has sent neither letter nor telegram to announce his arrival, is the object of the kindest and most delicate attentions; his clothes are brushed, he gets water for his refreshment, and is then conducted to a table bountifully spread, in a dining-room fragrant with good cookery and bouquets of flowers.... Beyond Campfer, its houses surrounding a third little lake, we come suddenly on a scene of extraordinary animation. All the cosmopolitan society of St. Moritz is there, sauntering, walking, running, in mountain parties, on afternoon excursions. The favorite one is the walk to the pretty lake of Campfer, with its shady margin, its resting places hidden among the branches, its châlet-restaurant, from the terrace of which one overlooks the whole valley; and it would be difficult to find near St. Moritz a more interesting spot. We meet at every step parties of English ladies, looking like plantations of umbrellas with their covers on and surmounted by immense straw hats; then there are German ladies, massive as citadels, but not impregnable, asking nothing better than to surrender to the young exquisites, with the figure of cuirassiers, who accompany them; further on, lively Italian ladies parade themselves in dresses of the carnival, the colors outrageously striking and dazzling to the eyes; with up-turned skirts they cross the Inn on great mossy stones, leaping with the grace of birds, and smiling, to show, into the bargain, the whiteness of their teeth. All this crowd passing in procession before us is composed of men and women of every age and condition; some with the grave face of a waxen saint, others beaming with the satisfied smile of rich people; there are also invalids, who go along hobbling and limping, or who are drawn, in little carriages. Soon handsome façades, pierced with hundreds of windows, show themselves in the grand and severe setting of mountains and glaciers. It is St. Moritz-les-Bains. Here every house is a hotel, and, as every hotel is a little palace, we do not alight from the diligence; we go a little farther and a little higher, to St. Moritz-le-Village, which has a much more beautiful situation. It is at the top of a little hill, whose sides slope down to a pretty lake, fresh and green as a lawn. The eye reaches beyond Sils, the whole length of the valley, with its mountains like embattled ramparts, its lakes like a great row of pearls, and its glaciers showing their piles of snowy white against the azure depths of the horizon. St. Moritz is the center of the valley of the Upper Engadine, which extends to the length of eighteen or nineteen leagues, and which scarcely possesses a thousand inhabitants. Almost all the men emigrate to work for strangers, like their brothers, the mountaineers of Savoy and Auvergne, and do not return till they have amassed a sufficient fortune to allow them to build a little white house, with gilded window frames, and to die quietly in the spot where they were born.... Historians tell us that the first inhabitants of the Upper Engadine were Etruscans and Latins chased from Italy by the Gauls and Carthaginians, and taking refuge in these hidden altitudes. After the fall of the Empire, the inhabitants of the Engadine fell under the dominion of the Franks and Lombards, then the Dukes of Swabia; but the blood never mingled--the type remained Italian; black hair, the quick eye, the mobile countenance, the expressive features, and the supple figure. GENEVA[41] BY FRANCIS H. GRIBBLE Straddling the Rhone, where it issues from the bluest lake in the world, looking out upon green meadows and wooded hills, backed by the dark ridge of the Salève, with the "great white mountain" visible in the distance, Geneva has the advantage of an incomparable site; and it is, from a town surveyor's point of view, well built. It has wide thoroughfares, quays, and bridges; gorgeous public monuments and well-kept public gardens; handsome theaters and museums; long rows of palatial hotels; flourishing suburbs; two railway-stations, and a casino. But all this is merely the façade--all of it quite modern; hardly any of it more than half a century old. The real historical Geneva--the little of it that remains--is hidden away in the background, where not every tourist troubles to look for it. It is disappearing fast. Italian stonemasons are constantly engaged in driving lines through it. They have rebuilt, for instance, the old Corraterie, which is now the Regent Street of Geneva, famous for its confectioners' and booksellers' shops; they have destroyed, and are still destroying, other ancient slums, setting up white buildings of uniform ugliness in place of the picturesque but insanitary dwellings of the past. It is, no doubt, a very necessary reform, tho' one may think that it is being executed in too utilitarian a spirit. The old Geneva was malodorous, and its death-rate was high. They had more than one Great Plague there, and their Great Fires have always left some of the worst of their slums untouched. These could not be allowed to stand in an age which studies the science and practises the art of hygiene. Yet the traveler who wants to know what the old Geneva was really like must spend a morning or two rambling among them before they are pulled down. The old Geneva, like Jerusalem, was set upon a hill, and it is toward the top of the hill that the few buildings of historical interest are to be found. There is the cathedral--a striking object from a distance, tho' the interior is hideously bare. There is the Town Hall, in which, for the convenience of notables carried in litters, the upper stories were reached by an inclined plane instead of a staircase. There is Calvin's old Academy, bearing more than a slight resemblance to certain of the smaller colleges at Oxford and Cambridge. There, too, are to be seen a few mural tablets, indicating the residences of past celebrities. In such a house Rousseau was born; in such another house or in an older house, now demolished, on the same site--Calvin died. And toward these central points the steep and narrow, mean streets--in many cases streets of stairs--converge. As one plunges into these streets one seems to pass back from the twentieth century to the fifteenth, and need not exercise one's imagination very severely in order to picture the town as it appeared in the old days before the Reformation. The present writer may claim permission to borrow his own description from the pages of "Lake Geneva and its Literary Landmarks:" "Narrow streets predominated, tho' there were also a certain number of open spaces--notably at the markets, and in front of the Cathedral, where there was a traffic in those relics and rosaries which Geneva was presently to repudiate with virtuous indignation. One can form an idea of the appearance of the narrow streets by imagining the oldest houses that one has seen in Switzerland all closely packed together--houses at the most three stories high, with gabled roofs, ground-floors a step or two below the level of the roadway, and huge arched doors studded with great iron nails, and looking strong enough to resist a battering-ram. Above the doors, in the case of the better houses, were the painted escutcheons of the residents, and crests were also often blazoned on the window-panes. The shops, too, and more especially the inns, flaunted gaudy signboards with ingenious devices. The Good Vinegar, the Hot Knife, the Crowned Ox, were the names of some of these; their tariff is said to have been fivepence a day for man and beast.".... In the first half of the sixteenth century occurred the two events which shaped the future of Geneva; Reformation theology was accepted; political independence was achieved. Geneva it should be explained, was the fief of the duchy of Savoy; or so, at all events, the Dukes of Savoy maintained, tho' the citizens were of the contrary opinion. Their view was that they owed allegiance only to their Bishops, who were the Viceroys of the Holy Roman Emperor; and even that allegiance was limited by the terms of a Charter granted in the Holy Roman Emperor's name by Bishop Adhémar de Fabri. All went fairly well until the Bishops began to play into the hands of the Dukes; but then there was friction, which rapidly became acute. A revolutionary party--the Eidgenossen, or Confederates--was formed. There was a Declaration of Independence and a civil war. So long as the Genevans stood alone, the Duke was too strong for them. He marched into the town in the style of a conqueror, and wreaked his vengeance on as many of his enemies as he could catch. He cut off the head of Philibert Berthelier, to whom there stands a memorial on the island in the Rhone; he caused Jean Pecolat to be hung up in an absurd posture in his banqueting-hall, in order that he might mock at his discomfort while he dined; he executed, with or without preliminary torture, several less conspicuous patriots. Happily, however, some of the patriots--notably Besançon Hugues--got safely away, and succeeded in concluding treaties of alliance between Geneva and the cantons of Berne and Fribourg. The men of Fribourg marched to Geneva, and the Duke retired. The citizens passed a resolution that he should never be allowed to enter the town again, seeing that he "never came there without playing the citizens some dirty trick or other;" and, the more effectually to prevent him from coming, they pulled down their suburbs and repaired their ramparts, one member of every household being required to lend a hand for the purpose. Presently, owing to religious dissensions, Fribourg withdrew from the alliance. Berne, however, adhered to it, and, in due course, responded to the appeal for help by setting an army of seven thousand men in motion. The route of the seven thousand lay through the canton of Vaud, then a portion of the Duke's dominions, governed from the Castle of Chillon. Meeting with no resistance save at Yverdon, they annexed the territory, placing governors of their own in its various strongholds. The Governor of Chillon fled, leaving his garrison to surrender; and in its deepest dungeon was found the famous prisoner of Chillon, François de Bonivard. From that time forward Geneva was a free republic, owing allegiance to no higher power. THE CASTLE OF CHILLON[42] BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE Here I am, sitting at my window, overlooking Lake Leman. Castle Chillon, with its old conical towers, is silently pictured in the still waters. It has been a day of a thousand. We took a boat, with two oarsmen, and passed leisurely along the shores, under the cool, drooping branches of trees, to the castle, which is scarce a stone's throw from the hotel. We rowed along, close under the walls, to the ancient moat and drawbridge. There I picked a bunch of blue bells, "les clochettes," which were hanging their aerial pendants from every crevice--some blue, some white.... We rowed along, almost touching the castle rock, where the wall ascends perpendicularly, and the water is said to be a thousand feet deep. We passed the loopholes that illuminate the dungeon vaults, and an old arch, now walled up, where prisoners, after having been strangled, were thrown into the lake. Last evening we walked through the castle. An interesting Swiss woman, who has taught herself English for the benefit of her visitors, was our "cicerone." She seemed to have all the old Swiss vivacity of attachment for "liberté et patrie." She took us first into the dungeon, with the seven pillars, described by Byron. There was the pillar to which, for protecting the liberty of Geneva, Bonivard was chained. There the Duke of Savoy kept him for six years, confined by a chain four feet long. He could take only three steps, and the stone floor is deeply worn by the prints of those weary steps. Six years is so easily said; but to live them, alone, helpless, a man burning with all the fires of manhood, chained to that pillar of stone, and those three unvarying steps! Two thousand one hundred and ninety days rose and set the sun, while seed time and harvest, winter and summer, and the whole living world went on over his grave. For him no sun, no moon, no stars, no business, no friendship, no plans--nothing! The great millstone of life emptily grinding itself away! What a power of vitality was there in Bonivard, that he did not sink in lethargy, and forget himself to stone! But he did not; it is said that when the victorious Swiss army broke in to liberate him, they cried, "Bonivard, you are free!" "And Geneva?" "Geneva is free also!" You ought to have heard the enthusiasm with which our guide told this story! Near by are the relics of the cell of a companion of Bonivard, who made an ineffectual attempt to liberate him. On the wall are still seen sketches of saints and inscriptions by his hand. This man one day overcame his jailer, locked him in his cell, ran into the hall above, and threw himself from a window into the lake, struck a rock, and was killed instantly. One of the pillars in this vault is covered with names. I think it is Bonivard's pillar. There are the names of Byron, Hunt, Schiller, and many other celebrities. After we left the dungeons we went up into the judgment hall, where prisoners were tried, and then into the torture chamber. Here are the pulleys by which limbs are broken; the beam, all scorched with the irons by which feet were burned; the oven where the irons were heated; and there was the stone where they were sometimes laid to be strangled, after the torture. On that stone, our guide told us, two thousand Jews, men, women, and children, had been put to death. There was also, high up, a strong beam across, where criminals were hung; and a door, now walled up, by which they were thrown into the lake. I shivered. "'Twas cruel," she said; "'twas almost as cruel as your slavery in America."[43] Then she took us into a tower where was the "oubliette." Here the unfortunate prisoner was made to kneel before an image of the Virgin, while the treacherous floor, falling beneath him, precipitated him into a well forty feet deep, where he was left to die of broken limbs and starvation. Below this well was still another pit, filled with knives, into which, when they were disposed to a merciful hastening of the torture, they let him fall. The woman has been herself to the bottom of the first dungeon, and found there bones of victims. The second pit is now walled up.... To-night, after sunset, we rowed to Byron's "little isle," the only one in the lake. O, the unutterable beauty of these mountains--great, purple waves, as if they had been dashed up by a mighty tempest, crested with snow-like foam! this purple sky, and crescent moon, and the lake gleaming and shimmering, and twinkling stars, while far off up the sides of a snow-topped mountain a light shines like a star--some mountaineer's candle, I suppose. In the dark stillness we rode again over to Chillon, and paused under its walls. The frogs were croaking in the moat, and we lay rocking on the wave, and watching the dusky outlines of the towers and turrets. Then the spirit of the scene seemed to wrap me round like a cloak. Back to Geneva again. This lovely place will ever leave its image on my heart. Mountains embrace it. BY RAIL UP THE GORNER-GRAT[44] BY ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL KNOWLES To see the splendid array of snow peaks and glaciers which makes the sky line above Zermatt, one must leave the valley and walk or climb to a higher level. An ideal spot for this is the Hôtel Riffel Alp. Both the situation and the Hôtel outrival and surpass any similar places in the Alps. "Far from the madding crowd," on a little plateau bounded by pines and pastures stands the Hôtel, some two thousand feet above Zermatt and at an altitude of over 7,000 feet. The outlook is superb, the air splendid, the quiet most restful. Two little churches, the one for Roman Catholics, the other for members of the Church of England minister to the spiritual needs of the visitors and stamp religion upon a situation grand and sublime. Those who come here are lovers of the mountains who enjoy the open life. It is a place not so much for "les grands excursions" as for long walks, easy climbs and the beginnings of mountaineering. Many persons spend the entire day out, preferring to eat their déjeuner "informally," perched above some safe precipice, or on a glacier-bordered rock or in the shade of the cool woods, but there are always some who linger both morning and afternoon on the terrace with its far expanse of view, with the bright sunshine streaming down upon them. One great charm of the Riffel Alp is the proximity to the snow. An hour will bring one either to the Gorner Glacier or to the Findelen Glacier, while a somewhat longer time will lead to other stretches of snow and ice, where the climber may sit and survey the séracs and crevasses or walk about on the great frozen rivers. This is said to be beneficial to the nervous system as many physicians maintain that the glaciers contain a large amount of radium. Before essaying any of the longer or harder trips however, the traveler first of all generally goes to the Gorner-Grat, the rocky ridge that runs up from Zermatt to a point 10,290 feet high. Many people still walk up, but since the railroad was built, even those who feel it to be a matter of conscience to inveigh against any kind of progress which ministers to the pleasures of the masses, are found among those who prefer to ascend by electricity. The trip up is often made very amusing as among the crowds are always some, who knowing really nothing of the place, feel it incumbent upon themselves to point out all of the peaks, in a way quite discomposing to anybody familiar with the locality or versed in geography! Quite a luxurious little hôtel now surmounts the top of the Gorner-Grat. In it, about it and above it, on the walled terrace assembles a motley crowd every clear day in summer, clad in every variety of costume, conventional and unconventional.... An ordinary scene would be ruined by such a crowd, but not so the Gorner-Grat. The very majesty and magnificence of the view make one forget the vaporings of mere man, and the Glory of God, so overpoweringly revealed in those regions of perpetual snow, drives other impressions away. And if one wishes to be alone, it is easily possible by walking a little further along the ridge where some rock will shut out all sight of man and the wind will drive away the sound of voices. It is doubtful if there is any view comparable with that of the Gorner-Grat. There is what is called a "near view," and there is also what is known as a "distant view," for completely surrounded by snow peak and glacier, the eye passes from valley to summit, resting on that wonderful stretch of shining white which forms the skyline. To say that one can count dozens of glaciers, that he can see fifty summits, that Monte Rosa, the Lyskamm, the Twins, the Breithorn, the Matterhorn, the Dent Blanche, the Weisshorn, with many other mountains of the Valais and Oberland form a complete circle of snow peaks, may establish the geography of the place but it does not convey any but the faintest picture of the sublime grandeur of the scene.... An exciting experience for novices is to go with a guide from the Gorner-Grat to the Hohtäligrat and thence down to the Findelen Glacier. It looks dangerous but it is not really so, if the climber is careful, for altho there is a sheer descent on either side of the arête or ridge which leads from the one point to the other, the way is never narrow and only over easy rocks and snow. The Hohtäligrat is almost 11,000 feet in altitude and has a splendid survey of the sky line. One looks up at snow, one looks down at snow, one looks around at snow! From the beautiful summits of Monte Rosa, the eye passes in a complete circle, up and down, seeing in succession the white snow peaks, with their great glistening glaciers below, showing in strong contrast the occasional rock pyramids like the Matterhorn and the group around the Rothhorn. THROUGH THE ST. GOTHARD INTO ITALY[45] BY VICTOR TISSOT This is Geschenen, at the entrance of the great tunnel, the meeting place of the upper gorges of the Reuss, the valley of Urseren, of the Oberalp, and of the Furka. Geschenen has now the calm tranquility of old age. But during the nine years that it took to bore the great tunnel, what juvenile activity there was here, what feverish eagerness in this village, crowded, inundated, overflowed by workmen from Italy, from Tessin, from Germany and France! One would have thought that out of that dark hole, dug out in the mountain, they were bringing nuggets of gold. On all the roads nothing was to be seen but bands of workmen arriving, with miners' lamps hung to their old soldier's knapsacks. Nobody could tell how they were all to be lodged. One double bed was occupied in succession by twenty-four men in twenty-four hours. Some of the workmen set up their establishments in barns; in all directions movable canteens sprung up, built all awry and hardly holding together, and in mean sheds, doubtful, bad-looking places, the dishonest merchant hastened to sell his adulterated brandy.... The St. Gothard tunnel is about one and two-third miles longer than that of Mount Cenis, and more than three miles longer than that of Arlberg. While the train is passing with a dull rumbling sound under these gloomy vaults, let us explain how the great work of boring the Alps was accomplished. The mechanical work of perforation was begun simultaneously on the north and south sides of the mountain, working toward the same point, so as to meet toward the middle of the boring. The waters of the Reuss and the Tessin supplied the necessary motive power for working the screws attached to machinery for compressing the air. The borers applied to the rock the piston of a cylinder made to rotate with great rapidity by the pressure of air reduced to one-twentieth of its ordinary volume; then when they had made holes sufficiently deep, they withdrew the machines and charged the mines with dynamite. Immediately after the explosion, streams of wholesome air were liberated which dissipated the smoke; then the débris was cleared away, and the borers returned to their place. The same work was thus carried on day and night, for nine years. On the Geschenen side all went well; but on the other side, on the Italian slope, unforseen obstacles and difficulties had to be overcome. Instead of having to encounter the solid rock, they found themselves among a moving soil formed by the deposit of glaciers and broken by streams of water. Springs burst out, like the jet of a fountain, under the stroke of the pick, flooding and driving away the workmen. For twelve months they seemed to be in the midst of a lake. But nothing could damp the ardor of the contractor, Favre. His troubles were greater still when the undertaking had almost been suspended for want of money, when the workmen struck in 1875, and, when, two years later, the village of Arola was destroyed by fire. And how many times, again and again, the mason-work of the vaulted roof gave way and fell! Certain "bad places," as they were called, cost more than nine hundred pounds per yard. In the interior of the mountain the thermometer marked 86 degrees (Fahr.), but so long as the tunnel was still not completely bored, the workmen were sustained by a kind of fever, and made redoubled efforts. Discouragement and desertion did not appear among them till the goal was almost reached. The great tunnel passed, we find ourselves fairly in Italy. The mulberry trees, with silky white bark and delicate, transparent leaves; the chestnuts, with enormous trunks like cathedral columns; the vine, hanging to high trellises supported by granite pillars, its festoons as capricious as the feats of those who partake too freely of its fruits; the white tufty heads of the maize tossing in the breeze; all that strong and luxuriant vegetation through which waves of moist air are passing; those flowers of rare beauty, of a grace and brilliancy that belong only to privileged zones;--all this indicates a more robust and fertile soil, and a more fervid sky than those of the upper villages which we have just left. X ALPINE MOUNTAIN CLIMBING FIRST ATTEMPTS HALF A CENTURY AGO[46] BY EDWARD WHYMPER On the 23d of July, 1860, I started for my first tour of the Alps. At Zermatt I wandered in many directions, but the weather was bad and my work was much retarded. One day, after spending a long time in attempts to sketch near the Hörnli, and in futile endeavors to seize the forms of the peaks as they for a few seconds peered out from above the dense banks of woolly clouds, I determined not to return to Zermatt by the usual path, but to cross the Görner glacier to the Riffel hotel. After a rapid scramble over the polished rocks and snow-beds which skirt the base of the Theodule glacier, and wading through some of the streams which flow from it, at that time much swollen by the late rains, the first difficulty was arrived at, in the shape of a precipice about three hundred feet high. It seemed that there would be no difficulty in crossing the glacier if the cliff could be descended, but higher up and lower down the ice appeared, to my inexperienced eyes, to be impassable for a single person. The general contour of the cliff was nearly perpendicular, but it was a good deal broken up, and there was little difficulty in descending by zigzagging from one mass to another. At length there was a long slab, nearly smooth, fixt at an angle of about forty degrees between two wall-sided pieces of rock; nothing, except the glacier, could be seen below. It was a very awkward place, but being doubtful if return were possible, as I had been dropping from one ledge to another, I passed at length by lying across the slab, putting the shoulder stiffly against one side and the feet against the other, and gradually wriggling down, by first moving the legs and then the back. When the bottom of the slab was gained a friendly crack was seen, into which the point of the bâton could be stuck, and I dropt down to the next piece. It took a long time coming down that little bit of cliff, and for a few seconds it was satisfactory to see the ice close at hand. In another moment a second difficulty presented itself. The glacier swept round an angle of the cliff, and as the ice was not of the nature of treacle or thin putty, it kept away from the little bay on the edge of which I stood. We were not widely separated, but the edge of the ice was higher than the opposite edge of rock; and worse, the rock was covered with loose earth and stones which had fallen from above. All along the side of the cliff, as far as could be seen in both directions, the ice did not touch it, but there was this marginal crevasse seven feet wide and of unknown depth. All this was seen at a glance, and almost at once I concluded that I could not jump the crevass and began to try along the cliff lower down, but without success, for the ice rose higher and higher until at last farther progress was stopt by the cliffs becoming perfectly smooth. With an ax it would have been possible to cut up the side of the ice--without one, I saw there was no alternative but to return and face the jump. It was getting toward evening, and the solemn stillness of the High Alps was broken only by the sound of rushing water or of falling rocks. If the jump should be successful, well; if not, I fell into the horrible chasm, to be frozen in, or drowned in that gurgling, rushing water. Everything depended on that jump. Again I asked myself "Can it be done?" It must be. So, finding my stick was useless, I threw it and the sketch-book to the ice, and first retreating as far as possible, ran forward with all my might, took the leap, barely reached the other side, and fell awkwardly on my knees. At the same moment a shower of stones fell on the spot from which I had jumped. The glacier was crossed without further trouble, but the Riffel, which was then a very small building, was crammed with tourists, and could not take me in. As the way down was unknown to me, some of the people obligingly suggested getting a man at the chalets, otherwise the path would be certainly lost in the forest. On arriving at the chalets no man could be found, and the lights of Zermatt, shining through the trees, seemed to say, "Never mind a guide, but come along down; we'll show you the way"; so off I went through the forest, going straight toward them. The path was lost in a moment, and was never recovered. I was tript up by pine roots, I tumbled over rhododendron bushes, I fell over rocks. The night was pitch-dark, and after a time the lights of Zermatt became obscure or went out altogether. By a series of slides or falls, or evolutions more or less disagreeable, the descent through the forest was at length accomplished, but torrents of a formidable character had still to be passed before one could arrive at Zermatt. I felt my way about for hours, almost hopelessly, by an exhaustive process at last discovering a bridge, and about midnight, covered with dirt and scratches, reentered the inn which I had quitted in the morning.... I descended the valley, diverging from the path at Randa to mount the slopes of the Dom (the highest of the Mischabelhörner), in order to see the Weisshorn face to face. The latter mountain is the noblest in Switzerland, and from this direction it looks especially magnificent. On its north there is a large snowy plateau that feeds the glacier of which a portion is seen from Randa, and which on more than one occasion has destroyed that village. From the direction of the Dom--that is, immediately opposite--this Bies glacier seems to descend nearly vertically; it does not do so, altho it is very steep. Its size is much less than formerly and the lower portion, now divided into three tails, clings in a strange, weird-like manner to the cliffs, to which it seems scarcely possible that it can remain attached. Unwillingly I parted from the sight of this glorious mountain, and went down to Visp. Arriving once more in the Rhone valley, I proceeded to Viesch, and from thence ascended the Aeggischhorn, on which unpleasant eminence I lost my way in a fog, and my temper shortly afterward. Then, after crossing the Grimsel in a severe thunderstorm, I passed on to Brienz, Interlachen and Berne, and thence to Fribourg and Morat, Neuchâtel, Martigny and the St. Bernard. The massive walls of the convent were a welcome sight as I waded through the snow-beds near the summit of the pass, and pleasant also was the courteous salutation of the brother who bade me enter. Instead of descending to Aosta, I turned into the Val Pelline, in order to obtain views of the Dent d'Erin. The night had come on before Biona was gained, and I had to knock long and loud upon the door of the curé's house before it was opened. An old woman with querulous voice and with a large goître answered the summons, and demanded rather sharply what was wanted, but became pacific, almost good-natured, when a five-franc piece was held in her face and she heard that lodging and supper were required in exchange. My directions asserted that a passage existed from Prerayen, at the head of this valley, to Breuil, in the Val Tournanche, and the old woman, now convinced of my respectability, busied herself to find a guide. Presently she introduced a native picturesquely attired in high-peaked hat, braided jacket, scarlet waistcoat and indigo pantaloons, who agreed to take me to the village of Val Tournanche. We set off early on the next morning, and got to the summit of the pass without difficulty. It gave me my first experience of considerable slopes of hard, steep snow, and, like all beginners, I endeavored to prop myself up with my stick, and kept it outside, instead of holding it between myself and the slope, and leaning upon it, as should have been done. The man enlightened me, but he had, properly, a very small opinion of his employer, and it is probably on that account that, a few minutes after we had passed the summit, he said he would not go any farther and would return to Biona. All argument was useless; he stood still, and to everything that was said answered nothing but that he would go back. Being rather nervous about descending some long snow-slopes which still intervened between us and the head of the valley, I offered more pay, and he went on a little way. Presently there were some cliffs, down which we had to scramble. He called to me to stop, then shouted that he would go back, and beckoned to me to come up. On the contrary, I waited for him to come down, but instead of doing so, in a second or two he turned round, clambered deliberately up the cliff and vanished. I supposed it was only a ruse to extort offers of more money, and waited for half an hour, but he did not appear again. This was rather embarrassing, for he carried off my knapsack. The choice of action lay between chasing him and going on to Breuil, risking the loss of my knapsack. I chose the latter course, and got to Breuil the same evening. The landlord of the inn, suspicious of a person entirely innocent of luggage, was doubtful if he could admit me, and eventually thrust me into a kind of loft, which was already occupied by guides and by hay. In later years we became good friends, and he did not hesitate to give credit and even to advance considerable sums. My sketches from Breuil were made under difficulties; my materials had been carried off, nothing better than fine sugar-paper could be obtained, and the pencils seemed to contain more silica than plumbago. However, they were made, and the pass was again crossed, this time alone. By the following evening the old woman of Biona again produced the faithless guide. The knapsack was recovered after the lapse of several hours, and then I poured forth all the terms of abuse and reproach of which I was master. The man smiled when I called him a liar, and shrugged his shoulders when referred to as a thief, but drew his knife when spoken of as a pig. The following night was spent at Cormayeur, and the day after I crossed the Col Ferrex to Orsières, and on the next the Tête Noir to Chamounix. The Emperor Napoleon arrived the same day, and access to the Mer de Glace was refused to tourists; but, by scrambling along the Plan des Aiguilles, I managed to outwit the guards, and to arrive at the Montanvert as the imperial party was leaving, failing to get to the Jardin the same afternoon, but very nearly succeeding in breaking a leg by dislodging great rocks on the moraine of the glacier. From Chamounix I went to Geneva, and thence by the Mont Cenis to Turin and to the Vaudois valleys. A long and weary day had ended when Paesana was reached. The next morning I passed the little lakes which are the sources of the Po, on my way into France. The weather was stormy, and misinterpreting the dialect of some natives--who in reality pointed out the right way--I missed the track, and found myself under the cliffs of Monte Viso. A gap that was occasionally seen in the ridge connecting it with the mountains to the east tempted me up, and after a battle with a snow-slope of excessive steepness, I reached the summit. The scene was extraordinary, and, in my experience, unique. To the north there was not a particle of mist, and the violent wind coming from that direction blew one back staggering. But on the side of Italy the valleys were completely filled with dense masses of cloud to a certain level; and here--where they felt the influence of the wind--they were cut off as level as the top of a table, the ridges appearing above them. I raced down to Abries, and went on through the gorge of the Guil to Mont Dauphin. The next day found me at La Bessée, at the junction of the Val Louise with the valley of the Durance, in full view of Mont Pelvoux. The same night I slept at Briançon, intending to take the courier on the following day to Grenoble, but all places had been secured several days beforehand, so I set out at two P.M. on the next day for a seventy-mile walk. The weather was again bad, and on the summit of the Col de Lautaret I was forced to seek shelter in the wretched little hospice. It was filled with workmen who were employed on the road, and with noxious vapors which proceeded from them. The inclemency of the weather was preferable to the inhospitality of the interior. Outside, it was disagreeable, but grand--inside, it was disagreeable and mean. The walk was continued under a deluge of rain, and I felt the way down, so intense was the darkness, to the village of La Grave, where the people of the inn detained me forcibly. It was perhaps fortunate that they did so, for during that night blocks of rock fell at several places from the cliffs on to the road with such force that they made large holes in the macadam, which looked as if there had been explosions of gunpowder. I resumed the walk at half-past five next morning, and proceeded, under steady rain, through Bourg d'Oysans to Grenoble, arriving at the latter place soon after seven P.M., having accomplished the entire distance from Briançon in about eighteen hours of actual walking. This was the end of the Alpine portion of my tour of 1860, on which I was introduced to the great peaks, and acquired the passion for mountain-scrambling. FIRST TO THE TOP OF THE MATTERHORN[47] BY EDWARD WHYMPER We started from Zermatt on the 13th of July at half-past five, on a brilliant and perfectly cloudless morning. We were eight in number--Croz, old Peter and his two sons, Lord Francis Douglas, Hadow, Hudson and I. To ensure steady motion, one tourist and one native walked together. The youngest Taugwalder fell to my share, and the lad marched well, proud to be on the expedition and happy to show his powers. The wine-bags also fell to my lot to carry, and throughout the day, after each drink, I replenished them secretly with water, so that at the next halt they were found fuller than before! This was considered a good omen, and little short of miraculous. On the first day we did not intend to ascend to any great height, and we mounted, accordingly, very leisurely, picked up the things which were left in the chapel at the Schwarzsee at 8:20, and proceeded thence along the ridge connecting the Hörnli with the Matterhorn. At half-past eleven we arrived at the base of the actual peak, then quitted the ridge and clambered round some ledges on to the eastern face. We were now fairly upon the mountain, and were astonished to find that places which from the Riffel, or even from the Furggengletscher, looked entirely impracticable, were so easy that we could run about. Before twelve o'clock we had found a good position for the tent, at a height of eleven thousand feet. Croz and young Peter went on to see what was above, in order to save time on the following morning. They cut across the heads of the snow-slopes which descended toward the Furggengletscher, and disappeared round a corner, but shortly afterward we saw them high up on the face, moving quickly. We others made a solid platform for the tent in a well-protected spot, and then watched eagerly for the return of the men. The stones which they upset told that they were very high, and we supposed that the way must be easy. At length, just before 3 P.M., we saw them coming down, evidently much excited. "What are they saying, Peter?" "Gentlemen, they say it is no good." But when they came near we heard a different story: "Nothing but what was good--not a difficulty, not a single difficulty! We could have gone to the summit and returned to-day easily!" We passed the remaining hours of daylight--some basking in the sunshine, some sketching or collecting--and when the sun went down, giving, as it departed, a glorious promise for the morrow, we returned to the tent to arrange for the night. Hudson made tea, I coffee, and we then retired each one to his blanket-bag, the Taugwalders, Lord Francis Douglas and myself occupying the tent, the others remaining, by preference, outside. Long after dusk the cliffs above echoed with our laughter and with the songs of the guides, for we were happy that night in camp, and feared no evil. We assembled together outside the tent before dawn on the morning of the 14th, and started directly it was light enough to move. Young Peter came on with us as a guide, and his brother returned to Zermatt. We followed the route which had been taken on the previous day, and in a few minutes turned the rib which had intercepted the view of the eastern face from our tent platform. The whole of this great slope was now revealed, rising for three thousand feet like a huge natural staircase. Some parts were more and others were less easy, but we were not once brought to a halt by any serious impediment, for when an obstruction was met in front it could always be turned to the right or to the left. For the greater part of the way there was indeed no occasion for the rope, and sometimes Hudson led, sometimes myself. At 6:20 we had attained a height of twelve thousand eight hundred feet, and halted for half an hour; we then continued the ascent without a break until 9:55, when we stopt for fifty minutes at a height of fourteen thousand feet. Twice we struck the northeastern ridge, and followed it for some little distance--to no advantage, for it was usually more rotten and steep, and always more difficult, than the face. Still, we kept near to it, lest stones perchance might fall. We had now arrived at the foot of that part which, from the Riffelberg or from Zermatt, seems perpendicular or overhanging, and could no longer continue upon the eastern side. For a little distance we ascended by snow upon the arête--that is, the ridge--descending toward Zermatt, and then by common consent turned over to the right, or to the northern side. Before doing so we made a change in the order of ascent. Croz went first, I followed, Hudson came third; Hadow and old Peter were last. "Now," said Croz as he led off--"now for something altogether different." The work became difficult, and required caution. In some places there was little to hold, and it was desirable that those should be in front who were least likely to slip. The general slope of the mountain at this part was less than forty degrees, and snow had accumulated in, and had filled up, the interstices of the rock-face, leaving only occasional fragments projecting here and there. These were at times covered with a thin film of ice, produced from the melting and refreezing of the snow. It was the counterpart, on a small scale, of the upper seven hundred feet of the Pointe des Écrins; only there was this material difference--the face of the Écrins was about, or exceeded, an angle of fifty degrees, and the Matterhorn face was less than forty degrees. It was a place over which any fair mountaineers might pass in safety, and Mr. Hudson ascended this part, and, as far as I know, the entire mountain, without having the slightest assistance rendered to him upon any occasion. Sometimes, after I had taken a hand from Croz or received a pull, I turned to offer the same to Hudson, but he invariably declined, saying it was not necessary. Mr. Hadow, however, was not accustomed to this kind of work, and required continual assistance. It is only fair to say that the difficulty which he found at this part arose simply and entirely from want of experience. This solitary difficult part was of no great extent. We bore away over it at first nearly horizontally, for a distance of about four hundred feet, then ascended directly toward the summit for about sixty feet, and then doubled back to the ridge which descends toward Zermatt. A long stride round a rather awkward corner brought us to snow once more. The last doubt vanished! The Matterhorn was ours! Nothing but two hundred feet of easy snow remained to be surmounted!.... The summit of the Matterhorn was formed of a rudely level ridge, about three hundred and fifty feet long. The day was one of those superlatively calm and clear ones which usually precede bad weather. The atmosphere was perfectly still and free from clouds or vapors. Mountains fifty--nay, a hundred--miles off looked sharp and near. All their details--ridge and crag, snow and glacier--stood out with faultless definition. Pleasant thoughts of happy days in bygone years came up unbidden as we recognized the old, familiar forms. All were revealed--not one of the principal peaks of the Alps was hidden. I see them clearly now--the great inner circles of giants, backed by the ranges, chains and "massifs." First came the Dent Blanche, hoary and grand; the Gabelhorn and pointed Rothborn, and then the peerless Weisshorn; the towering Mischabelhörner flanked by the Allaleinhorn, Strahlhorn and Rimpfischhorn; then Monte Rosa--with its many Spitzen--the Lyskamm and the Breithorn. Behind were the Bernese Oberland, governed by the Finsteraarhorn, the Simplon and St. Gothard groups, the Disgrazia and the Orteler. Toward the south we looked down to Chivasso on the plain of Piedmont, and far beyond. The Viso--one hundred miles away--seemed close upon us; the Maritime Alps--one hundred and thirty miles distant--were free from haze. Then came into view my first love--the Pelvoux; the Écrins and the Meije; the clusters of the Graians; and lastly, in the west, gorgeous in the full sunlight, rose the monarch of all--Mont Blanc. Ten thousand feet beneath us were the green fields of Zermatt, dotted with chalets, from which blue smoke rose lazily. Eight thousand feet below, on the other side, were the pastures of Breuil. There were forests black and gloomy, and meadows bright and lively; bounding waterfalls and tranquil lakes; fertile lands and savage wastes: sunny plains and frigid plateaux. There were the most rugged forms and the most graceful outlines--bold, perpendicular cliffs and gentle, undulating slopes; rocky mountains and snowy mountains, somber and solemn or glittering and white, with walls, turrets, pinnacles, pyramids, domes, cones and spires! There was every combination that the world can give, and every contrast that the heart could desire. We remained on the summit for one hour-- One crowded hour of glorious life. THE LORD FRANCIS DOUGLAS TRAGEDY[48] BY EDWARD WHYMPER We began to prepare for the descent. Hudson and I again consulted as to the best and safest arrangement of the party. We agreed that it would be best for Croz to go first, and Hadow second; Hudson, who was almost equal to a guide in sureness of foot, wished to be third; Lord Francis Douglas was placed next, and old Peter, the strongest of the remainder, after him. I suggested to Hudson that we should attach a rope to the rocks on our arrival at the difficult bit, and hold it as we descended, as an additional protection. He approved the idea, but it was not definitely settled that it should be done. The party was being arranged in the above order while I was sketching the summit, and they had finished, and were waiting for me to be tied in line, when some one remembered that our names had not been left in a bottle. They requested me to write them down, and moved off while it was being done. A few minutes afterward I tied myself to young Peter, ran down after the others, and caught them just as they were commencing the descent of the difficult part. Great care was being taken. Only one man was moving at a time; when he was firmly planted, the next advanced, and so on. They had not, however, attached the additional rope to rocks, and nothing was said about it. The suggestion was not made for my own sake, and I am not sure that it even occurred to me again. For some little distance we followed the others, detached from them, and should have continued so had not Lord Francis Douglas asked me, about 3 P.M., to tie on to old Peter, as he feared, he said, that Taugwalder would not be able to hold his ground if a slip occurred. A few minutes later a sharp-eyed lad ran into the Monte Rosa hotel to Seiler,[49] saying that he had seen an avalanche fall from the summit of the Matterhorn on to the Matterhorngletscher. The boy was reproved for telling such idle stories; he was right, nevertheless, and this was what he saw. Michael Croz had laid aside his ax, and in order to give Mr. Hadow greater security was absolutely taking hold of his legs and putting his feet, one by one, into their proper positions. As far as I know, no one was actually descending. I can not speak with certainty, because the two leading men were partially hidden from my sight by an intervening mass of rock, but it is my belief, from the movements of their shoulders, that Croz, having done as I have said, was in the act of turning round to go down a step or two himself; at the moment Mr. Hadow slipt, fell against him and knocked him over. I heard one startled exclamation from Croz, then saw him and Mr. Hadow flying downward; in another moment Hudson was dragged from his steps, and Lord Francis Douglas immediately after him. All this was the work of a moment. Immediately we heard Croz's exclamation, old Peter and I planted ourselves as firmly as the rocks would permit; the rope was taut between us, and the jerk came on us both as one man. We held, but the rope broke midway between Taugwalder and Lord Francis Douglas. For a few seconds we saw our unfortunate companions sliding downward on their backs, and spreading out their hands, endeavoring to save themselves. They passed from our sight uninjured, disappeared one by one, and fell from precipice to precipice on to the Matterhorngletscher below, a distance of nearly four thousand feet in height. From the moment the rope broke it was impossible to help them. So perished our comrades! For the space of half an hour we remained on the spot without moving a single step. The two men, paralyzed by terror, cried like infants, and trembled in such a manner as to threaten us with the fate of the others. Old Peter rent the air with exclamations of "Chamounix!--oh, what will Chamounix say?" He meant, who would believe that Croz could fall? The young man did nothing but scream or sob, "We are lost! we are lost!" Fixt between the two, I could move neither up nor down. I begged young Peter to descend, but he dared not. Unless he did, we could not advance. Old Peter became alive to the danger, and swelled the cry, "We are lost! we are lost!" The father's fear was natural--he trembled for his son; the young man's fear was cowardly--he thought of self alone. At last old Peter summoned up courage, and changed his position to a rock to which he could fix the rope; the young man then descended, and we all stood together. Immediately we did so, I asked for the rope which had given way, and found, to my surprise--indeed, to my horror--that it was the weakest of the three ropes. It was not brought, and should not have been employed, for the purpose for which it was used. It was old rope, and, compared with the others, was feeble. It was intended as a reserve, in case we had to leave much rope behind attached to rocks. I saw at once that a serious question was involved, and made them give me the end. It had broken in mid-air, and it did not appear to have sustained previous injury. For more than two hours afterward I thought almost every moment that the next would be my last, for the Taugwalders, utterly unnerved, were not only incapable of giving assistance, but were in such a state that a slip might have been expected from them at any moment. After a time we were able to do that which should have been done at first, and fixt rope to firm rocks, in addition to being tied together. These ropes were cut from time to time, and were left behind. Even with their assurance the men were afraid to proceed, and several times old Peter turned with ashy face and faltering limbs, and said with terrible emphasis, "I can not!" About 6 P.M. we arrived at the snow upon, the ridge descending toward Zermatt, and all peril was over. We frequently looked, but in vain, for traces of our unfortunate companions; we bent over the ridge and cried to them, but no sound returned. Convinced at last that they were within neither sight nor hearing, we ceased from our useless efforts, and, too cast down for speech, silently gathered up our things, preparatory to continuing the descent. When lo! a mighty arch appeared, rising above the Lyskamm high into the sky. Pale, colorless and noiseless, but perfectly sharp and defined, except where it was lost in the clouds, this unearthly apparition seemed like a vision from another world, and almost appalled we watched with amazement the gradual development of two vast crosses, one on either side. If the Taugwalders had not been the first to perceive it, I should have doubted my senses. They thought it had some connection with the accident, and I, after a while, that it might bear some relations to ourselves. But our movements had no effect upon it. The spectral forms remained motionless. It was a fearful and wonderful sight, unique in my experience, and impressive beyond description, at such a moment.... Night fell, and for an hour the descent was continued in the darkness. At half-past nine a resting-place was found, and upon a wretched slab, barely large enough to hold three, we passed six miserable hours. At daybreak the descent was resumed, and from the Hornli ridge we ran down to the chalets of Buhl and on to Zermatt. Seiler met me at his door, and followed in silence to my room: "What is the matter?" "The Taugwalders and I have returned." He did not need more, and burst into tears, but lost no time in lamentations, and set to work to arouse the village. Ere long a score of men had started to ascend the Hohlicht heights, above Kalbermatt and Z'Mutt, which commanded the plateau of the Matterhorngletscher. They returned after six hours, and reported that they had seen the bodies lying motionless on the snow. This was on Saturday, and they proposed that we should leave on Sunday evening, so as to arrive upon the plateau at daybreak on Monday. We started at 2 A.M. on Sunday, the 16th, and followed the route that we had taken on the previous Thursday as far as the Hornli. From thence we went down to the right of the ridge, and mounted through the "séracs" of the Matterhorngletscher. By 8:30 we had got to the plateau at the top of the glacier, and within sight of the corner in which we knew my companions must be. As we saw one weather-beaten man after another raise the telescope, turn deadly pale and pass it on without a word to the next, we knew that all hope was gone. We approached. They had fallen below as they had fallen above--Croz a little in advance, Hadow near him, and Hudson behind, but of Lord Francis Douglas we could see nothing.[50] We left them where they fell, buried in snow at the base of the grandest cliff of the most majestic mountain of the Alps. AN ASCENT OF MONTE ROSA[51] BY JOHN TYNDALL On Monday, the 9th of August, we reached the Riffel, and, by good fortune on the evening of the same day, my guide's brother, the well-known Ulrich Lauener, also arrived at the hotel on his return from Monte Rosa. From him we obtained all the information possible respecting the ascent, and he kindly agreed to accompany us a little way the next morning, to put us on the right track. At three A.M. the door of my bedroom opened, and Christian Lauener announced to me that the weather was sufficiently good to justify an attempt. The stars were shining overhead; but Ulrich afterward drew our attention to some heavy clouds which clung to the mountains on the other side of the valley of the Visp; remarking that the weather might continue fair throughout the day, but that these clouds were ominous. At four o'clock we were on our way, by which time a gray stratus cloud had drawn itself across the neck of the Matterhorn, and soon afterward another of the same nature encircled his waist. We proceeded past the Riffelhorn to the ridge above the Görner Glacier, from which Monte Rosa was visible from top to bottom, and where an animated conversation in Swiss dialect commenced. Ulrich described the slopes, passes, and precipices, which were to guide us; and Christian demanded explanations, until he was finally able to declare to me that his knowledge was sufficient. We then bade Ulrich good-by, and went forward. All was clear about Monte Rosa, and the yellow morning light shone brightly upon its uppermost snows. Beside the Queen of the Alps was the huge mass of the Lyskamm, with a saddle stretching from the one to the other; next to the Lyskamm came two white, rounded mounds, smooth and pure, the Twins Castor and Pollux, and further to the right again the broad, brown flank of the Breithorn. Behind us Mont Cervin[52] gathered the clouds more thickly round him, until finally his grand obelisk was totally hidden. We went along the mountain side for a time, and then descended to the glacier. The surface was hard frozen, and the ice crunched loudly under our feet. There was a hollowness and volume in the sound which require explanation; and this, I think, is furnished by the remarks of Sir John Herschel on those hollow sounds at the Solfaterra, near Naples, from which travelers have inferred the existence of cavities within the mountain. At the place where these sounds are heard the earth is friable, and, when struck, the concussion is reinforced and lengthened by the partial echoes from the surfaces of the fragments. The conditions for a similar effect exist upon the glacier, for the ice is disintegrated to a certain depth, and from the innumerable places of rupture little reverberations are sent, which give a length and hollowness to the sound produced by the crushing of the fragments on the surface. We looked to the sky at intervals, and once a meteor slid across it, leaving a train of sparks behind. The blue firmament, from which the stars shone down so brightly when we rose, was more and more invaded by clouds, which advanced upon us from our rear, while before us the solemn heights of Monte Rosa were bathed in rich yellow sunlight. As the day advanced the radiance crept down toward the valleys; but still those stealthy clouds advanced like a besieging army, taking deliberate possession of the summits, one after another, while gray skirmishers moved through the air above us. The play of light and shadow upon Monte Rosa was at times beautiful, bars of gloom and zones of glory shifting and alternating from top to bottom of the mountain. At five o'clock a gray cloud alighted on the shoulder of the Lyskamm, which had hitherto been warmed by the lovely yellow light. Soon afterward we reached the foot of Monte Rosa, and passed from the glacier to a slope of rocks, whose rounded forms and furrowed surfaces showed that the ice of former ages had moved over them; the granite was now coated with lichens, and between the bosses where mold could rest were patches of tender moss. As we ascended a peal to the right announced the descent of an avalanche from the Twins; it came heralded by clouds of ice-dust, which resembled the sphered masses of condensed vapor which issue from a locomotive. A gentle snow-slope brought us to the base of a precipice of brown rocks, round which we wound; the snow was in excellent order, and the chasms were so firmly bridged by the frozen mass that no caution was necessary in crossing them. Surmounting a weathered cliff to our left, we paused upon the summit to look upon the scene around us. The snow gliding insensibly from the mountains, or discharged in avalanches from the precipices which it overhung, filled the higher valleys with pure white glaciers, which were rifted and broken here and there, exposing chasms and precipices from which gleamed the delicate blue of the half-formed ice. Sometimes, however, the "névés" spread over wide spaces without a rupture or wrinkle to break the smoothness of the superficial snow. The sky was now, for the most part, overcast, but through the residual blue spaces the sun at intervals poured light over the rounded bosses of the mountain. At half-past seven o'clock we reached another precipice of rock, to the left of which our route lay, and here Lauener proposed to have some refreshment; after which we went on again. The clouds spread more and more, leaving at length mere specks and patches of blue between them. Passing some high peaks, formed by the dislocation of the ice, we came to a place where the "névé" was rent by crevasses, on the walls of which the stratification, due to successive snowfalls, was thrown with great beauty and definition. Between two of these fissures our way now lay; the wall of one of them was hollowed out longitudinally midway down, thus forming a roof above and a ledge below, and from roof to ledge stretched a railing of cylindrical icicles, as if intended to bolt them together. A cloud now for the first time touched the summit of Monte Rosa, and sought to cling to it, but in a minute it dispersed in shattered fragments, as if dashed to pieces for its presumption. The mountain remained for a time clear and triumphant, but the triumph was shortlived; like suitors that will not be repelled, the dusky vapors came; repulse after repulse took place, and the sunlight gushed down upon the heights, but it was manifest that the clouds gained ground in the conflict. Until about a quarter-past nine o'clock our work was mere child's play, a pleasant morning stroll along the flanks of the mountain; but steeper slopes now rose above us, which called for more energy, and more care in the fixing of the feet. Looked at from below, some of these slopes appeared precipitous; but we were too well acquainted with the effect of fore-shortening to let this daunt us. At each step we dug our batons into the deep snow. When first driven in, the batons [53] "dipt" from us, but were brought, as we walked forward, to the vertical, and finally beyond it at the other side. The snow was thus forced aside, a rubbing of the staff against it, and of the snow-particles against each other, being the consequence. We had thus perpetual rupture and regelation; while the little sounds consequent upon rupture reinforced by the partial echoes from the surfaces of the granules, were blended together to a note resembling the lowing of cows. Hitherto I had paused at intervals to make notes, or to take an angle; but these operations now ceased, not from want of time, but from pure dislike; for when the eye has to act the part of a sentinel who feels that at any moment the enemy may be upon him; when the body must be balanced with precision, and legs and arms, besides performing actual labor, must be kept in readiness for possible contingencies; above all, when you feel that your safety depends upon yourself alone, and that, if your footing gives way, there is no strong arm behind ready to be thrown between you and destruction; under such circumstances the relish for writing ceases, and you are willing to hand over your impressions to the safekeeping of memory. Prom the vast boss which constitutes the lower portion of Monte Rosa cliffy edges run upward to the summit. Were the snow removed from these we should, I doubt not, see them as toothed or serrated crags, justifying the term "kamm," or "comb," applied to such edges by the Germans. Our way now lay along such a "kamm," the cliffs of which had, however, caught the snow, and been completely covered by it, forming an edge like the ridge of a house-roof, which sloped steeply upward. On the Lyskamm side of the edge there was no footing, and if a human body fell over here, it would probably pass through a vertical space of some thousands of feet, falling or rolling, before coming to rest. On the other side the snow-slope was less steep, but excessively perilous-looking, and intersected by precipices of ice. Dense clouds now enveloped us, and made our position far uglier than if it had been fairly illuminated. The valley below us was one vast cauldron, filled with precipitated vapor, which came seething at times up the sides of the mountain. Sometimes this fog would clear away, and the light would gleam from the dislocated glaciers. My guide continually admonished me to make my footing sure, and to fix at each step my staff firmly in the consolidated snow. At one place, for a short steep ascent, the slope became hard ice, and our position a very ticklish one. We hewed our steps as we moved upward, but were soon glad to deviate from the ice to a position scarcely less awkward. The wind had so acted upon the snow as to fold it over the edge of the kamm, thus causing it to form a kind of cornice, which overhung the precipice on the Lyskamm side of the mountain. This cornice now bore our weight; its snow had become somewhat firm, but it was yielding enough to permit the feet to sink in it a little way, and thus secure us at least against the danger of slipping. Here, also, at each step we drove our batons firmly into the snow, availing ourselves of whatever help they could render. Once, while thus securing my anchorage, the handle of my hatchet went right through the cornice on which we stood, and, on withdrawing it, I could see through the aperture into the cloud-crammed gulf below. We continued ascending until we reached a rock protruding from the snow, and here we halted for a few minutes. Lauener looked upward through the fog. "According to all description," he observed, "this ought to be the last kamm of the mountain; but in this obscurity we can see nothing." Snow began to fall, and we recommenced our journey, quitting the rocks and climbing again along the edge. Another hour brought us to a crest of cliffs, at which, to our comfort, the kamm appeared to cease, and other climbing qualities were demanded of us. On the Lyskamm side, as I have said, rescue would be out of the question, should the climber go over the edge. On the other side of the edge rescue seemed possible, tho' the slope, as stated already, was most dangerously steep. I now asked Lauener what he would have done, supposing my footing to have failed on the latter slope. He did not seem to like the question, but said that he should have considered well for a moment and then have sprung after me; but he exhorted me to drive all such thoughts away. I laughed at him, and this did more to set his mind at rest than any formal profession of courage could have done. We were now among rocks; we climbed cliffs and descended them, and advanced sometimes with our feet on narrow ledges, holding tightly on to other ledges by our fingers; sometimes, cautiously balanced, we moved along edges of rock with precipices on both sides. Once, in getting round a crag, Lauener shook a book from his pocket; it was arrested by a rock about sixty or eighty feet below us. He wished to regain it, but I offered to supply its place, if he thought the descent too dangerous. He said he would make the trial, and parted from me. I thought it useless to remain idle. A cleft was before me, through which I must pass; so pressing my knees and back against its opposite sides, I gradually worked myself to the top. I descended the other face of the rock, and then, through a second ragged fissure, to the summit of another pinnacle. The highest point of the mountain was now at hand, separated from me merely by a short saddle, carved by weathering out the crest of the mountain. I could hear Lauener clattering after me, through the rocks behind. I dropt down upon the saddle, crossed it, climbed the opposite cliff, and "die höchste Spitze" of Monte Rosa was won. Lauener joined me immediately, and we mutually congratulated each other on the success of the ascent. The residue of the bread and meat was produced, and a bottle of tea was also appealed to. Mixed with a little cognac, Lauener declared that he had never tasted anything like it. Snow fell thickly at intervals, and the obscurity was very great; occasionally this would lighten and permit the sun to shed a ghastly dilute light upon us through the gleaming vapor. I put my boiling-water apparatus in order, and fixt it in a corner behind a ledge; the shelter was, however, insufficient, so I placed my hat above the vessel. The boiling-point was 184.92 deg. Fahr., the ledge on which the instrument stood being five feet below the highest point of the mountain. The ascent from the Riffel Hotel occupied us about seven hours, nearly two of which were spent upon the kämm and crest. Neither of us felt in the least degree fatigued; I, indeed, felt so fresh, that had another Monte Rosa been planted on the first, I should have continued the climb without hesitation, and with strong hopes of reaching the top. I experienced no trace of mountain sickness, lassitude, shortness of breath, heart-beat, or headache; nevertheless the summit of Monte Rosa is 15,284 feet high, being less than 500 feet lower than Mont Blanc. It is, I think, perfectly certain, that the rarefaction of the air at this height is not sufficient of itself to produce the symptoms referred to; physical exertion must be superadded. MONT BLANC ASCENDED, HUXLEY GOING PART WAY[54] BY JOHN TYNDALL The way for a time was excessively rough,[55] our route being overspread with the fragments of peaks which had once reared themselves to our left, but which frost and lightning had shaken to pieces, and poured in granite avalanches down the mountain. We were sometimes among huge, angular boulders, and sometimes amid lighter shingle, which gave way at every step, thus forcing us to shift our footing incessantly. Escaping from these we crossed the succession of secondary glaciers which lie at the feet of the Aiguilles, and, having secured firewood, found ourselves, after some hours of hard work, at the Pierre l'Echelle. Here we were furnished with leggings of coarse woolen cloth to keep out the snow; they were tied under the knees and quite tightly again over the insteps, so that the legs were effectually protected. We had some refreshment, possest ourselves of the ladder, and entered upon the glacier. The ice was excessively fissured; we crossed crevasses and crept round slippery ridges, cutting steps in the ice wherever climbing was necessary. This rendered our progress very slow. Once, with the intention of lending a helping hand, I stept forward upon a block of granite which happened to be poised like a rocking stone upon the ice, tho' I did not know it; it treacherously turned under me; I fell, but my hands were in instant requisition, and I escaped with a bruise, from which, however, the blood oozed angrily. We found the ladder necessary in crossing some of the chasms, the iron spikes at its end being firmly driven into the ice at one side, while the other end rested on the opposite side of the fissure. The middle portion of the glacier was not difficult. Mounds of ice rose beside us right and left, which were sometimes split into high towers and gaunt-looking pyramids, while the space between was unbroken. Twenty minutes' walking brought us again to a fissured portion of the glacier, and here our porter left the ladder on the ice behind him. For some time I was not aware of this, but we were soon fronted by a chasm to pass which we were in consequence compelled to make a long and dangerous circuit amid crests of crumbling ice. This accomplished, we hoped that no repetition of the process would occur, but we speedily came to a second fissure, where it was necessary to step from a projecting end of ice to a mass of soft snow which overhung the opposite side. Simond could reach this snow with his long-handled ax; he beat it down to give it rigidity, but it was exceedingly tender, and as he worked at it he continued to express his fears that it would not bear us. I was the lightest of the party, and therefore tested the passage first; being partially lifted by Simond on the end of his ax, I crossed the fissure, obtained some anchorage at the other side, and helped the others over. We afterward ascended until another chasm, deeper and wider than any we had hitherto encountered, arrested us. We walked alongside of it in search of a snow-bridge, which we at length found, but the keystone of the arch had, unfortunately, given way, leaving projecting eaves of snow at both sides, between which we could look into the gulf, till the gloom of its deeper portions cut the vision short. Both sides of the crevasse were sounded, but no sure footing was obtained; the snow was beaten and carefully trodden down as near to the edge as possible, but it finally broke away from the foot and fell into the chasm. One of our porters was short-legged and a bad iceman; the other was a daring fellow, and he now threw the knapsack from his shoulders, came to the edge of the crevasse, looked into it, but drew back again. After a pause he repeated the act, testing the snow with his feet and staff. I looked at the man as he stood beside the chasm manifestly undecided as to whether he should take the step upon which his life would hang, and thought it advisable to put a stop to such perilous play. I accordingly interposed, the man withdrew from the crevasse, and he and Simond descended to fetch the ladder. While they were away Huxley sat down upon the ice, with an expression of fatigue stamped upon his countenance; the spirit and the muscles were evidently at war, and the resolute will mixed itself strangely with the sense of peril and feeling of exhaustion. He had been only two days with us, and, tho' his strength is great, he had had no opportunity of hardening himself by previous exercise upon the ice for the task which he had undertaken. The ladder now arrived, and we crossed the crevasse. I was intentionally the last of the party, Huxley being immediately in front of me. The determination of the man disguised his real condition from everybody but himself, but I saw that the exhausting journey over the boulders and débris had been too much for his London limbs. Converting my waterproof haversack into a cushion, I made him sit down upon it at intervals, and by thus breaking the steep ascent into short stages we reached the cabin of the Grands Mulets together. Here I spread a rug on the boards, and, placing my bag for a pillow, he lay down, and after an hour's profound sleep he rose refreshed and well; but still he thought it wise not to attempt the ascent farther. Our porters left us; a baton was stretched across the room over the stove, and our wet socks and leggings were thrown across it to dry; our boots were placed around the fire, and we set about preparing our evening meal. A pan was placed upon the fire, and filled with snow, which in due time melted and boiled; I ground some chocolate and placed it in the pan, and afterward ladled the beverage into the vessels we possest, which consisted of two earthen dishes and the metal cases of our brandy flasks. After supper Simond went out to inspect the glacier, and was observed by Huxley, as twilight fell, in a state of deep contemplation beside a crevasse. Gradually the stars appeared, but as yet no moon. Before lying down we went out to look at the firmament, and noticed, what I supposed has been observed to some extent by everybody, that the stars near the horizon twinkled busily, while those near the zenith shone with a steady light. One large star, in particular, excited our admiration; it flashed intensely, and changed color incessantly, sometimes blushing like a ruby, and again gleaming like an emerald. A determinate color would sometimes remain constant for a sensible time, but usually the flashes followed each other in very quick succession. Three planks were now placed across the room near the stove, and upon these, with their rugs folded round them, Huxley and Hirst stretched themselves, while I nestled on the boards at the most distant end of the room. We rose at eleven o'clock, renewed the fire and warmed ourselves, after which we lay down again. I, at length, observed a patch of pale light upon the wooden wall of the cabin, which had entered through a hole in the end of the edifice, and rising found that it was past one o'clock. The cloudless moon was shining over the wastes of snow, and the scene outside was at once wild, grand, and beautiful. Breakfast was soon prepared, tho' not without difficulty; we had no candles, they had been forgotten; but I fortunately possest a box of wax matches, of which Huxley took charge, patiently igniting them in succession, and thus giving us a tolerably continuous light. We had some tea, which had been made at the Montanvert,[56] and carried to the Grands Mulets in a bottle. My memory of that tea is not pleasant; it had been left a whole night in contact with its leaves, and smacked strongly of tannin. The snow-water, moreover, with which we diluted it was not pure, but left a black residuum at the bottom of the dishes in which the beverage was served. The few provisions deemed necessary being placed in Simond's knapsack, at twenty minutes past two o'clock we scrambled down the rocks, leaving Huxley behind us. The snow was hardened by the night's frost, and we were cheered by the hope of being able to accomplish the ascent with comparatively little labor. We were environed by an atmosphere of perfect purity; the larger stars hung like gems above us, and the moon, about half full, shone with wondrous radiance in the dark firmament. One star in particular, which lay eastward from the moon, suddenly made its appearance above one of the Aiguilles, and burned there with unspeakable splendor. We turned once toward the Mulets, and saw Huxley's form projected against the sky as he stood upon a pinnacle of rock; he gave us a last wave of the hand and descended, while we receded from him into the solitudes. The evening previous our guide had examined the glacier for some distance, his progress having been arrested by a crevasse. Beside this we soon halted: it was spanned at one place by a bridge of snow, which was of too light a structure to permit of Simond's testing it alone; we therefore paused while our guide uncoiled a rope and tied us all together. The moment was to me a peculiarly solemn one. Our little party seemed so lonely and so small amid the silence and the vastness of the surrounding scene. We were about to try our strength under unknown conditions, and as the various possibilities of the enterprise crowded on the imagination, a sense of responsibility for a moment opprest me. But as I looked aloft and saw the glory of the heavens, my heart lightened, and I remarked cheerily to Hirst that Nature seemed to smile upon our work. "Yes," he replied, in a calm and earnest voice, "and, God willing, we shall accomplish it." A pale light now overspread the eastern sky, which increased, as we ascended, to a daffodil tinge; this afterward heightened to orange, deepening at one extremity into red, and fading at the other into a pure, ethereal hue to which it would be difficult to assign a special name. Higher up the sky was violet, and this changed by insensible degrees into the darkling blue of the zenith, which had to thank the light of moon and stars alone for its existence. We wound steadily for a time through valleys of ice, climbed white and slippery slopes, crossed a number of crevasses, and after some time found ourselves beside a chasm of great depth and width, which extended right and left as far as we could see. We turned to the left, and marched along its edge in search of a "pont"; but matters became gradually worse; other crevasses joined on to the first one, and the further we proceeded the more riven and dislocated the ice became. At length we reached a place where further advance was impossible. Simond, in his difficulty complained of the want of light, and wished us to wait for the advancing day; I, on the contrary, thought that we had light enough and ought to make use of it. Here the thought occurred to me that Simond, having been only once before to the top of the mountain, might not be quite clear about the route; the glacier, however, changes within certain limits from year to year, so that a general knowledge was all that could be expected, and we trusted to our own muscles to make good any mistake in the way of guidance. We now turned and retraced our steps along the edges of chasms where the ice was disintegrated and insecure, and succeeded at length in finding a bridge which bore us across the crevasse. This error caused us the loss of an hour, and after walking for this time we could cast a stone from the point we had attained to the place whence we had been compelled to return. Our way now lay along the face of a steep incline of snow, which was cut by the fissure we had just passed, in a direction parallel to our route. On the heights to our right, loose ice-crags seemed to totter, and we passed two tracks over which the frozen blocks had rushed some short time previously. We were glad to get out of the range of these terrible projectiles, and still more so to escape the vicinity of that ugly crevasse. To be killed in the open air would be a luxury, compared with having the life squeezed out of one in the horrible gloom of these chasms. The blush of the coming day became more and more intense; still the sun himself did not appear, being hidden from us by the peaks of the Aiguille du Midi, which were drawn clear and sharp against the brightening sky. Right under this Aiguille were heaps of snow smoothly rounded and constituting a portion of the sources whence the Glacier du Géant is fed; these, as the day advanced, bloomed with a rosy light. We reached the Petit Plateau, which we found covered with the remains of ice avalanches; above us upon the crest of the mountain rose three mighty bastions, divided from each other by deep, vertical rents, with clean smooth walls, across which the lines of annual bedding were drawn like courses of masonry. From these, which incessantly renew themselves, and from the loose and broken ice-crags near them, the boulders amid which we now threaded our way had been discharged. When they fall their descent must be sublime. The snow had been gradually getting deeper, and the ascent more wearisome, but superadded to this at the Petit Plateau was the uncertainty of the footing between the blocks of ice. In many places the space was merely covered by a thin crust, which, when trod upon, instantly yielded and we sank with a shock sometimes to the hips. Our way next lay up a steep incline to the Grand Plateau, the depth and tenderness of the snow augmenting as we ascended. We had not yet seen the sun, but as we attained the brow which forms the entrance to the Grand Plateau, he hung his disk upon a spike of rock to our left, and, surrounded by a glory of interference spectra of the most gorgeous colors, blazed down upon us. On the Grand Plateau we halted and had our frugal refreshment. At some distance to our left was the crevasse into which Dr. Hamel's three guides were precipitated by an avalanche in 1820; they are still entombed in the ice, and some future explorer may, perhaps, see them disgorged lower down, fresh and undecayed. They can hardly reach the surface until they pass the snow-line of the glacier, for above this line the quantity of snow that annually falls being in excess of the quantity melted, the tendency would be to make the ice-covering above them thicker. But it is also possible that the waste of the ice underneath may have brought the bodies to the bed of the glacier, where their very bones may have been ground to mud by an agency which the hardest rocks can not withstand. As the sun poured his light upon the Plateau the little snow-facets sparkled brilliantly, sometimes with a pure white light, and at others with prismatic colors. Contrasted with the white spaces above and around us were the dark mountains on the opposite side of the valley of Chamouni, around which fantastic masses of cloud were beginning to build themselves. Mont Buet, with its cone of snow, looked small, and the Brevent altogether mean; the limestone bastions of the Fys, however, still presented a front of gloom and grandeur. We traversed the Grand Plateau, and at length reached the base of an extremely steep incline which stretched upward toward the Corridor. Here, as if produced by a fault, consequent upon the sinking of the ice in front, rose a vertical precipice, from the coping of which vast stalactites of ice depended. Previous to reaching this place I had noticed a haggard expression upon the countenance of our guide, which was now intensified by the prospect of the ascent before him. Hitherto he had always been in front, which was certainly the most fatiguing position. I felt that I must now take the lead, so I spoke cheerily to the man and placed him behind me. Marking a number of points upon the slope as resting places, I went swiftly from one to the other. The surface of the snow had been partially melted by the sun and then refrozen, thus forming a superficial crust, which bore the weight up to a certain point, and then suddenly gave way, permitting the leg to sink to above the knee. The shock consequent on this, and the subsequent effort necessary to extricate the leg, were extremely fatiguing. My motion was complained of as too quick, and my tracks as imperfect; I moderated the former, and to render my footholes broad and sure, I stamped upon the frozen crust, and twisted my legs in the soft mass underneath,--a terribly exhausting process. I thus led the way to the base of the Rochers Bouges, up to which the fault already referred to had prolonged itself as a crevasse, which was roofed at one place by a most dangerous-looking snow-bridge. Simond came to the front; I drew his attention to the state of the snow, and proposed climbing the Rochers Rouges; but, with a promptness unusual with him, he replied that this was impossible; the bridge was our only means of passing, and we must try it. We grasped our ropes, and dug our feet firmly into the snow to check the man's descent if the "pont" gave way, but to our astonishment it bore him, and bore us safely after him. The slope which we had now to ascend had the snow swept from its surface, and was therefore firm ice. It was most dangerously steep, and, its termination being the fretted coping of the precipice to which I have referred, if we slid downward we should shoot over this and be dashed to pieces upon the ice below.[57] Simond, who had come to the front to cross the crevasse, was now engaged in cutting steps, which he made deep and large, so that they might serve us on our return. But the listless strokes of his ax proclaimed his exhaustion; so I took the implement out of his hands, and changed places with him. Step after step was hewn, but the top of the Corridor appeared ever to recede from us. Hirst was behind, unoccupied, and could thus turn his thoughts to the peril of our position; he "felt" the angle on which we hung, and saw the edge of the precipice, to which less than a quarter of a minute's slide would carry us, and for the first time during the journey he grew giddy. A cigar which he lighted for the purpose tranquilized him. I hewed sixty steps upon this slope, and each step had cost a minute, by Hirst's watch. The Mur de la Côte was still before us, and on this the guide-books informed us two or three hundred steps were sometimes found necessary. If sixty steps cost an hour, what would be the cost of two hundred? The question was disheartening in the extreme, for the time at which we had calculated on reaching the summit was already passed, while the chief difficulties remained unconquered. Having hewn our way along the harder ice we reached snow. I again resorted to stamping to secure a footing, and while thus engaged became, for the first time, aware of the drain of force to which I was subjecting myself. The thought of being absolutely exhausted had never occurred to me, and from first to last I had taken no care to husband my strength. I always calculated that the "will" would serve me even should the muscles fail, but I now found that mechanical laws rule man in the long run; that no effort of will, no power of spirit, can draw beyond a certain limit upon muscular force. The soul, it is true, can stir the body to action, but its function is to excite and apply force, and not to create it. While stamping forward through the frozen crust I was compelled to pause at short intervals; then would set out again apparently fresh, to find, however, in a few minutes, that my strength was gone, and that I required to rest once more. In this way I gained the summit of the Corridor, when Hirst came to the front, and I felt some relief in stepping slowly after him, making use of the holes into which his feet had sunk. He thus led the way to the base of the Mur de la Côte, the thought of which had so long cast a gloom upon us; here we left our rope behind us, and while pausing I asked Simond whether he did not feel a desire to go to the summit. "Surely," was his reply, "but!--" Our guide's mind was so constituted that the "but" seemed essential to its peace. I stretched my hands toward him, and said: "Simond, we must do it." One thing alone I felt could defeat us: the usual time of the ascent had been more than doubled, the day was already far spent, and if the ascent would throw our subsequent descent into night it could not be contemplated. We now faced the Mur, which was by no means so bad as we had expected. Driving the iron claws of our boots into the scars made by the ax, and the spikes of our batons into the slope above our feet, we ascended steadily until the summit was attained, and the top of the mountain rose clearly above us. We congratulated ourselves upon this; but Simond, probably fearing that our joy might become too full, remarked: "But the summit is still far off!" It was, alas! too true. The snow became soft again, and our weary limbs sank in it as before. Our guide went on in front, audibly muttering his doubts as to our ability to reach the top, and at length he threw himself upon the snow, and exclaimed, "I give up!" Hirst now undertook the task of rekindling the guide's enthusiasm, after which Simond rose, exclaiming: "Oh, but this makes my knees ache!" and went forward. Two rocks break through the snow between the summit of the Mur and the top of the mountain; the first is called the Petits Mulets, and the highest the Derniers Rochers. At the former of these we paused to rest, and finished our scanty store of wine and provisions. We had not a bit of bread nor a drop of wine left; our brandy flasks were also nearly exhausted, and thus we had to contemplate the journey to the summit, and the subsequent descent to the Grands Mulets, with out the slightest prospect of physical refreshment. The almost total loss of two nights' sleep, with two days' toil superadded, made me long for a few minutes' doze, so I stretched myself upon a composite couch of snow and granite, and immediately fell asleep. My friend, however, soon aroused me. "You quite frighten me," he said; "I have listened for some minutes, and have not heard you breathe once." I had, in reality, been taking deep draughts of the mountain air, but so silently as not to be heard. I now filled our empty wine-bottle with snow and placed it in the sunshine, that we might have a little water on our return. We then rose; it was half-past two o'clock; we had been upward of twelve hours climbing, and I calculated that, whether we reached the summit or not, we could at all events work "toward" it for another hour. To the sense of fatigue previously experienced, a new phenomenon was now added--the beating of the heart. We were incessantly pulled up by this, which sometimes became so intense as to suggest danger. I counted the number of paces which we were able to accomplish without resting, and found that at the end of every twenty, sometimes at the end of fifteen, we were compelled to pause. At each pause my heart throbbed audibly, as I leaned upon my staff, and the subsidence of this action was always the signal for further advance. My breathing was quick, but light and unimpeded. I endeavored to ascertain whether the hip-joint, on account of the diminished atmospheric pressure, became loosened, so as to throw the weight of the leg upon the surrounding ligaments, but could not be certain about it. I also sought a little aid and encouragement from philosophy, endeavoring to remember what great things had been done by the accumulation of small quantities, and I urged upon myself that the present was a case in point, and that the summation of distances twenty paces each must finally place us at the top. Still the question of time left the matter long in doubt, and until we had passed the Derniers Rochers we worked on with the stern indifference of men who were doing their duty, and did not look to consequences. Here, however, a gleam of hope began to brighten our souls: the summit became visible nearer, Simond showed more alacrity; at length success became certain, and at half-past three P.M. my friend and I clasped hands upon the top. The summit of the mountain is an elongated ridge, which has been compared to the back of an ass. It was perfectly manifest that we were dominant over all other mountains; as far as the eye could range Mont Blanc had no competitor. The summits which had looked down upon us in the morning were now far beneath us. The Dôme du Goûté, which had held its threatening "séracs" above us so long, was now at our feet. The Aiguille du Midi, Mont Blanc du Tacul, and the Monts Maudits, the Talèfre, with its surrounding peaks, the Grand Jorasse, Mont Mallet, and the Aiguille du Géant, with our own familiar glaciers, were all below us. And as our eye ranged over the broad shoulders of the mountain, over ice hills and valleys, plateaux and far-stretching slopes of snow, the conception of its magnitude grew upon us, and imprest us more and more. The clouds were very grand--grander, indeed, than anything I had ever before seen. Some of them seemed to hold thunder in their breasts, they were so dense and dark; others, with their faces turned sunward, shone with the dazzling whiteness of the mountain snow; while others again built themselves into forms resembling gigantic elm trees, loaded with foliage. Toward the horizon the luxury of color added itself to the magnificent alternation of light and shade. Clear spaces of amber and ethereal green embraced the red and purple cumuli, and seemed to form the cradle in which they swung. Closer at hand squally mists, suddenly engendered, were driven hither and thither by local winds; while the clouds at a distance lay "like angels sleeping on the wing," with scarcely visibly motion. Mingling with the clouds, and sometimes rising above them, were the highest mountain heads, and as our eyes wandered from peak to peak, onward to the remote horizon, space itself seemed more vast from the manner in which the objects which it held were distributed.... The day was waning, and, urged by the warnings of our ever-prudent guide, we at length began the descent. Gravity was in our favor, but gravity could not entirely spare our wearied limbs, and where we sank in the snow we found our downward progress very trying. I suffered from thirst, but after we had divided the liquefied snow at the Petits Mulets among us we had nothing to drink. I crammed the clean snow into my mouth, but the process of melting was slow and tantalizing to a parched throat, while the chill was painful to the teeth. THE JUNGFRAU-JOCH[58] BY SIR LESLIE STEPHEN I was once more standing upon the Wengern Alp, and gazing longingly at the Jungfrau-Joch. Surely the Wengern Alp must be precisely the loveliest place in this world. To hurry past it, and listen to the roar of the avalanches, is a very unsatisfactory mode of enjoyment; it reminds one too much of letting off crackers in a cathedral. The mountains seem to be accomplices of the people who charge fifty centimes for an echo. But it does one's moral nature good to linger there at sunset or in the early morning, when tourists have ceased from traveling; and the jaded cockney may enjoy a kind of spiritual bath in the soothing calmness of scenery.... We, that is a little party of six Englishmen with six Oberland guides, who left the inn at 3 A.M. on July 20, 1862, were not, perhaps, in a specially poetical mood. Yet as the sun rose while we were climbing the huge buttress of the Mönch, the dullest of us--I refer, of course, to myself--felt something of the spirit of the scenery. The day was cloudless, and a vast inverted cone of dazzling rays suddenly struck upward into the sky through the gap between the Mönch and the Eiger, which, as some effect of perspective shifted its apparent position, looked like a glory streaming from the very summit of the Eiger. It was a good omen, if not in any more remote sense, yet as promising a fine day. After a short climb we descended upon the Gugg, glacier, most lamentably unpoetical of names, and mounted by it to the great plateau which lies below the cliffs immediately under the col. We reached this at about seven, and, after a short meal, carefully examined the route above us. Half way between us and the col lay a small and apparently level plateau of snow. Once upon it we felt confident that we could get to the top.... We plunged at once into the maze of crevasses, finding our passage much facilitated by the previous efforts of our guides. We were constantly walking over ground strewed with crumbling blocks of ice, the recent fall of which was proved by their sharp white fractures, and with a thing like an infirm toad stool twenty feet high, towering above our heads. Once we passed under a natural arch of ice, built in evident disregard of all principles of architectural stability. Hurrying judiciously at such critical points, and creeping slowly round those where the footing was difficult, we manage to thread the labyrinth safely, whilst Rubi appeared to think it rather pleasant than otherwise in such places to have his head fixt in a kind of pillory between two rungs of a ladder, with twelve feet of it sticking out behind and twelve feet before him. We reached the gigantic crevasse at 7.35. We passed along it to a point where its two lips nearly joined, and the side furthest from us was considerably higher than that upon which we stood. Fixing the foot of the ladder upon this ledge, we swung the top over, and found that it rested satisfactorily against the opposite bank. Almer crept up it, and made the top firmer by driving his ax into the snow underneath the highest step. The rest of us followed, carefully roped, and with the caution to rest our knees on the sides of the ladder, as several of the steps were extremely weak--a remark which was equally applicable to one, at least, of the sides. We crept up the rickety old machine, however, looking down between our legs into the blue depths of the crevasse, and at 8.15 the whole party found itself satisfactorily perched on the edge of the nearly level snow plateau, looking up at the long slopes of broken névé that led to the col.... When the man behind was also engaged in hauling himself up by the rope attached to your waist, when the two portions of the rope formed an acute angle, when your footing was confined to the insecure grip of one toe on a slippery bit of ice, and when a great hummock of hard sérac was pressing against the pit of your stomach and reducing you to a position of neutral equilibrium, the result was a feeling of qualified acquiescence in Michel or Almer's lively suggestion of "Vorwärts! vorwärts!" Somehow or other we did ascend. The excitement made the time seem short; and after what seemed to me to be half an hour, which was in fact nearly two hours, we had crept, crawled, climbed and wormed our way through various obstacles, till we found ourselves brought up by a huge overhanging wall of blue ice. This wall was no doubt the upper side of a crevasse, the lower part of which had been filled by snow-drift. Its face was honeycombed by the usual hemispherical chippings, which somehow always reminds me of the fretted walls of the Alhambra; and it was actually hollowed out so that its upper edge overhung our heads at a height of some twenty or thirty feet; the long fringe of icicles which adorned it had made a slippery pathway of ice at two or three feet distance from the foot of the wall by the freezing water which dripped from them; and along this we crept, in hopes that none of the icicles would come down bodily. The wall seemed to thin out and become much lower toward our left, and we moved cautiously toward its lowest point. The edge upon which we walked was itself very narrow, and ran down at a steep angle to the top of a lower icefall which repeated the form of the upper. It almost thinned out at the point where the upper wall was lowest. Upon this inclined ledge, however, we fixt the foot of our ladder. The difficulty of doing so conveniently was increased by a transverse crevasse which here intersected the other system. The foot, however, was fixt and rendered tolerably safe by driving in firmly several of our alpenstocks and axes under the lowest step. Almer, then, amidst great excitement, went forward to mount it. Should we still find an impassable system of crevasses above us, or were we close to the top? A gentle breeze which had been playing along the last ledge gave me hope that we were really not far off. As Almer reached the top about twelve o'clock, a loud yodel gave notice to all the party that our prospects were good. I soon followed, and saw, to my great delight, a stretch of smooth, white snow, without a single crevasse, rising in a gentle curve from our feet to the top of the col. The people who had been watching us from the Wengern Alp had been firing salutes all day, whenever the idea struck them, and whenever we surmounted a difficulty, such as the first great crevasse. We heard the faint sound of two or three guns as we reached the final plateau. We should, properly speaking, have been uproariously triumphant over our victory. To say the truth, our party of that summer was only too apt to break out into undignified explosions of animal spirits, bordering at times upon horseplay.... The top of the Jungfrau-Joch comes rather like a bathos in poetry. It rises so gently above the steep ice wall, and it is so difficult to determine the precise culminating point, that our enthusiasm oozed out gradually instead of producing a sudden explosion; and that instead of giving three cheers, singing "God Save the Queen," or observing any of the traditional ceremonial of a simpler generation of travelers, we calmly walked forward as tho' we had been crossing Westminster Bridge, and on catching sight of a small patch of rocks near the foot of the Mönch, rushed precipitately down to it and partook of our third breakfast. Which things, like most others, might easily be made into an allegory. The great dramatic moments of life are very apt to fall singularly flat. We manage to discount all their interest beforehand; and are amazed to find that the day to which we have looked forward so long--the day, it may be, of our marriage, or ordination, or election to be Lord Mayor--finds us curiously unconscious of any sudden transformation and as strongly inclined to prosaic eating and drinking as usual. At a later period we may become conscious of its true significance, and perhaps the satisfactory conquest of this new pass has given us more pleasure in later years than it did at the moment. However that may be, we got under way again after a meal and a chat, our friends Messrs. George and Moore descending the Aletsch glacier to the Aeggischhorn, whose summit was already in sight, and deceptively near in appearance. The remainder of the party soon turned off to the left, and ascended the snow slopes to the gap between the Mönch and Trugberg. As we passed these huge masses, rising in solitary grandeur from the center of one of the noblest snowy wastes of the Alps, Morgan reluctantly confest for the first time that he knew nothing exactly like it in Wales. XI OTHER ALPINE TOPICS THE GREAT ST. BERNARD HOSPICE[59] BY ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL KNOWLES The Pass of the Great St. Bernard was a well-known one long before the hospice was built. Before the Christian era, the Romans used it as a highway across the Alps, constantly improving the road as travel over it increased. Many lives were lost, however, as no material safeguards could obviate the danger from the elements, and no one will ever know the number of souls who met their end in the blinding snows and chilling blasts of those Alpine heights. To Bernard de Menthon is due the credit of the mountain hospice. He was the originator of the idea and the founder of the institution. He has since been canonized as a saint and he well deserved the honor, if it be a virtue to sacrifice oneself, as we believe, and to try and save the lives of one's fellows! It is no easy existence which St. Bernard chose for himself and followers. The very aspect of the pass is grand but gloomy. None of the softness of nature is seen. There is no verdure, no beauty of coloring, nothing but bleak, bare rock, great piles of stones, and occasional patches of fallen snow. It is thoroughly exposed, the winds always moaning mournfully around the buildings.... The trip begins at Martigny. First there is a level stretch, then a long, steady climb, after which begins the real road to the pass. The views are very lovely, and while quite different in some ways excel all passes except the famous Simplon. The scenery is very varied, the mountains are far enough off to give a good perspective, and the villages are most picturesque. The absence of snow peaks in any great number will be felt by some, but even a lover of such soon forgets the lack in the exceeding beauty and loveliness of the valleys. Toward the top of the pass there is quite a transformation. Both the road and the scenery change, the first becoming more and more steep and stony, the latter showing more and more of savage grandeur, as the green, smiling valleys are no longer seen, but in their place appear barren and rugged rocks and slopes, with the marks of the ravages wrought by storm, landslide and avalanche. The wind has fuller play and seems to moan in a mournful, dirge-like manner, accentuating the characteristics of bleakness and desolation which obtain at the top of the pass, all the more noticeable if the traveler arrives at dusk, just as the sun has disappeared behind the mountains. In this dreary place stands the hospice. The present buildings are not very old, the hospice only dating from the sixteenth century and the church from the seventeenth century, while the other structures, which have been built for the accommodation of strangers are comparatively new. Twelve monks of the Augustinian Order are regularly in residence here. They come when about twenty years of age; but so severe is the climate, so hard the life and so stern the rule that, after a service of about fifteen years, they generally have to seek a lower altitude, often ruined in health, with their powers completely sapped by the rigors and privations which they have endured. Altho the hospice and the adjoining hostelry for the travelers are cheerless in the extreme, there is always a warm welcome from the monks. No one, however poor, is refused bed and board for the night, and there is no "distinction of persons." The hospitality is extended to all, free of charge, this being the invariable rule of the institution, but it is expected, and rightly so, that those who can do so will deposit a liberal offering in the box provided for the purpose. The small receipts, however, show what a great abuse there is of this hospitality, for a large number of those who come in the summer could well afford to give and to give largely. We hear much of the courage and perseverance of Hannibal and Cæsar in leading their armies over the Alps! We see pictures of Napoleon and his soldiers as they toiled up the pass, dragging along their frozen guns, and perhaps falling into a fatal sleep about their dying camp fires at night! And we rightly admire such bravery, and thrill with admiration at the tale. Yet those armies which crossed the Alps failed to equal the heroic self-sacrifice of those soldiers of the cross, the Monks of the Grand St. Bernard, who remain for years at their post, unknown and unsung by the wide, wide world, simply to save and shelter the humble travelers who come to grief in their winter journey across the pass, in search of work. AVALANCHES[60] BY VICTOR TISSOT Beside this dazzling, magnificent snow, covering the chain of lofty peaks like an immaculate altar cloth, what a gloomy, dull look there is in the snow of the plains! One might think it was made of sugar or confectionery, that it was false like all the rest. To know what snow really is--to get quit of this feeling of artificial snow that we have when we see the stunted shrubs in our Parisian gardens wrapt, as it were, in silk paper like bits of Christmas trees--it must be seen here in these far-off, high valleys of the Engandine, that lie for eight months dead under their shroud of snow, and often, even in the height of summer, have to shiver anew under some wintry flakes. It is here that snow is truly beautiful! It shines in the sun with a dazzling whiteness; it sparkles with a thousand fires like diamond dust; it shows gleams like the plumage of a white dove, and it is as firm under the foot as a marble pavement. It is so fine-grained, so compact, that it clings like dust to every crevice and bend, to every projecting edge and point, and follows every outline of the mountain, the form of which it leaves as clearly defined as if it were a covering of thin gauze. It sports in the most charming decorations, carves alabaster facings and cornices on the cliffs, wreathes them in delicate lace, covers them with vast canopies of white satin spangled with stars and fringed with silver. And yet this dry, hard snow is extremely susceptible to the slightest shock, and may be set in motion by a very trifling disturbance of the air. The flight of a bird, the cracking of a whip, the tinkling of bells, even the conversation of persons going along sometimes suffices to shake and loosen it from the vertical face of the cliffs to which it is clinging; and it runs down like grains of sand, growing as it falls, by drawing down with it other beds of snow. It is like a torrent, a snowy waterfall, bursting out suddenly from the side of the mountain; it rushes down with a terrible noise, swollen with the snows that it carries down in its furious course; it breaks against the rocks, divides and joins again like an overflowing stream, and with a wild tempest blast resumes its desolating course, filling the echoes with the deafening thunder of battle. You think for a moment that a storm has begun, but looking at the sky you see it serenely blue, smiling, cloudless. The rush becomes more and more violent; it comes nearer, the ground trembles, the trees bend and break with a sharp crack; enormous stones and blocks of ice are carried away like gravel; and the mighty avalanche, with a crash like a train running off the rails over a precipice, drops to the foot of the mountain, destroying, crushing down everything before it, and covering the ground with a bed of snow from thirty to fifty feet deep. When a stream of water wears a passage for itself under this compact mass, it is sometimes hollowed out into an arched way, and the snow becomes so solid that carriages and horses can go through without danger, even in the middle of summer. But often the water does not find a course by which to flow away; and then, when the snow begins to melt, the water seeps into the fissures, loosens the mass that chokes up the valley, and carries it down, rending its banks as it goes, carrying away bridges, mills, and trees, and overthrowing houses. The avalanche has become an inundation. The mountaineers make a distinction between summer and winter avalanches. The former are solid avalanches, formed of old snow that has almost acquired the consistency of ice. The warm breath of spring softens it, loosens it from the rocks on which it hangs, and it slides down into the valleys. These are called "melting avalanches." They regularly follow certain tracks, and these are embanked, like the course of a river, with wood or bundles of branches. It is in order to protect the alpine roads from these avalanches that those long open galleries have been built on the face of the precipice. The most dreaded and most terrible avalanches, those of dry, powdery snow, occur only in winter, when sudden squalls and hurricanes of snow throw the whole atmosphere into chaos. They come down in sudden whirlwinds, with the violence of a waterspout, and in a few minutes whole villages are buried.... Here, in the Grisons, the whole village of Selva was buried under an avalanche. Nothing remained visible but the top of the church steeple, looking like a pole planted in the snow. Baron Munchausen might have tied his horse there without inventing any lie about it. The Val Verzasca was covered for several months by an avalanche of nearly 1,000 feet in length and 50 in depth. All communication through the valley was stopt; it was impossible to organize help; and the alarm-bell was incessantly sounding over the immense white desolation like a knell for the dead. In the narrow defile in which we now are, there are many remains of avalanches that neither the water of the torrent nor the heat of the sun has had power to melt. The bed of the river is strewn with displaced and broken rocks, and great stones bound together by the snow as if with cement; the surges dash against these rocky obstacles, foaming angrily, with the blind fury of a wild beast. And the moan of the powerless water flows on into the depth of the valley, and is lost far off in a hollow murmur. HUNTING THE CHAMOIS[61] BY VICTOR TISSOT Schmidt swept with his cap the snow which covered the stones on which we were to seat ourselves for breakfast, then unpacked the provisions; slices of veal and ham, hard-boiled eggs, wine of the Valtelline. His knapsack, covered with a napkin, served for our table. While we sat, we devoured the landscape, the twelve glaciers spreading around us their carpet of swansdown and ermine, sinking into crevasses of a magical transparency, and raising their blocks, shaped into needles, or into Gothic steeples with pierced arches. The architecture of the glacier is marvelous. Its decorations are the decorations of fairyland. Quite near us marks of animals in the snow attracted our attention. Schmidt said to us: "Chamois have been here this morning; the traces are quite fresh. They must have seen us and made off; the chamois are as distrustful, you see, as the marmots, and as wary. At this season they keep on the glaciers by preference. They live on so little! A few herbs, a few mosses, such as grow on isolated rocks like this. I assure you it is very amusing to see a herd of twenty or thirty chamois cross at a headlong pace a vast field of snow, or glacier, where they bound over the crevasses in play. "One would say they were reindeers in a Lapland scene. It is only at night that they come down into the valleys. In the moonlight they come out of the moraines, and go to pasture on the grassy slopes or in the forest adjoining the glaciers. During the day they go up again into the snow, for which they have an extraordinary love, and in which they skip and play, amusing themselves like a band of scholars in play hours. They tease one another, butt with their horns in fun, run off, return, pretend new attacks and new flights with charming agility and frolicsomeness. "While the young ones give themselves up to their sports, an old female, posted as sentinel at some yards distance, watches the valley and scents the air. At the slightest indication of danger, she utters a sharp cry; the games cease instantly, and the whole anxious troop assembles round the guardian, then the whole herd sets off at a gallop and disappears in the twinkling of an eye.... "Hunting on the névés and the glaciers is very dangerous. When the snow is fresh it is with difficulty one can advance. The hunters use wooden snowshoes, like those of the Esquimaux. "One of my comrades, in hunting on the Roseg, disappeared in the bottom of a crevasse. It was over thirty feet deep. Imagine two perfectly smooth sides; two walls of crystal. To reascend was impossible. It was certain death, either from cold or hunger; for it was known that when he went chamois-hunting he was often absent for several days. He could not therefore count on help being sent; he must resign himself to death. "One thing, however, astonished him; it was to find so little water in the bottom of the crevasse. Could there be then an opening at the bottom of the funnel into which he had fallen? He stooped, examined this grave in which he had been buried alive, discovered that the heat of the sun had caused the base of the glacier to melt. A canal drainage had been formed. Laying himself flat, he slid into this dark passage, and after a thousand efforts he arrived at the end of the glacier in the moraine, safe and sound." We had finished breakfast. We wanted something warm, a little coffee. Schmidt set up our spirit-lamp behind two great stones that protected it from the wind. And while we waited for the water to boil, he related to us the story of Colani, the legendary hunter of the upper Engandine. "Colani, in forty years, killed two thousand seven hundred chamois. This strange man had carved out for himself a little kingdom in the mountain. He claimed to reign there alone, to be absolute master. When a stranger penetrated into his residence, within the domain of 'his reserved hunting-ground,' as he called the regions of the Bernina, he treated him as a poacher, and chased him with a gun.... "Colani was feared and dreaded as a diabolical and supernatural being; and indeed he took no pains to undeceive the public, for the superstitious terrors inspired by his person served to keep away all the chamois-hunters from his chamois, which he cared for and managed as a great lord cares for the deer in his forests. Round the little house which he had built for himself on the Col de Bernina, and where he passed the summer and autumn, two hundred chamois, almost tame, might be seen wandering about and browsing. Every year he killed about fifty old males." THE CELEBRITIES OF GENEVA[62] BY FRANCIS H. GRIBBLE It has been remarked as curious that the Age of Revolution at Geneva was also the Golden Age--if not of Genevan literature, which has never really had any Golden Age, at least of Genevan science, which was of world-wide renown. The period is one in which notable names meet us at every turn. There were exiled Genevans, like de Lolme, holding their own in foreign political and intellectual circles; there were emigrant Genevan pastors holding aloft the lamps of culture and piety in many cities of England, France, Russia, Germany, and Denmark; there were Genevans, like François Lefort, holding the highest offices in the service of foreign rulers; and there were numbers of Genevans at Geneva of whom the cultivated grand tourist wrote in the tone of a disciple writing of his master. One can not glance at the history of the period without lighting upon names of note in almost all departments of endeavor. The period is that of de Saussure, Bourrit, the de Lucs, the two Hubers, great authorities respectively on bees and birds; Le Sage, who was one of Gibbon's rivals for the heart of Mademoiselle Suzanne Curchod; Senebier, the librarian who wrote the first literary history of Geneva; St. Ours and Arlaud, the painters; Charles Bonnet, the entomologist; Bérenger and Picot, the historians; Tronchin, the physician; Trembley and Jallabert, the mathematicians; Dentan, minister and Alpine explorer; Pictet, the editor of the "Bibliothèque Universelle," still the leading Swiss literary review; and Odier, who taught Geneva the virtue of vaccination. It is obviously impossible to dwell at length upon the careers of all these eminent men. As well might one attempt, in a survey on the same scale of English literature, to discuss in detail the careers of all the celebrities of the age of Anne. One can do little more than remark that the list is marvelously strong for a town of some 30,000 inhabitants, and that many of the names included in it are not only eminent, but interesting. Jean André de Luc, for example, has a double claim upon our attention as the inventor of the hygrometer and as the pioneer of the snow-peaks. He climbed the Buet as early as 1770, and wrote an account of his adventures on its summit and its slopes which has the true charm of Arcadian simplicity. He came to England, was appointed reader to Queen Charlotte, and lived in the enjoyment of that office, and in the gratifying knowledge that Her Majesty kept his presentation hygrometer in her private apartments, to the venerable age of ninety. Bourrit is another interesting character--being, in fact, the spiritual ancestor of the modern Alpine Clubman. By profession he was Precentor of the Cathedral; but his heart was in the mountains. In the summer he climbed them, and in the winter he wrote books about them. One of his books was translated into English; and the list of subscribers, published with the translation, shows that the public which Bourrit addrest included Edmund Burke, Sir Joseph Banks, Bartolozzi, Fanny Burney, Angelica Kauffman, David Garrick, Sir Joshua Reynolds, George Augustus Selwyn, Jonas Hanway and Dr. Johnson. His writings earned him the honorable title of Historian (or Historiographer) of the Alps. Men of science wrote him letters; princes engaged upon the grand tour called to see him; princesses sent him presents as tokens of their admiration and regard for the man who had taught them how the contemplation of mountain scenery might exalt the sentiments of the human mind. Tronchin, too, is interesting; he was the first physician who recognized the therapeutic use of fresh air and exercise, hygienic boots, and open windows. So is Charle Bonnet, who was not afraid to stand up for orthodoxy against Voltaire; so is Mallet, who traveled as far as Lapland; and so is that man of whom his contemporaries always spoke, with the reverence of hero-worshipers, as "the illustrious de Saussure."... The name of which the Genevans are proudest is probably that of Rousseau, who has sometimes been spoken of as "the austere citizen of Geneva." But "austere" is a strange epithet to apply to the philosopher who endowed the Foundling Hospital with five illegitimate children; and Geneva can not claim a great share in a citizen who ran away from the town of his boyhood to avoid being thrashed for stealing apples. It was, indeed, at Geneva that Jean Jacques received from his aunt the disciplinary chastisement of which he gives such an exciting account in his "Confessions"; and he once returned to the city and received the Holy Communion there in later life. But that is all. Jean Jacques was not educated at Geneva, but in Savoy--at Annecy, at Turin, and at Chambéry; his books were not printed at Geneva, tho' one of them was publicly burned there, but in Paris and Amsterdam; it is not to Genevan but to French literature that he belongs. We must visit Voltaire at Ferney, and Madame de Staël at Coppet. Let the patriarch come first. Voltaire was sixty years of age when he settled on the shores of the lake, where he was to remain for another four-and-twenty years; and he did not go there for his pleasure. He would have preferred to live in Paris, but was afraid of being locked up in the Bastille. As the great majority of the men of letters of the reign of Louis XV. were, at one time or another, locked up in the Bastille, his fears were probably well founded. Moreover, notes of warning had reached his ears. "I dare not ask you to dine," a relative said to him, "because you are in bad odor at Court." So he betook himself to Geneva, as so many Frenchmen, illustrious and otherwise, had done before, and acquired various properties--at Prangins, at Lausanne, at Saint-Jean (near Geneva), at Ferney, at Tournay, and elsewhere. He was welcomed cordially. Dr. Tronchin, the eminent physician, cooperated in the legal fictions necessary to enable him to become a landowner in the republic. Cramer, the publisher, made a proposal for the issue of a complete and authorized edition of his works. All the best people called. "It is very pleasant," he was able to write, "to live in a country where rulers borrow your carriage to come to dinner with you." Voltaire corresponded regularly with at least four reigning sovereigns, to say nothing of men of letters, Cardinals, and Marshals of France; and he kept open house for travelers of mark from every country in the world. Those of the travelers who wrote books never failed to devote a chapter to an account of a visit to Ferney; and from the mass of such descriptions we may select for quotation that written, in the stately style of the period, by Dr. John Moore, author of "Zeluco," then making the grand tour as tutor to the Duke of Hamilton. "The most piercing eyes I ever beheld," the doctor writes, "are those of Voltaire, now in his eightieth year. His whole countenance is expressive of genius, observation, and extreme sensibility. In the morning he has a look of anxiety and discontent; but this gradually wears off, and after dinner he seems cheerful; yet an air of irony never entirely forsakes his face, but may always be observed lurking in his features whether he frowns or smiles. Composition is his principal amusement. No author who writes for daily bread, no young poet ardent for distinction, is more assiduous with his pen, or more anxious for fresh fame, than the wealthy and applauded Seigneur of Ferney. He lives in a very hospitable manner, and takes care always to have a good cook. He generally has two or three visitors from Paris, who stay with him a month or six weeks at a time. When they go, their places are soon supplied, so that there is a constant rotation of society at Ferney. These, with Voltaire's own family and his visitors from Geneva, compose a company of twelve or fourteen people, who dine daily at his table, whether he appears or not. All who bring recommendations from his friends may depend upon being received, if he be not really indisposed. He often presents himself to the strangers who assemble every afternoon in his ante-chamber, altho they bring no particular recommendation." It might have been added that when an interesting stranger who carried no introduction was passing through the town, Voltaire sometimes sent for him; but this experiment was not always a success, and failed most ludicrously in the case of Claude Gay, the Philadelphian Quaker, author of some theological works now forgotten, but then of note. The meeting was only arranged with difficulty on the philosopher's undertaking to put a bridle on his tongue, and say nothing flippant about holy things. He tried to keep his promise, but the temptation was too strong for him. After a while he entangled his guest in a controversy concerning the proceedings of the patriarchs and the evidences of Christianity, and lost his temper on finding that his sarcasms failed to make their usual impression. The member of the Society of Friends, however, was not disconcerted. He rose from his place at the dinner-table, and replied: "Friend Voltaire! perhaps thou mayst come to understand these matters rightly; in the meantime, finding I can do thee no good, I leave thee, and so fare thee well." And so saying, he walked out and walked back to Geneva, while Voltaire retired in dudgeon to his room, and the company sat expecting something terrible to happen. A word, in conclusion, about Coppet! Necker[63] bought the property from his old banking partner, Thelusson, for 500,000 livres in French money, and retired to live there when the French Revolution drove him out of politics. His daughter, Madame de Staël, inherited it from him, and made it famous. Not that she loved Switzerland; it would be more true to say that she detested Switzerland. Swiss scenery meant nothing to her. When she was taken for an excursion to the glaciers, she asked what the crime was that she had to expiate by such a punishment; and she could look out on the blue waters of Lake Leman, and sigh for "the gutter of the Rue du Bac." Even to this day, the Swiss have hardly forgiven her for that, or for speaking of the Canton of Vaud as the country in which she had been "so intensely bored for such a number of years." What she wanted was to live in Paris, to be a leader--or, rather, to be "the" leader--of Parisian society, to sit in a salon, the admired of all admirers, and to pull the wires of politics to the advantage of her friends. For a while she succeeded in doing this. It was she who persuaded Barras to give Talleyrand his political start in life. But whereas Barras was willing to act on her advice, Napoleon was by no means equally amenable to her influence. Almost from the first he regarded her as a mischief-maker; and when a spy brought him an intercepted letter in which Madame de Staël exprest her hope that none of the old aristocracy of France would condescend to accept appointments in the household of "the bourgeois of Corsica," he became her personal enemy, and, refusing her permission to live either in the capital or near it, practically compelled her to take refuge in her country seat. Her pleasance in that way became her gilded cage. Perhaps she was not quite so unhappy there as she sometimes represented. If she could not go to Paris, many distinguished and brilliant Parisians came to Coppet, and met there many brilliant and distinguished Germans, Genevans, Italians, and Danes. The Parisian salon, reconstituted, flourished on Swiss soil. There visited there, at one time or another, Madame Récamier and Madame Krüdner; Benjamin Constant, who was so long Madame de Staël's lover; Bonstetten, the Voltairean philosopher; Frederika Brun, the Danish artist; Sismondi, the historian; Werner, the German poet; Karl Ritter, the German geographer; Baron de Voght; Monti, the Italian poet: Madame Vigée Le Brun; Cuvier; and Oelenschlaeger. From almost every one of them we have some pen-and-ink sketch of the life there. This, for instance, is the scene as it appeared to Madame Le Brun, who came to paint the hostess's portrait: "I paint her in antique costume. She is not beautiful, but the animation of her visage takes the place of beauty. To aid the expression I wished to give her, I entreated her to recite tragic verses while I painted. She declaimed passages from Corneille and Racine. I find many persons established at Coppet: the beautiful Madame Récamier, the Comte de Sabran, a young English woman, Benjamin Constant, etc. Its society is continually renewed. They come to visit the illustrious exile who is pursued by the rancor of the Emperor. Her two sons are now with her, under the instruction of the German scholar Schlegel; her daughter is very beautiful, and has a passionate love of study; she leaves her company free all the morning, but they unite in the evening. It is only after dinner that they can converse with her. She then walks in her salon, holding in her hand a little green branch; and her words have an ardor quite peculiar to her; it is impossible to interrupt her. At these times she produces on one the effect of an improvisation." And here is a still more graphic description, taken from a letter written to Madame Récamier by Baron de Voght: "It is to you that I owe my most amiable reception at Coppet. It is no doubt to the favorable expectations aroused by your friendship that I owe my intimate acquaintance with this remarkable woman. I might have met her without your assistance--some casual acquaintance would no doubt have introduced me--but I should never have penetrated to the intimacy of this sublime and beautiful soul, and should never have known how much better she is than her reputation. She is an angel sent from heaven to reveal the divine goodness upon earth. To make her irresistible, a pure ray of celestial light embellishes her spirit and makes her amiable from every point of view. "At once profound and light, whether she is discovering a mysterious secret of the soul or grasping the lightest shadow of a sentiment, her genius shines without dazzling, and when the orb of light has disappeared, it leaves a pleasant twilight to follow it.... No doubt a few faults, a few weaknesses, occasionally veil this celestial apparition; even the initiated must sometimes be troubled by these eclipses, which the Genevan astronomers in vain endeavor to predict. "My travels so far have been limited to journeys to Lausanne and Coppet, where I often stay three or four days. The life there suits me perfectly; the company is even more to my taste. I like Constant's wit, Schlegel's learning, Sabran's amiability, Sismondi's talent and character, the simple truthful disposition and just intellectual perceptions of Auguste,[64] the wit and sweetness of Albertine[65]--I was forgetting Bonstetten, an excellent fellow, full of knowledge of all sorts, ready in wit, adaptable in character--in every way inspiring one's respect and confidence. "Your sublime friend looks and gives life to everything. She imparts intelligence to those around her. In every corner of the house some one is engaged in composing a great work.... Corinne is writing her delightful letters about Germany, which will, no doubt, prove to be the best thing she has ever done. "The 'Shunamitish Widow,' an Oriental melodrama which she has just finished, will be played in October; it is charming. Coppet will be flooded with tears. Constant and Auguste are both composing tragedies; Sabran is writing a comic opera, and Sismondi a history; Schlegel is translating something; Bonstetten is busy with philosophy, and I am busy with my letter to Juliette." Then, a month later: "Since my last letter, Madame de Staël has read us several chapters of her work. Everywhere it bears the marks of her talent. I wish I could persuade her to cut out everything in it connected with politics, and all the metaphors which interfere with its clarity, simplicity, and accuracy. What she needs to demonstrate is not her republicanism, but her wisdom. Mlle. Jenner played in one of Werner's tragedies which was given, last Friday, before an audience of twenty. She, Werner, and Schlegel played perfectly.... "The arrival in Switzerland of M. Cuvier has been a happy distraction for Madame de Staël; they spent two days together at Geneva, and were well pleased with each other. On her return to Coppet she found Middleton there, and in receiving his confidences forgot her troubles. Yesterday she resumed her work. "The poet whose mystical and somber genius has caused us such profound emotions starts, in a few days' time, for Italy. "I accompanied Corinne to Massot's. To alleviate the tedium of the sitting, a Mlle. Romilly played pleasantly on the harp, and the studio was a veritable temple of the Muses.... "Bonstetten gave us two readings of a Memoir on the Northern Alps. It began very well, but afterward it bored us. Madame de Staël resumed her reading, and there was no longer any question of being bored. It is marvelous how much she must have read and thought over to be able to find the opportunity of saying so many good things. One may differ from her, but one can not help delighting in her talent.... "And now here we are at Geneva, trying to reproduce Coppet at the Hôtel des Balances. I am delightfully situated with a wide view over the Valley of Savoy, between the Alps and the Jura. "Yesterday evening the illusion of Coppet was complete. I had been with Madame de Staël to call on Madame Rilliet, who is so charming at her own fireside. On my return I played chess with Sismondi. Madame de Staël, Mlle. Randall, and Mlle. Jenner sat on the sofa chatting with Bonstetten and young Barante. We were as we had always been--as we were in the days that I shall never cease regretting." Other descriptions exist in great abundance, but these suffice to serve our purpose. They show us the Coppet salon as it was pleasant, brilliant, unconventional; something like Holland House, but more Bohemian; something like Harley Street, but more select; something like Gad's Hill--which it resembled in the fact that the members of the house-parties were expected to spend their mornings at their desks--but on a higher social plane; a center at once of high thinking and frivolous behavior; of hard work and desperate love-making, which sometimes paved the way to trouble. Footnotes: [Footnote 1: From "Hungary." Published by the Macmillan Co.] [Footnote 2: From "Hungary." Published by the Macmillan Co.] [Footnote 3: From "Sketches from the Subject and Neighbour Lands of Venice." Published by the Macmillan Co.] [Footnote 4: The modern Marseilles.] [Footnote 5: An ancient Italian town on the Adriatic, founded by Syracusans about 300 B.C. and still an important seaport.] [Footnote 6: The city in Provence where have survived a beautiful Roman arch and a stupendous Roman theater in which classical plays are still given each year by actors from the Theatre Français.] [Footnote 7: Diocletian.] [Footnote 8: A reference to the exquisite Maison Carrée of Nîmes.] [Footnote 9: That is, of Venice.] [Footnote 10: The famous general of the Emperor Justinian, reputed to have become blind and been neglected in his old age.] [Footnote 11: From "Sketches from the Subject and Neighbour Lands of Venice." Published by the Macmillan Co.] [Footnote 12: From "Through Savage Europe." Published by J.B. Lippincott Co.] [Footnote 13: From "Sketches from the Subject and Neighbour Lands of Venice." Published by the Macmillan Co.] [Footnote 14: That is, lands where the Greek Church prevails.] [Footnote 15: John Mason Neale, author of "An Introduction to the History of the Holy Eastern Church."] [Footnote 16: Montenegro.] [Footnote 17: From "A Girl in the Karpathians." After publishing this book. Miss Dowie became the wife of Henry Norman, the author and traveler.] [Footnote 18: One of Poland's greatest poets.] [Footnote 19: From "Views Afoot." Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons.] [Footnote 20: The population now (1914) is 24,000.] [Footnote 21: From "Six Months in Italy." Published by Houghton, Mifflin Co.] [Footnote 22: From "A Bibliographical, Antiquarian and Picturesque Tour," published in 1821.] [Footnote 23: From "Letters of a Traveller." The Tyrol and the Dolomites being mainly Austrian territory, are here included under "Other Austrian Scenes." Resorts in the Swiss Alps, including Chamouni (which, however, is in France), will be found further on in this volume.] [Footnote 24: An Italian poet (1749-1838), who, banished from Venice, settled in New York and became Professor of Italian at Columbia College.] [Footnote 25: From "Adventures in the Alps." Published by George W. Jacobs & Co.] [Footnote 26: In the village of Cadore--hence the name, Titian da Cadore.] [Footnote 27: From "Untrodden Peaks and Unfrequented Valleys: A Midsummer Ramble in the Dolomites." Published by E.P. Dutton & Co.] [Footnote 28: Reaumur.--Author's note.] [Footnote 29: From "My Alpine Jubilee." Published In 1908.] [Footnote 30: From "Adventures in the Alps." Published by George W. Jacobs Company, Philadelphia.] [Footnote 31: Since the above was written, the railway has been extended up the Jungfrau itself.] [Footnote 32: From "Teutonic Switzerland." By special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, L.C. Page & Co. Copyright, 1894.] [Footnote 33: From "Unknown Switzerland." Published by James Pott & Co.] [Footnote 34: From "Teutonic Switzerland." By special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, L.C. Page & Co. Copyright, 1894.] [Footnote 35: The population in 1902 had risen to 152,000.] [Footnote 36: From "Teutonic Switzerland." By special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, L.C. Page & Co. Copyright, 1894.] [Footnote 37: From "The Letters of Percy Bysshe Shelley." Politically, Chamouni is in France, but the aim here has been to bring into one volume all the more popular Alpine resorts. Articles on the Tyrol and the Dolomites will also be found in this volume--under "Other Austrian Scenes."] [Footnote 38: From "Adventures in the Alps." Published by George W. Jacobs & Co.] [Footnote 39: For Mr. Whymper's own account of this famous ascent, see page 127 of this volume.] [Footnote 40: From "Unknown Switzerland." Published by James Pott & Co.] [Footnote 41: From "Geneva."] [Footnote 42: From "Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands."] [Footnote 43: Mrs. Stowe's "Uncle Tom's Cabin" had been published about a year when this remark was made to her.] [Footnote 44: From "Adventures in the Alps." Published by George W. Jacobs & Co.] [Footnote 45: From "Unknown Switzerland." Published by James Pott & Co.] [Footnote 46: From "Scrambles Amongst the Alps." Mr. Whymper's later achievements in the Alps are now integral parts of the written history of notable mountain climbing feats the world over.] [Footnote 47: From "Scrambles Amongst the Alps." Mr. Whymper's ascent of the Matterhorn was made in 1865. It was the first ascent ever made so far as known. Whymper died at Chamouni in 1911.] [Footnote 48: From "Scrambles Amongst the Alps." The loss of Douglas and three other men, as here described, occurred during the descent of the Matterhorn following the ascent described by Mr. Whymper in the preceding article.] [Footnote 49: That is, down in the village of Zermatt. Seiler was a well-known innkeeper of that time. Other Seilers still keep inns at Zermatt.] [Footnote 50: The body of Douglas has never been recovered. It is believed to lie buried deep in some crevasse in one of the great glaciers that emerge from the base of the Matterhorn.] [Footnote 51: From "The Glaciers of the Alps." Prof. Tyndall made this ascent in 1858. Monte Rosa stands quite near the Matterhorn. Each is reached from Zermatt by the Gorner-Grat.] [Footnote 52: Another name for the Matterhorn.] [Footnote 53: My staff was always the handle of an ax an inch or two longer than an ordinary walking-stick.--Author's note.] [Footnote 54: From "The Glaciers of the Alps."] [Footnote 55: That is, after having ascended the mountain to a point some distance beyond the Mer de Glace, to which the party had ascended from Chamouni, Huxley and Tyndall were both engaged in a study of the causes of the movement of glaciers, but Tyndall gave it most attention. One of Tyndall's feats in the Alps was to make the first recorded ascent of the Weisshorn. It is said that "traces of his influence remain in Switzerland to this day."] [Footnote 56: A hotel overlooking the Mer de Glace and a headquarters for mountaineers now as then.] [Footnote 57: Those acquainted with the mountain will at once recognize the grave error here committed. In fact, on starting from the Grands Mulets we had crossed the glacier too far, and throughout were much too close to the Dôme du Goûté.--Author's note.] [Footnote 58: From "The Playground of Europe." Published by Longmans, Green & Co.] [Footnote 59: From "Adventures in the Alps." Published by the George W. Jacob Co.] [Footnote 60: From "Unknown Switzerland." Published by James Pott & Co.] [Footnote 61: From "Unknown Switzerland." Published by James Pott & Co.] [Footnote 62: From "Geneva."] [Footnote 63: The French financier and minister of Louis XVI., father of Madame de Staël.] [Footnote 64: Madame de Staël's son, who afterward edited the works of Madame de Staël and Madame Necker.--Author's note.] [Footnote 65: Madame de Staël's daughter, afterward Duchesse de Broglie.] 
12404	----	Proofreaders Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 12404-h.htm or 12404-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/1/2/4/0/12404/12404-h/12404-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/1/2/4/0/12404/12404-h.zip) This text includes only Germany and those parts of Austria-Hungary noted in the table of contents. Part Two (Volume VI) is available as a separate text in Project Gutenberg's library. See http://www.gutenberg.net/etext/11179 SEEING EUROPE WITH FAMOUS AUTHORS, VOLUME V GERMANY, AUSTRIA-HUNGARY, AND SWITZERLAND, PART ONE Selected and Edited, with Introductions, etc., by FRANCIS W. HALSEY Editor of "Great Epochs in American History" Associate Editor of "The World's Famous Orations" and of "The Best of the World's Classics," etc. IN TEN VOLUMES ILLUSTRATED 1914 [Illustration: BERLIN: PANORAMA FROM THE TOWER OF THE TOWN HALL] INTRODUCTION TO VOLUMES V AND VI Germany, Austria-Hungary and Switzerland The tourist's direct route to Germany is by ships that go to the two great German ports--Bremen and Hamburg, whence fast steamer trains proceed to Berlin and other interior cities. One may also land at Antwerp or Rotterdam, and proceed thence by fast train into Germany. Either of these routes continued takes one to Austria. Ships by the Mediterranean route landing at Genoa or Trieste, provide another way for reaching either country. In order to reach Switzerland, the tourist has many well-worn routes available. As with England and France, so with Germany--our earliest information comes from a Roman writer, Julius Caesar; but in the case of Germany, this information has been greatly amplified by a later and noble treatise from the pen of Tacitus. Tacitus paints a splendid picture of the domestic virtues and personal valor of these tribes, holding them up as examples that might well be useful to his countrymen. Caesar found many Teutonic tribes, not only in the Rhine Valley, but well established in lands further west and already Gallic. By the third century, German tribes had formed themselves into federations--the Franks, Alemanni, Frisians and Saxons. The Rhine Valley, after long subjection to the Romans, had acquired houses, temples, fortresses and roads such as the Romans always built. Caesar had found many evidences of an advanced state of society. Antiquarians of our day, exploring German graves, discover signs of it in splendid weapons of war and domestic utensils buried with the dead. Monolithic sarcophagi have been found which give eloquent testimony of the absorption by them of Roman culture. Western Germany, in fact, had become, in the third century, a well-ordered and civilized land. Christianity was well established there. In general the country compared favorably with Roman England, but it was less advanced than Roman Gaul. Centers of that Romanized German civilization, that were destined ever afterward to remain important centers of German life, are Augsburg, Strasburg, Worms, Speyer, Bonn and Cologne. It was after the formation of the tribal federations that the great migratory movement from Germany set in. This gave to Gaul a powerful race in the Franks, from whom came Clovis and the other Merovingians; to Gaul also it gave Burgundians, and to England perhaps the strongest element in her future stock of men--the Saxons. Further east soon set in another world-famous migration, which threatened at times to dominate all Teutonic people--the Goths, Huns and Vandals of the Black and Caspian Sea regions. Thence they prest on to Italy and Spain, where the Goths founded and long maintained new and thriving states on the ruins of the old. Surviving these migrations, and serving to restore something like order to Central Europe, there now rose into power in France, under Clovis and Charlemagne, and spread their sway far across the Rhine, the great Merovingian and Carlovingian dynasties. Charlemagne's empire came to embrace in central Europe a region extending east of the Rhine as far as Hungary, and from north to south from the German ocean to the Alps. When Charlemagne, in 800, received from the Pope that imperial crown, which was to pass in continuous line to his successors for a thousand years, Germany and France were component parts of the same state, a condition never again to exist, except in part, and briefly, under Napoleon. The tangled and attenuated thread of German history from Charlemagne's time until now can not be unfolded here, but it makes one of the great chronicles in human history, with its Conrads and Henrys, its Maximilian, its Barbarossa, its Charles V., its Thirty Years' War, its great Frederick of Prussia, its struggle with Napoleon, its rise through Prussia under Bismarck, its war of 1870 with France, its new Empire, different alike in structure and in reality from the one called Holy and called Roman, and the wonderful commercial and industrial progress of our century. Out of Charlemagne's empire came the empire of Austria. Before his time, the history of the Austro-Hungarian lands is one of early tribal life, followed by conquest under the later Roman emperors, and then the migratory movements of its own people and of other people across its territory, between the days of Attila and the Merovingians. Its very name (Oesterreich) indicates its origin as a frontier territory, an outpost in the east for the great empire Charlemagne had built up. Not until the sixteenth century did Austria become a power of first rank in Europe. Hapsburgs had long ruled it, as they still do, and as they have done for more than six centuries, but the greatest of all their additions to power and dominion came through Mary of Burgundy, who, seeking refuge from Louis XI. of France, after her father's death, married Maximilian of Austria. Out of that marriage came, in two generations, possession by Austria of the Netherlands, through Mary's grandson, Charles V., Holy Roman emperor and king of Spain. For years afterward, the Hapsburgs remained the most illustrious house in Europe. The empire's later fortunes are a story of grim struggle with Protestants, Frederick the Great, the Ottoman Turks, Napoleon, the revolutionists of 1848, and Prussia. The story of Switzerland in its beginnings is not unlike that of other European lands north of Italy. The Romans civilized the country--built houses, fortresses and roads. Roman roads crossed the Alps, one of them going, as it still goes, over the Great St. Bernard. Then came the invaders--Burgundians, Alemanni, Ostrogoths and Huns. North Switzerland became the permanent home of Alemanni, or Germans, whose descendants still survive there, around Zürich. Burgundians settled in the western part which still remains French in speech, and a part of it French politically, including Chamouni and half of Mont Blanc. Ostrogoths founded homes in the southern parts, and descendants of theirs still remain there, speaking Italian, or a sort of surviving Latin called Romansch. After these immigrations most parts of the country were subdued by the Merovingian Franks, by whom Christianity was introduced and monasteries founded. With the break-up of Charlemagne's empire, a part of Switzerland was added to a German duchy, and another part to Burgundy. Its later history is a long and moving record of grim struggles by a brave and valiant people. In our day the Swiss have become industrially one of the world's successful races, and their country the one in which wealth is probably more equally distributed than anywhere else in Europe, if not in America. F.W.H. CONTENTS OF VOLUME V Germany, Austria-Hungary, and Switzerland--Part One I. THE RHINE VALLEY INTRODUCTION TO VOLS. V AND VI--By the Editor IN HISTORY AND ROMANCE--By Victor Hugo FROM BONN TO MAYENCE--By Bayard Taylor COLOGNE--By Victor Hugo ROUND ABOUT COBLENZ--By Lady Blanche Murphy BINGEN AND MAYENCE--By Victor Hugo FRANKFORT-ON-MAIN--By Bayard Taylor HEIDELBERG--By Bayard Taylor STRASBURG--By Harriet Beecher Stowe FREIBURG AND THE BLACK FOREST--By Bayard Taylor II. NUREMBERG AS A MEDIEVAL CITY--By Cecil Headlam ITS CHURCHES AND THE CITADEL--By Thomas Frognall Dibdin NUREMBERG TO-DAY--By Cecil Headlarn WALLS AND OTHER FORTIFICATIONS--By Cecil Headlam ALBERT DÜRER--By Cecil Headlam III. OTHER BAVARIAN CITIES MUNICH--By Bayard Taylor AUGSBURG--By Thomas Frognall Dibdin RATISBON--By Thomas Frognall Dibdin IV. BERLIN AND ELSEWHERE A LOOK AT THE GERMAN CAPITAL--By Theophile Gautier CHARLOTTENBURG--By Harriet Beecher Stowe LEIPZIG AND DRESDEN--By Bayard Taylor WEIMAR IN GOETHE'S DAY--By Madame De Staël ULM--By Thomas Frognall Dibdin AIX-LA-CHAPELLE AND CHARLEMAGNE'S TOMB--By Victor Hugo THE HANSEATIC LEAGUE--By James Howell HAMBURG--By Theophile Gautier SCHLESWIG--By Theophile Gautier LÜBECK--By Theophile Gautier HELIGOLAND--By William George Black V. VIENNA FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF THE CAPITAL--By Bayard Taylor ST. STEPHEN'S CATHEDRAL--By Thomas Frognall Dibdin THE BELVEDERE PALACE--By Thomas Frognall Dibdin SCHÖNBRUNN AND THE PRATER--By Thomas Frognall Dibdin VI. HUNGARY A GLANCE AT THE COUNTRY--By H. Tornai de Kövër BUDAPEST--By H. Tornai de Kövër (_Hungary continued in Vol. VI_) LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS VOLUME V A PANORAMA OF BERLIN FROM THE TOWN HALL COLOGNE CATHEDRAL COLOGNE CATHEDRAL BEFORE THE SPIRES WERE COMPLETED BINGEN-ON-THE RHINE NUREMBERG CASTLE STOLZENFELS CASTLE ON THE RHINE WIESBADEN STRASBURG CATHEDRAL STRASBURG FRAUENKIRCHE, MUNICH DOOR OF STRASBURG CATHEDRAL STRASBURG CLOCK GOETHE'S HOUSE, WEIMAR SCHILLER'S HOUSE, WEIMAR BERLIN: UNTER DEN LINDEN BERLIN: THE BRANDENBURG GATE BERLIN: THE ROYAL CASTLE AND EMPEROR WILLIAM BRIDGE BERLIN: THE WHITE HALL IN THE ROYAL CASTLE BERLIN: THE NATIONAL GALLERY AND FREDERICK'S BRIDGE BERLIN: THE GENDARMENMARKT THE COLUMN OF VICTORY, BERLIN THE MAUSOLEUM AT CHARLOTTENBURG THE NEW PALACE AT POTSDAM THE CASTLE OF SANS SOUCI, POTSDAM THE CATHEDRAL OF AIX-LA-CHAPELLE--TOMB OF CHARLEMAGNE SCHÖNBRUNN, VIENNA SALZBURG, AUSTRIA [Illustration: COLOGNE CATHEDRAL] [Illustration: COLOGNE CATHEDRAL (Before the spires were completed, as shown in a photograph taken in 1877)] [Illustration: BINGEN ON THE RHINE] [Illustration: NUREMBERG CASTLE] [Illustration: STOLZENFELS CASTLE ON THE RHINE] [Illustration: WIESBADEN] [Illustration: STRASSBURG CATHEDRAL] [Illustration: STRASSBURG AND THE CATHEDRAL] [Illustration: THE FRAUENKIRCHE, MUNICH] [Illustration: THE DOOR OF STRASSBURG CATHEDRAL] [Illustration: THE STRASSBURG CLOCK] [Illustration: GOETHE'S HOUSE IN WEIMAR] [Illustration: SCHILLER'S HOUSE IN WEIMAR] I THE RHINE VALLEY IN HISTORY AND ROMANCE[A] BY VICTOR HUGO Of all rivers, I prefer the Rhine. It is now a year, when passing the bridge of boats at Kehl, since I first saw it. I remember that I felt a certain respect, a sort of adoration, for this old, this classic stream. I never think of rivers--those great works of Nature, which are also great in History--without emotion. I remember the Rhone at Valserine; I saw it in 1825, in a pleasant excursion to Switzerland, which is one of the sweet, happy recollections of my early life. I remember with what noise, with what ferocious bellowing, the Rhone precipitated itself into the gulf while the frail bridge upon which I was standing was shaking beneath my feet. Ah well! since that time, the Rhone brings to my mind the idea of a tiger--the Rhine, that of a lion. The evening on which I saw the Rhine for the first time, I was imprest with the same idea. For several minutes I stood contemplating this proud and noble river--violent, but not furious; wild, but still majestic. It was swollen, and was magnificent in appearance, and was washing with its yellow mane, or, as Boileau says, its "slimy beard," the bridge of boats. Its two banks were lost in the twilight, and tho its roaring was loud, still there was tranquillity. The Rhine is unique: it combines the qualities of every river. Like the Rhone, it is rapid; broad like the Loire; encased, like the Meuse; serpentine, like the Seine; limpid and green, like the Somme; historical, like the Tiber; royal like the Danube; mysterious, like the Nile; spangled with gold, like an American river; and like a river of Asia, abounding with fantoms and fables. From historical records we find that the first people who took possession of the banks of the Rhine were the half-savage Celts, who were afterward named Gauls by the Romans. When Rome was in its glory, Caesar crossed the Rhine, and shortly afterward the whole of the river was under the jurisdiction of his empire. When the Twenty-second Legion returned from the siege of Jerusalem, Titus sent it to the banks of the Rhine, where it continued the work of Martius Agrippa. After Trajan and Hadrian came Julian, who erected a fortress upon the confluence of the Rhine and the Moselle; then Valentinian, who built a number of castles. Thus, in a few centuries, Roman colonies, like an immense chain, linked the whole of the Rhine. At length the time arrived when Rome was to assume another aspect. The incursions of the northern hordes were eventually too frequent and too powerful for Rome; so, about the sixth century, the banks of the Rhine were strewed with Roman ruins, as at present with feudal ones. Charlemagne cleared away the rubbish, built fortresses, and opposed the German hordes; but, notwithstanding all that he did, notwithstanding his desire to do more, Rome died, and the physiognomy of the Rhine was changed. The sixteenth century approached; in the fourteenth the Rhine witnessed the invention of artillery; and on its bank, at Strassburg, a printing-office was first established. In 1400 the famous cannon, fourteen feet in length, was cast at Cologne; and in 1472 Vindelin de Spire printed his Bible. A new world was making its appearance; and, strange to say, it was upon the banks of the Rhine that those two mysterious tools with which God unceasingly works out the civilization of man--the catapult and the book--war and thought--took a new form. The Rhine, in the destinies of Europe, has a sort of providential signification. It is the great moat which divides the north from the south. The Rhine for thirty ages, has seen the forms and reflected the shadows of almost all the warriors who tilled the old continent with that share which they call sword. Caesar crossed the Rhine in going from the south; Attila crossed it when descending from the north. It was here that Clovis gained the battle of Tolbiac; and that Charlemagne and Napoleon figured. Frederick Barbarossa, Rudolph of Hapsburg, and Frederick the First, were great, victorious, and formidable when here. For the thinker, who is conversant with history, two great eagles are perpetually hovering ever the Rhine--that of the Roman legions, and the eagle of the French regiments. The Rhine--that noble flood, which the Romans named "Superb," bore at one time upon its surface bridges of boats, over which the armies of Italy, Spain, and France poured into Germany, and which, at a later date, were made use of by the hordes of barbarians when rushing into the ancient Roman world; at another, on its surface it floated peaceably the fir-trees of Murg and of Saint Gall, the porphyry and the marble of Bâle, the salt of Karlshall, the leather of Stromberg, the quicksilver of Lansberg, the wine of Johannisberg, the slates of Coab, the cloth and earthenware of Wallendar, the silks and linens of Cologne. It majestically performs its double function of flood of war and flood of peace, having, without interruption, upon the ranges of hills which embank the most notable portion of its course, oak-trees on one side and vine-trees on the other--signifying strength and joy. [Footnote A: From "The Rhine." Translated by D.M. Aird.] FROM BONN TO MAYENCE[A] BY BAYARD TAYLOR I was glad when we were really in motion on the swift Rhine, and nearing the chain of mountains that rose up before us. We passed Godesberg on the right, while on our left was the group of the seven mountains which extend back from the Drachenfels to the Wolkenberg, or "Castle of the Clouds." Here we begin to enter the enchanted land. The Rhine sweeps around the foot of the Drachenfels, while, opposite, the precipitous rock of Rolandseck, crowned with the castle of the faithful knight, looks down upon the beautiful island of Nonnenwerth, the white walls of the convent still gleaming through the trees as they did when the warrior's weary eyes looked upon them for the last time. I shall never forget the enthusiasm with which I saw this scene in the bright, warm sunlight, the rough crags softened in the haze which filled the atmosphere, and the wild mountains springing up in the midst of vineyards and crowned with crumbling towers filled with the memories of a thousand years. After passing Andernach we saw in the distance the highlands of the middle Rhine--which rise above Coblentz, guarding the entrance to its scenery--and the mountains of the Moselle. They parted as we approached; from the foot shot up the spires of Coblentz, and the battlements of Ehrenbreitstein, crowning the mountain opposite, grew larger and broader. The air was slightly hazy, and the clouds seemed laboring among the distant mountains to raise a storm. As we came opposite the mouth of the Moselle and under the shadow of the mighty fortress, I gazed up with awe at its massive walls. Apart from its magnitude and almost impregnable situation on a perpendicular rock, it is filled with the recollections of history and hallowed by the voice of poetry. The scene went past like a panorama, the bridge of boats opened, the city glided behind us, and we entered the highlands again. Above Coblentz almost every mountain has a ruin and a legend. One feels everywhere the spirit of the past, and its stirring recollections come back upon the mind with irresistible force. I sat upon the deck the whole afternoon as mountains, towns and castles passed by on either side, watching them with a feeling of the most enthusiastic enjoyment. Every place was familiar to me in memory, and they seemed like friends I had long communed with in spirit and now met face to face. The English tourists with whom the deck was covered seemed interested too, but in a different manner. With Murray's Handbook open in their hands, they sat and read about the very towns and towers they were passing, scarcely lifting their eyes to the real scenes, except now and then to observe that it was "very nice." As we passed Boppart, I sought out the inn of the "Star," mentioned in "Hyperion;" there was a maiden sitting on the steps who might have been Paul Flemming's fair boat-woman. The clouds which had here gathered among the hills now came over the river, and the rain cleared the deck of its crowd of admiring tourists. As we were approaching Lorelei Berg, I did not go below, and so enjoyed some of the finest scenery on the Rhine alone. The mountains approach each other at this point, and the Lorelei rock rises up for four hundred and forty feet from the water. This is the haunt of the water nymph Lorelei, whose song charmed the ear of the boatman while his bark was dashed to pieces on the rocks below. It is also celebrated for its remarkable echo. As we passed between the rocks, a guard, who has a little house on the roadside, blew a flourish on his bugle, which was instantly answered by a blast from the rocky battlements of Lorelei. The sun came out of the clouds as we passed Oberwesel, with its tall round tower, and the light shining through the ruined arches of Schonberg castle made broad bars of light and shade in the still misty air. A rainbow sprang up out of the Rhine and lay brightly on the mountain-side, coloring vineyard and crag in the most singular beauty, while its second reflection faintly arched like a glory above the high summits in the bed of the river were the seven countesses of Schonberg turned into seven rocks for their cruelty and hard-heartedness toward the knights whom their beauty had made captive. In front, at a little distance, was the castle of Pfalz, in the middle of the river, and from the heights above Caub frowned the crumbling citadel of Gutenfels. Imagine all this, and tell me if it is not a picture whose memory should last a lifetime. We came at last to Bingen, the southern gate of the highlands. Here, on an island in the middle of the stream, is the old mouse-tower where Bishop Hatto of Mayence was eaten up by the rats for his wicked deeds. Passing Rüdesheim and Geisenheim--celebrated for their wines--at sunset, we watched the varied shore in the growing darkness, till like a line of stars across the water we saw before us the bridge of Mayence. [Footnote A: From "Views Afoot." Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons.] COLOGNE[A] BY VICTOR HUGO. The sun had set when we reached Cologne. I gave my luggage to a porter, with orders to carry it to a hotel at Duez, a little town on the opposite side of the Rhine; and directed my steps toward the cathedral. Rather than ask my way, I wandered up and down the narrow streets, which night had all but obscured. At last I entered a gateway leading to a court, and came out on an open square--dark and deserted. A magnificent spectacle now presented itself. Before me, in the fantastic light of a twilight sky, rose, in the midst of a group of low houses, an enormous black mass, studded with pinnacles and belfries. A little farther was another, not quite so broad as the first, but higher; a kind of square fortress, flanked at its angles with four long detached towers, having on its summit something resembling a huge feather. On approaching, I discovered that it was the cathedral of Cologne. What appeared like a large feather was a crane, to which sheets of lead were appended, and which, from its workable appearance, indicated to passers-by that this unfinished temple may one day be completed; and that the dream of Engelbert de Berg, which was realized under Conrad de Hochsteden, may, in an age or two, be the greatest cathedral in the world. This incomplete Iliad sees Homers in futurity. The church was shut. I surveyed the steeples, and was startled at their dimensions. What I had taken for towers are the projections of the buttresses. Tho only the first story is completed, the building is already nearly as high as the towers of Notre Dame at Paris. Should the spire, according to the plan, be placed upon this monstrous trunk, Strasburg would be, comparatively speaking, small by its side.[B] It has always struck me that nothing resembles ruin more than an unfinished edifice. Briars, saxifrages, and pellitories--indeed, all weeds that root themselves in the crevices and at the base of old buildings--have besieged these venerable walls. Man only constructs what Nature in time destroys. All was quiet; there was no one near to break the prevailing silence. I approached the façade, as near as the gate would permit me, and heard the countless shrubs gently rustling in the night breeze. A light which appeared at a neighboring window, cast its rays upon a group of exquisite statues--angels and saints, reading or preaching, with a large open book before them. Admirable prologue for a church, which is nothing else than the Word made marble, brass or stone! Swallows have fearlessly taken up their abode here, and their simple yet curious masonry contrasts strangely with the architecture of the building. This was my first visit to the cathedral of Cologne. The dome of Cologne, when seen by day, appeared to me to have lost a little of its sublimity; it no longer had what I call the twilight grandeur that the evening lends to huge objects; and I must say that the cathedral of Beauvais, which is scarcely known, is not inferior, either in size or in detail, to the cathedral of Cologne. The Hôtel-de-Ville, situated near the cathedral, is one of those singular edifices which have been built at different times, and which consist of all styles of architecture seen in ancient buildings. The mode in which these edifices have been built forms rather an interesting study. Nothing is regular--no fixt plan has been drawn out--all has been built as necessity required. Thus the Hôtel-de-Ville, which has, probably, some Roman cave near its foundation, was, in 1250, only a structure similar to those of our edifices built with pillars. For the convenience of the night-watchman, and in order to sound the alarum, a steeple was required, and in the fourteenth century a tower was built. Under Maximilian a taste for elegant structures was everywhere spread, and the bishops of Cologne, deeming it essential to dress their city-house in new raiment, engaged an Italian architect, a pupil, probably, of old Michael Angelo, and a French sculptor, who adjusted on the blackened façade of the thirteenth century a triumphant and magnificent porch. A few years expired, and they stood sadly in want of a promenade by the side of the Registry. A back court was built, and galleries erected, which were sumptuously enlivened by heraldry and bas-reliefs. These I had the pleasure of seeing; but, in a few years, no person will have the same gratification, for, without anything being done to prevent it, they are fast falling into ruins. At last, under Charles the Fifth, a large room for sales and for the assemblies of the citizens was required, and a tasteful building of stone and brick was added. I went up to the belfry; and under a gloomy sky, which harmonized with the edifice and with my thoughts, I saw at my feet the whole of this admirable town. From Thurmchen to Bayenthurme, the town, which extends upward of a league on the banks of the river, displays a whole host of windows and façades. In the midst of roofs, turrets and gables, the summits of twenty-four churches strike the eye, all of different styles, and each church, from its grandeur, worthy of the name of cathedral. If we examine the town in detail, all is stir, all is life. The bridge is crowded with passengers and carriages; the river is covered with sails. Here and there clumps of trees caress, as it were, the houses blackened by time; and the old stone hotels of the fifteenth century, with their long frieze of sculptured flowers, fruit and leaves, upon which the dove, when tired, rests itself, relieve the monotony of the slate roofs and brick fronts which surround them. Round this great town--mercantile from its industry, military from its position, marine from its river--is a vast plain that borders Germany, which the Rhine crosses at different places, and is crowned on the northeast by historic eminences--that wonderful nest of legends and traditions, called the "Seven Mountains." Thus Holland and its commerce, Germany and its poetry--like the two great aspects of the human mind, the positive and the ideal--shed their light upon the horizon of Cologne; a city of business and of meditation. After descending from the belfry, I stopt in the yard before a handsome porch of the Renaissance, the second story of which is formed of a series of small triumphal arches, with inscriptions. The first is dedicated to Caesar; the second to Augustus; the third to Agrippa, the founder of Cologne; the fourth to Constantine, the Christian emperor; the fifth to Justinian, the great legislator; and the sixth to Maximilian. Upon the façade, the poetic sculpture has chased three bas-reliefs, representing the three lion-combatants, Milo of Crotona, Pepin-le-Bref, and Daniel. At the two extremities he has placed Milo of Crotona, attacking the lions by strength of body; and Daniel subduing the lions by the power of mind. Between these is Pepin-le-Bref, conquering his ferocious antagonist with that mixture of moral and physical strength which distinguishes the soldier. Between pure strength and pure thought, is courage; between the athlete and the prophet--the hero. Pepin, sword in hand, has plunged his left arm, which is enveloped in his mantle, into the mouth of the lion; the animal stands, with extended claws, in that attitude which in heraldry represents the lion rampant. Pepin attacks it bravely and vanquishes. Daniel is standing motionless, his arms by his side, and his eyes lifted up to Heaven, the lions lovingly rolling at his feet. As for Milo of Crotona, he defends himself against the lion, which is in the act of devouring him. His blind presumption has put too much faith in muscle, in corporeal strength. These three bas-reliefs contain a world of meaning; the last produces a powerful effect. It is Nature avenging herself on the man whose only faith is in brute force.... In the evening, as the stars were shining, I took a walk upon the side of the river opposite to Cologne. Before me was the whole town, with its innumerable steeples figuring in detail upon the pale western sky. To my left rose, like the giant of Cologne, the high spire of St. Martin's, with its two towers; and, almost in front, the somber apsed cathedral, with its many sharp-pointed spires, resembling a monstrous hedgehog, the crane forming the tail, and near the base two lights, which appeared like two eyes sparkling with fire. Nothing disturbed the stillness of the night but the rustling of the waters at my feet, the heavy tramp of a horse's hoofs upon the bridge, and the sound of a blacksmith's hammer. A long stream of fire that issued from the forge caused the adjoining windows to sparkle; then, as if hastening to its opposite element, disappeared in the water. [Footnote A: From "The Rhine." Translated by D.M. Aird.] [Footnote B: One of the illustrations that accompany this volume shows the spires in their completed state.] ROUND ABOUT COBLENZ[A] BY LADY BLANCHE MURPHY Coblenz is the place which many years ago gave me my first associations with the Rhine. From a neighboring town we often drove to Coblenz, and the wide, calm flow of the river, the low, massive bridge of boats and the commonplace outskirts of a busy city contributed to make up a very different picture from that of the poetic "castled" Rhine of German song and English ballad. The old town has, however, many beauties, tho its military character looks out through most of them, and reminds us that the Mosel city (for it originally stood only on that river, and then crept up to the Rhine), tho a point of union in Nature, has been for ages, so far as mankind was concerned, a point of defense and watching. The great fortress, a German Gibraltar, hangs over the river and sets its teeth in the face of the opposite shore; all the foreign element in the town is due to the deposits made there by troubles in other countries, revolution and war sending their exiles, émigrés and prisoners. The history of the town is only a long military record, from the days of the archbishops of Trèves, to whom it was subject.... There is the old "German house" by the bank of the Mosel, a building little altered outwardly since the fourteenth century, now used as a food-magazine for the troops. The church of St. Castor commemorates a holy hermit who lived and preached to the heathen in the eighth century, and also covers the grave and monument of the founder of the "Mouse" at Wellmich, the warlike Kuno of Falkenstein, Archbishop of Trèves. The Exchange, once a court of justice, has changed less startlingly, and its proportions are much the same as of old; and besides these there are other buildings worth noticing, tho not so old, and rather distinguished by the men who lived and died there, or were born there, such as Metternich, than by architectural beauties. Such houses there are in every old city. They do not invite you to go in and admire them; every tourist you meet does not ask you how you liked them or whether you saw them. They are homes, and sealed to you as such, but they are the shell of the real life of the country; and they have somehow a charm and a fascination that no public building or show-place can have. Goethe, who turned his life-experiences into poetry, has told us something of one such house not far from Coblenz, in the village of Ehrenbreitstein, beneath the fortress, and which in familiar Coblenz parlance goes by the name of "The Valley"--the house of Sophie de Laroche. The village is also Clement Brentano's birthplace. The oldest of German cities, Trèves (or in German Trier), is not too far to visit on our way up the Mosel Valley, whose Celtic inhabitants of old gave the Roman legions so much trouble. But Rome ended by conquering, by means of her civilization as well as by her arms, and Augusta Trevirorum, tho claiming a far higher antiquity than Rome herself, and still bearing an inscription to that effect on the old council-house--now called the Red House and used as a hotel--became, as Ausonius condescendingly remarked, a second Rome, adorned with baths, gardens, temples, theaters and all that went to make up an imperial capital. As in Venice everything precious seems to have come from Constantinople, so in Trier most things worthy of note date from the days of the Romans; tho, to tell the truth, few of the actual buildings do, no matter how classic is their look. The style of the Empire outlived its sway, and doubtless symbolized to the inhabitants their traditions of a higher standard of civilization. The Porta Nigra, for instance--called Simeon's Gate at present--dates really from the days of the first Merovingian kings, but it looks like a piece of the Colosseum, with its rows of arches in massive red sandstone, the stones held together by iron clamps, and its low, immensely strong double gateway, reminding one of the triumphal arches in the Forum at Rome. The history of the transformation of this gateway is curious. First a fortified city gate, standing in a correspondingly fortified wall, it became a dilapidated granary and storehouse in the Middle Ages, when one of the archbishops gave leave to Simeon, a wandering hermit from Syracuse in Sicily, to take up his abode there; and another turned it into a church dedicated to this saint, tho of this change few traces remain. Finally, it has become a national museum of antiquities. The amphitheater is a genuine Roman work, wonderfully well preserved; and genuine enough were the Roman games it has witnessed, for, if we are to believe tradition, a thousand Frankish prisoners of war were here given in one day to the wild beasts by the Emperor Constantine. Christian emperors beautified the basilica that stood where the cathedral now is, and the latter itself has some basilica-like points about it, tho, being the work of fifteen centuries, it bears the stamp of successive styles upon its face.... The Mosel has but few tributary streams of importance; its own course is as winding, as wild and as romantic as that of the Rhine itself. The most interesting part of the very varied scenery of this river is not the castles, the antique towns, the dense woods or the teeming vineyards lining rocks where a chamois could hardly stand--all this it has in common with the Rhine--but the volcanic region of the Eifel, the lakes in ancient craters, the tossed masses of lava and tufa, the great wastes strewn with dark boulders, the rifts that are called valleys and are like the Iceland gorges, the poor, starved villages and the extraordinary rusticity, not to say coarseness, of the inhabitants. This grotesque, interesting country--unique, I believe, on the continent of Europe--lies in a small triangle between the Mosel, the Belgian frontier and the Schiefer hills of the Lower Rhine; it goes by the names of the High Eifel, with the High Acht, the Kellberg and the Nurburg; the upper (Vorder) Eifel, with Gerolstein, a ruined castle, and Daun, a pretty village; and the Snow-Eifel (Schnee Eifel), contracted by the speech of the country into Schneifel. The last is the most curious, the most dreary, the least visited. Walls of sharp rocks rise up over eight hundred feet high round some of its sunken lakes--one is called the Powder Lake--and the level above this abyss stretches out in moors and desolate downs, peopled with herds of lean sheep, and marked here and there by sepulchral, gibbet-looking signposts, shaped like a rough T and set in a heap of loose stones. It is a great contrast to turn aside from this landscape and look on the smiling villages and pretty wooded scenery of the valley of the Mosel proper; the long lines of handsome, healthy women washing their linen on the banks; the old ferryboats crossing by the help of antique chain-and-rope contrivances; the groves of old trees, with broken walls and rude shrines, reminding one of Southern Italy and her olives and ilexes; and the picturesque houses, in Kochem, in Daun, in Travbach, in Bernkastel, which, however untiring one may be as a sightseer, hardly warrant one as a writer to describe and re-describe their beauties. Klüsserath, however, we must mention, because its straggling figure has given rise to a local proverb--"As long as Klüsserath;" and Neumagen, because of the legend of Constantine, who is said to have seen the cross of victory in the heavens at this place, as well as at Sinzig on the Rhine, and, as the more famous legend tells us, at the Pons Milvium over the Tiber. The last glance we take at the beauties of this neighborhood is from the mouth of the torrent-river Eltz as it dashes into the Eifel, washing the rock on which stands the castle of Eltz. The building and the family are an exception in the history of these lands; both exist to this day, and are prosperous and undaunted, notwithstanding all the efforts of enemies, time and circumstances to the contrary. The strongly-turreted wall runs from the castle till it loses itself in the rock, and the building has a home-like inhabited, complete look; which, in virtue of the quaint irregularity and magnificent natural position of the castle, standing guard over the foaming Eltz, does not take from its romantic appearance, as preservation or restoration too often does. Not far from Coblenz, and past the island of Nonnenwerth, is the old tenth-century castle of Sayn, which stood until the Thirty Years' War, and below it, quiet, comfortable, large, but unpretending, lies the new house of the family of Sayn-Wittgenstein, built in the year 1848. As we push our way down the Rhine we soon come to the little peaceful town of Neuwied, a sanctuary for persecuted Flemings and others of the Low Countries, gathered here by the local sovereign, Count Frederick III. The little brook that gives its name to the village runs softly into the Rhine under a rustic bridge and amid murmuring rushes, while beyond it the valley gets narrower, rocks begin to rise over the Rhine banks, and we come to Andernach. Andernach is the Rocky Gate of the Rhine, and if its scenery were not enough, its history, dating from Roman times, would make it interesting. However, of its relics we can only mention, in passing, the parish church with its four towers, all of tufa, the dungeons under the council-house, significantly called the "Jew's bath," and the old sixteenth-century contrivances for loading Rhine boats with the millstones in which the town still drives a fair trade. At the mouth of the Brohl we meet the volcanic region again, and farther up the valley through which this stream winds come upon the retired little watering-place of Tönnistein, a favorite goal of the Dutch, with its steel waters; and Wassenach, with what we may well call its dust-baths, stretching for miles inland, up hills full of old craters, and leaving us only at the entrance of the beech-woods that have grown up in these cauldron-like valleys and fringe the blue Laachersee, the lake of legends and of fairies. One of these Schlegel has versified in the "Lay of the Sunken Castle," with the piteous tale of the spirits imprisoned; and Simrock tells us in rhyme of the merman who sits waiting for a mortal bride; while Wolfgang Müller sings of the "Castle under the Lake," where at night ghostly torches are lighted and ghostly revels are held, the story of which so fascinates the fisherman's boy who has heard of these doings from his grandmother that as he watches the enchanted waters one night his fancy plays him a cruel trick, and he plunges in to join the revellers and learn the truth. Local tradition says that Count Henry II. and his wife Adelaide, walking here by night, saw the whole lake lighted up from within in uncanny fashion, and founded a monastery in order to counteract the spell. This deserted but scarcely ruined building still exists, and contains the grave of the founder; the twelfth-century decoration, rich and detailed, is almost whole in the oldest part of the monastery. The far-famed German tale of Genovefa of Brabant is here localized, and Henry's son Siegfried assigned to the princess as a husband, while the neighboring grotto of Hochstein is shown as her place of refuge. On our way back to the Rocky Gate we pass through the singular little town of Niedermendig, an hour's distance from the lake--a place built wholly of dark gray lava, standing in a region where lava-ridges seam the earth like the bones of antediluvian monsters, but are made more profitable by being quarried into millstones. There is something here that brings part of Wales to the remembrance of the few who have seen those dreary slate-villages--dark, damp, but naked, for moss and weeds do not thrive on this dampness as they do on the decay of other stones--which dot the moorland of Wales. The fences are slate; the gateposts are slate; the stiles are of slate; the very "sticks" up which the climbing roses are trained are of slate; churches, schools, houses, stables are all of one dark iron-blue shade; floors and roofs are alike; hearth-stones and threshold-stones, and grave-stones all of the same material. It is curious and depressing. This volcanic region of the Rhine, however, has so many unexpected beauties strewn pell-mell in the midst of stony barrenness that it also bears some likeness to Naples and Ischia, where beauty of color, and even of vegetation, alternate surprisingly with tracts of parched and rocky wilderness pierced with holes whence gas and steam are always rising. [Footnote A: From "Down the Rhine."] BINGEN AND MAYENCE[A] BY VICTOR HUGO Bingen is an exceedingly pretty place, having at once the somber look of an ancient town, and the cheering aspect of a new one. From the days of Consul Drusus to those of the Emperor Charlemagne, from Charlemagne to Archbishop Willigis, from Willigis to the merchant Montemagno, and from Montemagno to the visionary Holzhausen, the town gradually increased in the number of its houses, as the dew gathers drop by drop in the cup of a lily. Excuse this comparison; for, tho flowery, it has truth to back it, and faithfully illustrates the mode in which a town near the conflux of two rivers is constructed. The irregularity of the houses--in fact everything, tends to make Bingen a kind of antithesis, both with respect to buildings and the scenery which surrounds them. The town, bounded on the left by Nahe, and by the Rhine on the right, develops itself in a triangular form near a Gothic church, which is backed by a Roman citadel. In this citadel, which bears the date of the first century, and has long been the haunt of bandits, there is a garden; and in the church, which is of the fifteenth century, is the tomb of Barthélemy de Holzhausen. In the direction of Mayence, the famed Paradise Plain opens upon the Ringau; and in that of Coblentz, the dark mountains of Leyen seem to frown on the surrounding scenery. Here Nature smiles like a lovely woman extended unadorned on the greensward; there, like a slumbering giant, she excites a feeling of awe. The more we examine this beautiful place, the more the antithesis is multiplied under our looks and thoughts. It assumes a thousand different forms; and as the Nahe flows through the arches of the stone bridge, upon the parapet of which the lion of Hesse turns its back to the eagle of Prussia, the green arm of the Rhine seizes suddenly the fair and indolent stream, and plunges it into the Bingerloch. To sit down toward the evening on the summit of the Klopp--to see the town at its base, with an immense horizon on all sides, the mountains overshadowing all--to see the slated roofs smoking, the shadows lengthening, and the scenery breathing to life the verses of Virgil--to respire at once the wind which rustles the leaves, the breeze of the flood, and the gale of the mountain--is an exquisite and inexpressible pleasure, full of secret enjoyment, which is veiled by the grandeur of the spectacle, by the intensity of contemplation. At the windows of huts, young women, their eyes fixt upon their work, are gaily singing; among the weeds that grow round the ruins birds whistle and pair; barks are crossing the river, and the sound of oars splashing in the water, and unfurling of sails, reaches our ears. The washerwomen of the Rhine spread their clothes on the bushes; and those of the Nahe, their legs and feet naked, beat their linen upon floating rafts, and laugh at some poor artist as he sketches Ehrenfels. The sun sets, night comes on, the slated roofs of the houses appear as one, the mountains congregate and take the aspect of an immense dark body; and the washerwomen, with bundles on their heads, return cheerfully to their cabins; the noise subsides, the voices are hushed; a faint light, resembling the reflections of the other world upon the countenance of a dying man, is for a short time observable on the Ehrenfels; then all is dark, except the tower of Hatto, which, tho scarcely seen in the day, makes its appearance at night, amid a light smoke and the reverberation of the forge.... Mayence and Frankfort, like Versailles and Paris, may, at the present time, be called one town. In the middle ages there was a distance of eight leagues between them, which was then considered a long journey; now, an hour and a quarter will suffice to transport you from one to the other. The buildings of Frankfort and Mayence, like those of Liège, have been devastated by modern good taste, and old and venerable edifices are rapidly disappearing, giving place to frightful groups of white houses. I expected to be able to see, at Mayence, Martinsburg, which, up to the seventeenth century, was the feudal residence of the ecclesiastical electors; but the French made a hospital of it, which was afterward razed to the ground to make room for the Porte Franc; the merchant's hotel, built in 1317 by the famed League, and which was splendidly decorated with the statues of seven electors, and surmounted by two colossal figures, bearing the crown of the empire, also shared the same fate. Mayence possesses that which marks its antiquity--a venerable cathedral, which was commenced in 978, and finished in 1009. Part of this superb structure was burned in 1190, and since that period has, from century to century, undergone some change. I explored its interior, and was struck with awe on beholding innumerable tombs, bearing dates as far back as the eighteenth century. Under the galleries of the cloister I observed an obscure monument, a bas-relief of the fourteenth century, and tried, in vain, to guess the enigma. On one side are two men in chains, wildness in their looks, and despair in their attitudes; on the other, an emperor, accompanied by a bishop, and surrounded by a number of people, triumphing. Is it Barbarossa? Is it Louis of Bavaria? Does it speak of the revolt of 1160, or of the war between Mayence and Frankfort in 1332? I could not tell, and therefore passed by. As I was leaving the galleries, I discovered in the shade a sculptured head, half protruding from the wall, surmounted by a crown of flower-work, similar to that worn by the kings of the eleventh century. I looked at it; it had a mild countenance; yet it possest something of severity in it--a face imprinted with that august beauty which the workings of a great mind give to the countenance of man. The hand of some peasant had chalked the name "Frauenlob" above it, and I instantly remembered the Tasso of Mayence, so calumniated during his life, so venerated after his death. When Henry Frauenlob died, which was in the year 1318, the females who had insulted him in life carried his coffin to the tomb, which procession is chiseled on the tombstone beneath. I again looked at that noble head. The sculptor had left the eyes open; and thus, in that church of sepulchers--in that cloister of the dead--the poet alone sees; he only is represented standing, and observing all. The market-place, which is by the side of the cathedral, has rather an amusing and pleasing aspect. In the middle is a pretty triangular fountain of the German Renaissance, which, besides having scepters, nymphs, angels, dolphins, and mermaids, serves as a pedestal to the Virgin Mary. This fountain was erected by Albert de Brandenburg, who reigned in 1540, in commemoration of the capture of Francis the First by Charles the Fifth. Mayence, white tho it be, retains its ancient aspect of a beautiful city. The river here is not less crowded with sails, the town not less incumbered with bales, nor more free from bustle, than formerly. People walk, squeak, push, sell, buy, sing, and cry; in fact in all the quarters of the town, in every house, life seems to predominate. At night the buzz and noise cease, and nothing is heard at Mayence but the murmurings of the Rhine, and the everlasting noise of seventeen water mills, which are fixt to the piles of the bridge of Charlemagne. [Footnote A: From "The Rhine." Translated by D.M. Aird.] FRANKFORT-AM-MAIN[A] BY BAYARD TAYLOR Frankfort is a genuine old German city. Founded by Charlemagne, afterward a rallying-point of the Crusaders, and for a long time the capital of the German Empire, it has no lack of interesting historical recollections, and, notwithstanding it is fast becoming modernized, one is everywhere reminded of the past. The cathedral, old as the days of Peter the Hermit, the grotesque street of the Jews, the many quaint, antiquated dwellings and the moldering watch-towers on the hills around, give it a more interesting character than any German city I have yet seen. The house we dwell in, on the Markt Platz, is more than two hundred years old; directly opposite is a great castellated building gloomy with the weight of six centuries, and a few steps to the left brings me to the square of the Römerberg, where the emperors were crowned, in a corner of which is a curiously ornamented house formerly the residence of Luther. There are legends innumerable connected with all these buildings, and even yet discoveries are frequently made in old houses of secret chambers and staircases. When you add to all this the German love of ghost-stories, and, indeed, their general belief in spirits, the lover of romance could not desire a more agreeable residence. Within the walls the greater part of Frankfort is built in the old German style, the houses six or seven stories high and every story projecting out over the other; so that those living in the upper part can nearly shake hands out of the windows. At the corners figures of men are often seen holding up the story above on their shoulders and making horrible faces at the weight. When I state that in all these narrow streets, which constitute the greater part of the city, there are no sidewalks, the windows of the lower stories have iron gratings extending a foot or so into the street, which is only wide enough for one cart to pass along, you can have some idea of the facility of walking through them, to say nothing of the piles of wood and market-women with baskets of vegetables which one is continuously stumbling over. Even in the wider streets I have always to look before and behind to keep out of the way of the cabs; the people here get so accustomed to it that they leave barely room for them to pass, and the carriages go dashing by at a nearness which sometimes makes me shudder. As I walked across the Main and looked down at the swift stream on its way from the distant Thuringian Forest to join the Rhine, I thought of the time when Schiller stood there in the days of his early struggles, an exile from his native land, and, looking over the bridge, said in the loneliness of his heart, "That water flows not so deep as my sufferings." From the hills on the Darmstadt road I had a view of the country around; the fields were white and bare, and the dark Taunus, with the broad patches of snow on his sides, looked grim and shadowy through the dim atmosphere. It was like the landscape of a dream--dark, strange and silent. I have seen the banker Rothschild several times driving about the city. This one--Anselmo, the most celebrated of the brothers--holds a mortgage on the city of Jerusalem. He rides about in style, with officers attending his carriage. He is a little baldheaded man with marked Jewish features, and is said not to deceive his looks. At any rate, his reputation is none of the best, either with Jews or Christians. A caricature was published some time ago in which he is represented as giving a beggar-woman by the wayside a kreutzer--the smallest German coin. She is made to exclaim, "God reward you a thousand fold!" He immediately replies, after reckoning up in his head, "How much have I then? Sixteen florins and forty kreutzers!"... The Eschernheim Tower, at the entrance of one of the city gates, is universally admired by strangers on account of its picturesque appearance, overgrown with ivy and terminated by the little pointed turrets which one sees so often in Germany on buildings three or four centuries old. There are five other watch-towers of similar form, which stand on different sides of the city at the distance of a mile or two, and generally upon an eminence overlooking the country. They were erected several centuries ago to discern from afar the approach of an enemy, and protect the caravans of merchants, which at that time traveled from city to city, from the attacks of robbers. The Eschernheim Tower is interesting from another circumstance which, whether true or not, is universally believed. When Frankfort was under the sway of a prince, a Swiss hunter, for some civil offense, was condemned to die. He begged his life from the prince, who granted it only on condition that he should fire the figure nine with his rifle through the vane of this tower. He agreed, and did it; and at the present time one can distinguish a rude nine on the vane, as if cut with bullets, while two or three marks at the side appear to be from shots that failed. [Footnote A: From "Views Afoot." Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons.] HEIDELBERG[A] BY BAYARD TAYLOR Here in Heidelberg at last, and a most glorious town it is. This is our first morning in our new rooms, and the sun streams warmly in the eastern windows as I write, while the old castle rises through the blue vapor on the side of the Kaiserstuhl. The Neckar rushes on below, and the Odenwald, before me, rejoices with its vineyards in the morning light.... There is so much to be seen around this beautiful place that I scarcely know where to begin a description of it. I have been wandering among the wild paths that lead up and down the mountain-side or away into the forests and lonely meadows in the lap of the Odenwald. My mind is filled with images of the romantic German scenery, whose real beauty is beginning to displace the imaginary picture which I had painted with the enthusiastic words of Howitt. I seem to stand now upon the Kaiserstuhl, which rises above Heidelberg, with that magnificent landscape around me from the Black Forest and Strassburg to Mainz, and from the Vosges in France to the hills of Spessart in Bavaria. What a glorious panorama! and not less rich in associations than in its natural beauty. Below me had moved the barbarian hordes of old, the triumphant followers of Arminius and the cohorts of Rome, and later full many a warlike host bearing the banners of the red cross to the Holy Land, many a knight returning with his vassals from the field to lay at the feet of his lady-love the scarf he had worn in a hundred battles and claim the reward of his constancy and devotion. But brighter spirits had also toiled below. That plain had witnessed the presence of Luther, and a host who strove with him. There had also trodden the master-spirits of German song--the giant twain with their scarcely less harmonious brethren. They, too, had gathered inspiration from those scenes--more fervent worship of Nature and a deeper love for their beautiful fatherland.... Then there is the Wolfsbrunnen, which one reaches by a beautiful walk up the bank of the Neckar to a quiet dell in the side of the mountain. Through this the roads lead up by rustic mills always in motion, and orchards laden with ripening fruit, to the commencement of the forest, where a quaint stone fountain stands, commemorating the abode of a sorceress of the olden time who was torn in pieces by a wolf. There is a handsome rustic inn here, where every Sunday afternoon a band plays in the portico, while hundreds of people are scattered around in the cool shadow of the trees or feeding the splendid trout in the basin formed by a little stream. They generally return to the city by another walk, leading along the mountain-side to the eastern terrace of the castle, where they have fine views of the great Rhine plain, terminated by the Alsatian hills stretching along the western horizon like the long crested swells on the ocean. We can even see these from the windows of our room on the bank of the Neckar, and I often look with interest on one sharp peak, for on its side stands the castle of Trifels, where Coeur de Lion was imprisoned by the Duke of Austria, and where Blondel, his faithful minstrel, sang the ballad which discovered the retreat of the noble captive. From the Carl Platz, an open square at the upper end of the city, two paths lead directly up to the castle. By the first walk we ascend a flight of steps to the western gate; passing through which, we enter a delightful garden, between the outer walls of the castle and the huge moat which surrounds it. Great linden, oak and beech trees shadow the walk, and in secluded nooks little mountain-streams spring from the side of the wall into stone basins. There is a tower over the moat on the south side, next the mountain, where the portcullis still hangs with its sharp teeth as it was last drawn up; on each side stand two grim knights guarding the entrance. In one of the wooded walks is an old tree brought from America in the year 1618. It is of the kind called "arbor vitae," and uncommonly tall and slender for one of this species; yet it does not seem to thrive well in a foreign soil. I noticed that persons had cut many slips off the lower branches, and I would have been tempted to do the same myself if there had been any I could reach. In the curve of the mountain is a handsome pavilion surrounded with beds of flowers and fountains; here all classes meet together in the afternoon to sit with their refreshments in the shade, while frequently a fine band of music gives them their invariable recreation. All this, with the scenery around them, leaves nothing unfinished to their present enjoyment. The Germans enjoy life under all circumstances, and in this way they make themselves much happier than we who have far greater means of being so. At the end of the terrace built for the Princess Elizabeth of England is one of the round towers which was split in twain by the French. Half has fallen entirely away, and the other semicircular shell, which joins the terrace and part of the castle-buildings, clings firmly together, altho part of its foundation is gone, so that its outer ends actually hang in the air. Some idea of the strength of the castle may be obtained when I state that the walls of this tower are twenty-two feet thick, and that a staircase has been made through them to the top, where one can sit under the lindens growing upon it or look down on the city below with the pleasant consciousness that the great mass upon which he stands is only prevented from crashing down with him by the solidity of its masonry. On one side, joining the garden, the statue of the Archduke Louis in his breastplate and flowing beard looks out from among the ivy. There is little to be seen about the castle except the walls themselves. The guide conducted us through passages, in which were heaped many of the enormous cannon-balls which it had received in sieges, to some chambers in the foundation. This was the oldest part of the castle, built in the thirteenth century. We also visited the chapel, which is in a tolerable state of preservation. A kind of narrow bridge crosses it, over which we walked, looking down on the empty pulpit and deserted shrines. We then went into the cellar to see the celebrated tun. In a large vault are kept several enormous hogsheads, one of which is three hundred years old, but they are nothing in comparison with the tun, which itself fills a whole vault. It is as high as a common two-story house; on the top is a platform upon which the people used to dance after it was filled, to which one ascends by two flights of steps. I forget exactly how many casks it holds, but I believe eight hundred. It has been empty for fifty years.... Opposite my window rises the Heiligenberg, on the other side of the Neckar. The lower part of it is rich with vineyards, and many cottages stand embosomed in shrubbery among them. Sometimes we see groups of maidens standing under the grape-arbors, and every morning the peasant-women go toiling up the steep paths with baskets on their heads, to labor among the vines. On the Neckar, below us, the fishermen glide about in their boats, sink their square nets fastened to a long pole, and haul them up with the glittering fish, of which the stream is full. I often lean out of the window late at night, when the mountains above are wrapt in dusky obscurity, and listen to the low, musical ripple of the river. It tells to my excited fancy a knightly legend of the old German time. Then comes the bell rung for closing the inns, breaking the spell with its deep clang, which vibrates far away on the night-air till it has roused all the echoes of the Odenwald. I then shut the window, turn into the narrow box which the Germans call a bed, and in a few minutes am wandering in America. Halfway up the Heidelberg runs a beautiful walk dividing the vineyards from the forest above. This is called "The Philosopher's Way," because it was the favorite ramble of the old professors of the university. It can be reached by a toilsome, winding path among the vines, called the Snake-way; and when one has ascended to it, he is well rewarded by the lovely view. In the evening, when the sun has got behind the mountain, it is delightful to sit on the stone steps and watch the golden light creeping up the side of the Kaiserstuhl, till at last twilight begins to darken in the valley and a mantle of mist gathers above the Neckar. We ascended the mountain a few days ago. There is a path which leads up through the forest, but we took the shortest way, directly up the side, tho it was at an angle of nearly fifty degrees. It was hard enough work scrambling through the thick broom and heather and over stumps and stones. In one of the stone-heaps I dislodged a large orange-colored salamander seven or eight inches long. They are sometimes found on these mountains, as well as a very large kind of lizard, called the "eidechse," which the Germans say is perfectly harmless, and if one whistles or plays a pipe will come and play around him. The view from the top reminded me of that from Catskill Mountain House, but is on a smaller scale. The mountains stretch off sideways, confining the view to but half the horizon, and in the middle of the picture the Hudson is well represented by the lengthened windings of the "abounding Rhine." Nestled at the base below us was the little village of Handschuhheim, one of the oldest in this part of Germany. The castle of its former lords has nearly all fallen down, but the massive solidity of the walls which yet stand proves its antiquity. A few years ago a part of the outer walls which was remarked to have a hollow sound was taken down, when there fell from a deep niche built therein, a skeleton clad in a suit of the old German armor. We followed a road through the woods to the peak on which stands the ruins of St. Michael's chapel, which was built in the tenth century and inhabited for a long time by a company of white monks. There is now but a single tower remaining, and all around is grown over with tall bushes and weeds. It had a wild and romantic look, and I sat on a rock and sketched at it till it grew dark, when we got down the mountain the best way we could.... We have just returned from a second visit to Frankfort, where the great annual fair filled the streets with noise and bustle. On our way back we stopt at the village of Zwingenberg, which lies at the foot of the Melibochus, for the purpose of visiting some of the scenery of the Odenwald. Passing the night at the inn there, we slept with one bed under and two above, and started early in the morning to climb up the side of the Melibochus. After a long walk through the forests, which were beginning to change their summer foliage for a brighter garment, we reached the summit and ascended the stone tower which stands upon it. This view gives one a better idea of the Odenwald than that from the Kaiserstuhl at Heidelberg. This is a great collection of rocks, in a wild pine wood, heaped together like pebbles on the seashore and worn and rounded as if by the action of water; so much do they resemble waves that one standing at the bottom and looking up can not resist the idea that they will flow down upon him. It must have been a mighty tide whose receding waves left these masses piled up together. The same formation continues at intervals to the foot of the mountains. It reminded me of a glacier of rocks instead of ice. A little higher up lies a massive block of granite called the Giant's Column. It is thirty-two feet long and three to four feet in diameter, and still bears the mark of the chisel. When or by whom it was made remains a mystery. Some have supposed it was intended to be erected for the worship of the sun by the wild Teutonic tribes who inhabited this forest; it is more probably the work of the Romans. A project was once started to erect a monument on the battlefield of Leipsic, but it was found too difficult to carry into execution. After dining at the little village of Reichelsdorf, in the valley below--where the merry landlord charged my friend two kreutzers less than myself because he was not so tall--we visited the castle of Schönberg, and joined the Bergstrasse again. We walked the rest of the way here. Long before we arrived the moon shone down on us over the mountains; and when we turned around the foot of the Heiligenberg, the mist descending in the valley of the Neckar rested like a light cloud on the church-spires. [Footnote A: From "Views Afoot." Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons.] STRASSBURG[A] BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE I left the cars with my head full of the cathedral. The first thing I saw, on lifting my eyes, was a brown spire. We climbed the spire; we gained the roof. What a magnificent terrace! A world in itself; a panoramic view sweeping the horizon. Here I saw the names of Goethe and Herder. Here they have walked many a time, I suppose. But the inside--a forest-like firmament, glorious in holiness; windows many-hued as the Hebrew psalms; a gloom solemn and pathetic as man's mysterious existence; a richness gorgeous and manifold as his wonderful nature. In this Gothic architecture we see earnest northern races, whose nature was a composite of influences from pine forest, mountain, and storm, expressing in vast proportions and gigantic masonry those ideas of infinite duration and existence which Christianity opened before them. The ethereal eloquence of the Greeks could not express the rugged earnestness of souls wrestling with those fearful mysteries of fate, of suffering, of eternal existence, declared equally by nature and revelation. This architecture is Hebraistic in spirit, not Greek; it well accords with the deep ground-swell of the Hebrew prophets. "Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting, thou art God. A thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past. And as a watch in the night." The objection to Gothic architecture, as compared with Greek, is, that it is less finished and elegant. So it is. It symbolizes that state of mind too earnest for mere polish, too deeply excited for laws of exact proportions and architectural refinement. It is Alpine architecture--vast, wild, and sublime in its foundations, yet bursting into flowers at every interval. The human soul seems to me an imprisoned essence, striving after somewhat divine. There is a struggle in it, as of suffocated flame; finding vent now through poetry, now in painting, now in music, sculpture, or architecture; various are the crevices and fissures, but the flame is one. Moreover, as society grows from barbarism upward, it tends to inflorescence, at certain periods, as do plants and trees; and some races flower later than others. This architecture was the first flowering of the Gothic race; they had no Homers; the flame found vent not by imaged words and vitalized alphabet; they vitalized stone, and their poets were minster-builders; their epics, cathedrals. This is why one cathedral--like Strassburg, or Notre Dame--has a thousandfold the power of any number of Madeleines. The Madeleine is simply a building; these are poems. I never look at one of them without feeling that gravitation of soul toward its artist which poetry always excites. Often the artist is unknown; here we know him; Erwin von Steinbach, poet, prophet, priest, in architecture. We visited his house--a house old and quaint, and to me full of suggestions and emotions. Ah, if there be, as the apostle vividly suggests, houses not made with hands, strange splendors, of which these are but shadows, that vast religious spirit may have been finding scope for itself where all the forces of nature shall have been made tributary to the great conceptions of the soul. Save this cathedral, Strassburg has nothing except peaked-roofed houses, dotted with six or seven rows of gable windows. [Footnote A: From "Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands." Mrs. Stowe published this work in 1854, after returning from the tour she made soon after achieving great fame with "Uncle Tom's Cabin." During this visit she was received everywhere with distinction--and especially in England.] FREIBURG AND THE BLACK FOREST[A] BY BAYARD TAYLOR The airy basket-work tower of the Freiburg minster rises before me over the black roofs of the houses, and behind stand the gloomy pine-covered mountains of the Black Forest. Of our walk to Heidelberg over the oft-trodden Bergstrasse, I shall say nothing, nor how we climbed the Kaiserstuhl again, and danced around on the top of the tower for one hour amid cloud and mist, while there was sunshine below in the valley of the Neckar. I left Heidelberg yesterday morning in the "stehwagen" for Carlsruhe. The engine whistled, the train started, and, altho I kept my eyes steadily fixt on the spire of the Hauptkirche, three minutes hid it and all the rest of the city from sight. Carlsruhe, the capital of Baden--which we reached in an hour and a half--is unanimously pronounced by travelers to be a most dull and tiresome city. From a glance I had through one of the gates, I should think its reputation was not undeserved. Even its name in German signifies a place of repose. I stopt at Kork, on the branch-road leading to Strassburg, to meet a German-American about to return to my home in Pennsylvania, where he had lived for some time. I inquired according to the direction he had sent me to Frankfort, but he was not there; however, an old man, finding who I was, said Herr Otto had directed him to go with me to Hesselhurst, a village four or five miles off, where he would meet me. So we set off immediately over the plain, and reached the village at dusk.... My friend arrived at three o'clock the next morning, and, after two or three hours' talk about home and the friends whom he expected to see so much sooner than I, a young farmer drove me in his wagon to Offenburg, a small city at the foot of the Black Forest, where I took the cars for Freiburg. The scenery between the two places is grand. The broad mountains of the Black Forest rear their fronts on the east, and the blue lines of the French Vosges meet the clouds on the west. The night before, in walking over the plain, I saw distinctly the whole of the Strassburg minster, whose spire is the highest in Europe, being four hundred and ninety feet, or but twenty-five feet lower than the Pyramid of Cheops. I visited the minster of Freiburg yesterday morning. It is a grand, gloomy old pile, dating back from the eleventh century--one of the few Gothic churches in Germany that have ever been completed. The tower of beautiful fretwork rises to the height of three hundred and ninety-five feet, and the body of the church, including the choir, is of the same length. The interior is solemn and majestic. Windows stained in colors that burn let in a "dim religious light" which accords very well with the dark old pillars and antique shrines. In two of the chapels there are some fine altar-pieces by Holbein and one of his scholars, and a very large crucifix of silver and ebony, kept with great care, which is said to have been carried with the Crusaders to the Holy Land.... We went this afternoon to the Jägerhaus, on a mountain near, where we had a very fine view of the city and its great black minster, with the plain of the Briesgau, broken only by the Kaiserstuhl, a long mountain near the Rhine, whose golden stream glittered in the distance. On climbing the Schlossberg, an eminence near the city, we met the grand duchess Stephanie, a natural daughter of Napoleon, as I have heard. A chapel on the Schönberg, the mountain opposite, was pointed out as the spot where Louis XV.--if I mistake not--usually stood while his army besieged Freiburg. A German officer having sent a ball to this chapel which struck the wall just above the king's head, the latter sent word that if they did not cease firing he would point his cannons at the minster. The citizens thought it best to spare the monarch and save the cathedral. After two days delightfully spent, we shouldered our knapsacks and left Freiburg. The beautiful valley at the mouth of which the city lies runs like an avenue for seven miles directly into the mountains, and presents in its loveliness such a contrast to the horrid defile which follows that it almost deserves the name which has been given to a little inn at its head--the "Kingdom of Heaven." The mountains of the Black Forest enclose it on each side like walls, covered to the summit with luxuriant woods, and in some places with those forests of gloomy pine which give this region its name. After traversing its whole length, just before plunging into the mountain-depths the traveler rarely meets with a finer picture than that which, on looking back, he seems framed between the hills at the other end. Freiburg looks around the foot of one of the heights, with the spire of her cathedral peeping above the top, while the French Vosges grow dim in the far perspective. The road now enters a wild, narrow valley which grows smaller as we proceed. From Himmelreich, a large rude inn by the side of the green meadows, we enter the Höllenthal--that is, from the "Kingdom of Heaven" to the "Valley of Hell." The latter place better deserves its appellation than the former. The road winds between precipices of black rock, above which the thick foliage shuts out the brightness of day and gives a somber hue to the scene. A torrent foams down the chasm, and in one place two mighty pillars interpose to prevent all passage. The stream, however, has worn its way through, and the road is hewn in the rock by its side. This cleft is the only entrance to a valley three or four miles long which lies in the very heart of the mountains. It is inhabited by a few woodmen and their families, and, but for the road which passes through, would be as perfect a solitude as the Happy Valley of Rasselas. At the farther end a winding road called "The Ascent" leads up the steep mountain to an elevated region of country thinly settled and covered with herds of cattle. The cherries--which in the Rhine-plain below had long gone--were just ripe here. The people spoke a most barbarous dialect; they were social and friendly, for everybody greeted us, and sometimes, as we sat on a bank by the roadside, those who passed by would say "Rest thee!" or "Thrice rest!" Passing by the Titi Lake, a small body of water which was spread out among the hills like a sheet of ink, so deep was its Stygian hue, we commenced ascending a mountain. The highest peak of the Schwarzwald, the Feldberg, rose not far off, and on arriving at the top of this mountain we saw that a half hour's walk would bring us to its summit. This was too great a temptation for my love of climbing heights; so, with a look at the descending sun to calculate how much time we could spare, we set out. There was no path, but we prest directly up the steep side through bushes and long grass, and in a short time reached the top, breathless from such exertion in the thin atmosphere. The pine-woods shut out the view to the north and east, which is said to be magnificent, as the mountain is about five thousand feet high. The wild black peaks of the Black Forest were spread below us, and the sun sank through golden mist toward the Alsatian hills. Afar to the south, through cloud and storm, we could just trace the white outline of the Swiss Alps. The wind swept through the pines around, and bent the long yellow grass among which we sat, with a strange, mournful sound, well suiting the gloomy and mysterious region. It soon grew cold; the golden clouds settled down toward us, and we made haste to descend to the village of Lenzkirch before dark. Next morning we set out early, without waiting to see the trial of archery which was to take place among the mountain-youths. Their booths and targets, gay with banners, stood on a green meadow beside the town. We walked through the Black Forest the whole forenoon. It might be owing to the many wild stories whose scenes are laid among these hills, but with me there was a peculiar feeling of solemnity pervading the whole region. The great pine-woods are of the very darkest hue of green, and down their hoary, moss-floored aisles daylight seems never to have shone. The air was pure and clear and the sunshine bright, but it imparted no gayety to the scenery; except the little meadows of living emerald which lay occasionally in the lap of a dell, the landscape wore a solemn and serious air. In a storm it must be sublime. About noon, from the top of the last range of hills, we had a glorious view. The line of the distant Alps could be faintly traced high in the clouds, and all the heights between were plainly visible, from the Lake of Constance to the misty Jura, which flanked the Vosges on the west. From our lofty station we overlooked half Switzerland, and, had the air been a little clearer, we could have seen Mont Blanc and the mountains of Savoy. I could not help envying the feelings of the Swiss who, after long absence from their native land, first see the Alps from this road. If to the emotions with which I then looked on them were added the passionate love of home and country which a long absence creates, such excess of rapture would be almost too great to be borne. [Footnote A: From "Views Afoot." Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons.] II NUREMBERG AS A MEDIEVAL CITY[A] BY CECIL HEADLAM In spite of all changes, and in spite of the disfigurements of modern industry, Nuremberg is and will remain a medieval city, a city of history and legend, a city of the soul. She is like Venice in this, as in not a little of her history, that she exercises an indefinable fascination over our hearts no less than over our intellects. The subtle flavor of medieval towns may be likened to that of those rare old ports which are said to taste of the grave; a flavor indefinable, exquisite. Rothenburg has it; and it is with Rothenburg, that little gem of medievalism, that Nuremberg is likely to be compared in the mind of the modern wanderer in Franconia. But tho Rothenburg may surpass her greater neighbor in the perfect harmony and in the picturesqueness of her red-tiled houses and well-preserved fortifications, in interest at any rate she must yield to the heroine of this story. For, apart from the beauty which Nuremberg owes to the wonderful grouping of her red roofs and ancient castle, her coronet of antique towers, her Gothic churches and Renaissance buildings or brown riverside houses dipping into the mud-colored Pegnitz, she rejoices in treasures of art and architecture and in the possession of a splendid history such as Rothenburg can not boast. To those who know something of her story Nuremberg brings the subtle charm of association. While appealing to our memories by the grandeur of her historic past, and to our imaginations by the work and tradition of her mighty dead, she appeals also to our senses with the rare magic of her personal beauty, if one may so call it. In that triple appeal lies the fascination of Nuremberg.... The facts as to the origin of Nuremberg are lost in the dim shadows of tradition. When the little town sprang up amid the forests and swamps which still marked the course of the Pegnitz, we know as little as we know the origin of the name Nürnberg. It is true that the chronicles of later days are only too ready to furnish us with information; but the information is not always reliable. The chronicles, like our own peerage, are apt to contain too vivid efforts of imaginative fiction. The chroniclers, unharassed by facts or documents, with minds "not by geography prejudiced, or warped by history," can not unfortunately always be believed. It is, for instance, quite possible that Attila, King of the Huns, passed and plundered Nuremberg, as they tell us. But there is no proof, no record of that visitation. Again, the inevitable legend of a visit from Charlemagne occurs. He, you may be sure, was lost in the woods while hunting near Nuremberg, and passed all night alone, unhurt by the wild beasts. As a token of gratitude for God's manifest favor he caused a chapel to be built on the spot. The chapel stands to this day--a twelfth-century building--but no matter! for did not Otho I., as our chroniclers tell us, attend mass in St. Sebald's Church in 970, tho St. Sebald's Church can not have been built till a century later? The origin of the very name of Nuremberg is hidden in the clouds of obscurity. In the earliest documents we find it spelt with the usual variations of early manuscripts--Nourenberg, Nuorimperc, Niurenberg, Nuremberc, etc. The origin of the place, we repeat, is equally obscure. Many attempts have been made to find history in the light of the derivations of the name. But when philology turns historian it is apt to play strange tricks. Nur ein Berg (only a castle), or Nero's Castle, or Norix Tower--what matter which is the right derivation, so long as we can base a possible theory on it? The Norixberg theory will serve to illustrate the incredible quantity of misplaced ingenuity which both of old times and in the present has been wasted in trying to explain the inexplicable. Be that as it may, the history of our town begins in the year 1050. It is most probable that the silence regarding the place--it is not mentioned among the places visited by Conrad II. in this neighborhood--points to the fact that the castle did not exist in 1025, but was built between that year and 1050. That it existed then we know, for Henry III. dated a document from here in 1050, summoning a council of Bavarian nobles "to his estate Nourinberc." The oldest portion, called in the fifteenth century Altnürnberg, consisted of the Fünfeckiger Thurm--the Five-cornered tower--the rooms attached and the Otmarkapelle. The latter was burned down in 1420, rebuilt in 1428, and called the Walpurgiskapelle. These constituted the Burggräfliche Burg--the Burggraf's Castle. The rest of the castle was built on by Friedrich der Rotbart (Barbarossa), and called the Kaiserliche Burg. The old Five-cornered tower and the surrounding ground was the private property of the Burggraf, and he was appointed by the Emperor as imperial officer of the Kaiserliche Burg. Whether the Emperors claimed any rights of personal property over Nuremberg or merely treated it, at first, as imperial property, it is difficult to determine. The castle at any rate was probably built to secure whatever rights were claimed, and to serve generally as an imperial stronghold. Gradually around the castle grew up the straggling streets of Nuremberg. Settlers built beneath the shadow of the Burg. The very names of the streets suggest the vicinity of a camp or fortress. Söldnerstrasse, Schmiedstrasse, and so forth, betray the military origin of the present busy commercial town. From one cause or another a mixture of races, of Germanic and non-Germanic, of Slavonic and Frankish elements, seems to have occurred among the inhabitants of the growing village, producing a special blend which in dialect, in customs, and in dress was soon noticed by the neighbors as unique, and stamping the art and development of Nuremberg with that peculiar character which has never left it. Various causes combined to promote the growth of the place. The temporary removal of the Mart from Fürth to Nuremberg under Henry III. doubtless gave a great impetus to the development of the latter town. Henry IV., indeed, gave back the rights of Mart, customs and coinage to Fürth. But it seems probable that these rights were not taken away again from Nuremberg. The possession of a Mart was, of course, of great importance to a town in those days, promoting industries and arts and settled occupations. The Nurembergers were ready to suck out the fullest advantage from their privilege. That mixture of races, to which we have referred, resulted in remarkable business energy--energy which soon found scope in the conduct of the business which the natural position of Nuremberg on the south and north, the east and western trade routes, brought to her. It was not very long before she became the center of the vast trade between the Levant and Western Europe, and the chief emporium for the produce of Italy--the "Handelsmetropole" in fact of South Germany. Nothing in the Middle Ages was more conducive to the prosperity of a town than the reputation of having a holy man within its borders, or the possession of the miracle-working relics of a saint. Just as St. Elizabeth made Marburg so St. Sebaldus proved a very potent attraction to Nuremberg. As early as 1070 and 1080 we hear of pilgrimages to Nuremberg in honor of her patron saint. Another factor in the growth of the place was the frequent visits which the Emperors began to pay to it. Lying as it did on their way from Bamberg and Forcheim to Regensburg, the Kaisers readily availed themselves of the security offered by this impregnable fortress, and of the sport provided in the adjacent forest. For there was good hunting to be had in the forest which, seventy-two miles in extent, surrounded Nuremberg. And hunting, next to war, was then in most parts of Europe the most serious occupation of life. All the forest rights, we may mention, of wood-cutting, hunting, charcoal burning and bee-farming belonged originally to the Empire. But these were gradually acquired by the Nuremberg Council, chiefly by purchase in the fifteenth century. In the castle the visitor may notice a list of all the Emperors--some thirty odd, all told--who have stayed there--a list that should now include the reigning Emperor. We find that Henry IV. frequently honored Nuremberg with his presence. This is that Henry IV., whose scene at Canossa with the Pope--Kaiser of the Holy Roman Empire waiting three days in the snow to kiss the foot of excommunicative Gregory--has imprest itself on all memories. His last visit to Nuremberg was a sad one. His son rebelled against him, and the old king stopt at Nuremberg to collect his forces. In the war between father and son Nuremberg was loyal, and took the part of Henry IV. It was no nominal part, for in 1105 she had to stand a siege from the young Henry. For two months the town was held by the burghers and the castle by the Prefect Conrad. At the end of that time orders came from the old Kaiser that the town was to surrender. He had given up the struggle, and his undutiful son succeeded as Henry V. to the Holy Roman Empire, and Nuremberg with it. The mention of this siege gives us an indication of the growth of the town. The fact of the siege and the words of the chronicler, "The townsmen (oppidani) gave up the town under treaty," seem to point to the conclusion that Nuremberg was now no longer a mere fort (castrum), but that walls had sprung up round the busy mart and the shrine of St. Sebald, and that by this time Nuremberg had risen to the dignity of a "Stadt" or city state. Presently, indeed, we find her rejoicing in the title of "Civitas" (state). The place, it is clear, was already of considerable military importance or it would not have been worth while to invest it. The growing volume of trade is further illustrated by a charter of Henry V. (1112) giving to the citizens of Worms customs' immunity in various places subject to him, among which Frankfort, Goslar and Nuremberg are named as royal towns ("oppida regis"). [Footnote A: From "The Story of Nuremberg." Published by E.P. Dutton & Co.] ITS CHURCHES AND THE CITADEL[A] BY THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN It may be as well briefly to notice the two churches--St. Sebald and St. Lawrence. The former was within a stone's throw of our inn. Above the door of the western front is a remarkably fine crucifix of wood--placed, however, in too deep a recess--said to be by Veit Stoss. The head is of a very fine form, and the countenance has an expression of the most acute and intense feeling. A crown of thorns is twisted around the brow. But this figure, as well as the whole of the outside and inside of the church, stands in great need of being repaired. The towers are low, with insignificant turrets; the latter evidently a later erection--probably at the commencement of the sixteenth century. The eastern extremity, as well indeed as the aisles, is surrounded by buttresses; and the sharp-pointed, or lancet, windows, seem to bespeak the fourteenth, if not the thirteenth, century. The great "wonder" of the interior is the Shrine of the Saint (to whom the church is dedicated), of which the greater part is silver. At the time of my viewing it, it was in a disjointed state--parts of it having been taken to pieces, for repair; but from Geisler's exquisite little engraving, I should pronounce it to be second to few specimens of similar art in Europe. The figures do not exceed two feet in height, and the extreme elevation of the shrine may be about eight feet. Nor has Geisler's almost equally exquisite little engraved carving of the richly carved Gothic font in this church, less claim upon the admiration of the connoisseur. The mother church, or Cathedral of St. Lawrence, is much larger, and portions of it may be of the latter end of the thirteenth century. The principal entrance presents us with an elaborate doorway--perhaps of the fourteenth century--with the sculpture divided into several compartments, as at Rouen, Strassburg, and other earlier edifices. There is a poverty in the two towers, both from their size and the meagerness of the windows; but the slim spires at the summit are, doubtless, nearly of a coeval date with that which supports them. The bottom of the large circular or marigold window is injured in its effect by a Gothic balustrade of a later period. The interior of this church has certainly nothing very commanding or striking, on the score of architectural grandeur or beauty; but there are some painted glass windows--especially by Volkmar--which are deserving of particular attention. Nuremberg has one advantage over many populous towns; its public buildings are not choked up by narrow streets; and I hardly know an edifice of distinction, round which the spectator may not walk with perfect ease, and obtain a view of every portion which he is desirous of examining.... Of all edifices, more especially deserving of being visited at Nuremberg, the Citadel is doubtless the most curious and ancient, as well as the most remarkable. It rises to a considerable height, close upon the outer walls of the town, within about a stone's throw of the end of Albrecht Dürer Strasse--or the street where Albert Dürer lived--and whose house is not only yet in existence, but still the object of attraction and veneration with every visitor of taste, from whatever part of the world he may chance to come. The street running down is the street called (as before observed) after Albert Dürer's own name; and the well, seen about the middle of it, is a specimen of those wells--built of stone--which are very common in the streets of Nuremberg. The upper part of the house of Albert Dürer is supposed to have been his study. The interior is so altered from its original disposition as to present little or nothing satisfactory to the antiquary. It would be difficult to say how many coats of whitewash have been bestowed upon the rooms, since the time when they were tenanted by the great character in question. Passing through this street, therefore, you may turn to the right, and continue onward up a pretty smart ascent; when the entrance to the Citadel, by the side of a low wall--in front of an old tower--presents itself to your attention. It was before breakfast that my companion and self visited this interesting interior, over every part of which we were conducted by a most loquacious cicerone, who spoke the French language very fluently, and who was pleased to express his extreme gratification upon finding that his visitors were Englishmen. The tower and the adjoining chapel, may be each of the thirteenth century; but the tombstone of the founder of the monastery, upon the site of which the present Citadel was built, bears the date of 1296. This tombstone is very perfect; lying in a loose, unconnected manner, as you enter the chapel; the chapel itself having a crypt-like appearance. This latter is very small. From the suite of apartments in the older parts of the Citadel, there is a most extensive and uninterrupted view of the surrounding country, which is rather flat. At the distance of about nine miles, the town of Fürth (Furta) looks as if it were within an hour's walk; and I should think that the height of the chambers (from which we enjoyed this view) to the level ground of the adjacent meadows could be scarcely less than three hundred feet. In these chambers there is a little world of curiosity for the antiquary; and yet it was but too palpable that very many of its more precious treasures had been transported to Munich. In the time of Maximilian II., when Nuremberg may be supposed to have been in the very height of its glory, this Citadel must have been worth a pilgrimage of many score miles to have visited. The ornaments which remain are chiefly pictures; of which several are exceedingly precious.... In these curious old chambers, it was to be expected that I should see some Wohlegemuths--as usual, with backgrounds in a blaze of gold, and figures with tortuous limbs, pinched-in waists, and caricatured countenances. In a room, pretty plentifully encumbered with rubbish, I saw a charming Snyders; being a dead stag, suspended from a pole. There is here a portrait of Albert Dürer, by himself; but said to be a copy. If so, it is a very fine copy. The original is supposed to be at Munich. There was nothing else that my visit enabled me to see particularly deserving of being recorded; but, when I was told that it was in this Citadel that the ancient Emperors of Germany used oftentimes to reside, and make carousal, and when I saw, now, scarcely anything but dark passages, unfurnished galleries, naked halls, and untenanted chambers--I own that I could hardly refrain from uttering a sigh over the mutability of earthly fashions, and the transitoriness of worldly grandeur. With a rock for its base, and walls almost of adamant for its support--situated also upon an eminence which may be said to look frowningly down over a vast sweep of country--the Citadel of Nuremberg should seem to have bid defiance, in former times, to every assault of the most desperate and enterprising foe. It is now visited only by the casual traveler--who is frequently startled at the echo of his own footsteps. While I am on the subject of ancient art--of which so many curious specimens are to be seen in this Citadel--it may not be irrelevant to conduct the reader at once to what is called the Town Hall--a very large structure--of which portions are devoted to the exhibition of old pictures. Many of these paintings are in a very suspicious state, from the operations of time and accident; but the great boast of the collection is the "Triumphs of Maximilian I.," executed by Albert Dürer--which, however, has by no means escaped injury. I was accompanied in my visit to this interesting collection by Mr. Boerner, and had particular reason to be pleased by the friendliness of his attentions, and by the intelligence of his observations. A great number of these pictures (as I understood) belonged to a house in which he was a partner; and among them a portrait, by Pens, struck me as being singularly admirable and exquisite. The countenance, the dress, the attitude, the drawing and coloring, were as perfect as they well might be. But this collection has also suffered from the transportation of many of its treasures to Munich. The rooms, halls, and corridors of this Hôtel de Ville give you a good notion of municipal grandeur. In the neighborhood of Nuremberg--that is to say, scarcely more than an English mile from thence--are the grave and tombstone of Albert Dürer. The monument is simple and striking. In the churchyard there is a representation of the Crucifixion, cut in stone. It was on a fine, calm evening, just after sunset, that I first visited the tombstone of Albert Dürer; and I shall always remember the sensations, with which that visit was attended, as among the most pleasing and impressive of my life. The silence of the spot--its retirement from the city--the falling shadows of night, and the increasing solemnity of every monument of the dead--together with the mysterious, and even awful, effect produced by the colossal crucifix--but yet, perhaps, more than either, the recollection of the extraordinary talents of the artist, so quietly sleeping beneath my feet--all conspired to produce a train of reflections which may be readily conceived, but not so readily described. If ever a man deserved to be considered as the glory of his age and nation, Albert Dürer was surely that man. He was, in truth, the Shakespeare of his art--for the period. [Footnote A: From "A Bibliographical, Antiquarian and Picturesque Tour." Dibdin's tour was made in 1821.] NUREMBERG TO-DAY[A] BY CECIL HEADLAM Nuremberg is set upon a series of small slopes in the midst of an undulating, sandy plain, some 900 feet above the sea. Here and there on every side fringes and patches of the mighty forest which once covered it are still visible; but for the most part the plain is now freckled with picturesque villages, in which stand old turreted châteaux, with gabled fronts and latticed windows, or it is clothed with carefully cultivated crops or veiled from sight by the smoke which rises from the new-grown forest of factory chimneys. The railway sets us down outside the walls of the city. As we walk from the station toward the Frauen Thor, and stand beneath the crown of fortified walls three and a half miles in circumference, and gaze at the old gray towers and picturesque confusion of domes, pinnacles and spires, suddenly it seems as if our dream of a feudal city has been realized. There, before us, is one of the main entrances, still between massive gates and beneath archways flanked by stately towers. Still to reach it we must cross a moat fifty feet deep and a hundred feet wide. True, the swords of old days have been turned into pruning-hooks; the crenelles and embrasures which once bristled and blazed with cannon are now curtained with brambles and wall-flowers, and festooned with Virginia creepers; the galleries are no longer crowded with archers and cross-bowmen; the moat itself has blossomed into a garden, luxuriant with limes and acacias, elders, planes, chestnuts, poplars, walnut, willow and birch trees, or divided into carefully tilled little garden plots. True it is that outside the moat, beneath the smug grin of substantial modern houses, runs that mark of modernity, the electric tram. But let us for the moment forget these gratifying signs of modern prosperity and, turning to the left ere we enter the Frauen Thor, walk with our eyes on the towers which, with their steep-pitched roofs and myriad shapes and richly colored tiles, mark the intervals in the red-bricked, stone-cased galleries and mighty bastions, till we come to the first beginnings of Nuremberg--the Castle. There, on the highest eminence of the town, stands that venerable fortress, crowning the red slope of tiles. Roofs piled on roofs, their pinnacles, turrets, points and angles heaped one above the other in a splendid confusion, climb the hill which culminates in the varied group of buildings on the Castle rock. We have passed the Spittler, Mohren, Haller and Neu Gates on our way, and we have crossed by the Hallerthorbrücke the Pegnitz where it flows into the town. Before us rise the bold scarps and salient angles of the bastions built by the Italian architect, Antonio Fazuni, called the Maltese (1538-43). Crossing the moat by a wooden bridge which curls round to the right, we enter the town by the Thiergärtnerthor. The right-hand corner house opposite us now is Albert Dürer's house. We turn to the left and go along the Obere Schmiedgasse till we arrive at the top of a steep hill (Burgstrasse). Above, on the left, is the Castle. We may now either go through the Himmels Thor to the left, or keeping straight up under the old trees and passing the "Mount of Olives" on the left, approach the large deep-roofed building between two towers. This is the Kaiserstallung, as it is called, the Imperial stables, built originally for a granary. The towers are the Luginsland (Look in the land) on the east, and the Fünfeckiger Thurm, the Five-cornered tower, at the west end (on the left hand as we thus face it). The Luginsland was built by the townspeople in the hard winter of 1377. The mortar for building it, tradition says, had to be mixed with salt, so that it might be kept soft and be worked in spite of the severe cold. The chronicles state that one could see right into the Burggraf's Castle from this tower, and the town was therefore kept informed of any threatening movements on his part. To some extent that was very likely the object in view when the tower was built, but chiefly it must have been intended, as its name indicates, to afford a far look-out into the surrounding country. The granary or Kaiserstallung, as it was called later, was erected in 1494, and is referred to by Hans Behaim as lying between the Five-cornered and the Luginsland Towers. Inside the former there is a museum of curiosities (Hans Sachs' harp) and the famous collection of instruments of torture and the Maiden (Eiserne Jungfrau). The open space adjoining it commands a splendid view to the north. There, too, on the parapet-wall, may be seen the hoof-marks of the horse of the robber-king, Ekkelein von Gailingen. Here for a moment let us pause, consider our position, and endeavor to make out from the conflicting theories of the archeologists something of the original arrangement of the castles and of the significance of the buildings and towers that yet remain. Stretching to the east of the rock on which the Castle stands is a wide plain, now the scene of busy industrial enterprise, but in old days no doubt a mere district of swamp and forest. Westward the rock rises by three shelves to the summit. The entrance to the Castle, it is surmised, was originally on the east side, at the foot of the lower plateau and through a tower which no longer exists. Opposite this hypothetical gate-way stood the Five-cornered tower. The lower part dates, we have seen, from no earlier than the eleventh century. It is referred to as Alt-Nürnberg (old Nuremberg) in the Middle Ages. The title of "Five-cornered" is really somewhat a misnomer, for an examination of the interior of the lower portion of the tower reveals the fact that it is quadrangular. The pentagonal appearance of the exterior is due to the fragment of a smaller tower which once leaned against it, and probably formed the apex of a wing running out from the old castle of the Burggrafs. The Burggräfliche Burg stood below, according to Mummenhof, southwest and west of this point. It was burned down in 1420, and the ruined remains of it are supposed to be traceable in the eminence, now overgrown by turf and trees, through which a sort of ravine, closed in on either side by built-up walls, has just brought us from the town to the Vestner Thor. The Burggraf's Castle would appear to have been so situated as to protect the approach to the Imperial Castle (Kaiserburg). The exact extent of the former we can not now determine. Meisterlin refers to it as a little fort. We may, however, be certain that it reached from the Five-cornered tower to the Walpurgiskapelle. For this little chapel, east of the open space called the Freiung, is repeatedly spoken of as being on the property of the Burggrafs. Besides their castle proper, which was held at first as a fief of the Empire, and afterward came to be regarded as their hereditary, independent property, the Burggrafs were also entrusted with the keeping of a tower which commanded the entrance to the Castle rock on the country side, perhaps near the site of the present Vestner Thor. The guard door may have been attached to the tower, the lower portion of which remains to this day, and is called the Bailiff's Dwelling (Burgamtmannswohnung). The exact relationship of the Burggraf to the town on the one hand, and to the Empire on the other, is somewhat obscure. Originally, it would appear, he was merely an Imperial officer, administering Imperial estates, and looking after Imperial interests. In later days he came to possess great power, but this was due not to his position as castellan or castle governor as such, but to the vast private property his position had enabled him to amass and to keep. As the scope and ambitions of the Burggrafs increased, and as the smallness of their castle at Nuremberg, and the constant friction with the townspeople, who were able to annoy them in many ways, became more irksome, they gave up living at Nuremberg, and finally were content to sell their rights and possessions there to the town. Beside the guard door of the Burggrafs, which together with their castle passed by purchase into the hands of the town (1427), there were various other similar guard towers, such as the one which formerly occupied the present site of the Luginsland, or the Hasenburg at the so-called Himmels Thor, or a third which once stood near the Deep Well on the second plateau of the Castle rock. But we do not know how many of these there were, or where they stood, much less at what date they were built. All we do know is that they, as well as the Burggrafs' possessions, were purchased in succession by the town, into whose hands by degrees came the whole property of the Castle rock. Above the ruins of the "little fort" of the Burggrafs rises the first plateau of the Castle rock. It is surrounded by a wall, strengthened on the south side by a square tower against which leans the Walpurgiskapelle. The path to the Kaiserburg leads under the wall of the plateau, and is entirely commanded by it and by the quadrangular tower, the lower part of which alone remains and is known by the name of Burgamtmannswohnung. The path goes straight to this tower, and at the foot of it is the entrance to the first plateau. Then along the edge of this plateau the way winds southward, entirely commanded again by the wall of the second plateau, at the foot of which there probably used to be a trench. Over this a bridge led to the gate of the second plateau. The trench has been long since filled in, but the huge round tower which guarded the gate still remains and is the Vestner Thurm. The Vestner Thurm of Sinwel Thurm (sinwel = round), or, as it is called in a charter of the year 1313, the "Middle Tower," is the only round tower of the Burg. It was built in the days of early Gothic, with a sloping base, and of roughly flattened stones with a smooth edge. It was partly restored and altered in 1561, when it was made a few feet higher and its round roof was added. It is worth paying the small gratuity required for ascending to the top. The view obtained of the city below is magnificent. The Vestner Thurm, like the whole Imperial castle, passed at length into the care of the town, which kept its Tower watch here as early as the fourteenth century. The well which supplied the second plateau with water, the "Deep Well," as it is called, stands in the center, surrounded by a wall. It is 335 feet deep, hewn out of the solid rock, and is said to have been wrought by the hands of prisoners, and to have been the labor of thirty years. So much we can easily believe as we lean over and count the six seconds that elapse between the time when an object is dropt from the top to the time when it strikes the water beneath. Passages lead from the water's edge to the Rathaus, by which prisoners came formerly to draw water, and to St. John's Churchyard and other points outside the town. The system of underground passages here and in the Castle was an important part of the defenses, affording as it did a means of communication with the outer world and as a last extremity, in the case of a siege, a means of escape. Meanwhile, leaving the Deep Well and passing some insignificant modern dwellings, and leaving beneath us on the left the Himmelsthor, let us approach the summit of the rock and the buildings of the Kaiserburg itself. As we advance to the gateway with the intention of ringing the bell for the castellan, we notice on the left the Double Chapel, attaching to the Heathen Tower, the lower part of which is encrusted with what were once supposed to be Pagan images. The Tower protrudes beyond the face of the third plateau, and its prominence may indicate the width of a trench, now filled in, which was once dug outside the enclosing wall of the summit of the rock. The whole of the south side of this plateau is taken up by the "Palast" (the vast hall, two stories high, which, tho it has been repeatedly rebuilt, may in its original structure be traced back as far as the twelfth century), and the "Kemnate" or dwelling-rooms which seem to have been without any means of defense. This plateau, like the second, is supplied with a well. But the first object that strikes the eye on entering the court-yard is the ruined limetree, the branches of which once spread their broad and verdant shelter over the whole extent of the quadrangle. On leaving the Castle we find ourselves in the Burgstrasse, called in the old days Unter der Veste, which was probably the High Street of the old town. Off both sides of this street and of the Bergstrasse ran narrow crooked little alleys lined with wooden houses of which time and fire have left scarcely any trace. As you wander round the city tracing the line of the old walls, you are struck by the general air of splendor. Most of the houses are large and of a massive style of architecture, adorned with fanciful gables and bearing the impress of the period when every inhabitant was a merchant, and every merchant was lodged like a king. The houses of the merchant princes, richly carved both inside and out, tell of the wealth and splendor of Nuremberg in her proudest days. But you will also come upon a hundred crooked little streets and narrow alleys, which, tho entrancingly picturesque, tell of yet other days and other conditions. They tell of those early medieval days when the houses were almost all of wood and roofed with straw-thatching or wooden tiles; when the chimneys and bridges alike were built of wood. Only here and there a stone house roofed with brick could then be seen. The streets were narrow and crooked, and even in the fifteenth century mostly unpaved. In wet weather they were filled with unfathomable mud, and even tho in the lower part of the town trenches were dug to drain the streets, they remained mere swamps and morasses. In dry weather the dust was even a worse plague than the mud. Pig-styes stood in front of the houses; and the streets were covered with heaps of filth and manure and with rotting corpses of animals, over which the pigs wandered at will. Street police in fact was practically non-existent. Medievalism is undoubtedly better when survived. [Footnote A: From "The Story of Nuremberg." Published by E.P. Dutton & Co.] WALLS AND OTHER FORTIFICATIONS[A] BY CECIL HEADLAM A glance at the map will show us that Nuremberg, as we know it, is divided into two almost equal divisions. They are called after the names of the principal churches, the St. Lorenz, and the St. Sebald quarter. The original wall included, it will be seen, only a small portion of the northern or St. Sebald division. With the growth of the town an extension of the walls and an increase of fortification followed as a matter of course. It became necessary to carry the wall over the Pegnitz in order to protect the Lorenzkirche and the suburb which was springing up around it. The precise date of this extension of the fortifications can not be fixt. The chronicles attribute it to the twelfth century, in the reign of the first Hohenstaufen, Konrad III. No trace of a twelfth-century wall remains; but the chroniclers may, for all that, have been not very wide of the mark. The mud and wood which supplied the material of the wall may have given place to stone in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. However that may be, it will be remembered that the lower part of the White Tower, which is the oldest fragment of building we can certainly point to dates from the thirteenth century. All other portions of the second wall clearly indicate the fourteenth century, or later, as the time of their origin.... Beyond the White Tower the moat was long ago filled up, but the section of it opposite the Unschlittplatz remained open for a longer period than the rest, and was called the Klettengraben, because of the burdocks which took root there. Hereabouts, on a part of the moat, the Waizenbräuhaus was built in 1671, which is now the famous Freiherrlich von Tuchersche Brewery. Here, too, the Unschlitthaus was built at the end of the fifteenth century as a granary. It has since been turned into a school. We have now reached one of the most charming and picturesque bits of Nuremberg. Once more we have to cross the Pegnitz, whose banks are overhung by quaint old houses. Their projecting roofs and high gables, their varied chimneys and overhanging balconies from which trail rich masses of creepers, make an entrancing foreground to the towers and the arches of the Henkersteg. The wall was carried on arches over the southern arm of the Pegnitz to the point of the Saumarkt (or Trödelmarkt) island which here divides the river, and thence in like manner over the northern arm. The latter portion of it alone survives and comprises a large tower on the north bank called the Wasserthurm, which was intended to break the force of the stream; a bridge supported by two arches over the stream, which was the Henkersteg, the habitation of the hangman, and on the island itself a smaller tower, which formed the point of support for the original, southern pair of arches, which joined the Unschlitthaus, but were so badly damaged in 1595 by the high flood that they were demolished and replaced by a wooden, and later by an iron bridge. Somewhere in the second half of the fourteenth century, then, in the reign of Karl IV., they began to build the outer enceinte, which, altho destroyed at many places and broken through by modern gates and entrances, is still fairly well preserved, and secures to Nuremberg the reputation of presenting most faithfully of all the larger German towns the characteristics of a medieval town. The fortifications seem to have been thrown up somewhat carelessly at first, but dread of the Hussites soon inspired the citizens to make themselves as secure as possible. In times of war and rumors of war all the peasants within a radius of two miles of the town were called upon to help in the construction of barriers and ramparts. The whole circle of walls, towers, and ditches was practically finished by 1452, when with pardonable pride Tucher wrote, "In this year was completed the ditch round the town. It took twenty-six years to build, and it will cost an enemy a good deal of trouble to cross it." Part of the ditch had been made and perhaps revetted as early as 1407, but it was not till twenty years later that it began to be dug to the enormous breadth and depth which it boasts to-day. The size of it was always a source of pride to Nurembergers, and it was perhaps due to this reason that up till as recently as 1869 it was left perfectly intact. On the average it is about 100 feet broad. It was always intended to be a dry ditch, and, so far from there being any arrangements for flooding it, precautions were taken to carry the little Fischbach, which formerly entered the town near the modern Sternthor, across the ditch in a trough. The construction of the ditch was provided for by an order of the Council in 1427, to the effect that all householders, whether male or female, must work at the ditch one day in the year with their children of over twelve years of age, and with all their servants, male or female. Those who were not able to work had to pay a substitute. Subsequently this order was changed to the effect that every one who could or would not work must pay ten pfennige. There were no exemptions from this liturgy, whether in favor of councillor, official, or lady. The order remained ten years in force, tho the amount of the payment was gradually reduced.... At the time of the construction of these and the other lofty towers it was still thought that the raising of batteries as much as possible would increase their effect. In practise the plunging fire from platforms at the height of some eighty feet above the level of the parapets of the town wall can hardly have been capable of producing any great effect, more especially if the besieging force succeeded in establishing itself on the crest of the counterscarp of the ditches, since from that point the swell of the bastions masked the towers. But there was another use for these lofty towers. The fact is that the Nuremberg engineers, at the time that they were built, had not yet adopted a complete system of flank-works, and not having as yet applied with all its consequences the axiom that that which defends should itself be defended, they wanted to see and command their external defenses from within the body of the place, as, a century before, the baron could see from the top of his donjon whatever was going on round the walls of his castle, and send up his support to any point of attack. The great round towers of Nuremberg are more properly, in fact, detached keeps than portions of a combined system, rather observatories than effective defenses. The round towers, however, were not the sole defenses of the gates. Outside each one of them was a kind of fence of pointed beams after the manner of a chevaux-de-frise, while outside the ditch and close to the bridge stood a barrier, by the side of which was a guard-house. Tho it was not till 1598 that all the main gates were fitted with drawbridges, the wooden bridges that served before that could doubtless easily be destroyed in cases of emergency. Double-folding doors and portcullises protected the gateways themselves. Once past there, the enemy was far from being in the town, for the road led through extensive advanced works, presenting, as in the case of the Laufer Thor outwork, a regular "place d'armes." Further, the road was so engineered as not to lead in a straight line from the outer main gates to the inner ones, but rather so as to pursue a circuitous course. Thus the enemy in passing through from the one to the other were exposed as long as possible to the shots and projectiles of the defenders, who were stationed all round the walls and towers flanking the advanced tambour. This arrangement may be traced very clearly at the Frauen Thor to-day. The position of the round tower, it will be observed, was an excellent one for commanding the road from the outer to the inner gate. At intervals of every 120 or 150 feet the interior wall is broken by quadrilateral towers. Some eighty-three of these, including the gate towers, can still be traced. What the number was originally we do not know. It is the sort of subject on which chroniclers have no manner of conscience. The Hartmann Schedel Chronicle, for instance, gives Nuremberg 365 towers in all. The fact that there are 365 days in the year is of course sufficient proof of this assertion! The towers, which rise two or even three stories above the wall, communicated on both sides with the covered way. They are now used as dwelling-houses. On some of them there can still be seen, projecting near the roof, two little machicoulis turrets, which served as guard-rooms for observing the enemy, and also, by overhanging the base of the tower, enabled the garrison to hurl down on their assailants at the foot of the wall a hurricane of projectiles of every sort. Like the wall the towers are built almost entirely of sandstone, but on the side facing the town they are usually faced with brick. The shapes of the roofs vary from flat to pointed, but the towers themselves are simple and almost austere in form in comparison with those generally found in North Germany, where fantasy runs riot in red brick. The Nuremberg towers were obviously intended in the first place for use rather than for ornament. At the end of our long perambulations of the walls it will be a grateful relief to sit for a while at one of the "Restaurations" or restaurants on the walls. There, beneath the shade of acacias in the daytime, or in the evening by the white light of incandescent gas, you may sit and watch the groups of men, women, and children all drinking from their tall glasses of beer, and you may listen to the whirr and ting-tang of the electric cars, where the challenge of sentinels or the cry of the night-watchman was once the most frequent sound. Or, if you have grown tired of the Horn- and the Schloss-zwinger, cross the ditch on the west side of the town and make your way to the Rosenau, in the Fürtherstrasse. The Rosenau is a garden of trees and roses not lacking in chairs and tables, in bowers, benches, and a band. There, too, you will see the good burgher with his family drinking beer, eating sausages, and smoking contentedly. [Footnote A: From "The Story of Nuremberg." Published by E.P. Dutton & Co.] ALBERT DÜRER[A] BY CECIL HEADLAM Among the most treasured of Nuremberg's relics is the low-ceilinged, gabled house near the Thiergärtnerthor, in which Albert Dürer lived and died, in the street now called after his name. The works of art which he presented to the town, or with which he adorned its churches, have unfortunately, with but few exceptions, been sold to the stranger. It is in Vienna and Munich, in Dresden and Berlin, in Florence, in Prague, or the British Museum, that we find splendid collections of Dürer's works. Not at Nuremberg. But here at any rate we can see the house in which he toiled--no genius ever took more pains--and the surroundings which imprest his mind and influenced his inspiration. If, in the past, Nuremberg has been only too anxious to turn his works into cash, to-day she guards Albert Dürer's house with a care and reverence little short of religious. She has sold, in the days of her poverty and foolishness, the master's pictures and drawings, which are his own best monument; but she has set up a noble monument to his memory (by Rauch, 1840) in the Dürer Platz, and his house is opened to the public between the hours of 8 A.M. and 1 P.M., and 2 and 6 P.M. on week days. The Albert-Dürer-Haus Society has done admirable work in restoring and preserving the house in its original state with the aid of Professor Wanderer's architectural and antiquarian skill. Reproductions of Dürer's works are also kept here. The most superficial acquaintance with Dürer's drawings will have prepared us for the sight of his simple, unpretentious house and its contents. In his "Birth of the Virgin" he gives us a picture of the German home of his day, where there were few superfluous knick-knacks, but everything which served for daily use was well and strongly made and of good design. Ceilings, windows, doors and door-handles, chests, locks, candlesticks, banisters, waterpots, the very cooking utensils, all betray the fine taste and skilled labor, the personal interest of the man who made them. So in Dürer's house, as it is preserved to-day, we can still see and admire the careful simplicity of domestic furniture, which distinguishes that in the "Birth of the Virgin." The carved coffers, the solid tables, the spacious window-seats, the well-fitting cabinets let into the walls, the carefully wrought metal-work we see there are not luxurious; their merit is quite other than that. In workmanship as in design, how utterly do they put to shame the contents of the ordinary "luxuriously furnished apartments" of the present day! And what manner of man was he who lived in this house that nestles beneath the ancient castle? In the first place a singularly loveable man, a man of sweet and gentle spirit, whose life was one of high ideals and noble endeavor. In the second place an artist who, both for his achievements and for his influence on art, stands in the very front rank of artists, and of German artists is "facile princeps." At whatever point we may study Dürer and his works we are never conscious of disappointment. As painter, as author, as engraver, or simple citizen, the more we know of him the more we are morally and intellectually satisfied. Fortunately, through his letters and writings, his journals and autobiographical memoirs we know a good deal about his personal history and education. Dürer's grandfather came of a farmer race in the village of Eytas in Hungary. The grandfather turned goldsmith, and his eldest son, Albrecht Dürer the elder, came to Nuremberg in 1455 and settled in the Burgstrasse (No. 27). He became one of the leading goldsmiths of the town; married and had eighteen children, of whom only three, boys, grew up. Albrecht, or as we call him Albert Dürer, was the eldest of these. He was born May 21, 1471, in his father's house, and Anthoni Koberger, the printer and bookseller, the Stein of those days, stood godfather to him. The maintenance of so large a family involved the father, skilful artist as he was, in unremitting toil. His father, who was delighted with Albert's industry, took him from school as soon as he had learned to read and write and apprenticed him to a goldsmith. "But my taste drew me toward painting rather than toward goldsmithry. I explained this to my father, but he was not satisfied, for he regretted the time I had lost." Benvenuto Cellini has told us how his father, in like fashion, was eager that he should practise the "accurst art" of music. Dürer's father, however, soon gave in and in 1486 apprenticed the boy to Michael Wolgemut. That extraordinary beautiful, and, for a boy of that age, marvelously executed portrait of himself at the age of thirteen (now at Vienna) must have shown the father something of the power that lay undeveloped in his son. So "it was arranged that I should serve him for three years. During that time God gave me great industry so that I learned many things; but I had to suffer much at the hands of the other apprentices." When in 1490 his apprenticeship was completed Dürer set out on his Wanderjahre, to learn what he could of men and things, and, more especially, of his own trade. Martin Schongauer was dead, but under that master's brothers Dürer studied and helped to support himself by his art at Colmar and at Bâsle. Various wood-blocks executed by him at the latter place are preserved there. Whether he also visited Venice now or not is a moot point. Here or elsewhere, at any rate, he came under the influence of the Bellini, of Mantegna, and more particularly of Jacopo dei Barbari--the painter and engraver to whom he owed the incentive to study the proportions of the human body--a study which henceforth became the most absorbing interest of his life. "I was four years absent from Nuremberg," he records, "and then my father recalled me. After my return Hans Frey came to an understanding with my father. He gave me his daughter Agnes and with her 200 florins, and we were married." Dürer, who writes so lovingly of his parents, never mentions his wife with any affection; a fact which to some extent confirms her reputation as a Xantippe. She, too, in her way, it is suggested, practised the art of cross-hatching. Pirkheimer, writing after the artist's death, says that by her avariciousness and quarreling nature she brought him to the grave before his day. She was probably a woman of a practical and prosaic turn, to whom the dreamy, poetic, imaginative nature of the artist-student, her husband, was intolerably irritating. Yet as we look at his portraits of himself--and no man except Rembrandt has painted himself so often--it is difficult to understand how any one could have been angry with Albert Dürer. Never did the face of man bear a more sweet, benign, and trustful expression. In those portraits we see something of the beauty, of the strength, of the weakness of the man so beloved in his generation. His fondness for fine clothes and his legitimate pride in his personal beauty reveal themselves in the rich vestments he wears and the wealth of silken curls, so carefully waved, so wondrously painted, falling proudly over his free neck. [Footnote A: From "The Story of Nuremberg." Published by E.P. Dutton & Co.] III OTHER BAVARIAN CITIES MUNICH[A] BY BAYARD TAYLOR Art has done everything for Munich. It lies on a large flat plain sixteen hundred feet above the sea and continually exposed to the cold winds from the Alps. At the beginning of the present century it was but a third-rate city, and was rarely visited by foreigners; since that time its population and limits have been doubled and magnificent edifices in every style of architecture erected, rendering it scarcely secondary in this respect to any capital in Europe.[B] Every art that wealth or taste could devise seems to have been spent in its decoration. Broad, spacious streets and squares have been laid out, churches, halls and colleges erected, and schools of painting and sculpture established which draw artists from all parts of the world. All this was principally brought about by the taste of the present king, Ludwig I., who began twenty or thirty years ago, when he was crown-prince, to collect the best German artists around him and form plans for the execution of his grand design. He can boast of having done more for the arts than any other living monarch; and if he had accomplished it all without oppressing his people, he would deserve an immortality of fame.... We went one morning to see the collection of paintings formerly belonging to Eugène Beauharnais, who was brother-in-law to the present King of Bavaria, in the palace of his son, the Duke of Leuchtenberg. The first hall contains works principally by French artists, among which are two by Gérard--a beautiful portrait of Josephine, and the blind Belisarius carrying his dead companion. The boy's head lies on the old man's shoulder; but for the livid paleness of his limbs, he would seem to be only asleep, while a deep and settled sorrow marks the venerable features of the unfortunate emperor. In the middle of the room are six pieces of statuary, among which Canova's world-renowned group of the Graces at once attracts the eye. There is also a kneeling Magdalen, lovely in her wo, by the same sculptor, and a very touching work of Schadow representing a shepherd-boy tenderly binding his sash around a lamb which he has accidentaly wounded with his arrow. We have since seen in the St. Michael's Church the monument to Eugene Beauharnais from the chisel of Thorwaldsen. The noble, manly figure of the son of Josephine is represented in the Roman mantle, with his helmet and sword lying on the ground by him. On one side sits History writing on a tablet; on the other stand the two brother-angels Death and Immortality. They lean lovingly together, with arms around each other, but the sweet countenance of Death has a cast of sorrow as he stands with inverted torch and a wreath of poppies among his clustering locks. Immortality, crowned with never-fading flowers, looks upward with a smile of triumph, and holds in one hand his blazing torch. It is a beautiful idea, and Thorwaldsen has made the marble eloquent with feeling. The inside of the square formed by the arcades and the New Residence is filled with noble old trees which in summer make a leafy roof over the pleasant walks. In the middle stands a grotto ornamented with rough pebbles and shells, and only needing a fountain to make it a perfect hall of Neptune. Passing through the northern arcade, one comes into the magnificent park called the English Garden, which extends more than four miles along the bank of the Isar, several branches of whose milky current wander through it and form one or two pretty cascades. It is a beautiful alteration of forest and meadow, and has all the richness and garden-like luxuriance of English scenery. Winding walks lead along the Isar or through the wood of venerable oaks, and sometimes a lawn of half a mile in length, with a picturesque temple at its farther end, comes in sight through the trees. The New Residence is not only one of the wonders of Munich, but of the world. Altho commenced in 1826 and carried on constantly since that time by a number of architects, sculptors and painters, it is not yet finished; if art were not inexhaustible, it would be difficult to imagine what more could be added. The north side of the Max Joseph Platz is taken up by its front of four hundred and thirty feet, which was nine years in building, under the direction of the architect Klenze. The exterior is copied after the Palazzo Pitti, in Florence. The building is of light-brown sandstone, and combines an elegance, and even splendor, with the most chaste and classic style. The northern front, which faces the royal garden, is now nearly finished. It has the enormous length of eight hundred feet; in the middle is a portico of ten Ionic columns. Instead of supporting a triangular façade, each pillar stands separate and bears a marble statue from the chisel of Schwanthaler. The interior of the building does not disappoint the promise of the outside. It is open every afternoon, in the absence of the king, for the inspection of visitors. We went early to the waiting-hall, where several travelers were already assembled, and at four o'clock were admitted into the newer part of the palace, containing the throne-hall, ball-room, etc. On entering the first hall, designed for the lackeys and royal servants, we were all obliged to thrust our feet into cloth slippers to walk over the polished mosaic floor. The walls are of scagliola marble and the ceilings ornamented brilliantly in fresco. The second hall, also for servants, gives tokens of increasing splendors in the richer decorations of the walls and the more elaborate mosaic of the floor. We next entered the audience chamber, in which the court-marshal receives the guests. The ceiling is of arabesque sculpture profusely painted and gilded.... Finally we entered the Hall of the Throne. Here the encaustic decoration so plentifully employed in the other rooms is dropt, and an effect even more brilliant obtained by the united use of marble and gold. Picture a long hall with a floor of polished marble, on each side twelve columns of white marble with gilded capitals, between which stand colossal statues of gold. At the other end is the throne of gold and crimson, with gorgeous hangings of crimson velvet. The twelve statues in the hall are called the "Wittelsbach Ancestors" and represent renowned members of the house of Wittelsbach from which the present family of Bavaria is descended. They were cast in bronze by Stiglmaier after the models of Schwanthaler, and then completely covered with a coating of gold; so that they resemble solid golden statues. The value of the precious metal on each one is about three thousand dollars, as they are nine feet in height. We visited yesterday morning the Glyptothek, the finest collection of ancient sculpture except that in the British Museum I have yet seen, and perhaps elsewhere unsurpassed north of the Alps. The building, which was finished by Klenze in 1830, has an Ionic portico of white marble, with a group of allegorical figures representing Sculpture and the kindred arts. On each side of the portico there are three niches in the front, containing on one side Pericles, Phidias and Vulcan; on the other, Hadrian, Prometheus and Daedalus. The whole building forms a hollow square and is lighted entirely from the inner side. There are in all twelve halls, each containing the remains of a particular era in the art, and arranged according to time; so that, beginning with the clumsy productions of the ancient Egyptians, one passes through the different stages of Grecian art, afterward that of Rome, and finally ends with the works of our own times--the almost Grecian perfection of Thorwaldsen and Canova. These halls are worthy to hold such treasures, and what more could be said of them? The floors are of marble mosaic, the sides of green or purple scagliola and the vaulted ceilings covered with raised ornaments on a ground of gold. No two are alike in color and decoration, and yet there is a unity of taste and design in the whole which renders the variety delightful. From the Egyptian Hall we enter one containing the oldest remains of Grecian sculpture, before the artists won power to mold the marble to their conceptions. Then follow the celebrated Aegina marbles, from the temple of Jupiter Panhellenius, on the island of Aegina. They formerly stood in the two porticoes, the one group representing the fight for the body of Laomedon, the other the struggle for the dead Patroclus. The parts wanting have been admirably restored by Thorwaldsen. They form almost the only existing specimens of the Aeginetan school. Passing through the Apollo Hall, we enter the large Hall of Bacchus, in which the progress of the art is distinctly apparent. A satyr lying asleep on a goatskin which he has thrown over a rock is believed to be the work of Praxiteles. The relaxation of the figure and perfect repose of every limb is wonderful. The countenance has traits of individuality which led me to think it might have been a portrait, perhaps of some rude country swain. In the Hall of Niobe, which follows, is one of the most perfect works that ever grew into life under a sculptor's chisel. Mutilated as it is, without head and arms, I never saw a more expressive figure. Ilioneus, the son of Niobe, is represented as kneeling, apparently in the moment in which Apollo raises his arrow, and there is an imploring supplication in his attitude which is touching in the highest degree. His beautiful young limbs seem to shrink involuntarily from the deadly shaft; there is an expression of prayer, almost of agony, in the position of his body. It should be left untouched. No head could be added which would equal that one pictures to himself while gazing upon it. The Pinacothek is a magnificent building of yellow sandstone, five hundred and thirty feet long, containing thirteen hundred pictures selected with great care from the whole private collection of the king, which amounts to nine thousand. Above the cornice on the southern side stand twenty-five colossal statues of celebrated painters by Schwanthaler. As we approached, the tall bronze door was opened by a servant in the Bavarian livery, whose size harmonized so well with the giant proportions of the building that until I stood beside him and could mark the contrast I did not notice his enormous frame. I saw then that he must be near eight feet high and stout in proportion. He reminded me of the great "Baver of Trient," in Vienna. The Pinacothek contains the most complete collection of works by old German artists anywhere to be found. There are in the Hall of the Spanish Masters half a dozen of Murillo's inimitable beggar-groups. It was a relief, after looking upon the distressingly stiff figures of the old German school, to view these fresh, natural countenances. One little black-eyed boy has just cut a slice out of a melon, and turns with a full mouth to his companion, who is busy eating a bunch of grapes. The simple, contented expression on the faces of the beggars is admirable. I thought I detected in a beautiful child with dark curly locks the original of his celebrated infant St. John. I was much interested in two small juvenile works of Raphael and his own portrait. The latter was taken, most probably, after he became known as a painter. The calm, serious smile which we see on his portrait as a boy had vanished, and the thin features and sunken eye told of intense mental labor. [Footnote A: From "Views Afoot." Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons.] [Footnote B: This was written about 1848. The population of Munich is now (1914), 595,000. Munich is rated as third in importance among German cities.] AUGSBURG[A] BY THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN In ancient times--that is to say, upward of three centuries ago--the city of Augsburg was probably the most populous and consequential in the kingdom of Bavaria. It was the principal residence of the noblesse, and the great mart of commerce. Dukes, barons, nobles of every rank and degree, became domiciled here. A thousand blue and white flags streamed from the tops of castellated mansions, and fluttered along the then almost impregnable ramparts. It was also not less remarkable for the number and splendor of its religious establishments. Here was a cathedral, containing twenty-four chapels; and an abbey or monastery (of Saints Ulric and Afra) which had no rival in Bavaria for the size of its structure and the wealth of its possessions. This latter contained a Library, both of MSS. and printed books, of which the recent work of Braun has luckily preserved a record; and which, but for such record, would have been unknown to after ages. The treasures of this library are now entirely dispersed; and Munich, the capital of Bavaria, is the grand repository of them. Augsburg, in the first instance, was enriched by the dilapidations of numerous monasteries; especially upon the suppression of the order of the Jesuits. The paintings, books, and relics, of every description, of such monasteries as were in the immediate vicinity of this city, were taken away to adorn the town hall, churches, capitals and libraries. Of this collection (of which no inconsiderable portion, both for number and intrinsic value, came from the neighboring monastery of Eichstadt), there has of course been a pruning; and many flowers have been transplanted to Munich. The principal church, at the end of the Maximilian Street, is that which once formed the chief ornament of the famous Abbey of Sts. Ulric and Afra. I should think that there is no portion of the present building older than the fourteenth century; while it is evident that the upper part of the tower is of the middle of the sixteenth. It has a nearly globular or mosque-shaped termination--so common in the greater number of the Bavarian churches. It is frequented by congregations both of the Catholic and Protestant persuasion; and it was highly gratifying to see, as I saw, human beings assembled under the same roof, equally occupied in their different forms of adoration, in doing homage to their common Creator. Augsburg was once distinguished for great learning and piety, as well as for political consequence; and she boasts of a very splendid martyrological roll. At the present day, all is comparatively dull and quiet; but you can not fail to be struck with the magnificence of many of the houses, and the air of importance hence given to the streets; while the paintings upon the outer walls add much to the splendid effect of the whole. The population of Augsburg is supposed to amount to about thirty thousand. In the time of Maximilian and Charles V. it was, I make no doubt, twice as numerous.[B] [Footnote A: From "A Bibliographical, Antiquarian and Picturesque Taur," published in 1821.] [Footnote B: Augsburg has now (1914) a population of 102,000. Woolen and cotton goods and machinery are its manufactured products.] RATISBON[A] BY THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN It was dark when we entered Ratisbon, and, having been recommended to the Hotel of the Agneau Blanc, we drove thither, and alighted--close to the very banks of the Danube--and heard the roar of its rapid stream, turning several mills, close, as it were, to our very ears. The master of the hotel, whose name is Cramer, and who talked French very readily, received us with peculiar courtesy; and, on demanding the best situated room in the house, we were conducted on the second floor, to a chamber which had been occupied, only two or three days before, by the Emperor of Austria himself, on his way to Aix-la-Chapelle. The next morning was a morning of wonder to us. Our sitting-room, which was a very lantern, from the number of windows, gave us a view of the rushing stream of the Danube, of a portion of the bridge over it, of some beautifully undulating and vine-covered hills, in the distance, on the opposite side--and, lower down the stream, of the town walls and water-mills, of which latter we had heard the stunning sounds on our arrival. The whole had a singularly novel and pleasing appearance. The Town Hall was large and imposing; but the Cathedral, surrounded by booths--it being fair-time--was, of course, the great object of my attention. In short, I saw enough within an hour to convince me that I was visiting a large, curious, and well-peopled town; replete with antiquities, and including several of the time of the Romans, to whom it was necessarily a very important station. Ratisbon is said to contain a population of about 20,000 souls.[B] The cathedral can boast of little antiquity. It is almost a building of yesterday; yet it is large, richly ornamented on the outside, especially on the west, between the towers--and is considered one of the noblest structures of the kind in Bavaria. The interior wants that decisive effect which simplicity produces. It is too much broken into parts, and covered with monuments of a very heterogeneous description. Near it I traced the cloisters of an old convent or monastery of some kind, now demolished, which could not be less than five hundred years old. The streets of Ratisbon are generally picturesque, as well from their undulating forms, as from the antiquity of a great number of the houses. The modern parts of the town are handsome, and there is a pleasant intermixture of trees and grass plats in some of these more recent portions. There are some pleasing public walks, after the English fashion; and a public garden, where a colossal sphinx, erected by the late philosopher Gleichen, has a very imposing appearance. Here is also an obelisk erected to the memory of Gleichen himself, the founder of these gardens; and a monument to the memory of Kepler, the astronomer; which latter was luckily spared in the assault of this town by the French in 1809. But these are, comparatively, every-day objects. A much more interesting source of observation, to my mind, were the very few existing relics of the once celebrated monastery of St. Emmeram--and a great portion of the remains of another old monastery, called St. James--which latter may indeed be designated the College of the Jacobites; as the few members who inhabit it were the followers of the house and fortunes of the Pretender, James Stuart. The Monastery or Abbey of St. Emmeram was one of the most celebrated throughout Europe; and I suspect that its library, both of MSS. and printed books, was among the principal causes of its celebrity. Of all interesting objects of architectural antiquity in Ratisbon, none struck me so forcibly--and, indeed, none is in itself so curious and singular--as the Monastery of St. James. The front of that portion of it, connected with the church, should seem to be of an extremely remote antiquity. It is the ornaments, or style of architecture, which give it this character of antiquity. The ornaments, which are on each side of the doorway, or porch, are quite extraordinary. [Footnote A: From "A Bibliographical, Antiquarian and Picturesque Tour," published in 1821.] [Footnote B: Ratisbon has now (1914) a population of 53,000. Its manufactured products consist chiefly of pottery and lead pencils.] IV BERLIN AND ELSEWHERE A LOOK AT THE GERMAN CAPITAL[A] BY THEOPHILE GAUTIER The train spins along across great plains gilded by the setting sun; soon night comes, and with it, sleep. At stations remote from one another, German voices shout German names; I do not recognize them by the sound, and look for them in vain upon the map. Magnificent great station buildings are shown up by gaslight in the midst of surrounding darkness, then disappear. We pass Hanover and Minden; the train keeps on its way; and morning dawns. On either side stretched a peat-moss, upon which the mist was producing a singular mirage. We seemed to be upon a causeway traversing an immense lake whose waves crept up gently, dying in transparent folds along the edge of the embankment. Here and there a group of trees or a cottage, emerging like an island, completed the illusion, for such it was. A sheet of bluish mist, floating a little above the ground and curling up along its upper surface under the rays of the sun, caused this aqueous phantasmagoria, resembling the Fata Morgana of Sicily. In vain did my geographical knowledge protest, disconcerted, against this inland sea, which no map of Prussia indicates; my eyes would not give it up, and later in the day, when the sun, rising higher, had dried up this imaginary lake, they required the presence of a boat to make them admit that any body of water could be real. Suddenly upon the left were massed the trees of a great park; Tritons and Nereids appeared, dabbling in the basin of a fountain; there was a dome and a circle of columns rising above extensive buildings; and this was Potsdam.... A few moments later we were in Berlin, and a fiacre set me down at the hotel. One of the keenest pleasures of a traveler is that first drive through a hitherto unknown city, destroying or confirming his preconceived idea of it. All that is peculiar and characteristic seizes upon the yet virgin eye, whose perceptive power is never more clear. My idea of Berlin had been drawn in great measure from Hoffman's fantastic stories. In spite of myself, a Berlin, strange and grotesque, peopled with Aulic councillors, sandmen, Kreislers, archivist Lindursts, and student Anselms, had reared itself within my brain, amid a fog of tobacco-smoke; and there before me was a city regularly built, stately, with wide streets, extensive public grounds, and imposing edifices of a style half-English, half-German, and modern to the last degree. As we drove along I glanced down into those cellars, with steps so polished, so slippery, so well-soaped, that one might slide in as into the den of an ant-lion--to see if I might not discover Hoffman himself seated on a tun, his feet crossed upon the bowl of his gigantic pipe, and surrounded by a tangle of grotesque chimeras, as he is represented in the vignette of the French translation of his stories; and, to tell the truth, there was nothing of the kind in these subterranean shops whose proprietors were just opening their doors! The cats, of benignant aspect, rolled no phosphorescent eyeballs, like the cat Murr in the story, and they seemed quite incapable of writing their memoirs, or of deciphering a score of Richard Wagner's. These handsome stately houses, which are like palaces, with their columns and pediments and architraves, are built of brick for the most part, for stone seems rare in Berlin; but the brick is covered with cement or tinted stucco, to simulate hewn stone; deceitful seams indicate imaginary layers, and the illusion would be complete, were it not that in spots the winter frosts have detached the cement, revealing the red shades of the baked clay. The necessity of painting the whole façade, in order to mask the nature of the material, gives the effect of enormous architectural decorations seen in open air. The salient parts, moldings, cornices, entablatures, consoles, are of wood, bronze, or cast-iron, to which suitable forms have been given; when you do not look too closely the effect is satisfactory. Truth is the only thing lacking in all this splendor. The palatial buildings which border Regent's Park in London present also these porticoes, and these columns with brick cores and plaster-fluting, which, by aid of a coating of oil paint, are expected to pass for stone or marble. Why not build in brick frankly, since its water-coloring and capacity for ingeniously varied arrangement furnish so many resources? Even in Berlin I have seen charming houses of this kind which had the advantage of being truthful. A fictitious material always inspires a certain uneasiness. The hotel is very well located, and I propose to sketch the view seen from its steps. It will give a fair idea of the general character of the city. The foreground is a quay bordering the Spree. A few boats with slender masts are sleeping on the brown water. Vessels upon a canal or a river, in the heart of a city, have always a charming effect. Along the opposite quay stretches a line of houses; a few of them are ancient, and bear the stamp thereof; the king's palace makes the corner. A cupola upon an octagonal tower rises proudly above the other roofs, the square sides of the tower adding grace to the curve of the dome. A bridge spans the river, reminding me, with its white marble groups, of the Ponte San Angelo at Rome. These groups--eight in number, if my memory does not deceive me--are each composed of two figures; one allegorical, winged, representing the country, or glory; the other, a young man, guided through many trials to victory or immortality. These groups, in purely classic taste, are not wanting in merit, and show in some parts good study of the nude; their pedestals are ornamented with medallions, whereon the Prussian eagle, half-real, half-heraldic, makes a fine appearance. Considered as a decoration, the whole is, in my opinion, somewhat too rich for the simplicity of the bridge, which opens midway to allow the passage of vessels. Farther on, through the trees of a public garden of some kind, appears the old Museum, a great structure in the Greek style, with Doric columns relieved against a painted background. At the corners of the roof, bronze horses held by grooms are outlined upon the sky. Behind this building, and looking sideways, you perceive the triangular pediment of the new Museum. On crossing the bridge, the dark façade of the palace comes in view, with its balustraded terrace; the carvings around the main entrance are in that old, exaggerated German rococo which I have seen before and have admired in the palace in Dresden. This kind of barbaric taste has something charming about it, and entertains the eye, satiated with chefs d'oeuvre. It has invention, fancy, originality; and tho I may be censured for the opinion, I confess I prefer this exuberance to the coldness of the Greek style imitated with more erudition than success in our modern public buildings. At each side stand great bronze horses pawing the ground, and held by naked grooms. I visited the apartments of the palace; they are rich and elegant, but present nothing interesting to the artist save their ancient recessed ceilings filled with curious figures and arabesques. In the concert-hall there is a musicians' gallery in grotesque carving, silvered; its effect is really charming. Silver is not used enough in decorations; it is a relief from the classic gold, and forms admirable combinations with colors. The chapel, whose dome rises above the rest of the building, is well planned and well lighted, comfortable, reasonably decorated. Let us cross the square and take a look at the Museum, admiring, as we pass, an immense porphyry vase standing on cubes of the same material, in front of the steps which lead up to the portico. This portico is painted in fresco by various hands, under the direction of the celebrated Peter Cornelius. The paintings form a broad frieze, folding itself back at each end upon the side wall of the portico, and interrupted in the middle to give access to the Museum. The portion on the left contains a whole poem of mythologic cosmogony, treated with that philosophy and that erudition which the Germans carry into compositions of this kind; the right, purely anthropologie, represents the birth, development, and evolution of humanity. If I were to describe in detail these two immense frescoes, you would certainly be charmed with the ingenious invention, the profound knowledge, and the excellent judgment of the artist. The mysteries of the early creation are penetrated, and everything is faultlessly scientific. Also, if I should show you them in the form of those fine German engravings, the lines heightened by delicate shadows, the execution as accurate as that of Albrecht Dürer, the tone light and harmonious, you would admire the ordering of the composition, balanced with so much art, the groups skilfully united one to another, the ingenious episodes, the wise selection of the attributes, the significance of each separate thing; you might even find grandeur of style, an air of magisterial dignity, fine effects of drapery, proud attitudes, well-marked types, muscular audacities à la Michel Angelo, and a certain Germanic savagery of fine flavor. You would be struck with this free handling of great subjects, this vast conceptive power, this carrying out of an idea, which French painters so often lack; and you would think of Cornelius almost as highly as the Germans do. But in the presence of the work itself, the impression is completely different. I am well aware that fresco-painting, even in the hands of the Italian masters, skilful as they were in the technical details of their art, has not the charm of oil. The eye must become habituated to this rude, lustreless coloring, before we can discern its beauties. Many people who never say so--for nothing is more rare than the courage to avow a feeling or an opinion--find the frescoes of the Vatican and the Sistine frightful; but the great names of Michel Angelo and Raphael impose silence upon them; they murmur vague formulas of enthusiasm, and go off to rhapsodize--this time with sincerity--over some Magdalen of Guido, or some Madonna of Carlo Dolce. I make large allowance, therefore, for this unattractive aspect which belongs to fresco-painting; but in this case, the execution is by far too repulsive. The mind may be content, but the eye suffers. Painting, which is altogether a plastic art, can express its ideal only through forms and colors. To think is not enough; something must be done.... [Illustration: BERLIN: UNTER DEN LINDEN] [Illustration: BERLIN: THE BRANDENBURG GATE] [Illustration: BERLIN: THE ROYAL CASTLE AND EMPEROR WILLIAM BRIDGE] [Illustration: BERLIN: THE WHITE HALL IN THE ROYAL CASTLE] [Illustration: BERLIN: THE NATIONAL GALLERY AND FREDERICK'S BRIDGE] [Illustration: BERLIN: THE GENDARMENMARKT] [Illustration: THE COLUMN OF VICTORY IN BERLIN] [Illustration: THE MAUSOLEUM AT CHARLOTTENBURG] [Illustration: THE NEW PALACE AT POTSDAM] [Illustration: THE CASTLE OF SANS SOUCI, POTSDAM] [Illustration: THE CATHEDRAL OF AIX-LA-CHAPELLE, TOMB OF CHARLEMAGNE] [Illustration: THE ROYAL PALACE OF SCHÖNBRUNN, NEAR VIENNA (The man on the sidewalk at the left is the Emperor Francis Joseph)] [Illustration: SALZBURG, AUSTRIA] I shall not now give an inventory of the Museum in Berlin, which is rich in pictures and statues; to do this would require more space than is at my command. We find represented here, more or less favorably, all the great masters, the pride of royal galleries. But the most remarkable thing in this collection is the very numerous and very complete collection of the primitive painters of all countries and all schools, from the Byzantine down to those which immediately precede the Renaissance. The old German school, so little known in France, and on many accounts so curious, is to be studied to better advantage here than anywhere else. A rotunda contains tapestries after designs by Raphael, of which the original cartoons are now in Hampton Court. The staircase of the new Museum is decorated with those remarkable frescoes by Kaulbach, which the art of engraving and the Universal Exposition have made so well known in France. We all remember the cartoon entitled "The Dispersion of Races," and all Paris has admired, in Goupil's window that poetic "Defeat of the Huns," where the strife begun between the living warriors is carried on amidst the disembodied souls that hover above that battlefield strewn with the dead. "The Destruction of Jerusalem" is a fine composition, tho somewhat too theatrical. It resembles a "close of the fifth act" much more than beseems the serious character of fresco painting. In the panel which represents Hellenic civilization, Homer is the central figure; this composition pleased me least of all. Other paintings as yet unfinished present the climacteric epochs of humanity. The last of these will be almost contemporary, for when a German begins to paint, universal history comes under review; the great Italian painters did not need so much in achieving their master-pieces. But each civilization has its peculiar tendencies, and this encyclopedic painting is a characteristic of the present time. It would seem that, before flinging itself into its new career, the world has felt the necessity of making a synthesis of its past.... This staircase, which is of colossal size, is ornamented with casts from the finest antiques. Copies of the metopes of the Pantheon and friezes from the temple of Theseus are set into its walls, and upon one of the landings stands the Pandrosion, with all the strong and tranquil beauty of its Caryatides. The effect of the whole is very grand. At the present day there is no longer any visible difference between the people of one country and of another. The uniform domino of civilization is worn everywhere, and no difference in color, no special cut of the garment, notifies you that you are away from home. The men and women whom I met in the street escape description; the flâneurs of the Unter den Linden are exactly like the flâneurs of the Boulevard des Italiens. This avenue, bordered by splendid houses, is planted, as its name indicates, with lindens; trees "whose leaf is shaped like a heart," as Heinrich Heine remarks--a peculiarity which makes Unter den Linden dear to lovers, and eminently suited for sentimental interviews. At its entrance stands the equestrian statue of Frederick the Great. Like the Champs-Elysées in Paris, this avenue terminates at a triumphal arch, surmounted by a chariot with four bronze horses. Passing under the arch, we come out into a park in some degrees resembling the Bois de Boulogne. Along the edge of this park, which is shadowed by great trees having all the intensity of northern verdure, and freshened by a little winding stream, open flower-crowded gardens, in whose depths you can discern summer retreats, which are neither châlets, nor cottages, nor villas, but Pompeiian houses with their tetrastylic porticos and panels of antique red. The Greek taste is held in high esteem in Berlin. On the other hand, they seem to disdain the style of the Renaissance, so much in vogue in Paris; I saw no edifice of this kind in Berlin. Night came; and after paying a hasty visit to the zoological garden, where all the animals were asleep, except a dozen long-tailed paroquets and cockatoos, who were screaming from their perches, pluming themselves, and raising their crests, I returned to my hotel to strap my trunk and betake myself to the Hamburg railway station, as the train would leave at ten, a circumstance which prevented me from going, as I had intended, to the opera to hear Cherubini's "Deux Journées," and to see Louise Taglioni dance the Sevillana.... For the traveler there are but two ways: the instantaneous proof, or the prolonged study. Time failed me for the latter. Deign to accept this simple and rapid impression. [Footnote A: From "A Winter in Russia." By permission of, and by arrangement with, the publishers, Henry Holt & Co. Copyright, 1874. Since Gautier wrote, Berlin has greatly increased in population and in general importance. What is known as "Greater Berlin" now embraces about 3,250,000 souls. Many of the quaint two-story houses, which formerly were characteristic of the city, have given way to palatial houses and business blocks. Berlin is a thoroughly modern commercial city. It ranks among European cities immediately after London and Paris.] CHARLOTTENBURG[A] BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE Then we drove to Charlottenburg to see the Mausoleum. I know not when I have been more deeply affected than there; and yet, not so much by the sweet, lifelike statue of the queen as by that of the king, her husband, executed by the same hand.[B] Such an expression of long-desired rest, after suffering the toil, is shed over the face--so sweet, so heavenly! There, where he has prayed year after year--hoping, yearning, longing--there, at last, he rests, life's long anguish over! My heart melted as I looked at these two, so long divided--he so long a mourner, she so long mourned--now calmly resting side by side in a sleep so tranquil. We went through the palace. We saw the present king's writing desk and table in his study, just as he left them. His writing establishment is about as plain as yours. Men who really mean to do anything do not use fancy tools. His bedroom, also, is in a style of severe simplicity. There were several engravings fastened against the wall; and in the anteroom a bust and medallion of the Empress Eugenie--a thing which I should not exactly have expected in a born king's palace; but beauty is sacred, and kings can not call it parvenu. Then we went into the queen's bed-room, finished in green, and then through the rooms of Queen Louisa. Those marks of her presence, which you saw during the old king's lifetime, are now removed; we saw no traces of her dresses, gloves, or books. In one room, draped in white muslin over pink, we were informed the Empress of Russia was born. In going out to Charlottenburg, we rode through the Thiergarten, the Tuileries of Berlin. In one of the most quiet and sequestered spots is the monument erected by the people of Berlin to their old king. The pedestal is Carrara marble, sculptured with beautiful scenes called garden pleasures--children in all manner of outdoor sports, and parents fondly looking on. It is graceful, and peculiarly appropriate to those grounds where parents and children are constantly congregating. The whole is surmounted by a statue of the king, in white marble--the finest representation of him I have ever seen. Thoughtful, yet benign, the old king seems like a good father keeping a grave and affectionate watch over the pleasures of his children in their garden frolics. There was something about these moss-grown gardens that seemed so rural and pastoral, that I at once preferred them to all I had seen in Europe. Choice flowers are planted in knots, here and there, in sheltered nooks, as if they had grown by accident: and an air of sweet, natural wildness is left amid the most careful cultivation. The people seemed to be enjoying themselves less demonstratively and with less vivacity than in France, but with a calm inwardness. Each nation has its own way of being happy, and the style of life in each bears a certain relation of appropriateness to character. The trim, dressy, animated air of the Tuileries suits admirably with the mobile, sprightly vivacity of society there. Both, in their way, are beautiful; but this seems less formal, and more according to nature. [Footnote A: From "Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands."] [Footnote B: King Frederick William III. and Queen Louise are here referred to. Since Mrs. Stowe's visit (1854) the Emperor William I. and the Empress Augusta have been buried in this mausoleum.] LEIPSIC AND DRESDEN[A] BY BAYARD TAYLOR I have now been nearly two days in wide-famed Leipsic, and the more I see of it, the better I like it. It is a pleasant, friendly town, old enough to be interesting and new enough to be comfortable. There is much active business-life, through which it is fast increasing in size and beauty. Its publishing establishments are the largest in the world, and its annual fairs attended by people from all parts of Europe. This is much for a city to accomplish situated alone in the middle of a great plain, with no natural charms of scenery or treasures of art to attract strangers. The energy and enterprise of its merchants have accomplished all this, and it now stands in importance among the first cities of Europe. On my first walk around the city, yesterday morning, I passed the Augustus Platz--a broad green lawn on which front the university and several other public buildings. A chain of beautiful promenades encircles the city on the site of its old fortifications. Following their course through walks shaded by large trees and bordered with flowering shrubs, I passed a small but chaste monument to Sebastian Bach, the composer, which was erected almost entirely at the private cost of Mendelssohn, and stands opposite the building in which Bach once directed the choirs. As I was standing beside it a glorious choral swelled by a hundred voices came through the open windows like a tribute to the genius of the great master. Having found my friend, we went together to the Sternwarte, or observatory, which gives a fine view of the country around the city, and in particular the battlefield. The castellan who is stationed there is well acquainted with the localities, and pointed out the position of the hostile armies. It was one of the most bloody and hard-fought battles which history records. The army of Napoleon stretched like a semicircle around the southern and eastern sides of the city, and the plain beyond was occupied by the allies, whose forces met together here. Schwarzenberg, with his Austrians, came from Dresden; Blücher, from Halle, with the Emperor Alexander. Their forces amounted to three hundred thousand, while those of Napoleon ranked at one hundred and ninety-two thousand men. It must have been a terrific scene. Four days raged the battle, and the meeting of half a million of men in deadly conflict was accompanied by the thunder of sixteen hundred cannon. The small rivers which flow through Leipsic were swollen with blood, and the vast plain was strewed with more than fifty thousand dead. It is difficult to conceive of such slaughter while looking at the quiet and tranquil landscape below. It seemed more like a legend of past ages, when ignorance and passion led men to murder and destroy, than an event which the last half century witnessed. For the sake of humanity it is to be hoped that the world will never see such another. There are some lovely walks around Leipsic. We went yesterday afternoon with a few friends to the Rosenthal, a beautiful meadow, bordered by forests of the German oak, very few of whose Druid trunks have been left standing. There are Swiss cottages embowered in the foliage where every afternoon the social citizens assemble to drink their coffee and enjoy a few hours' escape from the noisy and dusty streets. One can walk for miles along these lovely paths by the side of the velvet meadows or the banks of some shaded stream. We visited the little village of Golis, a short distance off, where, in the second story of a little white house, hangs the sign, "Schiller's Room." Some of the Leipsic "literati" have built a stone arch over the entrance, with the inscription above: "Here dwelt Schiller in 1795, and wrote his Hymn to Joy." Everywhere through Germany the remembrances of Schiller are sacred. In every city where he lived they show his dwelling. They know and reverence the mighty spirit who has been among them. The little room where he conceived that sublime poem is hallowed as if by the presence of unseen spirits. I was anxious to see the spot where Poniatowsky fell. We returned over the plain to the city, and passed in at the gate by which the Cossacks entered, pursuing the flying French. Crossing the lower part, we came to the little river Elster, in whose waves the gallant prince sank. The stone bridge by which we crossed was blown up by the French to cut off pursuit. Napoleon had given orders that it should not be blown up till the Poles had all passed over as the river, tho narrow, is quite deep and the banks are steep. Nevertheless, his officers did not wait, and the Poles, thus exposed to the fire of the enemy, were obliged to plunge into the stream to join the French army, which had begun retreat toward Frankfort. Poniatowsky, severely wounded, made his way through a garden near, and escaped on horseback into the water. He became entangled among the fugitives, and sank. By walking a little distance along the road toward Frankfort we could see the spot where his body was taken out of the river; it is now marked by a square stone covered with the names of his countrymen who have visited it. We returned through the narrow arched way by which Napoleon fled when the battle was lost. Another interesting place in Leipsic is Auerbach's Cellar, which, it is said, contains an old manuscript history of Faust from which Goethe derived the first idea of his poem. He used to frequent this cellar, and one of his scenes in "Faust" is laid in it. We looked down the arched passage; not wishing to purchase any wine, we could find no pretense for entering. The streets are full of book-stores, and one-half the business of the inhabitants appears to consist in printing, paper-making and binding. The publishers have a handsome exchange of their own, and during the fairs the amount of business transacted is enormous. At last in this "Florence of the Elbe," as the Saxons have christened it! Exclusive of its glorious galleries of art, which are scarcely surpassed by any in Europe, Dresden charms one by the natural beauty of its environs. It stands in a curve of the Elbe, in the midst of green meadows, gardens and fine old woods, with the hills of Saxony sweeping around like an amphitheater and the craggy peaks of the highlands looking at it from afar. The domes and spires at a distance give it a rich Italian look, which is heightened by the white villas embowered in trees gleaming on the hills around. In the streets there is no bustle of business--nothing of the din and confusion of traffic which mark most cities; it seems like a place for study and quiet enjoyment. The railroad brought us in three hours from Leipsic over the eighty miles of plain that intervene. We came from the station through the Neustadt, passing the Japanese palace and the equestrian statue of Augustus the Strong. The magnificent bridge over the Elbe was so much injured by the late inundation as to be impassable; we were obliged to go some distance up the river-bank and cross on a bridge of boats. Next morning my first search was for the picture-gallery. We set off at random, and after passing the church of Our Lady, with its lofty dome of solid stone, which withstood the heaviest bombs during the war with Frederick the Great, came to an open square one side of which was occupied by an old brown, red-roofed building which I at once recognized from pictures as the object of our search. I have just taken a last look at the gallery this morning, and left it with real regret; for during the two visits Raphael's heavenly picture of the Madonna and Child had so grown into my love and admiration that it was painful to think I should never see it again. There are many mere which clung so strongly to my imagination, gratifying in the highest degree the love for the beautiful, that I left them with sadness and the thought that I would now only have the memory. I can see the inspired eye and godlike brow of the Jesus-child as if I were still standing before the picture, and the sweet, holy countenance of the Madonna still looks upon me. Yet, tho this picture is a miracle of art, the first glance filled me with disappointment. It has somewhat faded during the three hundred years that have rolled away since the hand of Raphael worked on the canvas, and the glass with which it is covered for better preservation injures the effect. After I had gazed on it a while, every thought of this vanished. The figure of the Virgin seemed to soar in the air, and it was difficult to think the clouds were not in motion. An aërial lightness clothes her form, and it is perfectly natural for such a figure to stand among the clouds. Two divine cherubs look up from below, and in her arms sits the sacred Child. Those two faces beam from the picture like those of angels. The mild, prophetic eye and lofty brow of the young Jesus chain one like a spell. There is something more than mortal in its expression--something in the infant face which indicates a power mightier than the proudest manhood. There is no glory around the head, but the spirit which shines from those features marks its divinity. In the sweet face of the mother there speaks a sorrowful foreboding mixed with its tenderness, as if she knew the world into which the Savior was born and foresaw the path in which he was to tread. It is a picture which one can scarce look upon without tears. There are in the same room six pictures by Correggio which are said to be among his best works--one of them, his celebrated Magdalen. There is also Correggio's "Holy Night," or the Virgin with the shepherds in the manger, in which all the light comes from the body of the Child. The surprise of the shepherds is most beautifully exprest. In one of the halls there is a picture of Van der Werff in which the touching story of Hagar is told more feelingly than words could do it. The young Ishmael is represented full of grief at parting with Isaac, who, in childish unconsciousness of what has taken place, draws in sport the corner of his mother's mantle around him and smiles at the tears of his lost playmate. Nothing can come nearer real flesh and blood than the two portraits of Raphael Mengs, painted by himself when quite young. You almost think the artist has in sport crept behind the frame and wishes to make you believe he is a picture. It would be impossible to speak of half the gems of art contained in this unrivalled collection. There are twelve large halls, containing in all nearly two thousand pictures. The plain south of Dresden was the scene of the hard-fought battle between Napoleon and the allied armies in 1813. On the heights above the little village of Räcknitz, Moreau was shot on the second day of the battle. We took a footpath through the meadows, shaded by cherry trees in bloom, and reached the spot after an hour's walk. The monument is simple--a square block of granite surmounted by a helmet and sword, with the inscription, "The hero Moreau fell here by the side of Alexander, August 17, 1813," I gathered as a memorial a few leaves of the oak which shades it. By applying an hour before the appointed time, we obtained admission to the royal library. It contains three hundred thousand volumes--among them, the most complete collection of historical works in existence. Each hall is devoted to a history of a separate country, and one large room is filled with that of Saxony alone. There is a large number of rare and curious manuscripts, among which are old Greek works of the seventh and eighth centuries, a Koran which once belonged to the Sultan Bajazet, the handwriting of Luther and Melanchthon, a manuscript volume with pen-and-ink sketches by Albert Dürer, and the earliest works after the invention of printing. Among these latter was a book published by Faust and Schaeffer, at Mayence, in 1457. There were also Mexican manuscripts written on the aloe leaf, and many illuminated monkish volumes of the Middle Ages. We were fortunate in seeing the Grüne Gewölbe, or Green Gallery, a collection of jewels and costly articles unsurpassed in Europe. The first hall into which we were ushered contained works in bronze. They were all small, and chosen with regard to their artistical value. Some by John of Bologna were exceedingly fine, as was also a group in iron cut out of a single block, perhaps the only successful attempt in this branch. The next room contained statues, and vases covered with reliefs in ivory. The most remarkable work was the fall of Lucifer and his angels, containing ninety-two figures in all, carved out of a single piece of ivory sixteen inches high. It was the work of an Italian monk, and cost him many years of hard labor. There were two tables of mosaic-work that would not be out of place in the fabled halls of the Eastern genii, so much did they exceed my former ideas of human skill. The tops were of jasper, and each had a border of fruit and flowers in which every color was represented by some precious stone, all with the utmost delicacy and truth to nature. It is impossible to conceive the splendid effect it produced. Besides some fine pictures on gold by Raphael Mengs, there was a Madonna, the largest specimen of enamel-painting in existence. However costly the contents of these halls, they were only an introduction to those which followed. Each one exceeded the other in splendor and costliness. The walls were covered to the ceiling with rows of goblets, vases, etc., of polished jasper, agate, and lapis lazuli. Splendid mosaic tables stood around with caskets of the most exquisite silver and gold work upon them, and vessels of solid silver, some of them weighing six hundred pounds, were placed at the foot of the columns. We were shown two goblets, each prized at six thousand thalers, made of gold and precious stones; also the great pearl called the "Spanish Dwarf," nearly as large as a pullet's egg, globes and vases cut entirely out of the mountain-crystal, magnificent Nuremberg watches and clocks, and a great number of figures made ingeniously of rough pearls and diamonds. The officer showed me a hen's egg of silver. There was apparently nothing remarkable about it, but by unscrewing it came apart and disclosed the yolk of gold. This again opened, and a golden chicken was seen; by touching a spring a little diamond crown came from the inside, and, the crown being again taken apart, out dropt a valuable diamond ring. The seventh hall contains the coronation-robes of Augustus II. of Poland, and many costly specimens of carving in wood. A cherry-stone is shown in a glass case which has one hundred and twenty-five facets, all perfectly finished, carved upon it. The next room we entered sent back a glare of splendor that perfectly dazzled us; it was all gold, diamond, ruby, and sapphire. Every case sent out such a glow and glitter that it seemed like a cage of imprisoned lightnings. Wherever the eye turned it was met by a blaze of broken rainbows. They were there by hundreds, and every gem was a fortune--whole cases of swords with hilts and scabbards of solid gold studded with gems, the great two-handed coronation sword of the German emperors, daggers covered with brilliants and rubies, diamond buttons, chains, and orders, necklaces and bracelets of pearl and emerald, and the order of the Golden Fleece made in gems of every kind. We were also shown the largest known onyx, nearly seven inches long and four inches broad. One of the most remarkable works is the throne and court of Aurungzebe, the Indian king, by Dinglinger, a celebrated goldsmith of the last century. It contains one hundred and thirty-two figures, all of enameled gold and each one most perfectly and elaborately finished. It was purchased by Prince Augustus for fifty-eight thousand thalers,[B] which was not a high sum, considering that the making of it occupied Dinglinger and thirteen workmen for seven years. It is almost impossible to estimate the value of the treasures these halls contain. That of the gold and jewels alone must be many millions of dollars, and the amount of labor expended on these toys of royalty is incredible. As monuments of patient and untiring toil they are interesting, but it is sad to think how much labor and skill and energy have been wasted in producing things which are useless to the world and only of secondary importance as works of art. Perhaps, however, if men could be diverted by such playthings from more dangerous games, it would be all the better. [Footnote A: From "Views Afoot." Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons.] [Footnote B: A Prussian or Saxon thaler is about seventy cents. Author's note--The thaler went out of use in Germany in 1906.] WEIMAR IN GOETHE'S DAY[A] BY MADAME DE STAËL Of all the German principalities, there is none that makes us feel so much as Weimar the advantages of a small state, of which the sovereign is a man of strong understanding, and who is capable of endeavoring to please all orders of his subjects, without losing anything in their obedience. Such a state is as a private society, where all the members are connected together by intimate relations. The Duchess Louisa of Saxe Weimar is the true model of a woman destined by nature to the most illustrious rank; without pretension, as without weakness, she inspires in the same degree confidence and respect; and the heroism of the chivalrous ages has entered her soul without taking from it any thing of her sex's softness. The military talents of the duke are universally respected, and his lively and reflective conversation continually brings to our recollection that he was formed by the great Frederic. It is by his own and his mother's reputation that the most distinguished men of learning have been attracted to Weimar, and by them Germany, for the first time, has possest a literary metropolis; but, as this metropolis was at the same time only an inconsiderable town, its ascendency was merely that of superior illumination; for fashion, which imposes uniformity in all things, could not emanate from so narrow a circle. Herder was just dead when I arrived at Weimar; but Wieland, Goethe, and Schiller were still there. Their writings are the perfect resemblances of their character and conversation. This very rare concordance is a proof of sincerity; when the first object in writing is to produce an effect upon others, a man never displays himself to them, such as he is in reality; but when he writes to satisfy an internal inspiration which has obtained possession of the soul, he discovers by his works, even without intending it, the very slightest shades of his manner of thinking and acting. The residence in country towns has always appeared to me very irksome. The understanding of the men is narrowed, the heart of the women frozen there; people live so much in each other's presence that one is opprest by one's equals; it is no longer this distant opinion, the reverberation of which animates you from afar like the report of glory; it is a minute inspection of all the actions of your life, an observation of every detail, which prevents the general character from being comprehended; and the more you have of independence and elevation of mind, the less able you are to breathe amidst so many little impediments. This painful constraint did not exist at Weimar; it was rather a large palace than a little town; a select circle of society, which made its interest consist in the discussion of all the novelties of art and science: women, the amiable scholars of some superior men, were constantly speaking of the new literary works, as of the most important public events. They enjoyed the whole universe by reading and study; they freed themselves by the enlargement of the mind from the restraint of circumstances; they forgot the private anecdotes of each individual, in habitually reflecting together on those great questions which influence the destiny common to all alike. And in this society there were none of those provincial wonders, who so easily mistake contempt for grace, and affectation for elegance. [Footnote A: From "Germany."] ULM[A] BY THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN We were now within about twenty English miles of Ulm. Nothing particular occurred, either by way of anecdote or of scenery, till within almost the immediate approach or descent to that city--the last in the Suabian territories, and which is separated from Bavaria by the River Danube. I caught the first glance of that celebrated river (here of comparatively trifling width) with no ordinary emotions of delight. It recalled to my memory the battle of Blenheim, or of Hochstedt; for you know that it was across this very river, and scarcely a score of miles from Ulm, that the victorious Marlborough chased the flying French and Bavarians--at the battle just mentioned. At the same moment, almost, I could not fail to contrast this glorious issue with the miserable surrender of the town before me--then filled by a large and well-disciplined army, and commanded by that nonpareil of generals, J.G. Mack!--into the power of Bonaparte almost without pulling a trigger on either side--the place itself being considered, at the time, one of the strongest towns in Europe. These things, I say, rushed upon my memory, when, on the immediate descent into Ulm, I caught the first view of the tower of the minster which quickly put Marlborough, and Mack, and Bonaparte out of my recollection. I had never, since quitting the beach at Brighton, beheld such an English-like looking cathedral--as a whole; and particularly the tower. It is broad, bold, and lofty; but, like all edifices, seen from a neighboring and perhaps loftier height, it loses, at first view, very much of the loftiness of its character. However, I looked with admiration, and longed to approach it. This object was accomplished in twenty minutes. We entered Ulm about two o'clock: drove to an excellent inn (the White Stag--which I strongly recommend to all travelers), and ordered our dinner to be got ready by five; which, as the house was within a stone's cast of the cathedral, gave us every opportunity of visiting it beforehand. The day continued most beautiful: and we sallied forth in high spirits, to gaze at and to admire every object of antiquity which should present itself. The Cathedral of Ulm is doubtless among the most respectable of those on the Continent. It is large and wide, and of a massive and imposing style of architecture. The buttresses are bold, and very much after the English fashion. The tower is the chief exterior beauty. Before we mounted it, we begged the guide, who attended us, to conduct us all over the interior. This interior is very noble, and even superior, as a piece of architecture, to that of Strasburg. I should think it even longer and wider--for the truth is, that the tower of Strasburg Cathedral is as much too tall, as that of Ulm Cathedral is too short, for its nave and choir. Not very long ago, they had covered the interior by a whitewash; and thus the mellow tint of probably about five centuries--in a spot where there are few immediately surrounding houses--and in a town of which the manufactories and population are comparatively small--the latter about 14,000--thus, I say, the mellow tint of these five centuries (for I suppose the cathedral to have been finished about the year 1320) has been cruelly changed for the staring and chilling effects of whiting.[B] The choir is interesting in a high degree. At the extremity of it is an altar--indicative of the Lutheran form of worship being carried on within the church--upon which are oil paintings upon wood, emblazoned with gilt backgrounds--of the time of Hans Burgmair, and of others at the revival of the art of painting in Germany. These pictures turn upon hinges, so as to shut up, or be thrown open; and are in the highest state of preservation. Their subjects are entirely Scriptural; and perhaps old John Holbein, the father of the famous Hans Holbein, might have had a share in some of them. Perhaps they may come down to the time of Lucas Cranach. Wherever, or by whomsoever executed, this series of paintings, upon the high altar of the Cathedral of Ulm, can not be viewed without considerable satisfaction. They were the first choice specimens of early art which I had seen on this side of the Rhine; and I, of course, contemplated them with the hungry eye of an antiquary. After a careful survey of the interior, the whole of which had quite the air of English cleanliness and order, we prepared to mount the famous tower. Our valet, Rohfritsch, led the way; counting the steps as he mounted, and finding them to be about 378 in number. He was succeeded by the guide. Mr. Lewis and myself followed in a more leisurely manner; peeping through the interstices which presented themselves in the open fretwork of the ornaments, and finding, as we continued to ascend, that the inhabitants and dwelling houses of Ulm diminished gradually in size. At length we gained the summit, which is surrounded by a parapet wall of some three or four feet in height. We paused a minute, to recover our breath, and to look at the prospect which surrounded us. The town, at our feet, looked like the metropolis of Laputa. Yet the high ground, by which we had descended into the town--and upon which Bonaparte's army was formerly encamped--seemed to be more lofty than the spot whereon we stood. On the opposite side flowed the Danube; not broad, nor, as I learned, very deep; but rapid and in a serpentine direction. Upon the whole, the Cathedral of Ulm is a noble ecclesiastical edifice; uniting simplicity and purity with massiveness of composition. Few cathedrals are more uniform in the style of their architecture. It seems to be, to borrow technical language, all of a piece. Near it, forming the foreground of the Munich print, are a chapel and a house surrounded by trees. The Chapel is very small, and, as I learned, not used for religious purposes. The house (so Professor Veesenmeyer informed me) is supposed to have been the residence and offices of business of John Zeiner, the well-known printer, who commenced his typographical labors about the year 1740, and who uniformly printed at Ulm; while his brother Gunther as uniformly exercised his art in the city whence I am now addressing you. They were both natives of Reutlingen, a town of some note between Tübingen and Ulm. [Footnote A: From "A Bibliographical, Antiquarian and Picturesque Tour," published in 1821.] [Footnote B: Ulm has now (1914) a population of 56,000.] AIX-LA-CHAPELLE AND CHARLEMAGNE'S TOMB[A] BY VICTOR HUGO For an invalid, Aix-la-Chapelle is a mineral fountain--warm, cold, irony, and sulfurous; for the tourist, it is a place for redouts and concerts; for the pilgrim, the place of relics, where the gown of the Virgin Mary, the blood of Jesus, the cloth which enveloped the head of John the Baptist after his decapitation, are exhibited every seven years; for the antiquarian, it is a noble abbey of "filles à abbesse," connected with the male convent, which was built by Saint Gregory, son of Nicephore, Emperor of the East; for the hunter, it is the ancient valley of the wild boars; for the merchant, it is a "fabrique" of cloth, needles, and pins; and for him who is no merchant, manufacturer, hunter, antiquary, pilgrim, tourist, or invalid, it is the city of Charlemagne. Charlemagne was born at Aix-la-Chapelle, and died there. He was born in the old place, of which there now only remains the tower, and he was buried in the church that he founded in 796, two years after the death of his wife Fastrada. Leo the Third consecrated it in 804, and tradition says that two bishops of Tongres, who were buried at Maestricht, arose from their graves, in order to complete, at that ceremony, 365 bishops and archbishops--representing the days of the year. This historical and legendary church, from which the town has taken its name, has undergone, during the last thousand years, many transformations. No sooner had I entered Aix than I went to the chapel.... The effect of the great "portail" is not striking; the façade displays the different styles of architecture--Roman, Gothic, and modern--without order, and consequently, without grandeur; but if, on the contrary, we arrive at the chapel by Chevet, the result is otherwise. The high "abside" of the fourteenth century, in all its boldness and beauty, the rich workmanship of its balustrades, the variety of its "gargouilles," the somber hue of the stones, and the large transparent windows--strike the beholder with admiration. Here, nevertheless, the aspect of the church--imposing tho it is--will be found far from uniform. Between the "abside" and the "portail," in a kind of cavity, the dome of Otho III., built over the tomb of Charlemagne in the tenth century, is hid from view. After a few moments' contemplation, a singular awe comes over us when gazing at this extraordinary edifice--an edifice which, like the great work that Charlemagne began, remains unfinished; and which, like his empire that spoke all languages, is composed of architecture that represents all styles. To the reflective, there is a strange analogy between that wonderful man and this great building. After having passed the arched roof of the portico, and left behind me the antique bronze doors surmounted with lions' heads, a white rotundo of two stories, in which all the "fantasies" of architecture are displayed, attracted my attention. At casting my eyes upon the ground, I perceived a large block of black marble, with the following inscription in brass letters:-- "Carolo Magno." Nothing is more contemptible than to see, exposed to view, the bastard graces that surround this great Carlovingian name; angels resembling distorted Cupids, palm-branches like colored feathers, garlands of flowers, and knots of ribbons, are placed under the dome of Otho III., and upon the tomb of Charlemagne. The only thing here that evinces respect to the shade of that great man is an immense lamp, twelve feet in diameter, with forty-eight burners; which was presented, in the twelfth century, by Barbarossa. It is of brass, gilt with gold, has the form of a crown, and is suspended from the ceiling above the marble stone by an iron chain about seventy feet in length. It is evident that some other monument had been erected to Charlemagne. There is nothing to convince us that this marble, bordered with brass, is of antiquity. As to the letters, "Carolo Magno," they are not of a late date than 1730. Charlemagne is no longer under this stone. In 1166 Frederick Barbarossa--whose gift, magnificent tho it was, does by no means compensate for this sacrilege--caused the remains of that great emperor to be untombed. The Church claimed the imperial skeleton, and, separating the bones, made each a holy relic. In the adjoining sacristy, a vicar shows the people--for three francs seventy-five centimes--the fixt price--"the arm of Charlemagne"--that arm which held for a time the reins of the world. Venerable relic! which has the following inscription, written by some scribe of the twelfth century: "Arm of the Sainted Charles the Great." After that I saw the skull of Charlemagne, that cranium which may be said to have been the mold of Europe, and which a beadle had the effrontery to strike with his finger. All were kept in a wooden armory, with a few angels, similar to those I have just mentioned, on the top. Such is the tomb of the man whose memory has outlived ten ages, and who, by his greatness, has shed the rays of immortality around his name. "Sainted, Great," belong to him--two of the most august epithets which this earth could bestow upon a human being. There is one thing astonishing--that is, the largeness of the skull and arm. Charlemagne was, in fact, colossal with respect to size of body as well as extraordinary mental endowments. The son of Pepin-le-Bref was in body, as in mind, gigantic; of great corporeal strength, and of astounding intellect. An inspection of this armory has a strange effect upon the antiquary. Besides the skull and arm, it contains the heart of Charlemagne; the cross which the emperor had round his neck in his tomb; a handsome ostensorium, of the Renaissance, given by Charles the Fifth, and spoiled, in the last century, by tasteless ornaments; fourteen richly sculptured gold plates, which once ornamented the arm-chair of the emperor; an ostensorium, given by Philippe the Second; the cord which bound our Savior; the sponge that was used upon the cross; the girdle of the Holy Virgin, and that of the Redeemer. In the midst of innumerable ornaments, heaped up in the armory like mountains of gold and precious stones, are two shrines of singular beauty. One, the oldest, which is seldom opened, contains the remaining bones of Charlemagne, and the other, of the twelfth century, which Frederick Barbarossa gave to the church, holds the relics, which are exhibited every seven years. A single exhibition of this shrine, in 1696, attracted 42,000 pilgrims, and drew, in ten days 80,000 florins. This shrine has only one key, which is in two pieces; the one is in the possession of the chapter, the other in that of the magistrates of the town. Sometimes it is opened on extraordinary occasions, such as on the visit of a monarch.... The tomb, before it became the sarcophagus of Charlemagne, was, it is said, that of Augustus. After mounting a narrow staircase, my guide conducted me to a gallery which is called the Hochmünster. In this place is the arm-chair of Charlemagne. It is low, exceedingly wide, with a round back; is formed of four pieces of white marble, without ornaments or sculpture, and has for a seat an oak board, covered with a cushion of red velvet. There are six steps up to it, two of which are of granite, the others of marble. On this chair sat--a crown upon his head, a globe in one hand, a scepter in the other, a sword by his side, the imperial mantle over his shoulders, the cross of Christ round his neck, and his feet in the sarcophagus of Augustus--Carolus Magnus in his tomb, in which attitude he remained for three hundred and fifty-two years--from 852 to 1166, when Frederick Barbarossa, coveting the chair for his coronation, entered the tomb. Barbarossa was an illustrious prince and a valiant soldier; and it must, therefore, have been a moment singularly strange when this crowned man stood before the crowned corpse of Charlemagne--the one in all the majesty of empire, the other in all the majesty of death. The soldier overcame the shades of greatness; the living became the despoliator of inanimate worth. The chapel claimed the skeleton, and Barbarossa the marble chair, which afterward became the throne where thirty-six emperors were crowned. Ferdinand the First was the last; Charles the Fifth preceded him. In 1804, when Bonaparte became known as Napoleon, he visited Aix-la-Chapelle. Josephine, who accompanied him, had the caprice to sit down on this chair; but Napoleon, out of respect for Charlemagne, took off his hat, and remained for some time standing, and in silence. The following fact is somewhat remarkable, and struck me forcibly. In 814 Charlemagne died; a thousand years afterward, most probably about the same hour, Napoleon fell. In that fatal year, 1814, the allied sovereigns visited the tomb of the great "Carolus." Alexander of Russia, like Napoleon, took off his hat and uniform; Frederick William of Prussia kept on his "casquette de petite tenue;" Francis retained his surtout and round bonnet. The King of Prussia stood upon the marble steps, receiving information from the provost of the chapter respecting the coronation of the emperors of Germany; the two emperors remained silent. Napoleon, Josephine, Alexander, Frederick William, and Francis, are now no more. A few minutes afterward I was on my way to the Hôtel-de-Ville, the supposed birthplace of Charlemagne, which, like the chapel, is an edifice made of five or six others. In the middle of the court there is a fountain of great antiquity, with a bronze statue of Charlemagne. To the left and right are two others--both surmounted with eagles, their heads half turned toward the grave and tranquil emperor. The evening was approaching. I had passed the whole of the day among these grand and austere "souvenirs;" and, therefore, deemed it essential to take a walk in the open fields, to breathe the fresh air, and to watch the rays of the declining sun. I wandered along some dilapidated walls, entered a field, then some beautiful alleys, in one of which I seated myself. Aix-la-Chapelle lay extended before me, partly hid by the shades of evening, which were falling around. By degrees the fogs gained the roofs of the houses, and shrouded the town steeples; then nothing was seen but two huge masses--the Hôtel-de-Ville and the chapel. All the emotions, all the thoughts and visions which flitted across my mind during the day, now crowded upon me. The first of the two dark objects was to me only the birthplace of a child; the second was the resting-place of greatness. At intervals, in the midst of my reverie, I imagined that I saw the shade of this giant, whom we call Charlemagne, developing itself between this great cradle and still greater tomb. [Footnote A: From "The Rhine." Translated by D.M. Aird.] THE HANSEATIC LEAGUE[A] BY JAMES HOWELL The Hans, or Hanseatic League, is very ancient, some would derive the word from hand, because they of the society plight their faith by that action; others derive it from Hansa, which in the Gothic tongue is council; others would have it come from Hander see, which signifies near or upon the sea, and this passeth for the best etymology, because their towns are all seated so, or upon some navigable river near the sea. The extent of the old Hans was from the Nerve in Livonia to the Rhine, and contained sixty-two great mercantile towns, which were divided into four precincts. The chiefest of the first precinct was Lübeck, where the archives of their ancient records and their prime chancery is still, and this town is within that verge; Cullen is chief of the second precinct, Brunswick of the third, and Dantzic of the fourth. The kings of Poland and Sweden have sued to be their protector, but they refused them, because they were not princes of the empire. They put off also the King of Denmark with a compliment, nor would they admit the King of Spain when he was most potent in the Netherlands, tho afterward, when it was too late, they desired the help of the ragged staff; nor of the Duke of Anjou, notwithstanding that the world thought he should have married our queen, who interceded for him, and so it was probable that thereby they might recover their privileges in England. So I do not find that they ever had any protector but the great Master of Prussia; and their want of a protector did do them some prejudice in that famous difference they had with our Queen. The old Hans had extraordinary immunities given them by our Henry the Third, because they assisted him in his wars with so many ships, and as they pretend, the king was not only to pay them for the service of the said ships but for the vessels themselves if they miscarried. Now it happened that at their return to Germany, from serving Henry the Third, there was a great fleet of them cast away, for which, according to covenant, they demanded reparation. Our king in lieu of money, among other facts of grace, gave them a privilege to pay but one per cent., which continued until Queen Mary's reign, and she by advice of King Philip, her husband, as it was conceived, enhanced the one to twenty per cent. The Hans not only complained but clamored loudly for breach of their ancient privileges confirmed unto them, time out of mind, by thirteen successive kings of England, which they pretended to have purchased with their money. King Philip undertook to accommodate the business, but Queen Mary dying a little after, and he retiring, there could be nothing done. Complaint being made to Queen Elizabeth, she answered that as she would not innovate anything, so she would maintain them still in the same condition she found them. Hereupon their navigation and traffic ceased a while, wherefore the English tried what they could do themselves, and they thrived so well that they took the whole trade into their own hands, and so divided themselves (tho they be now but one), to staplers and merchant-adventurers, the one residing constant in one place, where they kept their magazine of wool, the other stirring and adventuring to divers places abroad with cloth and other manufacturies, which made the Hans endeavor to draw upon them all the malignancy they could from all nations. Moreover, the Hans towns being a body politic incorporated in the empire, complained thereof to the emperor, who sent over persons of great quality to mediate an accommodation, but they could effect nothing. Then the queen caused a proclamation to be published that the easterlings or merchants of the Hans should be entreated and used as all other strangers were, within her dominations, without any mark of difference in point of commerce. This nettled them more, thereupon they bent their forces more eagerly, and in a diet at Ratisbon they procured that the English merchants who had associated themselves into fraternities in Emden and other places should be declared monopolists; and so there was a committal edict published against them that they should be exterminated and banished out of all parts of the empire; and this was done by the activity of one Sudennan, a great civilian. There was there for the queen, Gilpin, as nimble a man as Suderman, and he had the Chancellor of Emden to second and countenance him, but they could not stop the said edict wherein the Society of English Merchant-Adventurers was pronounced to be a monopoly; yet Gilpin played his game so well, that he wrought underhand, that the said imperial ban should not be published till after the dissolution of the diet, and that in the interim the Emperor should send ambassadors to England to advise the queen of such a ban against her merchants. But this wrought so little impression upon the queen that the said ban grew rather ridiculous than formidable, for the town of Emden harbored our merchants notwithstanding and afterward Stade, but they not being able to protect them so well from the imperial ban, they settled in the town of Hamburg. After this the queen commanded another proclamation to be divulged that the easterlings or Hanseatic merchants should be allowed to trade in England upon the same conditions and payment of duties as her own subjects, provided that the English merchants might have interchangeable privilege to reside and trade peaceably in Stade or Hamburg or anywhere else within the precincts of Hans. This incensed them more, thereupon they resolved to cut off Stade and Hamburg from being members of the Hans or of the empire; but they suspended this decision till they saw what success the great Spanish fleet should have, which was then preparing in the year eighty-eight, for they had not long before had recourse to the King of Spain and made him their own, and he had done them some material good offices; wherefore to this day the Spanish Consul is taxed of improvidence and imprudence, that there was no use made of the Hans towns in that expedition. The queen finding that they of the Hans would not be contented with that equality she had offered betwixt them and her own subjects, put out a proclamation that they should carry neither corn, victuals, arms, timber, masts, cables, minerals, nor any other materials, or men to Spain or Portugal. And after, the queen growing more redoubtable and famous, by the overthrow of the fleet of eighty-eight, the easterlings fell to despair of doing any good. Add hereunto another disaster that befell them, the taking of sixty sails of their ships about the mouth of Tagus in Portugal by the Queen's ships that were laden with "ropas de contrabando," viz., goods prohibited by her former proclamation into the dominions of Spain. And as these ships were upon point of being discharged, she had intelligence of a great assembly at Lübeck, which had met of purpose to consult of means to be revenged of her thereupon she stayed and seized upon the said sixty ships, only two were freed to bring news what became of the rest. Hereupon the Pope sent an ambassador to her, who spoke in a high tone, but he was answered in a higher. Ever since our merchants have beaten a peaceful and free uninterrupted trade into this town and elsewhere within and without the Sound, with their manufactures of wool, and found the way also to the White Sea to Archangel and Moscow. Insomuch that the premises being well considered, it was a happy thing for England that that clashing fell out betwixt her and the Hans, for it may be said to have been the chief ground of that shipping and merchandising, which she is now come to, and wherewith she hath flourished ever since. But one thing is observable, that as that imperial or committal ban, pronounced in the Diet at Ratisbon against our merchants and manufactures of wool, incited them more to industry. So our proclamation upon Alderman Cockein's project of transporting no white cloths but dyed, and in their full manufacture, did cause both Dutch and Germans to turn necessity to a virtue, and made them far more ingenious to find ways, not only to dye but to make cloth, which hath much impaired our markets ever since. For there hath not been the third part of our cloth sold since, either here or in Holland. [Footnote A: From "Familiar Letters." "Montaigne and 'Howell's Letters'," says Thackeray, in one of the "Roundabout Papers," "are my bedside books." Howell wrote this letter in Hamburg in October, 1632.] HAMBURG[A] BY THÉOPHILE GAUTIER To describe a night journey by rail is a difficult matter; you go like an arrow whistling through a cloud; it is traveling in the abstract. You cross provinces, kingdoms even, unawares. From time to time during the night, I saw through the window the comet, rushing down upon the earth, with lowered head and hair streaming far behind; suddenly glares of gaslight dazzled my eyes, sanded with the goldust of sleep; or the pale bluish radiance of the moon gave an air of fairy-land to scenes doubtless poor enough by day. Conscientiously, this is all I can say from personal observation; and it would not be particularly amusing if I should transcribe from the railway guide the names of all the stations between Berlin and Hamburg. It is 7 a.m., and here we are in the good Hanse town of Hamburg; the city is not yet awake, or at most is rubbing its eyes and yawning. While they are preparing my breakfast, I sally forth at random, as my custom is, without guide or cicerone, in pursuit of the unknown. The hotel, at which I have been set down, is situated on the quay of the Alster, a basin as large as the Lac d'Enghien, which it still further resembles in being peopled with tame swans. On three sides, the Alster basin is bordered with hotels and handsome modern houses. An embankment planted with trees and commanded by a wind-mill in profile forms the fourth; beyond extends a great lagoon. From the most frequented of these quays, a café painted green and built on piles, makes out into the water, like that café of the Golden Horn where I have smoked so many chibouques; watching the sea-birds fly. At the sight of this quay, this basin, these houses, I experienced an inexplicable sensation: I seemed to know them already. Confused recollections of them arose in my memory; could I have been in Hamburg without being aware of it? Assuredly all these objects are not new to me, and yet I am seeing them for the first time. Have I preserved the impression made by some picture, some photograph? While I was seeking philosophic explanations for this memory of the unknown, the idea of Heinrich Heine suddenly presented itself, and all became clear. The great poet had often spoken to me of Hamburg, in those plastic words he so well knew how to use--words that were equivalent to realities. In his "Reisebilder," he describes the scene--café basin, swans, and townsfolk upon the quays--Heaven knows what portraits he makes of them! He returns to it again in his poem, "Germania," and there is so much life to the picture, such distinctness, such relief, that sight itself teaches you nothing more. I made the circuit of the basin, graciously accompanied by a snow-white swan, handsome enough to make one think it might be Jupiter in disguise, seeking some Hamburg Leda, and, the better to carry out the deception, snapping at the bread-crumbs offered him by the traveler. On the farther side of the basin, at the right, is a sort of garden or public promenade, having an artificial hillock, like that in the labyrinth in the "Jardin des Plantes." Having gone thus far, I turned and retraced my steps. Every city has its fashionable quarter--new, expensive, handsome--of which the citizens are proud, and through which the guide leads you with much complacency. The streets are broad and regular, and cut one another at right angles; there are sidewalks of granite, brick, or bitumen; there are lamp-posts in every direction. The houses are like palaces; their classically modern architecture, their irreproachable paint, their varnished doors and well-scoured brasses, fill with joy the city fathers and every lover of progress. The city is neat, orderly, salubrious, full of light and air, and resembles Paris or London. There is the Exchange! It is superb--as fine as the Bourse in Paris! I grant it; and, besides, you can smoke there, which is a point of superiority. Farther on you observe the Palace of Justice, the bank, etc., built in the style you know well, adored by Philistines of every land. Doubtless that house must have cost enormously; it contains all possible luxury and comfort. You feel that the mollusk of such a shell can be nothing less than a millionaire. Permit me, however, to love better the old house with its overhanging stories, its roof of irregular tiles, and all its little characteristic details, telling of former generations. To be interesting, a city must have the air of having lived, and, in a sense, of having received from man a soul. What makes these magnificent streets built yesterday so cold and so tiresome, is that they are not yet impregnated with human vitality. Leaving the new quarter, I penetrated by degrees into the chaos of the old streets, and soon I had before my eyes a characteristic, picturesque Hamburg; a genuine old city with a medieval stamp which would delight Bonington, Isabey or William Wyld. I walked slowly, stopping at every street-corner that I might lose no detail of the picture; and rarely has any promenade amused me so well. Houses, whose gables are denticulated or else curved in volutes, throw out successive overhanging stories, each composed of a row of windows, or, more properly, of one window divided into sections by carved uprights. Beneath each house are excavated cellars, subterranean recesses, which the steps leading to the front door bestride like a drawbridge. Wood, brick, stone and slate, mingled in a way to content the eye of a colorist, cover what little space the windows leave on the outside of the house. All this is surmounted by a roof of red or violet tiles, or tarred plank, interrupted by openings to give light to the attics, and having an abrupt pitch. These steep roofs look well against the background of a northern sky; the rains run off them in torrents, the snow slips from them; they suit the climate, and do not require to be swept in winter. Some houses have doors ornamented with rustic columns, scroll-work, recessed pediments, chubby-cheeked caryatides, little angels and loves, stout rosettes and enormous shells, all glued over with whitewash renewed doubtless every year. The tobacco sellers in Hamburg can not be counted. At every third step you behold a bare-chested negro cultivating the precious leaf or a Grand Seigneur, attired like the theatrical Turk, smoking a colossal pipe. Boxes of cigars, with their more or less fallacious vignettes and labels, figure, symmetrically disposed, in the ornamentation of the shop-fronts. There must be very little tobacco left at Havana, if we can have faith in these displays, so rich in famous brands. As I have said, it was early morning. Servant-maids, kneeling on the steps or standing on the window-sills, were going on with the Saturday scrubbing. Notwithstanding the keen air, they made a display of robust arms bare to the shoulder, tanned and sunburned, red with that astonishing vermilion that we see in some of Rubens' paintings, which is the joint result of the biting of the north wind and the action of water upon these blond skins; little girls belonging to the poorer classes, with braided hair, bare arms, and low-necked frocks, were going out to obtain articles of food; I shivered in my paletot, to see them so lightly clad. There is something strange about this; the women of northern countries cut their dresses out in the neck, they go about bare-headed and bare-armed, while the women of the South cover themselves with vests, haicks, pelisses, and warm garments of every description. Walking on, still at random, I came to the maritime part of the city, where canals take the place of streets. As yet it was low water, and vessels lay aground in the mud, showing their hulls, and careening over in a way to rejoice a water-color painter. Soon the tide came up, and everything began to be in motion. I would suggest Hamburg to artists following in the track of Canaletto, Guardi, or Joyant; they will find, at every step, themes as picturesque as and more new than those which they go to Venice in search of. This forest of salmon-colored masts, with their maze of cordage and their yellowish-brown sails drying in the sun, these tarred sterns with apple-green decks, these lateen-yards threatening the windows of the neighboring houses, these derricks standing under plank roofs shaped like pagodas, these tackles lifting heavy packages out of vessels and landing them in houses, these bridges opening to give passage to vessels, these clumps of trees, these gables overtopped here and there by spires and belfries; all this bathed in smoke, traversed by sunlight and here and there returning a glitter of polished metal, the far-off distance blue and misty, and the foreground full of vigorous color, produced effects of the most brilliant and piquant novelty. A church-tower, covered with plates of copper, springing from this curious medley of rigging and of houses, recalled to me by its odd green color the tower of Galata, at Constantinople.... As the hour advanced, the crowd became more numerous, and it was largely composed of women. In Hamburg they seem to enjoy great license. Very young girls come and go alone without anyone's noticing it, and--a remarkable thing!--children go to school by themselves, little basket on the arm, and slate in hand; in Paris, left to their own free will, they will run off to play marbles, tag, or hop-scotch. Dogs are muzzled in Hamburg all the week, but on Sundays they are left at liberty to bite whom they please. They are taxed, and appear to be esteemed; but the cats are sad and unappreciated. Recognizing in me a friend, they cast melancholy glances at me, saying in their feline language, to which long use has given me the key: "These Philistines, busy with their money-getting, despise us; and yet our eyes are as yellow as their louis d'or. Stupid men that they are, they believe us good for nothing but to catch rats; we, the wise, the meditative, the independent, who have slept upon the prophet's sleeve, and lulled his ear with the whir of our mysterious wheel! Pass your hand over our backs full of electric sparkles--we allow you this liberty, and say to Charles Baudelaire that he must write a fine sonnet, deploring our woes." As the Lübeck boat was not to leave until the morrow, I went to Wilkin's to get my supper. This famous establishment occupies a low-ceiled basement, which is divided into cabinets ornamented with more show than taste. Oysters, turtle-soup, a truffled filet, and a bottle of Veuve Cliquot iced, composed my simple bill of fare. The place was filled, after the Hamburg fashion, with edibles of all sorts; things early and things out of season, dainties not yet in existence or having long ceased to exist, for the common crowd. In the kitchen they showed us, in great tanks, huge sea-turtles which lifted their scaly heads above the water, resembling snakes caught between two platters. Their little horny eyes looked with uneasiness at the light which was held near them, and their flippers, like oars of some disabled galley, vaguely moved up and down, as seeking some impossible escape. I trust that the personnel of the exhibition changes occasionally. In the morning I went for my breakfast to an English restaurant, a sort of pavilion of glass, whence I had a magnificent panoramic view. The river spread out majestically through a forest of vessels with tall masts, of every build and tonnage. Steam-tugs were beating the water, towing sailing-vessels out to sea; others, moving about freely, made their way hither and thither, with that precision which makes a steam-boat seem like a conscious being, endowed by a will of its own, and served by sentient organs. From the elevation the Elbe is seen, spreading broadly like all great rivers as they near the sea. Its waters, sure of arriving at last, are in no haste; placid as a lake, they flow with an almost invisible motion. The low opposite shore was covered with verdure, and dotted with red houses half-effaced by the smoke from the chimneys. A golden bar of sunshine shot across the plain; it was grand, luminous, superb. [Footnote A: From "A Winter in Russia." By arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, Henry Holt & Co. Copyright, 1874. Hamburg is now the largest seaport on the continent of Europe. London and New York are the only ports in the world that are larger. Exclusive of its rural territory, it had in 1905 a population of 803,000.] SCHLESWIG[A] BY THÉOPHILE GAUTIER When you are in a foreign country, reduced to the condition of a deaf-mute, you can not but curse the memory of him who conceived the idea of building the tower of Babel, and by his pride brought about the confusion of tongues! An omnibus took possession of myself and my trunks, and, with the feeling that it must of necessity take me somewhere, I confidingly allowed myself to be stowed in and carried away. The intelligent omnibus set me down before the best hotel in the town, and there, as circumnavigators say in their journals, "I held a parley with the natives." Among them was a waiter who spoke French in a way that was transparent enough to give me an occasional glimpse of his meaning; and who--a much rarer thing!--even sometimes understood what I said to him. My name upon the hotel register was a ray of light. The hostess had been notified of my expected arrival, and I was to be sent for as soon as my appearance should be announced; but it was now late in the evening, and I thought it better to wait till the next day. There was served for supper a "chaud-froid" of partridge--without confiture--and I lay down upon the sofa, hopeless of being able to sleep between the two down-cushions which compose the German and the Danish bed.... I explored Schleswig, which is a city quite peculiar in its appearance. One wide street runs the length of the town, with which narrow cross streets are connected, like the smaller bones with the dorsal vertebræ of a fish. There are handsome modern houses, which, as usual, have not the slightest character. But the more modest dwellings have a local stamp; they are one-story buildings, very low--not over seven or eight feet in height--capped with a huge roof of fluted red tiles. Windows, broader than they are high, occupy the whole of the front; and behind these windows, spread luxuriantly in porcelain or faience or earthen flowerpots, plants of every description; geraniums, verbenas, fuchsias--and this absolutely without exception. The poorest house is as well adorned as the best. Sheltered by these perfumed window-blinds, the women sit at work, knitting or sewing, and, out of the corner of their eye, they watch, in the little movable mirror which reflects the streets, the rare passer-by, whose boots resound upon the pavement. The cultivation of flowers seem to be a passion in the north; countries where they grow naturally make but little account of them in comparison. The church in Schleswig had in store for me a surprise. Protestant churches in general, are not very interesting from an artistic point of view, unless the reformed faith may have installed itself in some Catholic sanctuary diverted from its primitive designation. You find, usually, only whitewashed naves, walls destitute of painting or bas-relief, and rows of oaken benches well-polished and shining. It is neat and comfortable, but it is not beautiful. The church at Schleswig contains, by a grand, unknown artist, an altar-piece in three parts, of carved wood, representing in a series of bas-reliefs, separated by fine architectural designs, the most important scenes in the drama of the Passion. Around the church stand sepulchral chapels of fine funereal fancy and excellent decorative effect. A vaulted hall contains the tombs of the ancient Dukes of Schleswig; massive slabs of stone, blazoned with armorial devices, covered with inscriptions which are not lacking in character. In the neighborhood of Schleswig are great saline ponds, communicating with the sea. I paced the high-road, remarking the play of light upon this grayish water, and the surface crisped by the wind; occasionally I extended my walk as far as the chateau metamorphosed into a barrack, and the public gardens, a miniature St. Cloud, with its cascade, its dolphins, and its other aquatic monsters all standing idle. A very good sinecure is that of a Triton in a Louis Quinze basin! I should ask nothing better myself. [Footnote A: From "A Winter in Russia." By arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, Henry Holt & Co. Copyright, 1874.] LÜBECK[A] BY THÉOPHILE GAUTIER In the evening the train carried me to Lübeck, across magnificent cultivated lands, filled with summer-houses, which lave their feet in the brown water, overhung by spreading willows. This German Venice has its canal, the Brenta, whose villas, tho not built by Sanmichele or Palladio, none the less make a fine show against the fresh green of their surroundings. On arriving at Lübeck, a special omnibus received me and my luggage, and I was soon set down at the hotel. The city seemed picturesque as I caught a glimpse of it through the darkness by the vague light of lanterns; and in the morning, as I opened my chamber-window, I perceived at once I had not been mistaken. The opposite house had a truly German aspect. It was extremely high and overtopped by an old-fashioned denticulated gable. At each one of the seven stories of the house, iron cross-bars spread themselves out into clusters of iron-work, supporting the building, and serving at once for use and ornament, in accordance with an excellent principle in architecture, at the present day too much neglected. It is not by concealing the framework, but by making it distinct, that we obtain more character. This house was not the only one of its kind, as I was able to convince myself on walking a few steps out of doors. The actual Lübeck is still to the eye the Lübeck of the Middle Ages, the old capital of the Hanseatic League.[B] All the drama of modern life is enacted in the old theater whose scenery remains the same, its drop-scene even not repainted. What a pleasure it is to be walking thus amid the outward life of the past, and to contemplate the same dwellings which long-vanished generations have inhabited! Without doubt, the living man has a right to model his shell in accordance with his own habits, his tastes, and his manners; but it can not be denied that a new city is far less attractive than an old one. When I was a child, I sometimes received for a New Year's present one of those Nuremberg boxes containing a whole miniature German city. In a hundred different ways I arranged the little houses of painted wood around the church, with its pointed belfry and its red walls, where the seam of the bricks was marked by fine white lines. I set out my two dozen frizzed and painted trees, and saw with delight the charmingly outlandish and wildly festal air which these apple-green, pink, lilac, fawn-colored houses with their window-panes, their retreating gables, and their steep roofs, brilliant with red varnish, assumed, spread out on the carpet. My idea was that houses like these had no existence in reality, but were made by some kind fairy for extremely good little boys. The marvelous exaggeration of childhood gave this little parti-colored city a respectable development, and I walked through its regular streets, tho with the same precautions as did Gulliver in Liliput. Lübeck gave back to me this long-forgotten feeling of my childish days. I seemed to walk in a city of the imagination, taken out of some monstrous toy-box. I believe, considering all the faultlessly correct architecture that I have been forced to see in my traveler's life, that I really deserved that pleasure by way of compensation. A cloister, or at least a gallery, a fragment of an ancient monastery, presented itself to view. This colonnade ran the whole length of the square, at the end of which stood the Marienkirche, a brick church of the fourteenth century. Continuing my walk, I found myself in a market-place, where awaited me one of those sights which repay the traveler for much fatigue: a public building of a new, unforeseen, original aspect, the old Stadthaus in which was formerly the Hanse hall, rose suddenly before me. It occupies two sides of the square. Imagine, in front of the Marienkirche, whose spires and roof of oxydized copper rise above it, a lofty brick façade, blackened by time, bristling with three bell-towers with pointed copper-covered roofs, having two great empty rose-windows, and emblazoned with escutcheons inscribed in the trefoils of its ogives, double-headed black eagles on a gold field, and shields, half gules, half argent, ranged alternately, and executed in the most elaborate fashion of heraldry. To this façade is joined a palazzino of the Renaissance, in stone and of an entirely different style, its tint of grayish-white marvelously relieved by the dark-red background of old brick-work. This building, with its three gables, its fluted Ionic columns, its caryatides, or rather its Atlases (for they are human figures), its semicircular window, its niches curved like a shell, its arcades ornamented with figures, its basement of diamond-shaped stones, produces what I may call an architectural discord that is most unexpected and charming. We meet very few edifices in the north of Europe of this style and epoch. In the façade, the old German style prevails: arches of brick, resting upon short granite columns, support a gallery with ogive-windows. A row of blazons, inclined from right to left, bring out their brilliant color against the blackish tint of the wall. It would be difficult to form an idea of the character and richness of this ornamentation. This gallery leads into the main building, a structure than which no scene-painter, seeking a medieval decoration for an opera, ever invented anything more picturesque and singular. Five turrets, coiffed with roofs like extinguishers, raise their pointed tops above the main line of the façade with its lofty ogive-windows--unhappily now most of them partially bricked up, in accordance, doubtless, with the exigencies of alterations made within. Eight great disks, having gold backgrounds, and representing radiating suns, double-headed eagles, and the shields, gules and argent, the armorial bearings of Lübeck, are spread out gorgeously upon this quaint architecture. Beneath, arches supported upon short, thick pillars yawn darkly, and from far within there comes the gleam of precious metals, the wares of some goldsmith's shop. Turning back toward the square again, I notice, rising above the houses, the green spires of another church, and over the heads of some market-women, who are chaffering over their fish and vegetables, the profile of a little building with brick pillars, which must have been a pillory in its day. This gives a last touch to the purely Gothic aspect of the square which is interrupted by no modern edifice. The ingenious idea occurred to me that this splendid Stadthaus must have another façade; and so in fact it had; passing under an archway, I found myself in a broad street, and my admiration began anew. Five bell-towers, built half into the wall and separated by tall ogive-windows now partly blocked up, repeated, with variations, the façade I have just described. Brick rosettes exhibited their curious designs, spreading with square stitches, so to speak, like patterns for worsted work. At the base of the somber edifice a pretty little lodge, of the Renaissance, built as an afterthought, gave entrance to an exterior staircase going up along the wall diagonally to a sort of mirador, or overhanging look-out, in exquisite taste. Graceful little statues of Faith and Justice, elegantly draped, decorated the portico. The staircase, resting on arches which widened as it rose higher, was ornamented with grotesque masks and caryatides. The mirador, placed above the arched doorway opening upon the market-place, was crowned with a recessed and voluted pediment, where a figure of Themis held in one hand balances, and in the other a sword, not forgetting to give her drapery, at the same time, a coquettish puff. An odd order formed of fluted pilasters fashioned like pedestals and supporting busts, separated the windows of this aërial cage. Consoles with fantastic masks completed the elegant ornamentation, over which Time had passed his thumb just enough to give to the carved stone that bloom which nothing can imitate.... The Marienkirche, which stands, as I have said, behind the Stadt-haus, is well worth a visit. Its two towers are 408 feet in height; a very elaborate belfry rises from the roof at the point of intersection of the transept. The towers of Lübeck have the peculiarity, every one of them, of being out of the perpendicular, leaning perceptibly to the right or left, but without disquieting the eye, like the tower of Asinelli at Bologna, or the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Seen two or three miles away, these towers, drunk and staggering, with their pointed caps that seem to nod at the horizon, present a droll and hilarious silhouette. On entering the church, the first curious object that meets the eye is a copy of the Todtentanz, or Dance of Death, of the cemetery at Bâsle. I do not need to describe it in detail. The Middle Ages were never tired of composing variations upon this dismal theme. The most conspicuous of them are brought together in this lugubrious painting, which covers all the walls of one chapel. From the Pope and the Emperor to the infant in his cradle, each human being in his turn enters upon the dance with the inevitable terror. But death is not depicted as a skeleton, white, polished, cleaned, articulated with copper wire like the skeleton of an anatomical cabinet: that would be too ornamental for the vulgar crowd. He appears as a dead body in a more or less advanced state of decomposition, with all the horrid secrets of the tomb carefully revealed.... The cathedral, which is called in German the Dom, is quite remarkable in its interior. In the middle of the nave, filling one whole arch, is a colossal Christ of Gothic style, nailed to a cross carved in open-work, and ornamented with arabesques. The foot of this cross rests upon a transverse beam, going from one pillar to another, on which are standing the holy women and other pious personages, in attitudes of grief and adoration; Adam and Eve, one on either side, are arranging their paradisaic costume as decently as may be; above the cross the keystone of the arch projects, adorned with flowers and leafage, and serves as a standing-place for an angel with long wings. This construction, hanging in mid-air, and evidently light in weight, notwithstanding its magnitude, is of wood, carved with much taste and skill. I can define it in no better way than to call it a carved portcullis, lowered halfway in front of the chancel. It is the first example of such an arrangement that I have ever seen.... The Holstenthor, a city gate close by the railway station, is a most curious and picturesque specimen of German medieval architecture. Imagine two enormous brick towers united by the main portion of the structure, through which opens an archway, like a basket-handle, and you have a rude sketch of the construction; but you would not easily conceive of the effect produced by the high summit of the edifice, the conical roofs of the towers, the whimsical windows in the walls and in the roofs, the dull red or violet tints of the defaced bricks. It is altogether a new gamut for painters of architecture or of ruins; and I shall send them to Lübeck by the next train. I recommend to their notice also, very near the Holstenthor, on the left bank of the Trave, five or six crimson houses, shouldering each other for mutual support, bulging out in front, pierced with six or seven stories of windows, with denticulated gables, the deep red reflection of them trailing in the water, like some high-colored apron which a servant-maid is washing. What a picture Van den Heyden would have made of this! Following the quay, along which runs a railway, where freight-trains were constantly passing, I enjoyed many amusing and varied scenes. On the other side of the Trave were to be seen, amid houses and clumps of trees, vessels in various stages of building. Here, a skeleton with ribs of wood, like the carcass of some stranded whale; there, a hull, clad with its planking near which smokes the calker's cauldron, emitting light yellowish clouds. Everywhere prevails a cheerful stir of busy life. Carpenters are planing and hammering, porters are rolling casks, sailors are scrubbing the decks of vessels, or getting the sails half way up to dry them in the sun. A barque just arriving comes alongside the quay, the other vessels making room for her to pass. The little steamboats are getting up steam or letting it off; and when you turn toward the city, through the rigging of the vessels, you see the church-towers, which incline gracefully, like the masts of clippers. [Footnote A: From "A Winter in Russia." By arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, Henry Holt & Co. Copyright, 1874.] [Footnote B: The decline of Lübeck dates from the first quarter of the sixteenth century and was chiefly due to the discovery of America and the consequent diversion of commerce to new directions. Other misfortunes came with the Thirty Years' War. As early as 1425, one of the constant sources of Lübeck's wealth had begun to fail her--the herring, which was found to be deserting Baltic waters. The discovery by the Portuguese of a route to India by the Cape of Good Hope was another cause of Lübeck's decline.] HELIGOLAND[A] BY WILLIAM GEORGE BLACK In Heligoland itself there are few trees, no running water, no romantic ruins, but an extraordinary width of sea-view, seen as from the deck of a gigantic ship; and yet the island is so small that one can look around it all, and take the sea-line in one great circle. Seen from a distance, as one must first see it, Heligoland is little more than a cloud on the horizon; but as the steamer approaches nearer, the island stands up, a red rock in the ocean, without companion or neighbor. A small ledge of white strand to the south is the only spot where boats can land, and on this ledge nestle many white-walled, red-roofed houses; while on the rim of the rock, nearly two hundred feet above, is a sister hamlet, with the church-tower and lighthouse for central ornaments. On the Unterland are the principal streets and shops, on the Oberland are many of the best hotels and government-house. As there is no harbor, passengers reach the shore in large boats, and get their first glimpse of the hardy, sun-browned natives in the boatmen who, with bright jackets and hats of every picturesque curve that straw is capable of, pull the boat quickly to the steps of the little pier. Crowds of visitors line the way, but one gets quickly through, and in a few minutes returns either to familiar quarters in the Oberland, or finds an equally clean and moderate home among the lodging-house keepers or seamen. The season is a very short one, only ten weeks out of fifty-two, but the prices are moderate and the comfort unchallengeable.... Heligoland is only one mile long from pier to Nordkap, and a quarter of a mile wide at its widest--in all it is three-quarters of a square mile in size. There are no horses or carts in Heligoland--only six cows, kept always in darkness, and a few sheep and goats tethered on the Oberland. The streets are very narrow, but very clean, and the constant repetition in houses and scarves and flags of the national colors gives Heligoland a gay aspect; for the national colors are anything but dull. Green land, red rocks, white strand--nothing could be better descriptive of the island than these colors. They are easily brought out in domestic architecture, for with a whitewashed cottage and a red-tiled roof the Heligolander has only to give his door and window-shutters a coat of bright green paint, and there are the colors of Heligoland. In case the unforgettable fact should escape the tourist, the government have worked the colors into the ingenious and pretty island postage-stamp, and many of our German friends wear bathing-pants of the same unobtrusive tints. Life is a very delightful thing in summer in this island. On your first visit you feel exhilarated by the novelty of everything as much as by the strong warm sea wind which meets you wherever you go. When you return, the novelty has worn away, but the sense of enjoyment has deepened. As you meet friendly faces and feel the grip of friendly hands, so you also exchange salutations with Nature, as if she, too, were an old Heligoland friend. You know the view from this point and from that; but, like the converse of a friend, it is always changing, for there is no monotony in the sea. The waves lap the shore gently, or roar tumultuously in the red caverns, and it is all familiar, but none the less welcome and soothing because of that familiarity. It is not a land of lotus-eating delights, but it is a land where there is little sound but what the sea makes, and where every face tells of strong sun and salt waves. No doubt, much of its charm lies in its contrast to the life of towns or country places. Whatever comes to Heligoland comes from over the sea; there is no railway within many a wide mile; the people are a peculiar people, with their own peculiar language, and an island patriotism which it would be hard to match.... From the little pier one passes up the narrow white street, no broader than a Cologne lane, but clean and bright as is no other street in Europe, past the cafés with low balconies, and the little shops--into some there are three or four steps to descend, into others there is an ascent of a diminutive ladder--till the small square or garden is reached in front of the Conversation House, a spacious building with a good ball-room and reading-room, where a kiosque, always in summer full of the fragrant Heligoland roses, detains the passer-by. Then another turn or two in the street, and the bottom of the Treppe is approached--the great staircase which winds upward to the Oberland, in whose crevices grow masses of foliage, and whose easy ascent need not be feared by any one, for the steps are broad and low. The older flight of steps was situated about a hundred paces northward from the present Treppe. It was cut out of the red crumbling rock, and at the summit passed through a guard-house. Undoubtedly the present Treppe should be similarly fortified. It was built by the government in 1834. During the smuggling days, it is said, an Englishman rode up to the Oberland, and the apparition so shocked an old woman, who had never seen a horse before, that she fell senseless to the ground. From the Falm or road skirting the edge of the precipice from the head of the stairs to Government House, one of the loveliest views in all the world lies before our eyes. Immediately beneath are the winding stairs, with their constant stream of broad-shouldered seamen, or coquettish girls, or brown boys, passing up and down, while at each resting-place some group is sitting on the green-red-white seats gossiping over the day's business. Trees and plants nestle in the stair corners, and almost conceal the roadway at the foot. Lifting one's eyes away from the little town, the white pier sprawls on the, sea, and countless boats at anchor spot with darkness the shining water. Farther away, the Düne lies like a bar of silver across the view, ribbed with emerald where the waves roll in over white sand; and all around it, as far as the eye can reach, white sails gleam in the light, until repose is found on the horizon where sea and sky meet in a vapory haze. At night the Falm is a favorite resort of the men whose houses are on the Oberland. With arms resting on the broad wall, they look down on the twinkling lights of the houses far beneath, listen to the laughter or song which float up from the small tables outside the café, or watch the specks of light on the dark gleam of the North Sea. It is a prospect of which one could hardly tire, if it was not that in summer one has in Heligoland a surfeit of sea loveliness.... Heligoland is conjecturally identified with the ocean island described by Tacitus as the place of the sacred rites of the Angli and other tribes of the mainland. It was almost certainly sacred to Forsete, the son of Balder the Sun-god--if he be identified, as Grimm and all Frisian writers identify him, with Fosite the Frisian god. Forsete, a personification to men of the great white god, who dwelt in a shining hall of gold and silver, was among all gods and men the wisest of judges. It is generally supposed that Heligoland was first named the Holy Island from its association with the worship of Forsete, and latterly in consequence of the conversion of the Frisian inhabitants. Hallier has, however, pointed out that the Heligolanders do not use this name for their home. They call the island "det Lunn"--the land; their language they call "Hollunner," and he suggests that the original name was Hallig-lunn. A hallig is a sand-island occasionally covered with water. When the Düne was connected with the rock there was a large stretch of sand covered by winter floods. Hallig-lunn would then mean the island that is more than a hallig; and from the similarity of the words to Heligoland a series of etymological errors may have arisen; but Hallier's derivation is, after all, only a guess. [Footnote A: From "Heligoland and the Islands of the North Sea." Heligoland, an island and fortress in the North Sea, lies thirty-six miles northwest of the mouth of the Elbe--Hamburg. It was ceded to Germany by Great Britain in 1890; and is attached to Schleswig Holstein. As a fortress, its importance has been greatly increased since the Germans recovered possession of the island.] V VIENNA FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF THE CAPITAL[A] BY BAYARD TAYLOR I have at last seen the thousand wonders of this great capital, this German Paris, this connecting-link between the civilization of Europe and the barbaric magnificence of the East. It looks familiar to be in a city again whose streets are thronged with people and resound with the din and bustle of business. It reminds me of the never-ending crowds of London or the life and tumult of our scarcely less active New York. The morning of our arrival we sallied out from our lodgings in the Leopoldstadt to explore the world before us. Entering the broad Praterstrasse, we passed down to the little arm of the Danube which separates this part of the new city from the old. A row of magnificent coffee-houses occupy the bank, and numbers of persons were taking their breakfasts in the shady porticos. The Ferdinand's Bridge, which crosses the stream, was filled with people; in the motley crowd we saw the dark-eyed Greek, and Turks in their turbans and flowing robes. Little brown Hungarian boys were going around selling bunches of lilies, and Italians with baskets of oranges stood by the sidewalk. The throng became greater as we penetrated into the old city. The streets were filled with carts and carriages, and, as there are no side-pavements, it required constant attention to keep out of their way. Splendid shops fitted up with great taste occupied the whole of the lower stories, and goods of all kinds hung beneath the canvas awnings in front of them. Almost every store or shop was dedicated to some particular person or place, which was represented on a large panel by the door. The number of these paintings added much to the splendor of the scene; I was gratified to find, among the images of kings and dukes, one dedicated "To the American," with an Indian chief in full costume. The Altstadt, or "old city," which contains about sixty thousand inhabitants, is completely separated from the suburbs, whose population, taking the whole extent within the outer barrier, numbers nearly half a million.[B] It is situated on a small arm of the Danube and encompassed by a series of public promenades, gardens and walks, varying from a quarter to half a mile in length, called the "Glacis." This formerly belonged to the fortifications of the city, but as the suburbs grew up so rapidly on all sides, it was changed appropriately to a public walk. The city is still surrounded with a massive wall and a deep wide moat, but, since it was taken by Napoleon in 1809, the moat has been changed into a garden with a beautiful carriage-road along the bottom around the whole city. It is a beautiful sight to stand on the summit of the wall and look over the broad Glacis, with its shady roads branching in every direction and filled with inexhaustible streams of people. The Vorstaedte, or new cities, stretch in a circle, around beyond this; all the finest buildings front on the Glacis, among which the splendid Vienna Theater and the church of San Carlo Borromeo are conspicuous. The mountains of the Vienna forest bound the view, with here and there a stately castle on their woody summits. There is no lack of places for pleasure or amusement. Besides the numberless walks of the Glacis there are the imperial gardens, with their cool shades and flowers and fountains; the Augarten, laid out and opened to the public by the Emperor Joseph; and the Prater, the largest and most beautiful of all. It lies on an island formed by the arms of the Danube, and is between two and three miles square. From the circle at the end of the Praterstrasse broad carriage-ways extend through its forests of oak and silver ash and over its verdant lawns to the principal stream, which bounds it on the north. These roads are lined with stately horse-chestnuts, whose branches unite and form a dense canopy, completely shutting out the sun. Every afternoon the beauty and nobility of Vienna whirl through the cool groves in their gay equipages, while the sidewalks are thronged with pedestrians, and the numberless tables and seats with which every house of refreshment is surrounded are filled with merry guests. Here on Sundays and holidays the people repair in thousands. The woods are full of tame deer, which run perfectly free over the whole Prater. I saw several in one of the lawns lying down in the grass, with a number of children playing around or sitting beside them. It is delightful to walk there in the cool of the evening, when the paths are crowded and everybody is enjoying the release from the dusty city. It is this free social life which renders Vienna so attractive to foreigners and draws yearly thousands of visitors from all parts of Europe.... We spent two or three hours delightfully one evening in listening to Strauss's band. We went about sunset to the Odeon, a new building in the Leopoldstadt. It has a refreshment-hall nearly five hundred feet long, with a handsome fresco ceiling and glass doors opening into a garden-walk of the same length. Both the hall and garden were filled with tables, where the people seated themselves as they came and conversed sociably over their coffee and wine. The orchestra was placed in a little ornamental temple in the garden, in front of which I stationed myself, for I was anxious to see the world's waltz-king whose magic tones can set the heels of half Christendom in motion. After the band had finished tuning their instruments, a middle-sized, handsome man stept forward with long strides, with a violin in one hand and bow in the other, and began waving the latter up and down, like a magician summoning his spirits. As if he had waved the sound out of his bow, the tones leaped forth from the instruments, and, guided by his eye and hand, fell into a merry measure. The accuracy with which every instrument performed its part was truly marvelous. He could not have struck the measure or the harmony more certainly from the keys of his own piano than from that large band. The sounds struggled forth so perfect and distinct that one almost expected to see them embodied, whirling in wild dance around him. Sometimes the air was so exquisitely light and bounding the feet could scarcely keep on the earth; then it sank into a mournful lament with a sobbing tremulousness, and died away in a long-breathed sigh. Strauss seemed to feel the music in every limb. He would wave his fiddle-bow a while, then commence playing with desperate energy, moving his whole body to the measure, till the sweat rolled from his brow. A book was lying on the stand before him, but he made no use of it. He often glanced around with a kind of half-triumphant smile at the restless crowd, whose feet could scarcely be restrained from bounding to the magic measure. It was the horn of Oberon realized. The composition of the music displayed great talent, but its charm consisted more in the exquisite combination of the different instruments, and the perfect, the wonderful, exactness with which each performed its part--a piece of art of the most elaborate and refined character. The company, which consisted of several hundred, appeared to be full of enjoyment. They sat under the trees in the calm, cool twilight with the stars twinkling above, and talked and laughed sociably together between the pauses of the music, or strolled up and down the lighted alleys. We walked up and down with them, and thought how much we should enjoy such a scene at home, where the faces around us would be those of friends and the language our mother-tongue. We went a long way through the suburbs one bright afternoon to a little cemetery about a mile from the city to find the grave of Beethoven. On ringing at the gate a girl admitted us into the grounds, in which are many monuments of noble families who have vaults there. I passed up the narrow walk, reading the inscriptions, till I came to the tomb of Franz Clement, a young composer who died two or three years ago. On turning again my eye fell instantly on the word "Beethoven" in golden letters on a tombstone of gray marble. A simple gilded lyre decorated the pedestal, above which was a serpent encircling a butterfly--the emblem of resurrection. Here, then, moldered the remains of that restless spirit who seemed to have strayed to earth from another clime, from such a height did he draw his glorious conceptions. The perfection he sought for here in vain he has now attained in a world where the soul is freed from the bars which bind it in this. There were no flowers planted around the tomb by those who revered his genius; only one wreath, withered and dead, lay among the grass, as if left long ago by some solitary pilgrim, and a few wild buttercups hung with their bright blossoms over the slab. It might have been wrong, but I could not resist the temptation to steal one or two while the old gravedigger was busy preparing a new tenement. I thought that other buds would open in a few days, but those I took would be treasured many a year as sacred relics. A few paces off is the grave of Schubert, the composer whose beautiful songs are heard all over Germany. We visited the imperial library a day or two ago. The hall is two hundred and forty-five feet long, with a magnificent dome in the center, under which stands the statue of Charles V., of Carrara marble, surrounded by twelve other monarchs of the house of Hapsburg. The walls are of variegated marble richly ornamented with gold, and the ceiling and dome are covered with brilliant fresco-paintings. The library numbers three hundred thousand volumes and sixteen thousand manuscripts, which are kept in walnut cases gilded and adorned with medallions. The rich and harmonious effect of the whole can not easily be imagined. It is exceedingly appropriate that a hall of such splendor should be used to hold a library. The pomp of a palace may seem hollow and vain, for it is but the dwelling of a man; but no building can be too magnificent for the hundreds of great and immortal spirits to dwell in who have visited earth during thirty centuries. Among other curiosities preserved in the collection, we were shown a brass plate containing one of the records of the Roman Senate made one hundred and eighty years before Christ, Greek manuscripts of the fifth and sixth centuries, and a volume of Psalms printed on parchment in the year 1457 by Faust and Schoeffer, the inventors of printing. There were also Mexican manuscripts presented by Cortez, the prayer-book of Hildegard, wife of Charlemagne, in letters of gold, the signature of San Carlo Borromeo, and a Greek Testament of the thirteenth century which had been used by Erasmus in making his, translation and contains notes in his own hand. The most interesting article was the "Jerusalem Delivered" of Tasso, in the poet's own hand, with his erasures and corrections. The chapel of St. Augustine contains one of the best works of Canova--the monument of the Grand Duchess Maria Christina of Sachsen-Teschen. It is a pyramid of gray marble, twenty-eight feet high, with an opening in the side representing the entrance to a sepulcher. A female figure personating Virtue bears in an urn to the grave the ashes of the departed, attended by two children with torches. The figure of Compassion follows, leading an aged beggar to the tomb of his benefactor, and a little child with its hands folded. On the lower step rests a mourning genius beside a sleeping lion, and a bas-relief on the pyramid above represents an angel carrying Christina's image, surrounded with the emblem of eternity, to heaven. A spirit of deep sorrow, which is touchingly portrayed in the countenance of the old man, pervades the whole group. While we looked at it the organ breathed out a slow, mournful strain which harmonized so fully with the expression of the figures that we seemed to be listening to the requiem of the one they mourned. The combined effect of music and sculpture thus united in their deep pathos was such that I could have sat down and wept. It was not from sadness at the death of a benevolent tho unknown individual, but the feeling of grief, of perfect, unmingled sorrow, so powerfully represented, came to the heart like an echo of its own emotion and carried it away with irresistible influence. Travelers have described the same feeling while listening to the "Miserere" in the Sistine Chapel at Rome. Canova could not have chiselled the monument without tears. One of the most interesting objects in Vienna is the imperial armory. We were admitted through tickets previously procured from the armory direction; as there was already one large company within, we were told to wait in the court till our turn came. Around the wall, on the inside, is suspended the enormous chain which the Turks stretched across the Danube at Buda in the year 1529 to obstruct the navigation. It has eight thousand links and is nearly a mile in length. The court is filled with cannon of all shapes and sizes, many of which were conquered from other nations. I saw a great many which were cast during the French Revolution, with the words "Liberté! Egalité!" upon them, and a number of others bearing the simple letter "N.".... The first wing contains banners used in the French Revolution, and liberty-trees with the red cap, the armor of Rudolph of Hapsburg, Maximilian, I., the emperor Charles V., and the hat, sword and order of Marshal Schwarzenberg. Some of the halls represent a fortification, with walls, ditches and embankments, made of muskets and swords. A long room in the second wing contains an encampment in which twelve or fifteen large tents are formed in like manner. There was also exhibited the armor of a dwarf king of Bohemia and Hungary who died a gray-headed old man in his twentieth year, the sword of Marlborough, the coat of Gustavus Adolphus, pierced in the breast and back with the bullet which killed him at Lützen, the armor of the old Bohemian princess Libussa, and that of the amazon Wlaska, with a steel vizor made to fit the features of her face. The last wing was the most remarkable. Here we saw the helm and breastplate of Attila, king of the Huns, which once glanced at the head of his myriads of wild hordes before the walls of Rome; the armor of Count Stahremberg, who commanded Vienna during the Turkish siege in 1529, and the holy banner of Mohammed, taken at that time from the grand vizier, together with the steel harness of John Sobieski of Poland, who rescued Vienna from the Turkish troops under Kara Mustapha; the hat, sword and breastplate of Godfrey of Bouillon, the crusader-king of Jerusalem, with the banners of the cross the crusaders had borne to Palestine and the standard they captured from the Turks on the walls of the Holy City. I felt all my boyish enthusiasm for the romantic age of the crusaders revive as I looked on the torn and moldering banners which once waved on the hills of Judea, or perhaps followed the sword of the Lion-Heart through the fight on the field of Ascalon. What tales could they not tell, those old standards cut and shivered by spear and lance! What brave hands have carried them through the storm of battle, what dying eyes have looked upward to the cross on the folds as the last prayer was breathed for the rescue of the holy sepulcher. [Footnote A: From "Views Afoot." Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons.] [Footnote B: The population of Vienna, according to the census of 1910, was 2,085,888.] ST. STEPHEN'S CATHEDRAL[A] BY THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN Of the chief objects of architecture which decorate street scenery in Vienna, there are none, to my old-fashioned eyes, more attractive and thoroughly beautiful and interesting--from a thousand associations of ideas than places of worship, and of course, among these, none stands so eminently conspicuous as the mother-church, or the cathedral, which in this place, is dedicated to St. Stephen. The spire has been long distinguished for its elegance and height. Probably these are the most appropriate, if not the only, epithets of commendation which can be applied to it. After Strasburg and Ulm, it appears a second-rate edifice. Not but what the spire may even vie with that of the former, and the nave may be yet larger than that of the latter; but, as a whole, it is much inferior to either--even allowing for the palpable falling off in the nave of Strasburg cathedral. The spire, or tower--for it partakes of both characters--is indeed worthy of general admiration. It is oddly situated, being almost detached--and on the south side of the building. Indeed the whole structure has a very strange, and I may add capricious, if not repulsive, appearance, as to its exterior. The western and eastern ends have nothing deserving of distinct notice or commendation. The former has a porch; which is called "the Giant's porch;" it should rather be designated as that of the Dwarf. It has no pretensions to size or striking character of any description. Some of the oldest parts of the cathedral appear to belong to the porch of the eastern end. As you walk round the church, you can not fail to be struck with the great variety of ancient--and to an Englishman, whimsical looking mural monuments, in basso and alto relievos. Some of these are doubtless both interesting and curious. But the spire is indeed an object deserving of particular admiration. It is next to that of Strasburg in height; being 432 feet of Vienna measurement. It may be said to begin to taper from the first stage or floor; and is distinguished for its open and sometimes intricate fretwork. About two-thirds of its height, just above the clock, and where the more slender part of the spire commences, there is a gallery or platform, to which the French quickly ascended, on their possession of Vienna, to reconnoiter the surrounding country. The very summit of the spire is bent, or inclined to the north; so much so, as to give the notion that the cap or crown will fall in a short time. As to the period of the erection of this spire, it is supposed to have been about the middle, or latter end, of the fifteenth century. It has certainly much in common with the highly ornamental Gothic style of building in our own country, about the reign of Henry VI. The colored glazed tiles of the roof of the church are very disagreeable and unharmonizing. These colors are chiefly green, red, and blue. Indeed the whole roof is exceedingly heavy and tasteless. I will now conduct you to the interior. On entering, from the southeast door, you observe, to the left, a small piece of white marble--which every one touches, with the finger or thumb charged with holy water, on entering or leaving the cathedral. Such have been the countless thousands of times that this piece of marble has been so touched, that, purely, from such friction, it has been worn nearly half an inch below the general surrounding surface. I have great doubts, however, if this mysterious piece of masonry be as old as the walls of the church (which may be of the fourteenth century), which they pretend to say it is. The first view of the interior of this cathedral, seen even at the most favorable moment--which is from about three till five o'clock--is far from prepossessing. Indeed, after what I had seen at Rouen, Paris, Strassburg, Ulm, and Munich, it was a palpable disappointment. In the first place, there seems to be no grand leading feature of simplicity; add to which, darkness reigns everywhere. You look up, and discern no roof--not so much from its extreme height, as from the absolute want of windows. Everything not only looks dreary, but is dingy and black--from the mere dirt and dust which seem to have covered the great pillars of the nave--and especially the figures and ornaments upon it--for the last four centuries. This is the more to be regretted, as the larger pillars are highly ornamented; having human figures, of the size of life, beneath sharply pointed canopies, running up the shafts. The extreme length of the cathedral is 342 feet of Vienna measurement. The extreme width, between the tower and its opposite extremity--or the transepts--is 222 feet. There are comparatively few chapels; only four--but many Bethstühle or Prie-Dieus. Of the former, the chapels of Savoy and St. Eloy are the chief; but the large sacristy is more extensive than either. On my first entrance, while attentively examining the choir, I noticed--what was really a very provoking, but probably not a very uncommon sight--a maid servant deliberately using a long broom in sweeping the pavement of the high altar, at the moment when several very respectable people, of both sexes, were kneeling upon the steps, occupied in prayer. But the devotion of the people is incessant--all the day long--and in all parts of the cathedral. Meanwhile, service is going on in all parts of the cathedral. They are singing here; they are praying there; and they are preaching in a third place. But during the whole time, I never heard one single note of the organ. I remember only the other Sunday morning--walking out beneath one of the brightest blue skies that ever shone upon man--and entering the cathedral about nine o'clock. A preacher was in the principal pulpit; while a tolerably numerous congregation was gathered around him. He preached, of course, in the German language, and used much action. As he became more and more animated, he necessarily became warmer, and pulled off a black cap--which, till then, he had kept upon his head; the zeal and piety of the congregation at the same time seeming to increase with the accelerated motions of the preacher. In other more retired parts, solitary devotees were seen--silent, and absorbed in prayer. Among these, I shall not easily forget the head and the physiognomical expression of one old man--who, having been supported by crutches, which lay by the side of him--appeared to have come for the last time to offer his orisons to heaven. The light shone full upon his bald head and elevated countenance; which latter indicated a genuineness of piety, and benevolence of disposition, not to be soured, even by the most bitter of worldly disappointments! It seemed as if the old man were taking leave of this life, in full confidence of the rewards which await the righteous beyond the grave. So much for the living. A word or two now for the dead. Of course this letter alludes to the monuments of the more distinguished characters once resident in and near the metropolis. Among these, doubtless the most elaborate is that of the Emperor Frederick III.--in the florid Gothic style, surmounted by a tablet, filled with coat-armor, or heraldic shields. Some of the mural monuments are very curious, and among them are several of the early part of the sixteenth century--which represent the chins and even mouths of females, entirely covered by drapery; such as is even now to be seen and such as we saw on descending from the Vosges. But among these monuments--both for absolute and relative antiquity--none will appear to the curious eye of an antiquary so precious as that of the head of the architect of the cathedral, whose name was Pilgram. [Footnote A: From "A Bibliographical, Antiquarian and Picturesque Tour," published in 1821.] THE BELVEDERE PALACE[A] BY THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN To the Belvedere Palace, therefore, let us go. I visited it with Mr. Lewis--taking our valet with us, immediately after breakfast--on one of the finest and clearest-skied September mornings that ever shone above the head of man. We had resolved to take the Ambras, or the little Belvedere, in our way; and to have a good, long, and uninterrupted view of the wonders of art--in a variety of departments. Both the little Belvedere and the large Belvedere rise gradually above the suburbs; and the latter may be about a mile and a half from the ramparts of the city. The Ambras contains a quantity of ancient horse- and foot-armor, brought thither from a chateau of that name, near Inssbruck, built by the Emperor Charles V. Such a collection of old armor--which had once equally graced and protected the bodies of their wearers, among whom the noblest names of which Germany can boast may be enrolled--was infinitely gratifying to me. The sides of the first room were quite embossed with suspended shields, cuirasses, and breast-plates. The floor was almost filled by champions on horseback--yet poising the spear, or holding it in the rest--yet almost shaking their angry plumes, and pricking the fiery sides of their coursers. Here rode Maximilian--and there halted Charles his son. Different suits of armor, belonging to the same character, are studiously shown you by the guide; some of these are the foot-, and some the horse-, armor; some were worn in fight--yet giving evidence of the mark of the bullet and battle-ax; others were the holiday suits of armor, with which the knights marched in procession, or tilted at the tournament. The workmanship of the full-dress suits, in which a great deal of highly wrought gold ornament appears, is sometimes really exquisite. The second, or long room, is more particularly appropriated to the foot- or infantry-armor. In this studied display of much that is interesting from antiquity, and splendid from absolute beauty and costliness, I was particularly gratified by the sight of the armor which the Emperor Maximilian wore as a foot-captain. The lower part, to defend the thighs, consists of a puckered or plated steel petticoat, sticking out at the bottom of the folds, considerably beyond the upper part. It is very simple, and of polished steel. A fine suit of armor--of black and gold--worn by an Archbishop of Salzburg in the middle of the fifteenth century, had particular claims upon my admiration. It was at once chaste and effective. The mace was by the side of it. This room is also ornamented by trophies taken from the Turks; such as bows, spears, battle-axes, and scimitars. In short, the whole is full of interest and splendor. I ought to have seen the arsenal--which I learn is of uncommon magnificence; and, altho not so curious on the score of antiquity, is yet not destitute of relics of the warriors of Germany. Among these, those which belong to my old bibliomaniacal friend Corvinus, King of Hungary, cut a conspicuous and very respectable figure. I fear it will be now impracticable to see the arsenal as it ought to be seen. It is now approaching mid-day, and we are walking toward the terrace in front of the Great Belvidere Palace, built by the immortal Eugene[B] in the year 1724, as a summer residence. Probably no spot could have been selected with better judgment for the residence of a Prince--who wished to enjoy, almost at the same moment, the charms of the country with the magnificence of a city view, unclouded by the dense fumes which forever envelop our metropolis. It is in truth a glorious situation. Walking along its wide and well-cultivated terraces, you obtain the finest view imaginable of the city of Vienna. Indeed it may be called a picturesque view. The spire of the cathedral darts directly upward, as it were, to the very heavens. The ground before you, and in the distance, is gently undulating; and the intermediate portion of the suburbs does not present any very offensive protrusions. More in the distance, the windings of the Danube are seen; with its various little islands, studded with hamlets and fishing-huts, lighted up by a sun of unusual radiance. Indeed the sky, above the whole of this rich and civilized scene, was at the time of our viewing it, almost of a dazzling hue; so deep and vivid a tint we had never before beheld. Behind the palace, in the distance, you observe a chain of mountains which extends into Hungary. As to the building itself, it is perfectly palatial in its size, form, ornaments, and general effect. Among the treasures, which it contains, it is now high time to enter and to look about us. My account is necessarily a mere sketch. Rubens, if any artist, seems here to "rule and reign without control!" Two large rooms are filled with his productions; besides several other pictures, by the same hand, which are placed in different apartments. Here it is that you see verified the truth of Sir Joshua's remark upon that wonderful artist: namely, that his genius seems to expand with the size of his canvas. His pencil absolutely riots here--in the most luxuriant manner--whether in the majesty of an altarpiece, in the gaiety of a festive scene, or in the sobriety of portrait-painting. His Ignatius Loyola and St. Francis Xavier--of the former class--each seventeen feet high, by nearly thirteen wide--are stupendous productions in more senses than one. The latter is, indeed, in my humble judgment, the most marvelous specimen of the powers of the painter which I have ever seen; and you must remember that both England and France are not without some of his celebrated productions, which I have frequently examined. In the old German School, the series is almost countless; and of the greatest possible degree of interest and curiosity. Here are to be seen Wohlgemuths, Albert Dürers, both the Holbeins, Lucas Cranachs, Ambergaus, and Burgmairs of all sizes and degrees of merit. Among these ancient specimens--which are placed in curious order, in the very upper suite of apartments, and of which the backgrounds of several, in one solid coat of gilt, lighten up the room like a golden sunset--you must not fail to pay particular attention to a singularly curious old subject--representing the Life, Miracles, and Passion of our Savior, in a series of one hundred and fifty-eight pictures--of which the largest is nearly three feet square, and every other about fifteen inches by ten. These subjects are painted upon eighty-six small pieces of wood; of which seventy-two are contained in six folding cabinets, each holding twelve subjects. In regard to Teniers, Gerard Dow, Mieris, Wouvermann, and Cuyp, you must look at home for more exquisite specimens. This collection contains, in the whole, not fewer than fifteen hundred paintings, of which the greater portion consists of pictures of very large dimensions. I could have lived here for a month; but could only move along with the hurried step, and yet more hurrying eye, of an ordinary visitor. [Footnote A: From "A Bibliographical, Antiquarian and Picturesque Tour," published in 1821.] [Footnote B: The celebrated Austrian general, who defeated the Turks in 1697, and shared with Marlborough in the victories of Blenheim and Malplaquet.] SCHÖNBRUNN AND THE PRATER[A] BY THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN About three English miles from the Great Belvedere--or rather about the same number of miles from Vienna, to the right, as you approach the capital--is the famous palace of Schönbrunn. This is a sort of summer-residence of the Emperor; and it is here that his daughter, the ex-Empress of France, and the young Bonaparte usually reside.[B] The latter never goes into Italy, when his mother, as Duchess of Parma, pays her annual visit to her principality. At this moment her son is at Baden, with the court. It was in the Schönbrunn palace that his father, on the conquest of Vienna, used to take up his abode, rarely venturing into the city. He was surely safe enough here; as every chamber and every court yard was filled by the élite of his guard--whether as officers or soldiers. It is a most magnificent pile of building; a truly imperial residence--but neither the furniture nor the objects of art, whether connected with sculpture or painting, are deserving of anything in the shape of a catalogue raisonné. I saw the chamber where young Bonaparte frequently passes the day; and brandishes his flag staff, and beats upon his drum. He is a soldier (as they tell me) every inch of him; and rides out, through the streets of Vienna, in a carriage of state drawn by four or six horses, receiving the homage of the passing multitude. To return to the Schönbrunn Palace. I have already told you that it is vast, and capable of accommodating the largest retinue of courtiers. It is of the gardens belonging to it, that I would now only wish to say a word. These gardens are really worthy of the residence to which they are attached. For what is called ornamental, formal, gardening--enriched by shrubs of rarity, and trees of magnificence--enlivened by fountains--adorned by sculpture--and diversified by vistas, lawns, and walks--interspersed with grottoes and artificial ruins--you can conceive nothing upon a grander scale than these: while a menagerie in one place (where I saw a large but miserably wasted elephant)--a flower-garden in another--a labyrinth in a third, and a solitude in a fourth place--each, in its turn, equally beguiles the hour and the walk. They are the most spacious gardens I ever witnessed. It was the other Sunday evening when I visited the Prater, and when--as the weather happened to be very fine--it was considered to be full, but the absence of the court, of the noblesse, necessarily gave a less joyous and splendid aspect to the carriages and their attendant liveries. In your way to this famous place of Sabbath evening promenade, you pass a celebrated coffee-house, in the suburbs, called the Leopoldstadt, which goes by the name of the Greek coffee-house--on account of its being almost entirely frequented by Greeks--so numerous at Vienna. Do not pass it, if you should ever come hither, without entering it--at least once. You would fancy yourself to be in Greece, so thoroughly characteristic are the countenances, dresses, and language of everyone within. But yonder commences the procession of horse and foot; of cabriolets, family coaches, German wagons, cars, phaetons and landaulets, all moving in a measured manner, within their prescribed ranks, toward the Prater. We must accompany them without loss of time. You now reach the Prater. It is an extensive flat, surrounded by branches of the Danube, and planted on each side with double rows of horse-chestnut trees. The drive, in one straight line, is probably a league in length. It is divided by two roads, in one of which the company move onward, and in the other they return. Consequently, if you happen to find a hillock only a few feet high, you may, from thence, obtain a pretty good view of the interminable procession of the carriages before mentioned: one current of them, as it were, moving forward, and another rolling backward. But, hark! the notes of a harp are heard to the left, in a meadow, where the foot passengers often digress from the more formal tree-lined promenade. A press of ladies and gentlemen is quickly seen. You mingle involuntarily with them; and, looking forward, you observe a small stage erected, upon which a harper sits and two singers stand. The company now lie down upon the grass, or break into standing groups, or sit upon chairs hired for the occasion--to listen to the notes so boldly and so feelingly executed. The clapping of hands, and exclamations of bravo succeed, and the sounds of applause, however warmly bestowed, quickly die away in the open air. The performers bow, receive a few kreutzers, retire, and are well satisfied. The sound of the trumpet is now heard behind you. Tilting feats are about to be performed; the coursers snort and are put in motion; their hides are bathed in sweat beneath their ponderous housings; and the blood, which flows freely from the pricks of their riders' spurs, shows you with what earnestness the whole affair is conducted. There, the ring is thrice carried off at the point of the lance. Feats of horsemanship follow in a covered building, to the right; and the juggler, conjurer, or magician, displays his dexterous feats, or exercises his potent spells, in a little amphitheater of trees, at a distance beyond. Here and there rise more stately edifices, as theaters, from the doors of which a throng of heated spectators is pouring out. In other directions, booths, stalls and tables are fixt; where the hungry eat, the thirsty drink, and the merry-hearted indulge in potent libations. The waiters are in a constant state of locomotion. Rhenish wine sparkles here; confectionery glitters there; and fruit looks bright and tempting in a third place. No guest turns round to eye the company; because he is intent upon the luxuries which invite his immediate attention, or he is in close conversation with an intimate friend, or a beloved female. They talk and laugh--and the present seems to be the happiest moment of their lives. All is gaiety and good humor. You return again to the foot-promenade, and look sharply about you, as you move onward, to catch the spark of beauty, or admire the costume of taste, or confess the power of expression. It is an Albanian female who walks yonder, wondering, and asking questions, at every thing she sees. The proud Jewess, supported by her husband and father, moves in another direction. She is covered with brocade and flaunting ribbons; but she is abstracted from everything around her, because her eyes are cast downward upon her stomacher, or sideways to obtain a glimpse of what may be called her spangled epaulettes. Her eye is large and dark; her nose is aquiline; her complexion is of an olive brown; her stature is majestic, her dress is gorgeous, her gait is measured--and her demeanor is grave and composed. "She must be very rich," you say--as she passes on. "She is prodigiously rich," replies the friend, to whom you put the question--for seven virgins, with nosegays of choicest flowers, held up her bridal train; and the like number of youths, with silver-hilted swords, and robes of ermine and satin, graced the same bridal ceremony. Her father thinks he can never do enough for her; and her husband, that he can never love her sufficiently. Whether she be happy or not, in consequence, we have no time to stop to inquire, for see yonder! Three "turbaned Turks" make their advances. How gaily, how magnificently they are attired! What finely proportioned limbs--what beautifully formed features! They have been carousing, peradventure, with some young Greeks--who have just saluted them, en passant--at the famous coffee-house before mentioned. Everything around you is novel and striking; while the verdure of the trees and lawns is yet fresh, and the sun does not seem yet disposed to sink below the horizon. The carriages still move on, and return, in measured procession. Those who are within, look earnestly from the windows, to catch a glance of their passing friends. The fair hand is waved here; the curiously-painted fan is shaken there; and the repeated nod is seen in almost every other passing landaulet. Not a heart seems sad; not a brow appears to be clouded with care. Such--or something like the foregoing--is the scene which usually passes on a Sunday evening--perhaps six months out of the twelve--upon the famous Prater at Vienna; while the tolling bell of St. Stephen's tower, about nine o'clock--and the groups of visitors hurrying back, to get home before the gates of the city are shut against them--usually conclude the scene just described. [Footnote A: From "A Bibliographical, Antiquarian and Picturesque Tour." published in 1821.] [Footnote B: Marie Louise, second wife of Napoleon, and their son, the King of Rome.] VI HUNGARY A GLANCE AT THE COUNTRY[A] BY H. TORNAI DE KÖVËR Hungary consists of Hungary proper, with Transylvania (which had independent rule at one time), Croatia and Slavonia (which have been added), and the town of Fiume on the shores of the Adriatic Sea. The lowlands are exceedingly beautiful in the northeast and west, where the great mountain, peaks rise into the clear blue sky or are hidden by big white clouds, but no beauty can be compared to the young green waving corn or the ripe ears when swaying gently in the breeze. One sees miles and miles of corn, with only a tree here and there to mark the distances, and one can not help comparing the landscape to a green sea, for the wind makes long silky waves, which make the field appear to rise and fall like the ocean. In the heat of midday the mirage, or, as the Hungarians call it, "Délibáb," appears and shows wonderful rivers, villages, cool green woods--all floating in the air. Sometimes one sees hundreds of white oxen and church towers, and, to make the picture still more confusing and wonderful, it is all seen upside down. This, the richest part of the country, is situated between the rivers Danube and Theiss, and runs right down to the borders of Servia. Two thirds of Hungary consist of mountainous districts, but one third has the richest soil in Europe. Great rivers run through the heart of the country, giving it the fertility which is its great source of wealth. The great lowlands, or "Alföld," as the Magyars call them, are surrounded by a chain of mountains whose heights are nearly equal to some Alpine districts. There are three principal mountain ranges--the Tátra, Mátra, and Fátra--and four principal rivers--the Danube, Theiss, Drave, and Save. Hungary is called the land of the three mountains and four rivers, and the emblem of these form the chief feature in the coat-of-arms of the country. The Carpathian range of mountains stretches from the northwest along the north and down the east, encircling the lowlands and sending forth rivers and streams to water the plains. These mountains are of a gigantic bulk and breadth; they are covered with fir and pine trees, and in the lower regions with oaks and many other kinds. The peaks of the high Tátra are about 9,000 feet high, and, of course, are bare of any vegetation, being snow-covered even in summer-time. On the well-sheltered sides of these mountains numerous baths are to be found, and they abound in mineral waters. Another curious feature are the deep lakes called "Tengerszem" (Eyes of the Sea). According to folklore they are connected with the sea, and wonderful beings live in them. However, it is so far true that they are really of astonishing depth. The summer up in the Northern Carpathians is very short, the nights always cold, and there is plenty of rain to water the rich vegetation of the forests. Often even in the summer there are snowstorms and a very low temperature. The Northeastern Carpathians include a range of lower hills running down to the so-called Hegyalja, where the wonderful vine which produces the wine of Tokay is grown. The southeastern range of the Carpathians divides the county of Máramaros from Erdély (Transylvania). The main part of this country is mountainous and rugged, but here also there is wonderful scenery. Everything is still very wild in these parts of the land, and tho mineral waters abound everywhere, the bathing-places are very primitive. The only seaport the country possesses is Fiume, which was given to Hungary by Maria Theresa, who wanted to give Hungary the chance of developing into a commercial nation. Besides the deep but small mountain lakes, there are several large ones; among these the most important is the Balaton, which, altho narrow, is about fifty miles long. Along its borders there are summer bathing-places, considered very healthy for children. Very good wine is produced here, as in most parts of Hungary which are hilly, but not situated too high up among the mountains. The lake of Balaton is renowned for a splendid kind of fresh-water fish, the Fogas. It is considered the best fish after trout--some even prefer it--and it grows to a good size. The chief river of Hungary is the Danube, and the whole of Hungary is included in its basin. It runs through the heart of the country, forming many islands; the greatest is called the Csallóköz, and has over a hundred villages on it. One of the prettiest and most cultivated of the islands is St. Margaret's Isle, near Budapest, which has latterly been joined to the mainland by a bridge. Some years ago only steamers conveyed the visitors to it; these still exist, but now carriages can drive on to the island too. It is a beautiful park, where the people of Budapest seek the shade of the splendid old trees. Hot sulfur springs are to be found on the island, and there is a bath for the use of visitors. The Danube leaves Hungary at Orsova, and passes through the so-called Iron Gates. The scenery is very beautiful and wild in that part, and there are many points where it is exceedingly picturesque, especially between Vienna and Budapest. It is navigable for steamships, and so is the next largest river, the Theiss. This river begins its course in the Southeastern Carpathians, right up among the snow-peaks, amid wild and beautiful scenery, and it eventually empties its waters into the Danube at Titel. The three largest rivers of Hungary feed the Danube, and by that means reach the Black Sea. Hungary lies under the so-called temperate zone, but there does not seem much temperance in the climate when we think of the terrible, almost Siberian winters that come often enough and the heat waves occasioning frequent droughts in the lowlands. The summer is short in the Carpathians; usually in the months of August and September the weather is the most settled. June and July are often rainy--sometimes snowstorms cause the barometer to fall tremendously. In the mountain districts there is a great difference between the temperature of the daytime and that of the night. All those who go to the Carpathians do well to take winter and Alpine clothing with them. The winter in the mountains is perhaps the most exhilarating, as plenty of winter sport goes on. The air is very cold, but the sun has great strength in sheltered corners, enabling even delicate people to spend the winter there. In the lowlands the summer is exceedingly hot, but frequent storms, which cool the air for some days, make the heat bearable. Now and then there have been summers when in some parts of Hungary rain has not fallen for many weeks--even months. The winter, too, even in the more temperate parts, is often severe and long, there being often from eight to ten weeks of skating, altho the last few years have been abnormally mild. In the valleys of the Carpathians potatoes, barley, oats, and cabbages are grown, while in the warmer south wheat, maize, tobacco, turnips, and the vine are cultivated. Down by the Adriatic Sea the climate is much warmer, but Hungary, as already mentioned, has only the town of Fiume of her own to boast of. The visitors who look for a temperate winter and want to get away from the raw cold must go to the Austrian town of Abbazia, which is reached in half an hour by steamboat, and is called the Austrian Riviera. Those who visit Hungary should come in spring--about May--and spend some weeks in the capital, the lowlands and hilly districts, and go north to the mountains and bathing-places in the summer months. Tokay produces some of the finest wine in the world, and the vintage time in that part of the country is most interesting and picturesque. [Footnote A: From "Hungary." Published by the Macmillan Co.] BUDAPEST[A] BY H. TORNAI DE KÖVËR Budapest is one of the most beautifully situated cities in Europe. Nobody can ever forget the wonderful sight of the two sister towns divided by the wide and swiftly flowing Danube, with the steamers and barges on her waters. Buda, the old stronghold, is on one side with the fantastic "Gellért" hill, which is a formidable-looking mass of rocks and caves; farther on is the lovely royal palace with its beautifully kept gardens clinging to the hillside; then the oldest part, called the stronghold, which has been rebuilt exactly in the style Matthias Corvinus built it, and which was demolished during the Turkish invasion. Here is the old church of Matthias too, but it is so much renovated that it lacks the appearance of age. Behind the smaller hills larger ones are to be seen covered with shady woods; these are the villa regions and summer excursion places for the people. Along the Danube are green and shady islands of which the most beautiful is St. Margaret's Isle, and on the other side of the waters is the city of "Pest," with the majestic Houses of Parliament, Palace of Justice, Academy of Science, and numerous other fine buildings. At the present time four bridges join the two cities together, and a huge tunnel leads through the first hill in Buda into another part of the town. One can not say which is the more beautiful sight: to look from Pest, which stands on level ground, up to the varying hilly landscape of Buda; or to look from the hillside of the latter place on to the fairy-land of Pest, with the broad silver Danube receding in the distance like a great winding snake, its scales all aglitter in the sunshine. It is beautiful by day, but still more so at night, for myriads of lights twinkle in the water, and the hillsides are dotted as if with flitting fairy-lamps. Even those who are used to the sight look at it in speechless rapture and wonder. What must it be like to foreigners! Besides her splendid natural situation, Budapest has another great treasure, and this is the great quantity of hot sulfur springs which exists on both sides of the Danube. The Romans made use of these at the time of their colonization, and we can find the ruins of the Roman baths in Aquincum half an hour from Budapest. During the Turkish rule many Turkish baths were erected in Buda. The Rudas bath exists to this day, and with its modernized system is one of the most popular. Császár bath, St. Lukács bath, both in Buda, have an old-established reputation for the splendid cures of rheumatism. A new bath is being built in Pest where the hot sulfur water oozes up in the middle of the park--the same is to be found in St. Margaret's Isle. Besides the sulfur baths there are the much-known bitter waters in Buda called "Hunyady" and "Franz Joseph," as well as salt baths. The city, with the exception of some parts in Buda, is quite modern, and has encircling boulevards and wide streets, one of the finest being the Andrássy Street. The electric car system is one of the most modern, while underground and overground electric railways lead to the most distant suburbs. The city has a gay and new look about it; all along the walks trees are planted, and cafés are to be seen with a screen of shrubs or flowers around them. In the evening the sound of music floats from the houses and cafés. There are plenty of theaters, in which only the Hungarian language is used, and a large and beautiful opera-house under government management. There are museums, institutions of art and learning, academies of painting and music, schools, and shops, and life and movement everywhere. At present [1911] the city numbers about 900,000 souls, but the more distant suburbs are not reckoned in this number. [Footnote A: From "Hungary." Published by the Macmillan Co.] 
32823	----	NARRATIVE OF A JOURNEY TO THE SUMMIT OF MONT BLANC. [Illustration: _Passing a crevice in the_ Glacier _of_ Boissons] NARRATIVE OF A JOURNEY TO THE Summit of Mont Blanc, MADE IN JULY, 1819. _BY WM. HOWARD, M. D._ "Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains, They crown'd him long ago, On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow." BALTIMORE: PUBLISHED BY FIELDING LUCAS, JR. J. Robinson, printer. 1821. The account of the following journey was written a few days after its execution, while the author was confined to his chamber by the inconveniences he had suffered, and it was then penned for the gratification of his immediate friends, and without any view to publication. The partiality of friends, however, having permitted it, during his absence, to appear in the Analectic Magazine, for May 1820, it excited more attention than he could have anticipated, which has induced the author to correct the errors arising from haste and other sources, and to republish it in the present form. _Baltimore, April, 1821._ NARRATIVE OF A JOURNEY TO THE SUMMIT OF MONT BLANC. ----------------- "Above me are the Alps The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, And thron'd Eternity in icy halls Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls The avalanche--the thunderbolt 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." BYRON. NARRATIVE OF A JOURNEY, &c. Geneva, July, 1819. You, my dear friend, who are well acquainted from my infancy with my clambering disposition, which, within these few months, has carried me to the top of both Vesuvius and Ætna, will not be much surprised to learn, that I have attempted, with success, to mount to the summit of Mont Blanc; an aerial journey which the sight of this mountain has inspired many persons with a wish to accomplish; but in which few have engaged, and still fewer have succeeded. I am somewhat afraid that you will condemn the expedition as a wild one, and will justly consider the gratification of our curiosity, which was, unfortunately, the only object we attained, as an inadequate recompense for our toil and danger; but you have no cause to fear my embarking in similar adventures in future. Having reached a spot, undoubtedly the highest in Europe, and, with the exception of the Himalaya mountains in India, the highest in the Old World, my curiosity is completely gratified, and there is scarcely any possibility of my meeting with an enterprise of this nature, of sufficient magnitude to renew its excitement: since five of the loftiest of the Alleghanies piled on each other, would scarcely reach to the height I have attained. To give you a correct idea of the nature of our undertaking, I will begin with a concise account of this king of the Alps, and of the various attempts that have been made to reach its summit. Mont Blanc is situated amidst some of the highest mountains of Savoy, forming a part of the great chain of the Alps, above which, however, it raises far its snowy head, as with a dignified air of conscious triumph. It is this white head, which its elevation renders doubly bright, that gives its name. On the north side of the mountain, and immediately at its foot, is the valley of Chamouny, which is sixteen leagues south from Geneva, and is much frequented in the summer season by the inhabitants of that city, and strangers, who throng to this enchanted vale, to enjoy the coolness of the air, and to view its stupendous glaciers, several of which are formed by the snow and ice gliding down from Mont Blanc itself. On the south-east side is the valley of Entrèves, which separates Mont Blanc both from the great and the little St. Bernard, and through which runs a small river, whose waters join the Po, below Turin, while the Arva, which flows through Chamouny, joins the Rhone, near Geneva. These rivers finally discharge themselves into the sea, at the distance of several hundred miles from each other; the one into the Mediterranean, near Marseilles, and the other into the Adriatic, near Venice. The chain of Alps, of which Mont Blanc forms a part, runs from N. E. to S. W. and is partly surmounted in its neighbourhood, by sharp pointed rocks, whose sides are too steep for the snow to rest upon, and of which seven, rising abruptly to a great height, have the appropriate name of the "Needles of Chamouny." The height of Mont Blanc, according to the observations of Saussure, is 14,790 French feet above the level of the sea,[A] which is only 5800 less than that of Chimborazo, the summit of which has been never reached: on the other hand, its relative height above the surrounding country is greater; for Mont Blanc is 11,500 above the valley of Chamouny, while Chimborazo, according to Humboldt, is only 11,200 above the plain of Tapia, at its foot. It is calculated that, from this height, the eye could reach sixty-eight leagues, or about 170 of our miles, without being intercepted by the convexity of the earth. Mont Blanc is seen from Lyons in all its magnificence; from the mountains of Burgundy, from Dijon, and even from Langrès, sixty-five leagues distant in a straight line: M. Saussure thought he recognised the mountain of Cavme, near Toulon. [A] About 15,500 English feet, or something less than three miles. In 1760 and 61, Saussure, the celebrated philosopher of Geneva, then engaged in examining the natural history of the Alps, promised a considerable reward to any person who should succeed in finding a practicable path to the summit, offering even to pay for the lost time of those who made ineffectual efforts. The first who undertook this, was Pierre Simon, a hunter of Chamouny, in 1762: but he was unsuccessful. In 1775, four men of the same village endeavoured for the same object, and with as ill success, to follow the ridge of the Montagne de la Côte, which runs parallel to the Glacier of Boissons. In 1783, three others followed the same track, but were attacked by an increasing disposition to sleep, from which they could only relieve themselves by returning. M. Bouritt, of Geneva, made two ineffectual attempts the same year, and the following year another, accompanied by Saussure, his own son, and fifteen guides. In June 1786, six men of the valley of Chamouny, renewed the effort to reach the summit, but fatigue and cold forced them to renounce it; one of them, however, Jacques Balmat, separating from his companions to search for crystals, and having lost himself, was prevented by a storm from rejoining them, and compelled to pass the night on the snow, unprovided and alone; youth, however, and the vigour of his constitution, saved his life. In the morning he perceived the top at no great distance, and having the whole day before him to provide for his descent, he examined leisurely the approaches to it, and observed one, that appeared more accessible than any he had hitherto seen. At his return to Chamouny, he was taken ill, in consequence of his great exposure, and was attended by Dr. Paccard, the physician of the village, to whom he communicated his discovery, and offered, in gratitude for his care, to guide him to the summit of Mont Blanc. In consequence of this, Jacques Balmat and Dr. Paccard, set out from Chamouny the 7th of August, the same year, and slept on the top of the Montagne de la Côte. The next day they experienced great difficulties and excessive fatigue, and were long doubtful of the ultimate event of their enterprise; but finally, at half past 6, P. M. they reached the pinnacle of the mountain, in sight of many visitors, who were at Chamouny, watching their progress with telescopes. The cold was so intense, that provision was frozen in their pockets, the ink congealed in their ink horns, and the mercury in Farenheit's thermometer, sunk to eighteen and a half degrees. They remained about half an hour on the top, regained at midnight the Montagne de la Côte, and after two hours repose, set out for Chamouny, where they arrived at eight in the morning, with their lips swollen, their faces excoriated, and their eyes much inflamed; and it was some time before they recovered from these disagreeable effects. As soon as the intelligence of this success reached Saussure at Geneva, he determined on making a similar attempt: which he in fact did the same year, but was compelled by unfavourable weather to return. He was, however, not discouraged, but as the season was now far advanced, he postponed his operations until the ensuing summer. Accordingly, on the 1st of August, 1787, he again set out from Chamouny, accompanied by his servant, and eighteen guides, carrying a tent, a bed, ladders, cords, provisions, and philosophical instruments. The party arrived early the same day at the Montagne de la Côte, where they passed the night. The next day, notwithstanding an increase of dangers and difficulties, they passed under the Dome de Gouté, and reached a platform, or small plain, at the height of 11,790 feet above the sea, where they pitched their tent in the snow, and passed the night. The following morning, (August 3d) the snow was so hard, and the ascent so steep, that they were compelled to cut their footsteps with a hatchet, and it was only by proceeding with the greatest caution, that they were enabled to pass this dangerous acclivity with safety. They, however, persevered, and reached the summit about an hour before noon, in view of many persons who were observing them from Chamouny. M. Saussure turned his eyes to the house where his mother and sisters were watching his progress with a telescope, and had the satisfaction of seeing the waving of a flag, which was the signal they had agreed to make, as soon as they should be assured of his safety. The latter part of his ascent was the slowest and most fatiguing, owing to the difficulty of breathing, occasioned by the rarity of the air: the stoutest of his guides could not take more than thirty steps, without stopping to take breath. No one had the least appetite, but all were much tormented by thirst. The guides pitched the tent, in which M. Saussure remained four hours, making a number of observations. At half after three, the party began to descend, and slept lower 1100 feet than the preceding night. The next day they arrived, without any accident, at Chamouny. This successful expedition of Saussure, and the interesting account he published of it, inspired many persons with a wish of accomplishing the same task; but they were generally soon deterred by an examination into the difficulties attending its execution, and returned satisfied with a view from the vallies below, of the terrific glaciers, and everlasting snows, which defend the approaches to the summit. The following are the principal attempts that have since been made, and it will be perceived that of these few, only a part have succeeded. On the 8th of August, 1787, five days after M. Saussure's return, Col. Beaufoy, an Englishman, set out from Chamouny for Mont Blanc, accompanied by ten guides. He reached the top the following day, and returned the third day to the village, with his face and eyes so inflamed, that he nearly lost his sight in consequence. As he was not properly provided with instruments, he was unable to add much to the observations which had been made by Saussure. He, however, determined the latitude of the summit to be 45°, 49´, 59´´. The year following these two journeys, (1788,) Mr. Bouritt, of Geneva, in company with his son, two other gentleman, and a number of guides, attempted the ascent of Mont Blanc. The party was dispersed by a storm, and only Mr. Bouritt, his son, and three guides, succeeded in reaching the top, where the violence of the cold compelled them to abridge their stay to a few minutes. While there, Mr. Bouritt thought he perceived the sea in the direction of Genoa; but the immense distance rendered the objects at the horizon, too indistinct to be certain of it. The whole party returned to Chamouny in a terrible condition. One of Mr. Bouritt's companions, who had lost himself, suffered dreadfully, as well as the guides who were with him, and returned with his feet and hands frozen, while some of the company, who were more fortunate, had only their fingers and ears in the same condition. Mr. Bouritt was obliged to wash for thirteen days in ice water, to restore the use of his limbs, which had suffered from the extreme cold. In 1792, four Englishmen undertook the same journey, but were prevented, by an accident, from proceeding farther than the Montagne de la Côte, where, unfortunately, one of the guides had his leg broken, and another his skull driven in: they themselves were all more or less wounded. A false step of one of the foremost of the party upon a loose rock, which brought it and a number of others down upon his companions, was the cause of this accident. M. Forneret, of Lausanne, and M. d'Ortern set out on the 10th of August, 1802, with seven guides, for Mont Blanc, and notwithstanding a storm, reached the summit the following day. They remained there only twenty minutes, and returned on the 12th to Chamouny, protesting that nothing in the world could tempt them to undertake again the same expedition. In August, 1808, Jacques Balmat, surnamed Mont Blanc, from his having been the first to discover the way to the summit, safely conducted thither fifteen of the inhabitants of Chamouny, one of whom was a _woman_. About this time also he returned with two of his companions, and placed on the top an obelisk of wood, twelve feet in height, (which they had brought up in pieces) to serve in the trigonometrical survey, that was then making of the country. In 1812, M. Rodasse, a banker of Hamburgh, undertook and accomplished the same journey, without any accident. The 16th of September, 1816, the Comte de Lucy, a Frenchman, succeeded, notwithstanding the severity of the cold he experienced, in attaining a rock only 600 feet lower than the summit of Mont Blanc. He was there, however, so entirely overcome with cold and fatigue, that he was unable to proceed this short distance, and compelled, with much reluctance, to return. On reaching the valley he was unable to walk, but was carried by his guides to the inn, where his feet proved to be so much frozen, that on drawing his boot, the skin peeled off and remained in it. Two of his guides were also severely frozen. Count Malzeski, a Pole, left Chamouny the 5th of August, 1818, for Mont Blanc, accompanied by eleven guides, reached the summit the following day, and returned, in safety, the third, without suffering much more inconvenience than having his nose frozen. During our visit to Chamouny, in the beginning of this month, my friend Dr. Van Rensselaer and myself, in our various excursions to the glaciers, and other scenes of the valley, had frequently opportunities of conversing with the guides, who had participated in these journeys, and among them with old Balmat, the Columbus of Mont Blanc. The result was, that our curiosity was strongly excited, and being induced by their representations of the almost certainty of succeeding in the present favourable weather, we finally determined, after much deliberation, to make the attempt. We therefore engaged _Marie Coutet_, an experienced guide, who had been three times on the summit, as leader, and eight other guides to accompany us. They refused to undertake the journey with a smaller party, on account of the number of articles which it was necessary to take with us, as a ladder, cords, provisions, charcoal to melt the snow for drinking, and a number of other things, which were indispensable, and which formed a sufficient quantity to load each of the nine with a considerable burthen. One day was occupied in making preparations, on which our comfort and our ultimate success depended. These were passed in review in the evening, and having found that nothing material was omitted, an early hour the next day was appointed for our departure. Accordingly, on Sunday the 11th of July, we left the village of Chamouny, at five o'clock, full of anxiety ourselves, and accompanied by the good wishes of the honest inhabitants for our success. The necessity of taking advantage of the fine weather, opposed our delaying another day. Our guides, who in common with all the inhabitants of the mountainous parts of Savoy, are very attentive to the duties of their religion, were unwilling to set out on a church day, without having previously attended service. They had, therefore, induced the Curé to celebrate mass at three o'clock, and, notwithstanding the fatigue they expected during the day, the early hour had not prevented them from attending it. We descended the valley by the side of the Arva, about a league, till we approached the glacier of Boissons, and then turning suddenly to the left into the woods, we began immediately a very steep ascent, parallel to, and about a half mile from the edge of the glacier. After about three hours toilsome mounting, we came to the last house on our road. It was the highest dwelling in the neighbourhood, and was one of those cottages called "Chalets," which are inhabited only during three of the summer months, when the peasants drive their cattle from the plains below, to the then richer verdure of the mountains. We found there the old man and his two daughters; his wife, as is the custom, was left behind to take care of the house in the valley. After refreshing ourselves with a delicious draught of fresh milk, and receiving the wishes of these good people, for a 'bon voyage,' we bade adieu to all traces of man, and continued to mount. Another hour's toil brought us above the region of wood, after which the few stinted vegetables we met with, gradually diminished in size, and when we arrived, at 10 o'clock, at the upper edge of the glacier of Boissons, only a few mosses, and the most hardy alpine plants were to be found. We had been compelled a little before, by the precipices of the Aiguille du Midi, which presented themselves like a wall before us, to change our direction, and instead of proceeding parallel to the glacier, to strike off suddenly towards it. We had now a close view of some of the obstacles which bar the approach to Mont Blanc; the glacier of Boissons, on which we were about to enter, seemed to me absolutely impassable. The only relief to the white snow and ice before us, was an occasional rock, thrusting its sharp point above their surface, and too steep to permit the snow to lodge on it. One of these rocks, or rather a chain of them, called the 'Grand Mulet,' which we had destined for our resting place for the night, was before us, but far above our heads at the distance of four or five miles; the glacier, however, still intervened, and appeared to defy all attempts to approach it. The glacier of Boissons, like all the glaciers of the Alps, is an immense mass of ice filling a valley which stretches down the mountain side, and is formed by the accumulated snow and ice, which are constantly in the summer months, falling from above. While the glaciers are thus continually increasing on the surface, the internal heat of the earth is slowly melting them below. Hence, when they are large, there generally proceeds from under them a considerable stream: such are the sources of the Rhine and of the Rhone. Their surface, often resembles that of a violent agitated sea, suddenly congealed. They are frequently of several leagues in breadth, and from 100 to 600 feet in depth. The snow which falls on them, to the depth of several feet every winter, is softened by the sun's rays in summer--and freezing again at the return of cold weather, but in a more solid state, forms a successive layer every year. This stratum may be easily measured, (as each of them is distinctly separated from its neighbour by a dark line,) at the section made by those cracks, which traverse every glacier in all directions. These cracks or crevices, are generally thought to be caused by the irregular sinking of part of the mass, whose support below has been gradually melted away. They are formed suddenly, and frequently with a noise that may be heard at the distance of several miles, and with a shock that makes the neighbouring country tremble: this effect takes place principally in summer. These rents are from a few inches to 20, 30, or even 50 or 60 feet in breadth, and generally of immense depth: probably extending to the bottom of the glacier. They present the greatest danger and difficulty to the passenger. They are often concealed by a layer of snow, which gives no indication on its surface, of its want of solidity; and it often happens that the chamois hunter, notwithstanding all his caution, suddenly sinks through this treacherous veil into the chasm beneath. We remained a couple of hours at our resting place, to take some refreshment, and to regain strength for our next difficult task. Jacques Balmat accompanied us this far, to point out the best means of attaining that spot on which he was the first to set foot; but the infirmities of age prevented him from accompanying us farther. Our feet seemed to linger, and to leave with reluctance the last ground they were to touch until the period of our return. We however entered on the glacier with confidence in the skill and prudence of our guides; several of whom being hunters, and accustomed to chase the chamois over such places, were acquainted with all the precautions, that it was necessary to take for our safety. To avoid the danger of falling into the crevices, especially those masked by the snow, we connected ourselves, three persons together, at the distance of 10 or 12 feet apart, by a cord round the body: so that in case of one of the three falling into a chasm, the other two could at least support him, until assistance could be procured from the rest of the party. Each person was provided with a pole, 6 feet long, and pointed at the bottom with iron, which we found to be a necessary article. Where the crevices were not more than two or three feet broad, we leaped over them with the assistance of our staff; others we passed on natural bridges of snow, that threatened every moment to sink with us into the abyss, and over others, we made a bridge of the ladder, which was extremely slight, as otherwise it would have been impossible for a man to carry it up the steeps we had ascended. Without its assistance, we could not have passed the glacier. Over this slender support we crawled with caution, suspended over a chasm, into which we could see to an immense depth; but of which in no instance could we see the bottom. We were sometimes forced to pass on a narrow ridge of treacherous ice, not more than a foot in breadth, with one of these terrific chasms on either side. The firm step, with which we saw our guides pass these difficulties, inspired us with confidence: but I cannot even now think of some of the situations we were placed in, without a feeling of dread; and especially when in bed, and in the silence of the night, they present themselves to my imagination, I involuntarily shrink with horror at the idea, and am astonished in recollecting what little sensation I felt at the moment. We threw down into some of the narrow cracks, pieces of ice and fragments of rock, and heard for a considerable time, the more and more distant sound, as they bounded from side to side. In no instance could we perceive the stone strike the bottom; but the sound, instead of ceasing suddenly, as would then have been the case, grew fainter and fainter, until it was too feeble to be heard. What then must be the immense depth of these openings, when in these silent regions, the noise of a large stone striking the bottom is too distant to be heard at the orifice! The number of openings we met with, which were broader than the length of our ladder, and which, of course, we had no means of crossing, rendered our path extremely circuitous. We were often enabled, by the ladder's assistance, to scale high and perpendicular banks of snow. It sometimes proved too short to reach to the top; but where the steep was not absolutely perpendicular, we contrived in several instances to remedy this inconvenience. One of the guides, standing on the top of the ladder, enabled the rest, who clambered up by his assistance, and over his shoulders, to reach the summit; when there, we easily drew up him and the ladder with cords. We were occasionally compelled to retrace our steps, and we were frequently so involved in the intricacies of the glacier, that we had to remain without proceeding, a considerable time, until the guides, who were dispersed in every direction on the discovery, could find a practical path to extricate us. In addition to these difficulties, I had not been long on the glacier, before I perceived that my faithless boot had given way; which, as every thing depended upon the state of our feet, was a serious misfortune. Necessity, however, is the mother of invention, and I contrived to bind it with cords in such a manner, that it served me tolerably well the rest of the journey. In consequence of all these obstacles, we only arrived at 5 o'clock at the "Grand Mulet," not more than four or five miles distant, in a straight line from the point where we entered on the glacier; but, from the circuitous route we had taken, we could not have walked less, in this distance, than 14 or 15 miles. We were now 11,000 feet above the level of the sea, and 8,000 feet above the village of Chamouny. A niche on the steep side, and near the top of the rock, about a hundred and fifty feet from its base, and to which we had much difficulty in climbing, was selected for our lodging place; indeed it was the only part of the rock, that afforded any thing like a level place. We were fortunate in finding the day had been so warm, that there was water in some of the crevices of the ice, which circumstance enabled us to economize our charcoal. The sun shone very bright on our side of the rock; but as soon as it sunk below the horizon, the eternal frost around us regained its influence, and the air became very cold. We had, however, time to dry our boots and pantaloons, and I found a pair of large woolen stockings, that I had with me, an invaluable article. Our guides stretched the ladder from one point of the rock to another, and, throwing over it a couple of sheets they had brought for the purpose, formed a kind of tent, just large enough for Dr. Van Rensselaer and myself to creep in: a single blanket upon the rock was our bed. The guides were so loaded with indispensable articles, that we had not been able to bring a blanket, or even an extra coat to cover us. After a cold and uncomfortable supper, we crept into our den, soon after the genial sun had left us, and endeavoured, by every means our ingenuity could suggest, but ineffectually, to keep ourselves warm. We suffered much from the cold, but principally towards morning, as the thermometer was several degrees below freezing. The night seemed to last at least twenty hours; at one time I thought the day must certainly be not distant, and was surprised, at looking at my watch by the light of the moon, to find it only 11 o'clock. Tired of inaction, and shivering with the cold, I crawled out about midnight to endeavour to warm myself, by the exercise of clambering on the rock. The view around was sublime, and rendered me for a time insensible to all feelings of personal suffering. The sky was very clear, but perfectly black; the moon and stars, whose rays were not obscured by passing through the lower dense region of the atmosphere, as when seen from the surface of the earth, shone with a brilliancy, tenfold of what I had ever observed from below; and the comet, with its bright tail, formed in the north-west, a beautiful object. Nothing was to be seen around the rock on which we were placed, but white snow and some heavy clouds, that, floating below us, shut out the valley from our view. The guides appeared to be all asleep, and the only interruption to the silence of death, was the occasional avalanche, rolling with the sound of distant thunder from the highest part of the surrounding glaciers, and heightening the feelings of awful sublimity, which our situation was so calculated to inspire. As our lodging was extremely uncomfortable in every respect, we were under no temptation of lying till a late hour in the morning. On the contrary, we hailed with joy the first appearance of the dawn, which enabled us to substitute the warmth of marching, for the cold inactivity from which we had suffered all night. We set out at three o'clock, leaving most of our provisions and other articles on the rock. Four hours of laborious, but not dangerous walking, brought us to a large plain, called the 'Grand Plateau,' which is nearly surrounded, (on the one hand) by a spur of Mont Blanc, and the Aiguille du Midi; on the other, by the Montagne de la Côte, while Mont Blanc presents itself directly in front. These mountains form a steep amphitheatre around this plain. Here we stopped an hour to breakfast, and to recruit strength for the last and most difficult part of the ascent. We were now more than 12,000 feet above the level of the sea, and only 3,000 feet lower than the summit, which was in full view before us. But I looked around, in vain, for any part of its steep sides that seemed to offer a possibility of being scaled, and when the guides pointed out the route we were to take, among and over precipices, and huge broken masses of snow, and up almost perpendicular steeps, I involuntarily shrunk at the prospect, and could not forbear casting my eye wistfully at our road back. But it would not have done to be deterred at this time by a few difficulties; and a moment's reflection, on the skill and experience of our guides, renewed our confidence, and we began cheerfully to mount the first steep before us. We here began to feel more seriously an effect, that is always experienced at considerable heights, and which had not much incommoded us before. It was impossible for the strongest of us, to take more than twenty or thirty steps, without stopping to take breath, and this effect gradually increased as we continued to ascend; insomuch, that when near the summit, even the stoutest of our guides, who could run for leagues over the lower mountains without panting, could not take more than twelve, or at most fifteen steps, without being ready to sink for want of breath. If we attempted to exceed this number by even three or four steps, a horrible oppression, as of approaching death, seized us; our limbs became excessively painful, and threatened to sink under us. It is very possible, that Walter Scot's hero, Up Ben Lomond's side could press, And not a sob his toil confess; but I am very certain he could not perform the same feat on Mont Blanc. It is remarkable, that a few seconds rest was sufficient to restore both our strength and breath. One of our guides, a robust man, who had been once on the summit, was so much incommoded, that we were compelled to leave him behind to await our return. I experienced some inconvenience from a slight degree of nausea and head-ache, of which most of those, who have made this journey have complained. When ascending Ætna, two months before, I had been seriously affected both by a difficulty of breathing, and by a violent thumping of the heart and arteries, which was loud enough to be easily heard by my companions, and which the slightest exertion was sufficient to excite. In the present instance I dreaded these effects, and had already begun to feel them in an uncomfortable degree; but was almost entirely relieved by drinking plentifully of vinegar and water, with which our guides, to whom experience had taught its utility, had taken care to be well provided. This drink was extremely agreeable to us; wine on the contrary, disgusted us. All the water we had, we had brought from the rock at which we slept, where we had carefully collected it from the cracks of the ice: for we were now in the region of eternal ice, where rain never falls, and where the utmost power of the midsummer sun can only soften, in a slight degree, the surface of the snow. The acclivity we were now ascending, was steeper than any we had before encountered, so much so that we could only accomplish it by a zigzag path, advancing not more than a few feet every 20 or 30 yards we walked. To have an idea of our situation, you must imagine us marching in single file on the steep mountain side, placing with the greatest care our feet in the steps, which the hardness of the snow rendered it necessary for our leader to cut with an axe, supporting ourselves with our poles against the upper side of the slope, and having on the other side, the same rapid slope terminating below in a precipice several hundred feet in height, over which we saw rapidly hurried all the small pieces of ice, that we loosened with our feet. Our situation was similar to that of a person scaling the steep and iced roof of a lofty house, and constantly liable, by an incautious step, to be suddenly precipitated over the eaves. After we had been proceeding in this manner for some time, I looked down on the Plateau beneath, for the guide we had left, and when at last I discerned him, like a speck on the snow, my head began to grow dizzy at the idea of the distance below me, and I was forced to keep my head averted from this side, to recover from this disagreeable feeling. Our guides had attached themselves and us with cords, each three persons together, as when passing the glacier. They were provided with large iron cramps fastened to their feet, which prevented them from slipping. Doctor Van Ranselaer and myself had found this contrivance impede too much our walking, and after a short trial had given it up, so that we had to rely on the firmness of foot of those guides to whom we were tied, to preserve us in case of our falling. I am not entirely convinced, that if one of us had had the misfortune to fall, and were slipping down the declivity, he would not have drawn his two companions, in spite of these precautions, over the precipice. To add to our difficulties, the sun was excessively bright, and almost blinded us, notwithstanding the gauze veils with which we were all provided. Fortunately, we met with but few crevices; however, on passing one of these that was hid by the snow, I suddenly sunk, but my body being thrown forward by this motion, my breast opposed a larger surface to the snow which thus supported me, and I was easily extricated by a guide. On looking back through the hole I had broken, I could perceive the black cavity beneath. At one period, our path necessarily led us close under a wall of snow, more than 150 feet high, from the top of which projected several large masses of snow, that appeared to require only a touch to bring them down on our heads. Our captain pointed out our danger, and enjoined us to pass as quickly as possible, and to observe the strictest silence. When we looked up at these -------- Toppling crags of ice, The avalanches, whom a breath draws down In mountainous o'erwhelming, we felt no disposition to disobey his directions, but passed on with hurried step, and in the stillness of death. The inhabitants of those parts of the Alps, exposed to these avalanches, assert that the concussion of the air, produced by the voice, is often sufficient to loosen, and bring down their immense masses. Hence the muleteer is often seen to take the bells from his animals, when he passes through a valley subject to this danger. A few years since some young men, relying on the solidity of the ice, and wishing to try the echo, were so imprudent as to discharge a pistol in a large cave which is at the lower edge of the glacier des Bois, near Chamouny. The shock brought down the roof, which crushed them on the spot. At 11 o'clock we had passed most of the difficulties, and all the dangers of our ascent, and reached a granite rock, which appears or nipple, which forms the summit of Mont Blanc. This rock is only 1000 feet lower than the summit. Here we enjoyed a full view of the valley and village of Chamouny, which had hitherto been masked by the 'Aiguille du Midi;' and when we recollected the promises of our friends there, to watch our progress with their glasses, and were convinced that they were at that moment observing us, we felt relieved from the sensation which we had previously experienced, of being shut out from the world. In fact, we learned afterwards, that they had seen us distinctly, counted our number, and observed that one of the party was missing: this was the guide we had left at the 'plateau.' Our final object was now close at hand. We turned, with renewed ardor, to accomplish it; continuing our zigzag path, till, after much suffering from fatigue, cold, and shortness of breath, we stood, at half an hour after noon, on the highest point of Europe! Our first impulse, on arriving, was to enjoy the pleasure of throwing our eyes around, without encountering any obstacle. The world was at our feet. The sensations I felt were rather those of awe, than of sublimity. It seemed that I no longer trod on this globe, but that I was removed to some higher planet, from which I could look down on a scene which I had lately inhabited, and where I had left behind me the passions, the sufferings, and the vices of men. The houses of Chamouny, appeared like dwellings of ants, and the river which flows through the valley, seemed not sufficient to drown one of these pigmy animals. These emotions made me for some time insensible to the cold, but the piercing wind, which here had free scope, soon put an end to my waking dream, and bringing me back to the reality of life, enabled me to fix my attention on the objects around. Notwithstanding the pleasure inspired by the view, it was certainly more terrific than beautiful. The distant objects appeared as if covered by a veil. To the north-west was the chain of Jura, with a mist hanging on its whole extent, which prevented the eye from penetrating into France, in that direction. On the north was the lake of Geneva; of a black colour, and surrounded by mountains, which we had thought high, while we were on its banks, but which now appeared insignificant, and the lake itself seemed scarcely capacious enough to bathe in. To the east were the only mountains that appeared of a considerable size; among which, the most conspicuous were the Jungfrau and Schreckhorn in Grindelwalden, and Monte Rosa, on the borders of Piedmont, which raises its hoary and magnificent head to within a few hundred feet of the level of Mont Blanc. The grand St. Bernard was at our feet, to the south east, scarcely appearing to rise to more than a mole hill's height above the adjoining vallies. The obstacles which Bonaparte had to encounter in leading his army over this mountain, even in winter, appeared so diminished in our eyes, that this vaunted undertaking lost, at the moment, in our estimation, much of its heroism and grandeur. The view below and immediately around, presented a shapeless collection of craggy points, among which the 'Needles' were easily distinguished. We could hardly trust our senses, when we saw, beneath our feet, those rocks which, from below, appear higher than Mont Blanc itself, and which seem to penetrate into the region of the stars, and to threaten to 'disturb the moon in passing by.' Our view may be compared with that from the top of an elevated steeple over an extensive city, of which, except in the immediate neighbourhood, the roof only of the various buildings which compose it, are to be seen. The only green that we could perceive, was the narrow valley of Chamouny, and the two vallies by the side of St. Bernard. The portion of the earth that was not covered with snow, appeared of a gloomy and dark grey colour. The world presented an image of chaos, and offered but little to tempt our return to it. The top of Mont Blanc is a ridge of perhaps 150 feet in length, and six or eight in breadth. It is entirely composed of snow, which is probably of immense depth, and is constantly accumulating. We could see no traces of the obelisk, 12 feet in height, which had been set up about ten years before. One of our guides was of the number of those who placed it, and designated to us its position. The highest rock which appears above the snow, is a small one of granite, 600 feet below the summit. We remained but a few minutes immediately on the top, as the wind blew hard and piercingly cold. Descending a few feet on the south side, we were partially sheltered from the wind, and here the sun shone with an excessive brightness, heating every part of the body exposed to his rays; but the least breath of wind, which reached us at intervals, was sufficient to make us shiver with cold. Farenheit's thermometer in the sun, was two degrees below freezing, and five and a half in the shade. It must be considered, however, that we suffered a much greater degree of cold than the thermometer indicated, from the rapid evaporation from the surface of our bodies, of the insensible transpiration occasioned by the dryness and great rarity of the surrounding air. This cause, familiar to physiologists, affected our sensations, and could not influence the thermometer. Most of our guides stretched themselves on the snow in the sun, and yielded to the strong inclination to sleep, which we all felt. Only one or two of them ate: the others, on the contrary, evinced an aversion to all kinds of food. We did not suffer the great thirst which Saussure and his party experienced; This we prevented by drinking vinegar and water, which was very grateful to us, instead of pure water. Our pulses were increased in frequency and fulness, and we had all the symptoms of fever. I occupied myself, notwithstanding the indisposition to action which I felt, in making a few observations, and in stopping and sealing very carefully a bottle which I had filled with the air of the summit, intended for examination on my return. The colour of the sky had gradually assumed a deeper tint of blue as we ascended: its present colour was dark indigo, approaching nearly to black. There was something awful in this appearance, so different from any we had ever witnessed. There was nothing to which we could compare it, except to the sun shining at midnight. During some of the first attempts that were made to ascend Mont Blanc, this appearance produced so strong an effect on the minds of the guides, who imagined that Heaven was frowning on their undertaking, that they refused to proceed. The portion of atmosphere above us was entirely free from the vapours which the lower strata always contain, and was truly the 'pure empyreal,' seldom seen by mortal eyes. We had all our life beheld the sun through a mist, but we now saw him, face to face, in all his splendour. The guides asserted that the stars can be seen, in full day, by a person placed in the shade. It being near noon, and the sun almost over our heads, we could not find shadow to enable us to make the experiment. The air on the top of Mont Blanc is of but little more than half the density of that at the surface of the ocean. According to the observations of Saussure, the height of the barometer on the summit, was sixteen and a half inches, while that of a corresponding one at Geneva, was twenty-eight inches. In consequence of this rarity of the air, a pistol, heavily charged, which we fired several times, made scarcely more noise than the crack of a postillion's whip. We remained an hour and a quarter on the summit, part of which time was spent in useless regrets at not having waited to provide ourselves with instruments, as we were now so admirably situated to make with them a series of interesting experiments. Those which had suggested themselves, were principally concerning the absorption and radiation of caloric, and on the degree of cold produced by the evaporation of æther and other liquids. We found the descent more easy and much less fatiguing, though perhaps more dangerous than the ascent, on account of the greater risk of slipping. We passed under the place where the avalanche threatened us, with even more caution and more rapidity than before, as we found that a small piece had actually fallen, and covered our path since we had passed by. We arrived in about an hour at the 'Grand Plateau,' where we stopped to refresh ourselves, and gratify our returning appetites. We found the guide whom we had left, quite relieved. Here the sun, reflected from the walls of snow which surrounded us on three sides, poured down upon us with the most burning heat that I ever experienced from its rays, while our feet, cold from being immersed in the snow, prevented perspiration, and thus increased its power. Wherever its rays could penetrate, as between the cap and neckcloth, or even to the hands, it resembled the application of a heated iron. We were compelled, in addition to the assistance of our veils, to keep our eyes half closed, and even then the light was too powerful for them. We however continued with ease and cheerfulness our descent, until an unexpected difficulty occurred. Where in the morning we had cut our footsteps with an axe, we now found the snow so much softened by the sun, that we sunk in it every third or fourth step, to the middle of the body. My friend and myself were more subject to this inconvenience than the guides, on account of the soles of our boots presenting a less surface to the snow, than those of their large shoes. After plunging on in this manner for some time, I began to despair of reaching our rock, which was yet four or five miles distant: but there was no alternative but to proceed. We therefore kept on, though with excessive fatigue. We frequently fell forward, and one limb being tightly engaged in the snow, was violently twisted, and constantly liable to be sprained; which in our situation would have been a serious misfortune. The crevices too were, from their edges having become softened, more dangerous than before. Perseverance and caution, however, triumphed over all these difficulties, and we reached the 'Grand Mulet,' half an hour after five, our boots, stockings, and pantaloons completely soaked. These were immediately stretched on the rock to dry, which the heat of the sun soon effected. I had the disappointment to find, on examining my pockets, that the bottle which I had so carefully filled with the air of the summit, had been broken in one of my frequent falls, and of course my hopes of making with it some interesting experiments, were now destroyed. The thermometer was also broken. Notwithstanding the Herculean labour of the day, and the fatigue we experienced at the time, we had not been long on our rock before we felt strong and invigorated, as if just risen from a comfortable night's repose. This effect of the mountain air has often been remarked. We had even sufficient strength, and ample time to enable us to continue our descent with ease to Chamouny; but in the present softened state of the snow it would have been madness to attempt to cross the glacier, which we had found difficult and dangerous the preceding day, even before the sun's rays had affected it. In fact, while two of the guides were looking down on our path over the glacier, they saw a bridge of snow which we all crossed the day before, suddenly sink into the chasm beneath. Imprisoned thus by the glacier, which was now all that intervened betwixt us and terra firma, we quietly resolved to remain where we were, and made the same arrangements for passing the night, as we had done the evening before. We were, however, at present better off: I mentioned that we had been so fortunate as to find a sufficient supply of water in the neighbourhood of our rock, in consequence of which most of the charcoal, we had brought to melt the snow, remained. With this we made a small fire at our feet, and by blowing almost constantly, kept it up during the night. It has been often observed, that as we ascend in the atmosphere, the difficulty of maintaining combustion, is proportionably increased. The cold was notwithstanding our fire, so great, that whenever I fell asleep, I was awakened in a few minutes to shiver and chatter my teeth. Our guides slept in the open air, huddled as close together as possible. July 13th.--The dawning of the day was truly welcome, as it promised a near termination to our toils and suffering, while the gratification of having accomplished a difficult and interesting object remained as a recompense. We left our hard bed without reluctance, and were impatient at the slowness with which the guides made their preparations in packing up their numerous articles. We began to descend as the sun illumined the white top of Mont Blanc, but long before his beams penetrated below. Above our heads the sky was perfectly clear, while the vallies beneath, and all except a few of the highest surrounding mountains, were concealed by a sea of clouds. The appearance of the clouds when seen from above is singular; they resemble immense floating masses of light carded cotton. We retraced our path of the first day, and took the same precaution as then of tying ourselves together. When the sun's rays began to shine on the snow around us, I found that my eyes were so much inflamed, I could scarcely bear them sufficiently open to see the path; notwithstanding the gauze veil I had constantly used, my face was in a terrible condition: the outer skin had fallen, rendering my chin and lips one continued sore. Doctor Van Rensselaer's eyes were in a worse condition than mine, and his face nearly as bad. At one part of the glacier where the snow had been so hard at our passing, that our feet left no impression, we lost our path, which was a misfortune, as we had chosen a much better path in ascending, than we could have done in descending. We however fell in with the track of two chamois, which our guides followed with confidence, relying on the instinct, which they attribute to these animals, of finding a practicable path over the most difficult glaciers. When we had at last past the glacier, our feet seemed to rejoice at once more touching firm ground; and we felt as if returning to the world from a distant voyage. The rest of our task offered no difficulty, being a constant descent down the rocky mountain side, except what was occasioned by our almost total blindness, and the pain we suffered in our eyes. It was however very fatiguing, as the descent from a mountain is generally more so than the ascent to it. We stopped at the same Chalet, where two days before we had bid adieu to the world; and were regaled by the old man and his daughters with another delicious draught of milk and cream. We reached the village soon after ten o'clock in the morning, having been absent fifty-three hours, during forty-five of which we were on the ice. We were received with many congratulations by the honest villagers, who had taken considerable interest in our success. As soon as my companion and myself reached our inn, we buried ourselves in our chamber, to enjoy the luxury of a bed, and of darkness, which was necessary for our eyes. It was not until the sun had set, and the twilight was not too strong for them, that we ventured out to regale ourselves with a comfortable meal. Two English visitors, who had watched with a glass our progress on the top of Mont Blanc, had expressed a determination to follow our example; but our account of the difficulties we met with, and still more the view of the condition we were in, soon induced them to abandon the design. We walked out at the approach of night under the "Needles," and as we saw these rocks, on whose sides -------- the clouds Pause to repose themselves in passing by, and on whose tops the stars seemed to rest, we could scarcely realize the idea that they were the same we had seen only thirty hours before, far below our feet. The next day after our return to Chamouny, our eyes had become so much stronger, that we were enabled, without much inconvenience, to proceed to Geneva, where we have since remained to recover from our sufferings. Though now more than a week has elapsed, my face is yet much inflamed; but my eyes have regained their usual strength. Dr. Van Rensselaer has suffered in the same manner, but on the whole rather less than myself. Wherever the sun's rays could penetrate, even behind the ears to the level of the neckcloth, the skin has fallen off, and I have exchanged the tawny hue of an Italian and Sicilian sun, for the fair complexion of a German or Englishman. We have purchased perhaps too dearly the indulgence of our curiosity; but at present, when the difficulties are passed, and the gratification remains, I cannot regret our hardships, especially if I succeed in making you partake of the one, without suffering from the other. THE END. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES 1. Passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_. 2. The following misprints have been corrected: "Bourrit" corrected to "Bouritt" (page 12) "representa-ons" corrected to "representations" (page 15) "breath" corrected to "breadth" (page 20) "visiters" corrected to "visitors" (page 47) 3. Other than the corrections listed above, printer's inconsistencies in spelling and punctuation usage have been retained. 
22377	----	ROLLO IN SWITZERLAND, BY JACOB ABBOTT. NEW YORK: SHELDON & CO., 667 BROADWAY, and 214 & 216 MERCER ST., Grand Central Hotel. 1873. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1858, by JACOB ABBOTT, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. [Illustration: ROLLO'S IN EUROPE.] ROLLO'S TOUR IN EUROPE. ORDER OF THE VOLUMES. ROLLO ON THE ATLANTIC. ROLLO IN PARIS. ROLLO IN SWITZERLAND. ROLLO IN LONDON. ROLLO ON THE RHINE. ROLLO IN SCOTLAND. ROLLO IN GENEVA. ROLLO IN HOLLAND. [Illustration: MONT BLANC.] PRINCIPAL PERSONS OF THE STORY. ROLLO; twelve years of age. MR. and MRS. HOLIDAY; Rollo's father and mother, travelling in Europe. THANNY; Rollo's younger brother. JANE; Rollo's cousin, adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Holiday. MR. GEORGE; a young gentleman, Rollo's uncle. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I.--GETTING A PASSPORT, 11 II.--CROSSING THE FRONTIER, 31 III.--BASLE, 49 IV.--THE DILIGENCE, 60 V.--RIDE TO BERNE, 72 VI.-THE VALLEY OF THE AAR, 85 VII.--INTERLACHEN, 101 VIII.--LAUTERBRUNNEN, 118 IX.--THE WENGERN ALP, 136 X.--GOING DOWN THE MOUNTAIN, 168 XI.--GLACIERS, 181 XII.--ROLLO A COURIER, 196 XIII.--CONCLUSION, 220 ENGRAVINGS. MONT BLANC, (FRONTISPIECE.) PAGE THE COTTAGE, 10 THE PREFECTURE OF POLICE, 25 IN THE CAB, 40 THE DILIGENCE AT THE OFFICE, 77 THE DILIGENCE ON THE ROAD, 81 THE LAKE SHORE, 97 VICINITY OF INTERLACHEN, 100 THE MOUNTAIN GIRL, 147 THE FALL, 173 THE CREVASSE, 182 THE NARROW PATH, 189 ASCENT OF MONT BLANC, 193 [Illustration: THE COTTAGE. _See page 81_] ROLLO IN SWITZERLAND. CHAPTER I. GETTING A PASSPORT. The last day that Rollo spent in Paris, before he set out on his journey into Switzerland, he had an opportunity to acquire, by actual experience, some knowledge of the nature of the passport system. Before commencing the narrative of the adventures which he met with, it is necessary to premise that no person can travel among the different states and kingdoms on the continent of Europe without what is called a passport. The idea which prevails among all the governments of the continent is, that the people of each country are the subjects of the sovereign reigning there, and in some sense belong to him. They cannot leave their country without the written permission of the government, nor can they enter any other one without showing this permission and having it approved and stamped by the proper officers of the country to which they wish to go. There are, for example, at Paris ministers of all the different governments of Europe, residing in different parts of the city; and whoever wishes to leave France, to go into any other kingdom, must first go with his passport to the ministers of the countries which he intends to visit and get them to put their stamp upon it. This stamp represents the permission of the government whose minister affixes it that the traveller may enter the territory under their jurisdiction. Besides this, it is necessary to get permission from the authorities of Paris to leave the city. Nobody can leave France without this. This permission, too, like the others, is given by a stamp upon the passport. To get this stamp, the traveller must carry or send his passport to the great central police office of Paris, called the prefecture of police. Now, as the legations of the different governments and the prefecture of police are situated at very considerable distances from each other about the city, and as it usually takes some time to transact the business at each office, and especially as the inexperienced traveller often makes mistakes and goes to the wrong place, or gets at the right place at the wrong hour, it usually requires a whole day, and sometimes two days, to get his passport all right so as to allow of his setting out upon his journey. These explanations are necessary to enable the reader to understand what I now proceed to relate in respect to Rollo. One morning, while Rollo and Jennie were at breakfast with their father and mother, Rollo's uncle George came in and said that he had concluded to go and make a little tour in Switzerland. "I shall have three weeks," said he, "if I can get away to-morrow; and that will give me time to take quite a little run among the mountains. I have come now to see if you will let Rollo go with me." "Yes, sir," said Rollo, very eagerly, and rising at once from his chair. "Yes, sir. Let me go with him. That's exactly the thing. Yes, sir." "Have you any objection?" said Mr. Holiday, quietly, turning towards Rollo's mother. "No," said Mrs. Holiday, speaking, however, in a very doubtful tone,--"no; I don't know that I have--any great objection." Whatever doubt and hesitation Mrs. Holiday might have had on the subject was dispelled when she came to look at Rollo and see how eager and earnest he was in his desire to go. So she gave her definitive consent. "How long do you think you will be gone?" said Mr. Holiday. "Three weeks, nearly," replied Mr. George. "Say twenty days." "And how much do you suppose it will cost you?" asked Mr. Holiday. "I have made a calculation," said Mr. George; "and I think it will cost me, if I go alone, about twenty-five francs a day for the whole time. There would, however, be a considerable saving in some things if two go together." "Then I will allow you, Rollo," replied Mr. Holiday, looking towards Rollo, "twenty-five francs a day for this excursion. If you spend any more than that, you must take it out of your past savings. If you do not spend it all, what is left when you come back is yours." "Yes, sir," said Rollo. "I think that will be a great plenty." "Twenty-five francs a day for twenty days," continued Mr. Holiday, "is five hundred francs. Bring me that bag of gold, Rollo, out of my secretary. Here is the key." So Rollo brought out the gold, and Mr. Holiday took from it twenty-five Napoleons. These he put in Rollo's purse. "There," said Mr. Holiday, "that's all I can do for you. For the rest you must take care of yourself." "How long will it take you to pack your trunk?" said Mr. George. "Five minutes," said Rollo, promptly, standing up erect as he said it and buttoning his jacket up to his chin. "Then put on your cap and come with me," said Mr. George. Rollo did so. He followed Mr. George down stairs to the door, and they both got into a small carriage which Mr. George had waiting there and drove away together towards Mr. George's hotel. "Now, Rollo," said Mr. George, "I have got a great deal to do to-day, and there are our passports to be stamped. I wonder if you could not attend to that." "Yes," said Rollo, "if you will only tell me what is to be done." "I don't myself know what is to be done," said Mr. George. "That's the difficulty. And I have not time to find out. I have got as much as I can possibly do until four o'clock; and then the office of the prefecture of police is closed. Now, if you can take the passports and find out what is to be done, and _do_ it, then we can go to-morrow; otherwise we must wait till next day." "Well," said Rollo, "I'll try." "You will find the passports, then, on my table at the hotel. I am going to get out at the next street and take another carriage to go in another direction. You can keep this carriage." "Very well," said Rollo. "You may make inquiries of any body you please," said Mr. George, "except your father and mother. We must not trouble your father with any business of any kind till he gets entirely well; and your mother would not know any thing about it at all. Perhaps the master of the hotel can tell you. You had better _ask_ him, at any rate." Here Mr. George pulled the string for the carriage to stop, as they had arrived at the corner of the street where he was to get out. The coachman drew up to the sidewalk and stopped. Mr. George opened the door and stepped out upon the curbstone, and then said, as he shut the door,-- "Well, good by, Rollo. I hope you will have good luck. But, whatever happens, keep a quiet mind, and don't allow yourself to feel perplexed or troubled. If you don't succeed in getting the passports ready to-day we can attend to them to-morrow and then go the next day, which will answer nearly as well." Then, directing the coachman to drive to the hotel, Mr. George walked rapidly away. When Rollo reached the hotel he got the key of his uncle George's room, at the porter's lodge, and went immediately up to see if the passports were there. He found them, as his uncle had said, lying on the table. "Now," said Rollo, "the first thing I'll do is to find Carlos and see if he will go and help me get the passports stamped."[1] So, taking the passports in his hand, he went along the corridor till he came to the door leading to the apartments where Carlos lodged. There was a bell hanging by the side of the door. Rollo pulled this cord, and presently the courier came to the door.[2] Rollo inquired for Carlos, and the courier said that he would go and get him. In the mean time the courier asked Rollo to step in and take a seat. So Rollo went in. The room that he entered was a small one, and was used as an antechamber to the apartment; and it was very neatly and pleasantly furnished for such a purpose. There were a sofa and several chairs, and maps and pictures on the walls, and a table with writing materials on it in the centre. Rollo sat down upon the sofa. In a few minutes Carlos came. "Look here!" said Rollo, rising when Carlos came in. "See these passports! We're going to get them stamped. Will you go with me? I have got a carriage at the door." Here Rollo made a sort of whirling motion with his hand, advancing it forward at the same time as it rolled, to indicate the motion of a wheel. This was to signify to Carlos that they were going in a carriage. All that Carlos understood was, that Rollo was going somewhere, and that he wished him, Carlos, to go too. He seemed very much pleased with his invitation, and went eagerly back into the inner apartments. He returned in a very few minutes with his cap in his hand, evidently all ready to go. "Now," said Rollo, as they went out of the antechamber together, "the first thing is to go and ask the master of the hotel what we are to do." There was a very pleasant little room on the lower floor, on one side of the archway which formed the entrance into the court of the hotel from the street, that served the purpose of parlor, sitting room, counting room, and office. Thus it was used both by the master of the hotel himself and by his family. There was a desk at one side, where the master usually sat, with his books and papers before him. At the other side, near a window, his wife was often seated at her sewing; and there were frequently two or three little children playing about the floor with little wagons, or tops, or other toys. Rollo went to this room, occupying himself as he descended the stairs in trying to make up a French sentence that would ask his question in the shortest and simplest manner. He went in, and, going to the desk, held out his passports to the man who was sitting there, and said, in French,-- "Passports. To Switzerland. Where to go to get them stamped?" "Ah," said the master of the hotel, taking the passports in his hand. "Yes, yes, yes. You must get them stamped. You must go to the Swiss legation and to the prefecture of police." Here Rollo pointed to a piece of paper that was lying on the desk and made signs of writing. "Ah, yes, yes, yes," said the man. "I will write you the address." So the man took a piece of paper and wrote upon the top of it the words "prefecture of police," saying, as he wrote it, that every coachman knew where that was. Then, underneath, he wrote the name of the street and number where the Swiss legation was; and, having done this, he gave the paper to Rollo. Rollo took the memorandum, and, thanking the man for his information, led Carlos out to the carriage. "Come, Carlos," said he; "now we are ready. I know where to go; but I don't know at all what we are to do when we get there. But then we shall find some other people there, I suppose, getting their passports stamped; and we can do as they do." Rollo had learned to place great reliance on the rule which his uncle George had given for his guidance in travelling; namely, to do as he saw other people do. It is, in fact, a very excellent rule. Carlos got into the carriage; while Rollo, looking upon the paper in order to be sure that he understood the words right, said, "To the prefecture of police." The coachman said, "Yes, yes;" and Rollo got into the coach. The coachman, without leaving his seat, reached his arm down and fastened the door and then drove away. He drove on through various crowded streets, which seemed to lead in towards the heart of the city, until at last the carriage came to the river. Rollo and Carlos looked out and saw the bridges, and the parapet wall which formed the river side of the street, with the book stalls, and picture stalls, and cake and fruit booths which had been established along the side of it, and the monstrous bathing houses which lay floating on the water below, all gayly painted and adorned with flags and little parterres of flowers; and the washing houses, with their long rows of windows, down close to the water, all filled with women, who were washing clothes by alternately plunging them in the water of the river and then banging them with clubs. These and a great many other similar objects attracted their attention as they rode along. If the reader of this book has the opportunity to look at a map of Paris, he will see that the River Seine, in passing through the town, forms two channels, which separate from each other so as to leave quite a large island between them. This island is completely covered with streets and buildings, some of which are very ancient and venerable. Here is the great Cathedral Church of Notre Dame; also the vast hospital called Hotel Dieu, where twelve thousand sick persons are received and taken care of every year. Here also is the prefecture of police--an enormous establishment, with courts, quadrangles, ranges, offices, and officers without number. In this establishment the records are kept and the business is transacted relating to all the departments of the police of the city; so that it is of itself quite a little town. The first indication which Rollo had that he had arrived at the place was the turning in of the coach under an arch, which opened in the middle of a very sombre and antique-looking edifice. The carriage, after passing through the arch, came into a court, where there were many other carriages standing. Soldiers were seen too, some coming and going and others standing guard. The carriage passed through this court, and then, going under another arch between two ponderous iron gates, it came into another court, much larger than the first. There were a great many carriages in this court, some moving in or out and others waiting. Rollo's carriage drove up to the farthest corner of the court; and there the coachman stopped and opened the door. Rollo got out. Carlos followed him. "Where do you suppose we are to go, Carlos?" said he. "Stop; I can see by the signs over the doors. Here it is. "Passports." This must be the place. We will go in here." Rollo accordingly went in, Carlos timidly following him. After crossing a sort of passage way, he opened another door, which ushered him at once into a very large hall, the aspect of which quite bewildered him. There were a great many desks and tables about the hall, with clerks writing at them, and people coming and going with passports and permits in their hands. Rollo stepped forward into the room, surveying the scene with great curiosity and wonder, when his attention was suddenly arrested by the voice of a soldier, who rose suddenly from his chair, and said,-- "Your cap, young gentleman." Rollo immediately recollected that he had his cap on, while all the other people in the room were uncovered. He took his cap off at once, saying to the soldier at the same time, "Pardon, sir," which is the French mode of making an apology in such cases. The soldier then resumed his seat, and Rollo and Carlos walked on slowly up the hall. Nobody took any notice of them. In fact, every one seemed busy with his own concerns, except that in one part of the room there were several benches where a number of men and women were sitting as if they were waiting for something. Rollo advanced towards these seats, saying to Carlos,-- "Carlos, let us sit down here a minute or two till we can think what we had better do. We can sit here, I know. These benches must be for any body." As soon as Rollo had taken his seat and began to cast his eyes about the room, he observed that among the other desks there was one with the words, "for foreigners," upon it, in large, gilt letters. "Carlos," said he, pointing to it, "that must be the place for us. We are foreigners: let us go there. We will give the passports to the man in that little pew." So Rollo rose, and, followed by Carlos, he went to the place. There was a long desk, with two or three clerks behind it, writing. At the end of this desk was a small enclosure, where a man sat who looked as though he had some authority. People would give him their passports, and he would write something on them and then pass them over to the clerks. Rollo waited a moment and then handed his passports in. The man took them, looked over them and then gave them back to Rollo, saying something in French which Rollo did not understand, and immediately passed to the next in order. "What did he say?" said Rollo, turning to Carlos. [Illustration: THE PREFECTURE OF POLICE.] "What's the reason he won't take your passports?" said Carlos. Although Rollo did not understand what the official said at the time of his speaking, still the words left a trace upon his ear, and in thinking upon them he recalled the words "American legation," and also the word "afterwards." While he was musing on the subject, quite perplexed, a pleasant-looking girl, who was standing there waiting for her turn, explained to him--speaking very slow in French, for she perceived that Rollo was a foreigner--as follows:-- "He says that you must go first and get your passports stamped at the American legation and afterwards come here." "Where is the American legation?" said Rollo. "I don't know," said the girl. "Then I'll make the coachman find it for me," said Rollo. "Come, Carlos; we must go back." So saying, he thanked the girl for her kindness, and the two boys went out. As he was going out Rollo made up a French sentence to say to the coachman that he must drive to the American legation, and that he must find out where it was himself. He succeeded in communicating these directions to the coachman, and then he and Carlos got into the carriage and drove away. The coachman had some difficulty in learning where the American legation was, which occasioned some delay. Besides, the distance was considerable. It was nearly two miles to the place from the prefecture of police; so that it was some time before the carriage arrived there. In fact, Rollo had a very narrow escape in this stage of the affair; for he arrived at the American legation only about five minutes before the office was to be closed for the day. When he went to the porter's lodge to ask if that was the place where the office of the American legation was held, the woman who kept the lodge, and who was standing just outside the door at the time, instead of answering, went in to look at the clock. "Ah," said she, "you are just in time. I thought you were too late. Second story, right-hand door." "There's one thing good about the American legation, Carlos," said Rollo; "and that is, that they can talk English, I suppose." This was, indeed, a great advantage. Rollo found, when he went into the office of the legation, that the secretary not only could talk English, but that he was a very kindhearted and agreeable man. He talked with Rollo in English and with Carlos in Spanish. Both the boys were very much pleased with the reception they met with. The necessary stamps were promptly affixed to the passports; and then the boys, giving the secretary both an English and a Spanish good by, went down stairs to the carriage again. They directed the coachman to drive as quick as possible to the Swiss legation, showing him the address which Rollo's uncle had given them. They then got into the carriage, and the coachman drove away. "Now, Carlos," said Rollo, "we are all right; that is, if we only get to the Swiss legation before it is shut up." "He said he had been in Madrid," rejoined Carlos. "He was there three months." "I believe," added Rollo, "that uncle George said it did not close till three; and it is only two now." "And he knew the street my father lived in very well," said Carlos. Very soon the carriage stopped at the place which the coachman said was the Swiss legation. Rollo got out and went to the porter's lodge with the passports in his hand. The woman in charge knew at once what he wanted, and, without waiting to hear him finish the question which he began to ask, directed him "to the second story on the right." Rollo went up the staircase till he came to the door, and there pulled the cord. A clerk opened the door. Rollo held out the passports. "Enter there," said the clerk, in French, pointing to an inner door. Rollo went in and found there a very pleasant little room, with cases of books and papers around it, and maps and plans of Switzerland and of Swiss towns upon the wall. The clerk took the passports and asked the boys to sit down. In a few minutes the proper stamps were affixed to them both and the proper signatures added. The clerk then said that there was the sum of six francs to pay. Rollo paid the money, and then he and Carlos went down stairs. They now returned to the prefecture of police. They went in as they had done before, and gave the passports to the man who was seated in the little enclosure in the foreigner's part of the room. He took them, examined the new stamps which had been put upon them, and then said, "Very well. Take a seat a little minute." Rollo and Carlos sat down upon one of the benches to wait; but the little minute proved to be nearly half an hour. They were not tired of waiting, however, there was so much to amuse and interest them going on in the room. "I am going to watch and see what the foreigners do to get their passports," said Rollo, in an undertone, to Carlos; "for we must do the same." In thus watching, Rollo observed that from time to time a name was called by one of the clerks behind the desk, and then some of the persons waiting on the seats would rise and go to the place. After stopping there a few minutes, he would take his passport and carry it into an inner room to another desk, where something was done to it. Then he would bring it out to another place, where it was stamped once or twice by a man who seemed to have nothing else to do but to stamp every body's passport when they came out. By watching this process in the case of the others, Rollo knew exactly what to do when _his_ name was called; so that, in about half an hour from the time that he went into the office, he had the satisfaction of coming out and getting into his carriage with the passports all in order for the journey to Switzerland. When he got home and showed them to Mr. George, his uncle looked them over carefully; and, when he found that the stamp of the police was duly affixed to them both,--knowing, as he did, that those would not be put on till all the others were right,--he said,-- "Well, Rollo, you've done it, I declare. I did not think you were so much of a man." FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: Carlos was a Spanish boy, who was residing at this time at the same hotel with Mr. George. The manner in which Rollo became acquainted with him is related in Rollo in Paris. Carlos did not understand English, nor Rollo Spanish; but when they were together they usually kept talking all the time, each in his own way.] [Footnote 2: A courier is a travelling servant and guide.] CHAPTER II. CROSSING THE FRONTIER. On the morning when Mr. George and Rollo were about setting out for Switzerland, Rollo, having got every thing ready himself half an hour before the time, took out his map of Europe and asked his uncle George what route they were going to take. Mr. George was busy at that time putting the last things into his trunk and making ready to lock it up and strap it; so he could not come to Rollo to show him the route, but was obliged to describe it. "Have you found Paris?" said he. "Yes," said Rollo; "I have got my finger on it." "In the first place, then," said Mr. George, "there is a railway that goes east from Paris a hundred miles across France to Strasbourg on the Rhine. See if you can find Strasbourg on the Rhine." "Yes," said Rollo; "here it is." "Then," said Mr. George, "we take another railway and go south, up the Rhine, towards Switzerland." "_Down_ the Rhine," said Rollo, correcting his uncle; "it is _down_." "No," rejoined Mr. George. "It is down on the map; that is, it is down the page; but it is really _up_ the river. The Rhine flows to the north. It collects the waters of a hundred glaciers in Switzerland and carries them north into the North Sea." "Well," said Rollo. "This railway," continued Mr. George, "will take us up from Strasbourg, along the bank of the Rhine, to Basle, which is in Switzerland, just across the frontier. It is there, I suppose, that we shall have to show our passports; and then we shall know if you got them stamped right." "I did get them stamped right, I am very sure," said Rollo. "Boys are generally very sure that what they do is done right," rejoined Mr. George. Soon after this Mr. George and Rollo took their seats in the carriage, which had been for some time standing ready for them in the court yard of the inn, and drove to the Strasbourg station. Rollo was greatly interested and excited, when he arrived at the Strasbourg station, to see how extensive and magnificent it was. The carriage entered, with a train of other carriages, through a great iron gate and drew up at the front of a very spacious and grand-looking building. Porters, dressed in a sort of uniform, which gave them in some degree the appearance of soldiers, were ready to take the two trunks and carry them in. The young gentlemen followed the porters, and they soon found themselves ushered into an immense hall, very neatly and prettily arranged, with great maps of the various railways painted on the walls between the windows on the front side, and openings on the back side leading to ticket offices or waiting rooms. There were seats along the sides of this hall, with groups of neatly-dressed travellers sitting upon them. Other travellers were walking about, attending to their baggage or making inquiries of the porter or policemen. Others still were standing at the openings of the ticket offices buying their tickets. What chiefly struck Rollo's attention, however, and impressed his mind, was the air of silence, order, and decorum which prevailed and which gave to the station an aspect so different from that of an American station. It is true, the hall was very large, and there were a great many people in it going and coming; but they all walked decorously and quietly,--they spoke in an undertone,--and the presence of so many railway officials in their several uniforms, and of police officers with their badges, and here and there a soldier on guard, gave to the whole scene quite a solemn and imposing appearance. Rollo gazed about the apartment as he came in, surveying the various objects and groups that presented themselves to his view, until his eye rested upon a little party of travellers, consisting of a lady and two boys, who were standing together near a low railing, waiting for the gentleman who was with them to come back from the ticket office with their tickets. What chiefly attracted Rollo's attention, however, was a pretty little dog, with very long ears, and black, glossy hair, which one of the children held by a cord. The cord was attached to the dog's neck by a silver collar. Rollo looked at this group for a few minutes--his attention being particularly occupied by the dog,--and then turned again towards his uncle, or rather towards the place where his uncle had been standing; but he found, to his surprise, that he was gone. In a moment, however, he saw his uncle coming towards him. He was clasping his wallet and putting it in his pocket. "Uncle George," said he, "see that beautiful little dog!" "Yes," said Mr. George. "I wish I had such a dog as that to travel with me," said Rollo. "But, uncle George where are we to get our tickets?" "I've got mine," said Mr. George. "When I come to a railway station I always get my ticket the first thing, and look at the pretty little dogs afterwards." So saying, Mr. George took a newspaper out of his pocket and began to walk away, adding, as he went,-- "I'll sit down here and read my newspaper till you have got your ticket, and then we will go into the waiting room." "But, uncle George," said Rollo, "why did not you get me a ticket when you got yours?" "Because," said Mr. George, "among other reasons, I did not know which class carriage you wished to go in." "Why, uncle George!" exclaimed Rollo, surprised. "I must go in the same carriage that you do of course." "Not of course," said Mr. George. "I have got a ticket in the first class; and I should like to have your company in my car very much if you choose to pay the price for a first-class ticket. But if you choose to take a second or a third-class ticket you will save, perhaps, half your money." So saying, Mr. George went away and left Rollo to himself. This was the way that Mr. George always treated Rollo when he was travelling with him. He left him to act for himself and to take care of himself in almost all the emergencies that occurred. He did this, not because he wished to save himself the trouble of taking care of a boy, but because he thought it was much better for boys early to learn to take care of themselves. The manner in which Mr. George thus threw the responsibility upon Rollo seemed sometimes to be a little blunt. One would suppose, in some of these cases, from the way in which he spoke and acted, that he did not care at all what became of Rollo, so coolly and with such an air of unconcern did he leave him to his own resources. In fact, Rollo was frequently at such times a little frightened, or at least perplexed, and often, at first, felt greatly at a loss to know what to do. But, on reflecting a little upon the subject, he usually soon succeeded in extricating himself from the difficulty; and then he was always quite proud of having done so, and was pleased with his uncle George for having given him the opportunity. So Mr. George, having learned by experience that Rollo liked, on the whole, to be treated in this way, always adopted it; and in carrying it out he sometimes spoke and acted in such a way as might, under other circumstances have appeared somewhat stern. The idea of taking a second-class car for himself in order to save a portion of his money, while his uncle went in one of the first-class, took Rollo's imagination strongly, and he was half inclined to adopt it. "On the whole," said he to himself, "I will not do it to-day; but I will some other day. And now I wonder which is the ticket office for Strasbourg." So saying, Rollo looked about the room and soon found the proper place to apply for his ticket. He procured a ticket without any difficulty, asking for it in French, with a pronunciation which, if it was not perfectly correct, was at least perfectly intelligible. As soon as he had received his ticket and had taken up his change he went to the bench where his uncle George was sitting and said that he was ready. "Well," said Mr. George, "then we'll go. I like to travel with a boy that is capable of taking care of himself and is willing to be treated like a man." Saying these words, Mr. George rose from his seat, and, after attending properly to the baggage, he and Rollo passed through a door guarded by a man in uniform, who required them to show him their tickets before he would allow them to pass, and then entered a spacious apartment which was reserved as the waiting room for the first-class passengers. This room was beautifully finished and richly adorned, and the splendid sofas and ottomans which were ranged about the sides of it were occupied by well-dressed ladies and gentlemen, carrying shawls, greatcoats, and small travelling bags upon their arms, and exhibiting other similar indications of their being travellers. Mr. George and Rollo took seats at a vacant place upon one of the sofas. In a few minutes an officer came and informed the company, in a very respectful manner, that the train was ready; whereupon they all rose from their seats and walked out upon the platform where the train was waiting. Here there were several railway servants, all dressed in uniform, whose business it was to conduct the passengers to the several cars, or carriages, as they call them, and open the doors. These carriages were entirely different in their construction from the long and open cars used in America, which form but one compartment, that extends through the whole length of the car. The French cars were like three elegant carriages, joined together in such a manner that, though the three formed but one car, they were still entirely distinct from each other. The seats in these carriages were very spacious, and they were richly stuffed and lined, so that they formed soft and luxurious places of repose. The railway porter opened one of the doors and admitted Mr. George and Rollo, and when they had entered he closed it again. "Ah," said Rollo, seating himself upon the soft cushion on one of the seats, "is not this superb? I am _very glad_ I did not take a second-class car." "And yet the second-class cars in France are very comfortable and very respectable," said Mr. George, "and they are very much cheaper." "How much should we have saved," asked Rollo, "in going to Strasbourg, if we had taken a second-class car?" "I don't know, precisely," said Mr. George. "We should have saved a great deal." The train now began to move; and, soon after it left the station, Mr. George took out his newspaper again and began to read. It was a copy of a very celebrated newspaper, called the London Times. Mr. George had another London paper which was full of humorous engravings. The name of it was Punch. Mr. George gave the Punch to Rollo, thinking that the pictures and caricatures in it might perhaps amuse him; but Rollo, after turning it over a moment, concluded that he should prefer to amuse himself by looking out the window. [Illustration: IN THE CAR.] Rollo saw a great many beautiful views and witnessed a great many strange and striking scenes as he was whirled onward by the train across the country from Paris towards Strasbourg. We cannot, however, stop to describe what he saw, but must hasten on to the Swiss frontier. The travellers arrived at Strasbourg in the evening. They spent the night at a hotel; and the next morning they took another railway which led along the bank of the Rhine, up the river, towards Switzerland. The country was magnificent. There was the river on one side, and a range of mountains rising sublimely in the interior on the other. The mountains were at a distance of several miles from the river; and the country between was an extremely fertile and luxuriant plain, covered with villages, castles, parks, pleasure grounds, gardens, and cultivated fields, which presented every where most enchanting pictures of rural beauty. This province is called Alsatia. The terminus of the railway was at the city of Basle, which lies just within the confines of Switzerland. A short distance before reaching the gates of Basle, the train stopped at what seemed at first to be a station. It was, however, only the custom house, where the trunks and passports were to be examined. "What are we to do here," asked Rollo. "_I_ am going to do what I see other people do," replied Mr. George. "You can do whatever you please." At this moment a guard, dressed, like all the other railway servants, in a sort of uniform, opened the door of the car in which Mr. George and Rollo were sitting, and said in a very respectful manner, in French,-- "The custom house, gentlemen." Mr. George observed that the passengers were getting out from all the other cars; so he stepped out too, and Rollo followed him. When they reached the platform they observed that a company of porters were employed in carrying all the trunks and baggage from the cars to the custom house, and that the passengers were going into the custom house too, though by another door. Mr. George and Rollo went in with them. They found an office within, and a desk, where one or two secretaries sat and examined the passports of the travellers as they successively presented them. As fast as they were examined they were impressed with a new stamp, which denoted permission for the travellers to pass the Swiss frontier. The several travellers, as fast as their passports were examined, found right, and stamped, were allowed to pass between two soldiers through a door into another hall, where they found all the trunks and baggage arranged on a sort of counter, which extended around the centre of the room, so as to enclose a square place within. The custom-house officers who were to examine the baggage were within this enclosure, while the travellers who owned the baggage stood without. These last walked around the counter, looking at the trunks, boxes, bundles, and carpet bags that covered it, each selecting his own and opening the several parcels, in order that the officers within might examine them. The object of examining the trunks of passengers in this way is, to ascertain that they have not any _goods_ concealed in them. As a general thing, persons are not allowed to take _goods_ from one country to another without paying a tax for them. Such a tax is called technically a _duty_, and the avails of it go to support the government of the country which the goods are carried into. Travellers are allowed to take with them all that is necessary _for their own personal use, as travellers_, without paying any duty; but articles that are intended for sale as merchandise, or those which, though intended for the traveller's own use, are not strictly _personal_, are liable to pay duty. The principle is, that whatever the traveller requires for his own personal use, _in travelling_, is not liable to duty. What he does not so require must pay duty, no matter whether he intends to use it himself or to sell it. Many travellers do not understand this properly, and often get into difficulty by not understanding it, as we shall see in the sequel. Mr. George and Rollo went into the baggage room together, showing their passports as they passed through between the soldiers. They then walked slowly along the room, looking at the baggage, as it was arranged upon the counter, in search of their own. "I see _my_ trunk," said Mr. George, looking along at a little distance before him. "There it is." "And where do you suppose mine is?" asked Rollo. "I have not the least idea," said Mr. George. "I advise you to walk all around the room and see if you can find it; and when you find it, get it examined." Rollo, taking this advice, walked on, leaving Mr. George in the act of taking out his key in order to open his trunk for the purpose of allowing an officer to inspect it as soon as one should be ready. Rollo soon found his trunk. It was in a part of the room remote from his uncle's. Near his trunk was a very large one, which the officers were searching very thoroughly. They had found something in it which was not personal baggage and which the lady had not declared. Rollo could not see what the article was which the officers had found. It was something contained in a pretty box. The lady had put it into the bottom of her trunk. The officers had taken it out, and were now examining it. The lady stood by, seemingly in great distress. Rollo's attention, which had begun to be attracted by this scene, was, however, almost immediately called off from it by the voice of another officer, who pointed to his trunk and asked him if it was his. "Is that yours?" said the officer, in French. "Yes," replied Rollo, in the same language, "it is mine;" and so saying, he proceeded to take out his key and unlock the trunk. "Have you any thing to declare?" asked the man. Rollo looked perplexed. He did not know what the officer meant by asking him if he had any thing to declare. After a moment's hesitation he said,-- "I don't know; but I will go ask my uncle." So Rollo went to the place where he had left his uncle George, and accosted him by saying,-- "They want to know if I have any thing to _declare_. What do they mean?" "They mean whether you have any goods in your trunk that are liable to pay duty. Tell them no." So Rollo went back and told the officer that he had not any thing to declare. He then opened his trunk; but the officer, instead of examining it, shut down the lid, saying, "Very well;" and by means of a piece of chalk he marked it upon the top with some sort of character. A porter then took the trunk and carried it back to the train. Rollo perceived that the difficulty about the lady's baggage had been settled in some way or other, but he feared it was settled in a manner not very satisfactory to the lady herself; for, as the porters took up her trunk to carry it back, she looked quite displeased and out of humor. Rollo went back to the place where he had left his uncle George, and then they went together out to the platform. Here Rollo found the lady who had had difficulty about her baggage explaining the case to some friends that she found there. She seemed to be very indignant and angry, and was telling her story with great volubility. Rollo listened for a moment; but she spoke so rapidly that he could not understand what she said, as she spoke in French. "What does she say?" he asked, speaking to Mr. George. "She says," replied Mr. George, "that they were going to seize something that she had in her trunk because she did not declare it." "What does that mean?" said Rollo. "Why, the law is," said Mr. George, "that when people have any thing in their trunks that is dutiable, if they _declare_ it, that is, acknowledge that they have it and show it to the officers, then they have only to pay the duty, and they may carry the article in. But if they do not declare it, but hide it away somewhere in their trunks, and the officers find it there, then the thing is forfeited altogether. The officers seize it and sell it for the benefit of the government." "O, uncle George!" exclaimed Rollo. "Yes," said Mr. George, "that is what they do; and it is right. If people wish to bring any thing that is subject to duty into any country they ought to be willing to pay the duty, and not, by refusing to pay, make other people pay more than their share." "If one man does not pay his duty," rejoined Rollo, "do the others have to pay more?" "Yes," said Mr. George, "in the end they do. At least I suppose so. Whatever the amount of money may be that is required for the expenses of government, if one man does not pay his share, the rest must make it up, I suppose." "They did not look into my trunk at all," said Rollo. "Why didn't they? I might have had ever so many things hid away there." "I suppose they knew from the circumstances of the case," said Mr. George, "that you would not be likely to have any smuggled goods in your trunk. They saw at once that you were a foreign boy, and knew that you must be coming to Switzerland only to make a tour, and that you could have no reason for wishing to smuggle any thing into the country. They scarcely looked into _my_ trunk at all." While Mr. George and Rollo had been holding this conversation they had returned to their places in the car, and very soon the train was in motion to take them into the town. Thus our travellers passed the Swiss frontier. In half an hour afterwards they were comfortably established at a large and splendid hotel called the Three Kings. The hotel has this name in three languages, English, French, and German, as people speaking those several languages come, in almost equal numbers, to Switzerland. Thus when you leave the station you may, in your directions to the coachman, say you wish to go to the Three Kings, or to the Trois Rois, or to the Drei Könige, whichever you please. They all mean the same hotel--the best hotel in Basle. CHAPTER III. BASLE. The city of Basle stands upon the banks of the Rhine, on the northern frontier of Switzerland. The waters of the Rhine are gathered from hundreds of roaring and turbid torrents which come out, some from vast icy caverns in the glaciers, some from the melting debris of fallen avalanches, some from gushing fountains which break out suddenly through crevices in the rocks or yawning chasms, and some from dark and frightful ravines on the mountain sides, down which they foam and tumble perpetually, fed by vast fields of melting snow above. The waters of all these torrents, being gathered at last into one broad, and deep, and rapid stream, flow to a vast reservoir called the Lake of Constance, where they repose for a time, or, rather, move slowly and insensibly forward, enjoying a comparative quiescence which has all the characteristics and effects of repose. The waters enter this reservoir wild and turbid. They leave it calm and clear; and then, flowing rapidly for one hundred miles along the northern frontier of Switzerland, and receiving successively the waters of many other streams that have come from hundreds of other torrents and have been purified in the repose of other lakes extending over the whole northern slope of Switzerland, they form a broad and rapid river, which flows swiftly through Basle, and then, turning suddenly to the northward, bids Basle and Switzerland farewell together. "And then where does it go?" said Rollo to Mr. George when his uncle had explained this thus far to him. "Straight across the continent to the North Sea," said Mr. George. Thus the whole northern slope of Switzerland is drained by a system of waters which, when united at Basle, form the River Rhine. The morning after Mr. George and Rollo arrived at Basle they were looking out upon the River Rhine from the windows of the hotel. "What a swift river!" said Rollo. "Yes," said Mr. George. "And how blue the water is!" continued Rollo. "Yes," said Mr. George. "The water of the streams which come from the Swiss mountains is turbid at first and very gray from the grinding up of the rocks in the _moraines_ and glaciers and by the avalanches." "What is a moraine?" asked Rollo. "I will explain it to you one of these days," said Mr. George, "when you come to see one." "And a glacier," said Rollo; "what is that?" "I will explain that to you, too, some other time," said Mr. George, "but not now; for the breakfast will come in in a minute or two." "Well," said Rollo, "I can hear while I am eating my breakfast." "That may be," replied Mr. George; "but I cannot lecture very well while I am eating _my_ breakfast." Rollo laughed. "I did not think of that," said he. "What queer boats!" continued Rollo, looking out again upon the river. "And there is a long bridge leading over to the other side. May I go out and walk over on that bridge after breakfast?" "Yes," said Mr. George, "you may go any where you please." "But suppose I should get lost," said Rollo. "What should I do then?" "I don't know," said Mr. George, "unless you should ask somebody to tell you the way to the Three Kings." "But perhaps they would not understand English," said Rollo. "Then you must say _Trois Rois_,[3a] which is the French name for the hotel," rejoined Mr. George. "But perhaps they would not understand French," said Rollo. "No," replied Mr. George; "I think it probable they would not; for people talk German generally in this part of Switzerland. In that case you must ask the way to _Drei Könige_."[3b] Here the waiter came in with the breakfast. It consisted of a pot of coffee, another of boiled milk, an omelette, some excellent cakes, and some honey. There was a long table extending up and down the room, which was a very large and handsome apartment, and there were besides several round tables in corners and in pleasant places near the windows. The breakfast for Mr. George and Rollo was put upon one of the round tables; and, in sitting down to it, Rollo took pains to place himself in such a manner that he could look out the window and see the water while he was eating. "What a dreadful river that would be to fall into!" said Rollo. "It runs so swift and looks so angry!" "Yes," said Mr. George. "It runs swift because the descent is very great. Switzerland is very high; and the water, in running from it, flows very swiftly." "I did not know that Switzerland was all high," said Rollo. "I knew that the mountains were high; but the valleys must be low." "No," said Mr. George; "it is all high. The bottoms of the valleys are higher than the tops of the mountains in many other countries. In going into Switzerland, we go up hill nearly all the way; and so, even when we are at the bottom of the deepest valleys in Switzerland, we are up very high. There is Chamouni, for example, which is a deep valley near the foot of Mont Blanc. The bottom of that valley is six or seven times as high as the top of the Palisades on the North River." "O, uncle George!" exclaimed Rollo. "Yes," said Mr. George; "and it is so with all the Swiss valleys; and, accordingly, the water that comes down through them has a great descent to make in getting to the sea. Thus there are a great many falls, and cascades, and rapids; and, even in those places where the rivers run smoothly, the current is very swift and very strong." While Mr. George and Rollo were eating their breakfast the attention of Rollo was occupied partly by the prospect of the river as he saw it through the open window, and partly by the various groups of travellers who were constantly coming into the room, or going out, or taking their breakfasts in little parties at the tables. Some who had finished their breakfasts were looking at maps and guide books which they had spread out before them on the tables. The room was very large, and very beautiful; and, as it was lighted on the back side by a row of wide and lofty windows which looked out upon the river, it wore a very bright and cheerful expression. At one end of it were glass doors, which led into another room very similar to this, as it likewise had windows looking out upon the river. This room was used as a sort of sitting room and reading room. There was a table in the centre, with newspapers, some French, some English, and some German, lying upon it. Rollo determined to go into this room as soon as he had finished his breakfast to see who was there and what they were doing. "Rollo," said Mr. George, after a short pause, "do you wish to travel in Switzerland intelligently or blindly?" "What do you mean by that?" asked Rollo. "Why, do you wish to understand something of the general features of the country first, so as to know always, as we go travelling on, where you are, and where you are going, and what you are to expect to see, or would you rather not trouble yourself at all about this, but take things as they come along, and enjoy them as you see them, without thinking or caring what is to come next." "Which is the best way?" asked Rollo. "Either is a very good way," replied Mr. George. "There is a pleasure in understanding and anticipating, and there is also a pleasure in wondering what is to come next and meeting with surprises. You can take your choice." Rollo reflected a moment, and then he said that he thought he should like best to understand. "Very well," said Mr. George. "Then I will explain to you the general features of Switzerland. Switzerland--or at least that portion of it which is the chief scene of the rambles of tourists and travellers--consists substantially of a long and deep valley, extending from east to west through the centre, and bordered by a range of mountains on each side. The range of mountains on the northern side of this valley is, of course, towards Germany; the one on the southern side is towards Italy. On the north side of the northern range of mountains is a broad slope of land, extending a hundred miles towards the German frontier. On the southern side of the southern range of mountains is a steep and narrow slope, extending to the Italian frontier. "Thus we may say," continued Mr. George, "that Switzerland consists substantially of a broad northern slope of land and a narrow southern slope, with a deep valley between them. Do you understand this?" "Yes," said Rollo. "If I had some damp sand, and a little wooden shovel, I think I could make it." "People do make models of the Swiss valleys and mountains," said Mr. George. "In fact, they have maps of Switzerland, embossed with all the mountains in relief; and I wish very much that we had one here to look at." "There is one here," said Rollo, his face brightening up very luminously as he spoke. "I saw it hanging up in the gallery, and I did not know what it was. It must be that. I'll go and show it to you after breakfast." "I am very glad," said Mr. George. "I wished to see one very much. We will go and see it immediately after breakfast. But now let me tell you a little more about the country. You must not imagine that the northern slope, as I called it, is one smooth and uniform surface of descending land. There are mountains, and valleys, and lakes, and precipices, and waterfalls, and every other variety of mountain scenery scattered all over it, making it a most picturesque and romantic region. It is, however, on the whole, a slope. It begins with comparatively smooth and level land on the north and it terminates in a range of lofty mountain crests on the south; and you have to go over this crest somewhere, by some of the steep and difficult passes that cross it, to get into the central valley. We are on the margin of this slope now. When we leave here and strike into the heart of Switzerland we shall be gradually ascending it. I am going first to a place called Interlachen, which is in a deep valley far up this slope, just under the ridge of mountains. Interlachen is surrounded, in fact, by mountains, and a great many pleasant excursions can be made from it. We shall stop there a few days and make excursions, and then cross over by some of the mountain passes into the valley." "Well," said Rollo, in a tone of great satisfaction. "I shall like that; I should like to go over a mountain pass. Shall we go in a carriage, or on horseback." "That depends upon which of the passes we take," said Mr. George. "Some of them are carriage roads, some are bridle paths; and you ride over on mules or horses. Others are too steep and dangerous to ride over in any way. You have to go on foot, climbing up zigzag paths cut out of the rock, and over great patches of snow that horses and mules would sink into." "Let's go in one of those," said Rollo, straightening himself up. "Sometimes the path becomes narrower and narrower," continued Mr. George, "until it is finally lost among the rocks, and you have to clamber around the point of some rocky cliff a thousand feet in the air, with scarcely any thing but the jagged roughness of the rocks to cling to." "Yes, sir," said Rollo, eagerly. "Yes, sir. Let's go there. That's just the kind of road I want to go in." "Well, we'll see," said Mr. George. "The first thing is to go to Interlachen. That is in the heart of the mountains, and very near the passes which lead over into the valley. When we get there we will study the guide book and the maps and determine which way to go." "And after you get into the valley," said Rollo, "shall you go across it, and go over the mountains on the other side, into Italy?" "I don't know," said Mr. George. "Perhaps we shall not have time. I may think it is best to spend the time in rambling about among the mountains and glaciers near the head of the valley, where I believe is to be found the most stupendous scenery in all Switzerland." The breakfast was now nearly finished, though the process of eating it had been a good deal impeded by the conversation, so large a share of it having fallen to Mr. George. Mr. George, however, explained to Rollo that their first day's journey from Basle would be south, towards Berne, the capital of the country--a city which was situated near the centre of the northern slope which Mr. George had described. "Do we go by a railway?" asked Rollo. "No," said Mr. George; "by a diligence." FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 3a-3b: Mr. George, in speaking these words, did not pronounce them as you would suppose from the manner in which they are written. He pronounced them very much as if they were spelled Tru-ah Ru-ah. In the same manner, the German words, Drei Könige, he pronounced as if they were spelled Dhrai Ker-nig-ger.] CHAPTER IV. THE DILIGENCE. A diligence is a sort of stage coach used in France and Switzerland, and generally on the continent of Europe. It is constructed very differently, however, from an American stage coach, being divided into four distinct compartments. Rollo had seen a diligence in Paris, and so he could understand very easily the conversation which ensued between himself and his uncle in respect to the seats which they should take in the one in which they were to travel to Berne. In order, however, to enable the reader of this book to understand it, I must here give a brief description of this kind of vehicle. The engraving on page 77 is a very faithful representation of one of them. There are three windows in the side of it. Each of these windows leads to a different compartment of the coach. In addition to these three compartments, there is, over the foremost of these, on the top of the coach, another, making four in all. This compartment on the top is called the _banquette_. These coaches are so large that they have a conductor. The man who drives sometimes sits on a small seat placed in front of the banquette, and sometimes he rides on one of the horses. In either case, however, he has nothing to do but to attend to his team. The passengers and the baggage are all under the conductor's care. The compartment immediately beneath the banquette, which is the front compartment of the body of the coach, is called the _coupé_. The coupé extends across the whole coach, from one side to the other; but it is quite narrow. It has only one seat,--a seat facing the horses,--with places upon it for three passengers. There are windows in front, by which the passengers can look out under the coachman's seat when there is a coachman's seat there. The doors leading to the coupé are in the sides. The compartment immediately behind the coupé is called the _interior_. It is entirely separate from the coupé. There are two seats, which extend from one side of the coach to the other, and have places upon them for three passengers each, making six in all. The three passengers who sit on one of these seats must, of course, ride with their backs to the horses. The doors leading to the interior are in the sides. In fact, the interior has within exactly the appearance of a common hackney coach, with seats for six passengers. Behind the interior is the fourth compartment, which is called the _rotonde_. It is like a short omnibus. The door is behind, and the seats are on the sides. This omnibus compartment is so short that there is only room for three people on each side, and the seats are not very comfortable. Very genteel people, who wish to be secluded and to ride somewhat in style, take the coupé. The seats in the coupé are very comfortable, and there is a very good opportunity to see the country through the front and side windows. The price is much higher, however, for seats in the coupé than in any other part of the diligence. The mass of common travellers generally take places in the interior. The seats there are comfortable, only there is not a very good opportunity to see the country; for there are only two windows, one on each side, in the top of the door. People who do not care much about the style in which they travel, but only desire to have the best possible opportunity to view the country and to have an amusing time, generally go up to the banquette. The places here are cheaper than they are even in the interior, and very much cheaper than they are in the coupé. The cheapest place of all, however, is in the rotonde, which is the omnibus-like compartment, in the end of the diligence, behind. This compartment is generally filled with laborers, soldiers, and servants; and sometimes nurses and children are put here. The baggage is always stored upon the top of the diligence, behind the banquette, and directly over the interior and the rotonde. It is packed away very carefully there, and is protected by a strong leather covering, which is well strapped down over it. All these things you see plainly represented in the engraving. We now return to the conversation which was held between Rollo and Mr. George at the close of their breakfast. "I have got some letters to write after breakfast," said Mr. George, "and I should like to go directly to my room and write them. So I wish you would find out when the diligence goes next to Berne, and take places in it for you and me." "Well," said Rollo, "I will; only how shall I do it? Where shall I go?" "I don't know any thing about it," replied Mr. George. "The guide book says that there is a diligence from Basle to Berne; and I suppose there is an office for it somewhere about town. Do you think you can find it?" "I'll try," said Rollo. "But how do we take seats in it? Is there a book for us to write our names in, with the place where they are to call for us?" "I do not know any thing about it," said Mr. George. "All I know is, that I want to go to Berne with you some way or other in the diligence, and I wish to have you plan and arrange it all." "Well," said Rollo, "I will, if I can find out. Only tell me what places I shall take." "I don't care particularly about that," replied Mr. George; "only let it be where we can see best. It must be either in the coupé or in the banquette. We can't see at all, scarcely, in the other compartments." "Well," said Rollo, "I should like to be where I can see. But would you rather it would be in the coupé, or in the banquette?" "That is just as you please," replied Mr. George. "There are some advantages in being in the banquette." "What are they?" asked Rollo. "There are four advantages," replied Mr. George. "First, it is up very high, and is all open, so that you have a most excellent chance to see." "Yes," said Rollo. "I shall like that." "The second advantage," said Mr. George, "is, that it costs less. The places in the banquette are quite cheap." "Yes," said Rollo. "I like that. So we can save some of our money." "The third advantage," continued Mr. George, "is, that we have a great deal better opportunity to hear talking there. There are usually five persons in that part of the coach--the coachman, the conductor, and three passengers. That is, there will be one passenger besides you and me. He will probably be talking with the conductor part of the time, and the conductor will be talking with the coachman, and we shall be amused by hearing what they say." "But there are _six_ persons in the interior," said Rollo, "to talk." "True," replied Mr. George; "but, then, they are usually not so sociable there as they are up on the banquette. Besides, the noise of the wheels on the hard gravel roads is so loud there that we cannot hear very well. Then, moreover, when we stop to change horses, the hostlers and postilions come out, and our coachman and conductor often have a great deal of amusing conversation with them, which we can hear from the banquette; but we could not hear it, or see the process of harnessing and unharnessing, from the interior, nor even very well from the coupé." "Well," said Rollo. "I like that. But that makes only three advantages. You said there were four." "Yes," said Mr. George. "But as to the fourth, I do not know whether you will consider it an advantage or not." "What is it?" said Rollo. "I've no doubt but I shall." "Why, in getting up and down to and from the banquette you will have a great deal of hard climbing to do." "Yes," said Rollo. "I shall like that. They are all advantages--very great advantages indeed." So Rollo fully determined in his own mind that he would take places on the banquette. He thought that there was one disadvantage in that part of the coach; and that was, that in case of storm the rain would drive in directly upon them; but he found in the end that an excellent provision was made against this contingency. The young gentlemen had now finished their breakfasts; and so they rose and went out to what Rollo called the gallery, to see the embossed map of Switzerland which he said that he had seen hanging there. The plan of this hotel was very peculiar. In the centre of it was a very large, open hall, almost like a court, only it was covered above with a roof and lighted by a skylight. Around this hall there was, in each story, an open gallery, with a railing on one side, over which you could look down to the floor below; and on the other side, at short intervals, there were doors leading to the various apartments. Between these doors, and against the walls, were hanging maps, plans, pictures, and other embellishments, which gave to these galleries a very attractive appearance. Here and there, too, on the different stories, there were sofas or other seats, with persons sitting upon them. Some were sewing, and some were attending children who were playing near. At the two ends of the hotel there were broad staircases connected with these galleries and leading from one to the other. Besides the galleries there were long corridors, extending each way from the centre of the building to ranges of apartments situated in the wings. The hotel, in fact, was very spacious, and it was very admirably arranged. Rollo conducted Mr. George to the third story; and there, hanging against the wall, he found the embossed map of Switzerland which he had described. Mr. George and Rollo took this map down from its nail, and, seating themselves upon a settee which was near, they held it before them and examined it very attentively for some time. Mr. George showed Rollo the great central valley of Switzerland, with the ranges of mountains on each side of it. He showed him, too, the great slope of land which extended over the whole northern part of Switzerland. It was bounded on the north by the River Rhine and the frontier, and on the south by the great range of mountains which separated it from the valley. He showed him, too, the numerous lakes which were scattered over the surface of it. "You see," said he, "that the waters which come out from the glaciers and the snow fields, and down through the chasms and ravines in the mountain sides, flow on till they come to some valley or place of comparatively low land; and they spread all over this depression, and flow into it more and more until they fill it up and make a lake there. When the lake is full the surplus waters run off clear wherever they find a channel." "Is that the way the lakes are formed?" asked Rollo. "Yes," said Mr. George. "You will see that it is so when we get up to them." "_Up_ to them?" said Rollo. "You mean down to them." "No," said Mr. George. "The lakes are up quite high. Many of them are far up the sides of the mountains. The water, in leaving them, runs very rapidly, showing that there is a great descent in the land where they are flowing. Sometimes, in fact, these streams and rivers, after they leave the lakes, form great cataracts and cascades in getting down to the level country below. "But now," continued Mr. George, "I must go to my writing, and you may see what you can do about the diligence." So Mr. George went away towards his room, leaving Rollo to hang up the embossed map and then to determine how he should go to work to ascertain what he was to do. Rollo found less difficulty than he had anticipated in procuring places in the diligence. He first inquired of the clerk, at the office of the hotel. The clerk offered to send a porter with him to show him the way to the diligence office; but Rollo said that he would prefer to go himself alone, if the clerk would tell him in what part of the town it was. So the clerk gave Rollo the necessary direction, and Rollo went forth. He found the diligence office very easily. In fact, he recognized the place at once when he came near it, by seeing several diligences standing before it along the street. He entered under an archway. On entering, he observed several doors leading to various offices, with inscriptions over each containing the names of the various towns to which the several diligences were going. At length he found BERNE. Rollo did not know precisely in what way the business at such an office was to be transacted; but he had learned from past experience that all that was necessary in order to make himself understood in such cases was, to speak the principal words that were involved in the meaning that he was intending to convey, without attempting to make full and complete sentences of them. In cases where he adopted this mode of speaking he was accustomed usually to begin by saying that he could not speak French very well. Accordingly, in this instance he went to the place where the clerk was sitting and said,-- "I do not speak French very well. Diligence to Berne. Two places. Banquette." "Yes, yes," said the clerk. "I understand very well." The clerk then told him what the price would be of two seats on the banquette, and Rollo paid the money. The clerk then made out and signed two very formal receipts and gave them to Rollo. Rollo walked back towards the hotel, studying his receipts by the way; but he could not understand them, as they were in the German language. CHAPTER V. RIDE TO BERNE. At length the time arrived for the departure of our two travellers from Basle. A porter from the hotel carried their trunks to the diligence office, while Rollo and Mr. George walked. When they got to the place they found the diligence in the archway, and several men were employed in carrying up trunks and carpet bags to the top of it and stowing them away there. In doing this they ascended and descended by means of a long step ladder. The men took Mr. George's trunk and Rollo's and packed them away with the rest. There were several persons who looked like passengers standing near, waiting, apparently, for the diligence to be ready. Among them were two children, a girl and a boy, who seemed to be about Rollo's age. They were plainly but neatly dressed. They were sitting on a chest. The boy had a shawl over his arm, and the girl had a small morocco travelling bag in her hand. The girl looked a moment at Rollo as he came up the archway, and then cast her eyes down again. Her eyes were blue, and they were large and beautiful and full of meaning. There was a certain gentleness in the expression of her countenance which led Rollo to think that she must be a kindhearted and amiable girl. The boy looked at Rollo too, and followed him some time with his eyes, gazing at him as he came up the archway with a look of interest and curiosity. It was not yet quite time for the diligence to set out. In fact, the horses were not yet harnessed to it; and during the interval Rollo and Mr. George stood by, watching the process of getting the coach ready for the journey, and contrasting the appearance of the vehicle, and of the men employed about it, and the arrangements which they were making, with the corresponding particulars in the setting off of a stage coach as they had witnessed it in America. While doing this Rollo walked about the premises a little; and at length, finding himself near the two children on the chest, he concluded to venture to accost the boy. "Are you going in this diligence?" said he, speaking in French. "Yes," replied the boy. "So am I," said Rollo. "Can you speak English?" "Yes," said the boy. He spoke the yes in English. "Are you going to Berne?" asked Rollo. "I don't know," said the boy. The girl, who had been looking at Rollo during this conversation, here spoke, and said that they _were_ going to Berne. "We are going in that diligence," said she. "So am I," said Rollo. "I have got a seat on the banquette." "Yes," rejoined the boy. "I wished to have a seat on the banquette, so that I could see; but the seats were all engaged before my father went to the office; so we are going in the coupé; but I don't like it half so well." "Nor I," said the girl. "Where is your father?" asked Rollo. "He is gone," replied the boy, "with mother to buy something at a shop a little way from here. Lottie and I were tired, and so we preferred to stay here. But they are coming back pretty soon." "Are you all going to ride in the coupé?" said Rollo; "because, there will not be room. There is only room for three in the coupé." "I know it," said Lottie; "but then, as two of us are children, father thought that we could get along. Father had a plan for getting Adolphus a seat in the interior; but he was not willing to go there, because, he said, he could not see." Just at this moment the father and mother of Adolphus and Lottie came up the archway into the court yard where the diligence was standing. The horses had been brought out some minutes before and were now nearly harnessed. The gentleman seemed to be quite in a hurry as he came up; and, seeing that the horses were nearly ready, he said,-- "Now, children, get in and take your places as soon as possible." So they all went to the coach, and the gentleman attempted to open the door leading to the coupé. It was fastened. "Conductor," said he, speaking very eagerly to the conductor, who was standing near, "open this door!" "There is plenty of time," said the conductor. "There is no need of haste." However, in obedience to the request of the gentleman, the conductor opened the door; and the gentleman, helping his wife in, first, afterwards lifted the children in, and then got in himself. The conductor shut the door. "Come, uncle George," said Rollo, "is not it time for us to get up to our places?" "No," said Mr. George. "They will tell us when the proper time comes." So Mr. George and Rollo remained quietly standing by the side of the diligence while the hostlers finished harnessing the horses. Rollo during this time was examining with great interest the little steps and projections on the side of the coach by which he expected that he and Mr. George were to climb up to their places. It turned out in the end, however, that he was disappointed in his expectation of having a good climb; for, when the conductor was ready for the banquette passengers to take their places, he brought the step ladder and planted it against the side of the vehicle, and Mr. George and Rollo went up as easily as they would have gone up stairs. When the passengers were seated the step ladder was taken away, and a moment afterwards the postilion started the horses forward, and the ponderous vehicle began to move down the archway, the clattering of the horses' hoofs and the lumbering noise of the wheels sounding very loud in consequence of the echoes and reverberations produced by the sides and vaulting of the archway. As soon as the diligence reached the street the postilion began to crack his whip to the right and left in the most loud and vehement manner, and the coach went thundering on through the narrow streets of the town, driving every thing from before it as if it were a railway train going express. [Illustration: THE DILIGENCE AT THE OFFICE.] "Uncle George," exclaimed Rollo, "they have forgotten the conductor!" Rollo was, in fact, quite concerned for a few minutes lest the conductor should have been left behind. He knew where this official's proper seat was; namely, at the left end of the banquette--that is, at the right hand, as seen in the engraving; and as he was not there, and as he knew that all the other seats were full, he presumed, of course, that he had been left behind. He was relieved of these fears, however, very soon; for, to his great astonishment, he suddenly perceived the head of the conductor coming up the side of the coach, followed gradually by the rest of his body as he climbed up to his place. Rollo wondered how he could manage to get on and climb up, especially as the coach was at this time thundering along a descending portion of the street with a speed and uproar that was terrific. Rollo, though at first very much astonished at this performance of the conductor, afterwards ceased to wonder at it; for he found that the conductor could ascend and descend to and from his seat at any time without any difficulty, even while the horses were going at the top of their speed. If the snapper of the coachman's whip got caught in the harness so that he could not liberate it, as it often did on the road, the conductor would climb down, run forward to the horses, set the snapper free, fall back to the coach, catch hold of the side and climb up, the coachman cracking his whip as soon as it was freed, and urging on his horses to a gallop, without troubling himself at all to consider how the conductor was to get up again. But to return to the story. When Rollo found that the conductor was safe he amused himself by looking to the right and left into the windows of the houses at the second story. His seat was so high that he could do this very easily. Many of these windows were open, and persons were sitting at them, sewing or reading. At some of them groups of children were standing. They were looking out to see the diligence go by. The street was so narrow that Rollo found himself very near these persons as he passed by. "A little nearer," said he to his uncle George, "and I could shake hands with them." In a very few minutes the coach passed under a great arched gateway leading through the wall of the city, and thence over a sort of drawbridge which spanned the moat. Immediately afterwards it entered a region of smooth, green fields, and pretty rural houses, and gardens, which presented on every side very charming pictures to the view. "Now, uncle George," said Rollo, "won't we have a magnificent ride?" Rollo was not disappointed in his anticipations. He found the ride to Berne a very magnificent one indeed. The road was smooth and hard as a floor. From side to side it was flat and level, and all the ascents which it made were so gradual that the horses trotted on at their full speed, without any cessation, sweeping around long and graceful curves, which brought continually into view new landscapes, each one, as it seemed, more varied and beautiful than the one which had preceded it. From his lofty seat on the banquette Rollo looked abroad over a very wide extent of country; and when the coach stopped at the villages or post houses to change horses, he could look down with great advantage upon the fresh teams as they were brought out and upon the groups of hostlers and post boys employed in shifting the harness. He could hear, too, all that they said, though they generally talked so fast, and mingled their words with so much laughter and fun, that Rollo found that he could understand but little. [Illustration: THE DILIGENCE ON THE ROAD.] Rollo was particularly struck, as he was whirled swiftly along the road, by the appearance of the Swiss houses. They were very large, and were covered with a very broad roof, which extended so far over the walls on every side as to appear like a great, square, broad-brimmed hat. Under this roof were platforms projecting from the house, one on each story, like piazzas. These piazzas were very broad. They were bordered by balustrades on the outer edge, and were used for sheds, store houses, and tool rooms. There were wood piles, wagons, harrows, and other farming implements, bundles of straw, and stones piled up here and there upon them. In fact, the Swiss cottager has his house, and barn, and sheds, and outhouses all under one roof; and what there is not room for within he stores without upon these platforms. These houses were situated in the midst of the most beautiful fields and gardens, the whole forming a series of very charming landscapes. The view, too, as seen in many places along the road, was bounded at the south by a long line of snow-covered mountains, which glittered brilliantly in the sun and imparted an inexpressible fascination to the prospect. The diligence arrived at the city of Berne near night, and Mr. George and Rollo remained in that city until the next day at noon. Rollo was extremely interested in walking about the streets in the morning. In almost all the streets of Berne the second stories of the houses are extended over the sidewalks, the superincumbent masonry being supported by massive square pillars, built up from the edge of the sidewalk below, and by arches above. Of course, in going along the sidewalk the passenger is sheltered by the roof above him, and in the worst weather he can go all over the city without being exposed to the rain excepting at the street crossings. This arrangement is a very convenient one, certainly, for rainy weather; but it gives the streets a very gloomy and forbidding appearance at other times. Still Rollo was very much amused in walking along under these arcades; the more so because, in addition to the shops in the buildings themselves, there were usually stalls and stands, between and around the pillars, filled with curious things of all sorts, which were for sale; so that in walking along he had a display of goods on both sides of him. These goods consisted of toys, books, pictures, tools, implements, and curiosities, including a multitude of things which Rollo had never seen or heard of before. Berne is famous for bears. The bear is, in fact, the emblem of the city, and of the canton, or province, in which Berne is situated. There is a story that in very ancient times, when Berchtold, the original founder of the city, was beginning to build the walls, a monstrous bear came out of the woods to attack him. Berchtold, with the assistance of the men who were at work with him on the walls, killed the bear. They gloried greatly in this exploit, and they preserved the skin and claws of the bear for a long time as the trophy of their victory. Afterwards they made the bear their emblem. They painted the figure of the animal on their standards. They made images and effigies of him to ornament their streets, and squares, and fountains, and public buildings. They stamped the image of him on their coins; and, to this day, you see figures of the bear every where in Berne. Carved images of Bruin in every attitude are for sale in the shops; and, not contented with these lifeless symbols, the people of Berne for a long time had a pit, or den, similar to those in the Garden of Plants at Paris, where they kept living specimens for a long time.[4] This den was just without the gates of the city. The guide book which Rollo read as he was coming into Berne, to see what it said about the city, stated that there was one bear in the garden at that time; and he wished very much to go and see it, but he did not have a very convenient opportunity. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 4: See Rollo in Paris for an account of these dens for bears in the Garden of Plants.] CHAPTER VI. THE VALLEY OF THE AAR. After spending several hours in Berne and wondering greatly at the many strange things which they saw there, Mr. George and Rollo took their passage in another diligence for Thun, which was a town still farther in towards the heart of Switzerland on the way to Interlachen. It took only three or four hours to go to Thun. The town, they found, was small, compact, surrounded by walls, and very delightfully situated at the end of a long lake, which extended from that point very far in among the mountains. There was one thing very remarkable about Thun, at least it seemed very remarkable to Rollo, although he found afterwards that it was a common thing in Switzerland; and that was, that the hotels were all outside the town. There was reason in this; for the town--though it was a very curious and romantic place, with a church on a terraced hill at one end of it, surrounded with a beautifully ornamented church yard, with seats and bowers here and there at the corners of it, which overlooked the country and commanded charming views of the lake and mountains--was still, in the main, very contracted and confined, and hotels would not be pleasantly situated in it. A little beyond the town, however, on the margin of the lake, was a delightful region of gardens and pleasure grounds, with four or five very handsome hotels among them. Mr. George and Rollo stopped to dine at one of these hotels. From the windows of it there were the most brilliant and charming prospects of the lake and the surrounding mountains on one side, and on the other a view of the town and of two or three very pretty little steamboats lying at a pier. Behind the hotel the land very soon ascended rapidly, the ascent terminating at last in crags and precipices which towered at a vast height above. Among these heights Rollo saw a sort of pavilion, built on a small projecting point of a hill, four or five hundred feet, perhaps, above the hotel. "Do you think any body can get up there?" said he to his uncle George. They were standing, when Rollo said this, on the back piazza of the hotel--a very beautiful place, looking out upon green lawns and gardens. "Certainly," said Mr. George. "They would not have built such a lookout as that without making a way to get to it." "Then let's go up there," said Rollo, "and see what we can see." "Very well," said Mr. George; "lead the way, and I will follow." "Well, come," said Rollo, moving on. "I am not sure that I can find the way; but I'll try." So saying, Rollo chose from among several broad and smooth gravel walks which he saw diverging from the house in various directions, among the groves and copses of shrubbery that ornamented the grounds behind it, the one which seemed to turn most nearly in the right direction; and, running along before, he was soon out of sight of the hotel. The path meandered gracefully among shrubs, and flowers, and pretty green openings a little way, and then began to ascend the hill, sometimes in a winding course and sometimes by zigzags. There were seats placed here and there at proper points for rest. At length both Rollo and Mr. George were surprised to find coming suddenly into view a small building, which stood in a very romantic and picturesque spot about half way up the hill, which proved, on examination, to be a little chapel. It was an Episcopal chapel, built here by the proprietor of the hotel for the accommodation of his English guests on Sundays. There are a great many English travellers in Switzerland, more perhaps from that nation than from any other, and the English people are very much pleased with the opportunity to worship God, when in foreign lands, according to the rites and usages of their own national church. Americans, on the other hand, when travelling, generally prefer to attend churches in which the worship is conducted according to the usages of the people in whose country they chance to be. After looking at the little English chapel as long as they wished, our two travellers went on up the path. The ascent soon became very steep, and the way led through close woods, which allowed of no opportunity to see, except that now and then a brief glimpse was obtained of the hotel, with the gardens and grounds around it, and the gentlemen and ladies walking upon the piazza in the rear of it. After about a quarter of an hour of hard climbing up a wild and romantic but very smooth and well made path the two young gentlemen reached the pavilion. Here a boundless and most magnificent prospect was opened before them. Rollo was bewildered with astonishment and delight; and even Mr. George, who was usually very cool and quiet on such occasions, seemed greatly pleased. I shall not, however, attempt to describe the view; for, though a fine view from an elevated point among lakes and mountains is a very exciting thing actually to witness and enjoy, it is by no means an interesting thing to describe. "What a magnificent prospect!" said Rollo. Rollo, as he said this, was looking down at the more near and distinctly detailed objects which were to be seen directly below him at the bottom of the hill, towards the right--such as the hotels, the gardens, the roads, the pier, the steamboats, and the town. The attention of Mr. George, however, was attracted by the more grand and sublime features of the view which were to be seen in the other direction--the lake, the forests, and the mountains. The mountains that were near were darkened by the groves of evergreens that clothed their sides, and some of them were made more sombre still by the shadows of floating clouds; while over these there towered the glittering summits of more distant ranges, white with everlasting snow. "How cold they look!" said Mr. George; "how icy cold!" "How little they look! how very little! See, uncle George," said Rollo, pointing; "they are really good large steamboats, and you would think they were only playthings." "There are some men walking along the road," continued Rollo, "just like little dots." "See the banks of snow on that mountain, Rollo!" said Mr. George. "They look like drifts of dry, light snow, as they shine in the sun on a bitter cold winter day." "Why doesn't it melt?" asked Rollo. "Because it is up so high," said Mr. George. "As you go up in the air from the surface of the earth the air grows colder and colder, until at last, when you get up to a certain height, it is cold enough to freeze." "Is it so every where?" asked Rollo. "Yes," said Mr. George. "If you were to put some water into a vial and tie it to the tail of a kite, and send it up into the air _high enough_, the water would freeze, and when it came down you would find the water turned into ice." "Should I?" asked Rollo. "Would it if I were to send the kite up in America?" "Yes," said Mr. George, "any where, all over the earth." "I mean to try it," said Rollo. "You can't try it very well," replied Mr. George; "for you could not easily send a kite up high enough. It would take a very long time." "How long?" asked Rollo. "Why, that depends upon what part of the earth it is that you make the experiment in," replied Mr. George. "At the equator, where the sun is very hot, you would have to go up very high. In temperate regions, as in Switzerland or in most parts of America, you would not have to go up so high; and farther north, near the pole, it is only necessary to go up a very little way." "And how high must we go up in Switzerland?" asked Rollo. "About eight or nine thousand feet, I believe," said Mr. George. "Some of the Alpine summits are sixteen thousand feet high; and so the ice and snow lie upon the upper portions of them all the time." The young gentlemen remained some time longer in the pavilion, gazing upon the stupendous scenery around them, and looking down the lake which lay before them in the bottom of a deep and narrow valley and extended in among the mountains much farther than they could see. "We are going along that lake," said Rollo "are we not?" "Yes," said Mr. George; "it is the Lake of Thun." "We are going in one of the steamboats that are lying at the pier, are we not?" said Rollo. "Yes," said Mr. George; "unless you would prefer going along the shore." "Is there a road along the shore?" asked Rollo. "Yes," said Mr. George; "there are two, I believe, one on each side of the lake. These roads run along at the foot of the mountains, far enough, however, above the level of the lake to enable us to enjoy excellent views of it. But we cannot see the mountains from it as well as we can from the lake itself." "Then," said Rollo, "if we go by the road we can see the lake best; and if we go by the steamboat we can see the mountains best." "Yes," said Mr. George; "that is the state of the case, exactly." "Then I think we had better go by the boat," said Rollo; "for I would rather see the mountains." "So would I," rejoined Mr. George. "Besides, there will be plenty of occasions on which we shall be obliged to go by land; therefore we had better go by water when we can, in order to have a variety. And, if we are going in the steamer, we must go back to the hotel; for it is almost time for the steamer to sail." So Mr. George led the way, and Rollo followed, down the path by which they had come up. As they thus walked down they continued the conversation which they had commenced in the pavilion. "What shall we come to when we get to the end of the lake?" asked Rollo. "Does the lake reach to the end of the valley?" "No," said Mr. George. "The valley is about fifty miles long, I suppose, and this lake is only about fifteen miles long; but there is another in the same valley a little farther on. The valley is the valley of the Aar. That is the name of the stream which flows through it. It is one of the most remarkable valleys in Switzerland. I have been studying it in the guide book and on the map. It is about fifty miles long, and it winds in a serpentine manner between two lofty ranges of mountains, so steep and high that it is not possible to make any road over them." "None at all?" asked Rollo. "No," replied Mr. George. "They cannot make any road--nothing but bridle paths. The mountains, too, that border the valley along the sides close across at the head of it; so that if you go up the valley at all you cannot get out of it without climbing over the mountains; unless, indeed, you are willing to come back the same way that you went." "I would rather climb over the mountains," said Rollo. "So would I," said Mr. George. "The beginning of this valley," continued Mr. George "is in the very heart of the most mountainous part of Switzerland, and the River Aar commences there in prodigious cascades and waterfalls, which come down over the cliffs and precipices or gush out from enormous crevices and chasms, and make quite a river at the very beginning." "Can we go there and see them?" said Rollo. "Yes," replied Mr. George; "I mean to go and see them. The place is called Meyringen. The cascades and waterfalls at Meyringen are wonderful. One of them, the guide book says, makes dreadful work in times of flood. It comes out from a great chasm in the rocks in the face of a precipice at a vast height from the ground; and, in times of flood, it brings down such a mass of sand, gravel, stones, rubbish, and black mud as sometimes to threaten to overwhelm the village." "Is there a village there?" asked Rollo. "Yes," said Mr. George; "the village of Meyringen. This waterfall comes down out of the mountain just back of the village; and they have had to build up an immense wall, a quarter of a mile long and twenty or thirty feet high, to keep the torrent of mud and sand out of the streets. Once it broke through and filled up the church four feet deep all over the floor with mud, and gravel, and stones. Some of the stones were bigger than your head." Rollo was very much interested in hearing this account of the Fall of Alpbach,--for that was the name of this unmanageable cataract,--and expressed a very strong desire to go to Meyringen and see it. "We will go," said Mr. George. "It lies at the head of the valley of the Aar, which we are now entering. The River Aar, after being formed by these cataracts and cascades, flows through the valley, making two long lakes in its course. This Lake of Thun is the second one. The other is the Lake of Brienz. The upper end of the Lake of Thun is a few miles only from the lower end of the Lake of Brienz; and Interlachen is between the two." [Illustration: THE LAKE SHORE.] About an hour after this conversation our two travellers might have been seen sitting together upon the deck of the little steamer which was paddling its way merrily along the lake, and occupying themselves in viewing and talking about the extraordinary spectacle presented by the slopes of the mountains which bordered the lake on either side, and which seemed to shut the lake in, as it were, between two immense walls of green. Rollo was extremely interested, as he sailed along, in viewing these mountain slopes, exploring the landscape carefully in every part, studying out all the objects of interest which it contained--the forests, the cultivated fields, the great Swiss cottages, the pasturages, the little chalets, the zigzag paths leading up and down, and all the other picturesque and striking characteristics of a Swiss landscape. The slopes were very beautiful, and densely inhabited; and they were really very steep, though they looked much steeper than they were, as all hills and slopes do to a person looking upon them from below and facing them. "It seems," said Rollo to Mr. George, "as if two broad strips of green country were set up on edge for us to see them as we are sailing along." "Yes," said Mr. George; "with all the houses, farms, pasturages, flocks of sheep, and herds of cattle clinging to the sides of them." The chief charm, however, of the views which presented themselves to the young travellers as they glided along the lake was the glittering refulgence of the snow-clad peaks which appeared here and there through openings among the nearer mountains. The view of these peaks was occasionally obstructed by masses of vapor which were floating along the tops of the mountain ranges; but still they were seen frequently enough to fill the minds both of Rollo and Mr. George with wonder and delight. After gazing at this scenery for nearly an hour until his curiosity in respect to it was in some measure satisfied, Rollo began to turn his attention to his fellow-travellers on board the steamer. These travellers were seated singly or in groups about the deck of the little vessel, and they were all tourists, journeying for pleasure. Here was a small group of young men--students apparently--with knapsacks on their backs, spyglasses strapped to their sides, and maps and guide books in their hands. There was a young lady seated with her father, both dressed for the mountains, and gazing with curiosity and wonder on the views presented along the shores of the lake. In another place was a family of parents and children--the father studying a map which he had spread open upon his knees, the mother sitting by his side, silent and thoughtful, as if her mind was far away, dwelling, perhaps, upon the little ones which had been left at home because they were too young to be taken on such a tour. Some of these people were talking French, some English, and some German. Rollo looked about upon these various groups for a time, and then said,-- "Are all these travellers going to see the mountains, do you suppose, uncle George?" "Yes," said Mr. George; "I suppose so. There is very little travelling in Switzerland except pleasure travelling. I presume they are all going to see the mountains and the other scenery of the country." "I should not think that the ladies could climb up the mountains very high," said Rollo. "Yes," said Mr. George, "they can; for in almost all places where people wish to go there are excellent paths. Where it is too steep for roads the mountaineers make zigzag paths, not only for travellers, but for themselves, in order that they may go up and down to their chalets and pasturages. The people of the country have been making and improving these paths now for two thousand years or more, and they have got them at last in very excellent condition; so that, except the steepness, they are very easy and very comfortable." "Why, uncle George," said Rollo, "look!" So saying, Rollo pointed his finger out over the water. The mountains had suddenly and entirely disappeared. The vapors and clouds which they had seen floating among them half an hour before had become dense and continuous, and had, moreover, settled down over the whole face of the country in such a manner as to shut out the mountains wholly from view. Nothing was to be seen but the water of the lake, with a margin of low and level but beautiful country along the shores of it. In fact, there was nothing but the smallness of the steamer and the costumes and character of the passengers to prevent Rollo and Mr. George from supposing that they were steaming it from New York to Albany, up the North River, in America. CHAPTER VII. INTERLACHEN. About eight o'clock on the morning after our travellers arrived at Interlachen Rollo awoke, and, rising from his bed, he walked to the window and looked out, expecting to find before him a very grand prospect of Alpine scenery; but there was nothing of the kind to be seen. Before the house was a garden, with a broad gravel walk leading out through it to the road. On each side of this walk were parterres of shrubbery and flowers. There were also two side approaches, wide enough for roads. They came from the main road through great open gates, at a little distance to the right and left of the hotel. The main road, which was broad and perfectly level, extended in front of the house; and two or three Swiss peasants, in strange costume, were passing by. Beyond were green and level fields, with fruit and forest trees rising here and there among them, forming a very rich and attractive landscape. The sky was covered with clouds, though they were very fleecy and bright, and in one place the sun seemed just ready to break through. "I thought Interlachen was among the mountains," said Rollo to himself; "and here I am in the middle of a flat plain. "I will go and see uncle George," he continued after a moment's pause, "and ask him what it means." So Rollo opened the door of his room and went out into what in America would be called the entry, or hall. He found himself in a long corridor paved with stone, and having broad stone staircases leading up and down from it to the different stories. In one place there was a passage way which led to a window that seemed to be on the back side of the hotel. Rollo went there to look out, in order to see what the prospect might be in that direction. He saw first the gardens and grounds of the hotel, extending for a short distance in the rear of the building, and beyond them he obtained glimpses of a rapidly running stream. The water was very turbid. It boiled and whirled incessantly as it swept swiftly along the channel. "Ah," said Rollo, "that is the River Aar, I suppose, flowing through Interlachen from one lake to the other. I thought I should see it somewhere here; but I did not know whether it was before the hotels or behind them." A short distance beyond the stream Rollo saw the lower part of a perpendicular precipice of gray rock. All except the lower part of this precipice was concealed by the fogs and clouds, which seemed to settle down so low upon the landscape in all directions as to conceal almost every thing but the surface of the ground. "I wonder how high that precipice is," said Rollo to himself. "I wonder whether I could climb up to the top of it," he continued, still talking to himself, "if I could only find some way to get across the river? There must be some way, I suppose. Perhaps there is a bridge." Rollo then turned his eye upward to look at the clouds. In one place there seemed to be a break among them, and the fleecy masses around the break were slowly moving along. The place where Rollo was looking was about the middle of the sky; that is, about midway between the horizon and the zenith.[5] While Rollo was looking at this break, which seemed, while he looked at it, to brighten up and open more and more, he saw suddenly, to his utter amazement, a large green tree burst into view in the midst of it, and then disappear again a moment afterwards as a fresh mass of cloudy vapor drifted over. Rollo was perfectly bewildered with astonishment. To see a green tree, clear and distinct in form and bright with the beams of the sun which just at that instant caught upon it, breaking out to view suddenly high up among the clouds of the sky, seemed truly an astonishing spectacle. Rollo had scarcely recovered from the first emotion of his surprise before the clouds parted again, wider than before, and brought into view, first a large mass of foliage, which formed the termination of a grove of trees; then a portion of a smooth, green field, with a flock of sheep feeding upon it, clinging apparently to the steep slope like flies to a wall; and finally a house, with a little blue smoke curling from the chimney. Rollo was perfectly beside himself with astonishment and delight at this spectacle; and he determined immediately to go and ask his uncle to come and see. He accordingly left the window and made all haste to his uncle's door. He knocked. His uncle said, "Come in." Rollo opened the door. His uncle was standing by the window of his room, looking out. This was on the front side of the hotel. "Uncle George!" said Rollo, "Uncle George! Come and look out with me at the back window. There is a flock of sheep feeding in a green field away up in the sky!" "Come and look here!" said Mr. George. So Rollo went to the window where Mr. George was standing, and his astonishment at what he saw was even greater than before. The clouds had separated into great fleecy masses and were slowly drifting away, while through the openings that appeared in them there were seen bright and beautiful views of groves, green pasturages, smiling little hamlets and villages, green fields, and here and there dark forests of evergreen trees, with peaks of rocks or steep precipices peeping out among them. At one place, through an opening or gap in the nearer mountains, there could be seen far back towards the horizon the broad sides and towering peak of a distant summit, which seemed to be wholly formed of vast masses of ice and snow, and which glittered with an inexpressible brilliancy under the rays of the morning sun. "That is the Jungfrau,"[6] said Mr. George. "That great icy mountain?" said Rollo. "Yes," said Mr. George. "Can we get up to the top of it?" asked Rollo. "No," said Mr. George. "People tried for more than a thousand years to get to the top of the Jungfrau before they could succeed." "And did they succeed at last?" asked Rollo. "Yes," replied Mr. George. "You see there is a sort of goatlike animal, called the _chamois_,[7] which the peasants and mountaineers are very fond of hunting. These animals are great climbers, and they get up among the highest peaks and into the most dangerous places; and the hunters, in going into such places after them, become at last very expert in climbing, and sometimes they become ambitious of surpassing each other, and each one wishes to see how high he can get. So one time, about twenty-five years ago, a party of six of these hunters undertook to get to the top of the Jungfrau, and at last they succeeded. But it was a dreadfully difficult and dangerous operation. It was fifteen miles' steep climbing." "Not steep climbing all the way," said Rollo. "No," said Mr. George, "I suppose not all the way. There must have been some up-and-down work, and some perhaps tolerably level, for the first ten miles; but the last five must have been a perpetual scramble among rocks and ice and over vast drifts of snow, with immense avalanches thundering down the mountain sides all around them." "I wish I could go and see them," said Rollo. "You can go," replied Mr. George. "There is a most excellent chance to see the face of the Jungfrau very near; for there is another mountain this side of it, with a narrow valley between. This other mountain is called the Wengern Alp. It is about two thirds the height of the Jungfrau, and is so near it that from the top of it, or near the top, you can see the whole side of the Jungfrau rising right before you and filling half the sky, and you can see and hear the avalanches thundering down the sides of it all day long." Rollo was quite excited at this account, and was very eager to set off as soon as possible to go up the Wengern Alp. "How do we get there?" asked he. "You see this great gap in the near mountains," said Mr. George, pointing. "Yes," said Rollo. "That gap," continued Mr. George, "is the mouth of a valley. I have been studying it out this morning in my guide book. There is a good carriage road leading up this valley. It is called the valley of the Lütschine, because that is the name of the river which comes down through it. In going up this valley for the first two or three miles we are going directly towards the Jungfrau." "Yes," said Rollo. "That I can see very plainly." This was indeed very obvious; for the Jungfrau, from the windows of the hotel, was seen through the great gap in the near mountains which Mr. George had pointed out as the mouth of the valley of the Lütschine. In fact, had it not been for that gap in the near mountains, the great snow-covered summit could not have been seen from the hotels at all. "We go up that valley," continued Mr. George, "about three miles, and then we come to a fork in it; that is, to a place where the valley divides into two branches, one turning off to the right and the other to the left. Directly ahead there is an enormous precipice, I don't know how many thousand feet high, of bare rock. "One of these branch valleys," continued Mr. George, "leads up to one side of the Wengern Alp and the Jungfrau, and the other to the other side. We may take the right-hand valley and go up five or six miles to Lauterbrunnen, or we may take the left-hand branch and go up to Grindelwald. Which way do you think we had better go?" "I do not know," said Rollo. "Can we get up to the Wengern Alp from either valley?" "Yes," said Mr. George. "We can go up from one of these valleys, and then, after stopping as long as we choose on the Alp, we can continue our journey and so come down into the other, and thus see them both. One of the valleys is famous for two great glaciers that descend into it. The other is famous for immense waterfalls that come down over the precipices at the sides." "Let us go first and see the waterfalls," said Rollo. "Well," said Mr. George, "we will. We shall have to turn to the right in that case and go to Lauterbrunnen. When we get to Lauterbrunnen we shall have to leave our carriage and take horses to go up to the Wengern Alp. The way is by a steep path, formed in zigzags, right up the sides of the mountains." "How far is it?" asked Rollo. "I don't know precisely," said Mr. George; "but it is a good many miles. It takes, at any rate, several hours to go up. We can stop at the Wengern Alp as long as we please and look at the Jungfrau and the avalanches, and after that go on down into the valley of Grindelwald on the other side, and so come home." "But how can we get our carriage?" asked Rollo. "O, they send the carriage back, I believe," said Mr. George, "from Lauterbrunnen to the great precipice at the fork of the valley." Mr. George, having thus finished his account of the topography of the route to the Wengern Alp, went away from the window and returned to the table where he had been employed in writing some letters just before Rollo had come in. Rollo was left at the window. He leaned his arms upon the sill, and, looking down to the area below, amused himself with observing what was going on there. There were several persons standing or sitting upon the piazza. Presently he heard the sound of wheels. A carriage came driving up towards the door. A postilion was riding upon one of the horses. There were two servants sitting on the box; and there was a seat behind, where another servant and the lady's maid were sitting. The carriage stopped, the door was opened, and a lady and gentleman with two boys, all dressed like travellers, got out, and were ushered into the house with great civility by the landlord. The baggage was taken off and carried in, and then the carriage was driven away round the corner. This was an English nobleman and his family, who were making the tour of Switzerland, and were going to spend a few days at Interlachen on the way. As soon as the bustle produced by this arrival had subsided, Rollo's attention was attracted by a very sweet musical sound which seemed to be produced by something coming along the road. "What can that be, I wonder?" said he to himself. Then in a little louder tone, but without turning round,-- "Uncle George, here is some music coming. What do you think it is?" Mr. George paused a moment to listen, and then went on with his writing. The mystery was soon solved; for, in a few moments after Rollo had spoken, he saw a large flock of goats coming along. These goats all had bells upon their necks,--or at least a great many of them were so provided,--and these bells, having a soft and sweet tone, produced, when their sounds were blended together, an enchanting harmony. The goats walked demurely along, driven by one or two goatherds who were following them, and soon disappeared behind the trees and shrubbery. Very soon after their forms had disappeared from view the music of their bells began to grow fainter and fainter until it ceased to be heard. "It was a flock of goats going by," said Rollo. Rollo next heard voices; and, turning in the direction whence the sounds proceeded, he saw a party of young men coming up towards the door of the hotel along the gravelled avenue. This was a party of German students making the tour of Switzerland on foot. They had knapsacks on their backs, and stout walking sticks and guide books in their hands. They came up talking and laughing together, full of hilarity and glee; and yet some of them seemed very tired. They had walked six miles that morning, and were now going to stop at this hotel for breakfast. Rollo listened to their conversation; but, as it was in the German language, he could not understand one word that they were saying. "Dear me!" said he; "I wish that every body would talk either French or English." As soon as the students had passed on into the inn Rollo heard another carriage coming. He looked and found that it was a _char à banc_. A char à banc is a small, one-horse carriage, which looks upon the outside very much like what is called a carryall in America, only it is much narrower. It differs very much, however, from a carryall within; for it has only a seat for two persons, and that is placed sideways, with the end to the horses. You ride in it, therefore, sideways, as you do in an omnibus, only in an omnibus there are two seats, one on each side, and the door is at the end; whereas in the char à banc there is a seat only on one side, and the door is opposite to it on the other. The seat is large and comfortable, being very much like a short sofa. Some people, therefore, describe a char à banc as a sofa placed endwise on wheels. The char à banc stopped before the door of the hotel; and the coachman, getting down from his seat in front, opened the door. A very dignified-looking gentleman stepped out; and, after standing a moment on the piazza to give some directions about his portmanteau, he went into the office of the hotel. Rollo, looking down from the window of his uncle George's room, could see all these things very plainly; for the roof which protected the piazza from the rain was up at the top of the hotel, and therefore did not interfere with his view. After having made the above-described observations from the window, Rollo began to think that he would like to go down below to the door, where he thought he could see what was going on to better advantage. "Uncle George," said he, "when are you going down to breakfast?" "In about half an hour," said Mr. George. "I have got another letter to write." "Then I believe I will go down now," said Rollo, "and wait there till you come." "Very well," said Mr. George; "and please order breakfast, and then it will be all ready when I get my letter finished." "What shall I order?" asked Rollo. "I don't know," said Mr. George. "I don't know what it is the fashion to have for breakfast here. Ask them what they have got, and then choose for yourself and me." So Rollo, putting on his cap, went down stairs. He stood for a little time on the piazza, looking at the strange dresses of the people that were sitting or standing there and listening to the outlandish sounds of the foreign languages which they were speaking. At a little distance out upon the gravel walk, near the shrubbery, were a party of guides waiting to be hired for mountain excursions. Some of these guides were talking with travellers, forming plans, or agreeing upon the terms on which they were to serve. Rollo, after observing these groups a little time, walked along the piazza towards a place where he saw an open door in another large building, which, being connected with the piazza, evidently belonged to the hotel. In fact, it was a sort of wing. As there were people going in and out at this door, Rollo thought that he could go in too. He accordingly walked along in that direction. Before he reached the door he came to a place which, though open to the air, was covered with a roof, and was so enclosed by the buildings on three sides as to make quite a pleasant little nook. It was ornamented by various shrubs and flowers which grew from tubs and large pots arranged against the sides of it. There were several tables in this space, with chairs around them, and one or two parties of young men were taking their breakfast here. "This will be a good place for uncle George and me to have our breakfast," said Rollo to himself, "and we can see the Jungfrau all the time while we are eating it." Rollo then went on into the open door. He found himself ushered into a very large and beautiful drawing room. There were a great many sofas arranged around the sides of it, on which parties of ladies and gentlemen were sitting talking together; while other gentlemen, their hats in their hands, were standing before them or walking about the floor. There was no carpet; but the floor was formed of dark wood highly polished, and was very beautiful. There was a fireplace in one corner of this room; but there was no fire in it. No fire was necessary; for it was a warm and pleasant morning. On the front side of the room was a row of windows looking out towards the road. On the back side was a door opening to another large room, where Rollo saw a table spread and several people sitting at it eating their breakfast. "Ah," said Rollo, "there is the dining room! I will go in there and see what we can have for breakfast." So he walked through the drawing room and entered the room beyond. He found that this inner room was quite a spacious apartment; and there were one or two long tables extending the whole length of it. There were various separate parties sitting at these tables taking breakfast. Some were just beginning. Some had just ended. Some were waiting for their breakfast to be brought in. Near where Rollo was standing two gentlemen were seated at the table, with a map of Switzerland spread before them; and, instead of being occupied with breakfast, they were planning some excursion for the day. Rollo looked out a vacant place at the table and took his seat. A waiter came to him to know what he would have. "I want breakfast for two," said Rollo, "my uncle and myself. What have you got for us?" The waiter repeated a long list of very nice things that he could give Rollo and his uncle for breakfast. From among these Rollo chose a beef steak, some hot rolls and butter, some honey, and some coffee. The waiter went out to prepare them. In about ten minutes Mr. George came down. He took his seat by the side of Rollo; and very soon afterwards the waiter brought in what had been ordered. Rollo liked the breakfast very much, especially the honey. It is very customary to have honey for breakfast in Switzerland. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 5: The zenith is the point in the heavens that is directly over our heads.] [Footnote 6: Pronounced _Yoongfrow_.] [Footnote 7: Pronounced _shamwawh_.] CHAPTER VIII. LAUTERBRUNNEN. "Come, uncle George," said Rollo, "make haste. We are all ready." Rollo was sitting in a char à banc when he said this, at the door of the hotel. He and his uncle were going to make an excursion up the valley of the Lütschine to Lauterbrunnen, and thence to ascend the Wengern Alp, in order to see the avalanches of the Jungfrau; and Rollo was in haste to set out. "Come, uncle George," said he, "make haste." Mr. George was coming out of the hotel slowly, talking with the landlord. "The guide will take you to Lauterbrunnen," said the landlord, "in the char à banc; and then he will send the char à banc back down the valley to the fork, and thence up to Grindelwald to wait for you there. You will go up to the Wengern Alp from Lauterbrunnen; and then, after staying there as long as you please, you will keep on and come down to Grindelwald on the other side, where you will find the carriage ready for you.[8] But it seems to me that you had better take another horse." "No," said Mr. George. "One will do very well." Mr. George had a carpet bag in his hand. It contained nightdresses, to be used in case he and Rollo should conclude to spend the night on the mountain. He put the carpet bag into the carriage, and then got in himself. The landlord shut the door, and the coachman drove away. Thus they set out on their excursion. This excursion to the Wengern Alp was only one of many similar expeditions which Rollo and Mr. George made together while they were in Switzerland. As, however, it is manifestly impossible to describe the whole of Switzerland in so small a volume as this, I shall give a narrative of the ascent of the Wengern Alp as a sort of specimen of these excursions. I think it better that I should give a minute and particular account of one than a more vague and general, and so less satisfactory, account of several of them. Rollo had taken the precaution to have the curtains of the char à banc rolled up, so that he and Mr. George could see out freely on all sides of them as they rode along. The view which was first presented to their observation was that of the lawns and gardens in the midst of which the hotels were situated. These grounds were connected together by walks--some straight, others winding--which passed through bowers and gateways from one enclosure to the other. In these walks various parties were strolling; some were gathering flowers, others were gazing at the mountains around, and others still were moving quietly along, going from one hotel to another for the purpose of taking a pleasant morning walk or to make visits to their friends. The whole scene was a bright and very animated one; but Rollo had not time to observe it long; for the char à banc, after moving by a graceful sweep around a copse of shrubbery, passed out through a great gateway in the road, and the hotels and all that pertained to them were soon hidden from view by the great trees which grew along the roadside before them. The coachman, or rather the guide,--for the man who was driving the char à banc was the one who was to act as guide up the mountain when they reached Lauterbrunnen,--turned soon into a road which led off towards the gap, or opening, in the nearer mountains which Mr. George and Rollo had seen from the windows of the hotel. The road was very smooth and level, and the two travellers, as they rode along, had a fine view of the fields, the hamlets, and the scattered cottages which bordered the road on the side to which their faces were turned. "This char à banc," said Rollo, "is an excellent carriage for seeing the prospect on _one_ side of the road." "Yes," said Mr. George; "but there might be the most astonishing spectacle in Switzerland on the other side without our knowing any thing about it unless we turned round expressly to see." So saying, Mr. George turned in his seat and looked at that side of the road which had been behind them. There was a field there, and a young girl about seventeen years old--with a very broad-brimmed straw hat upon her head, and wearing a very picturesque costume in other respects--was seen digging up the ground with a hoe. The blade of the hoe was long, and it seemed very heavy. The girl was digging up the ground by standing upon the part which she had already dug and striking the hoe down into the hard ground a few inches back from where she had struck before. "Do the women work in the fields every where in Switzerland, Henry?" said Mr. George. The guide's name was Henry. He could not speak English, but he spoke French and German. Mr. George addressed him in French. "Yes, sir," said Henry; "in every part of Switzerland where I have been." "In America the women never work in the fields," said Mr. George. "Never?" asked Henry, surprised. "No," said Mr. George; "at least, I never saw any." "What do they do, then," asked Henry, "to spend their time?" Mr. George laughed. He told Rollo, in English, that he did not think he had any satisfactory answer at hand in respect to the manner in which the American ladies spent their time. "I pity that poor girl," said Rollo, "hoeing all day on such hard ground. I think the men ought to do such work as that." "The men have harder work to do," said Mr. George; "climbing the mountains to hunt chamois, or driving the sheep and cows up to the upper pasturages in places where it would be very difficult for women to go." "We must turn round every now and then," said Rollo, "and see what is behind us, or we may lose the sight of something very extraordinary." "Yes," said Mr. George; "I heard of a party of English ladies who once went out in a char à banc to see a lake. It happened that when they came to the lake the road led along the shore in such a manner that the party, as they sat in the carriage, had their backs to the water. So they rode along, looking at the scenery on the land side and wondering why they did not come to the lake. In this manner they continued until they had gone entirely around the lake; and then the coachman drove them home. When they arrived at the hotel they were astonished to find that they had got home again; and they called out to the coachman to ask where the lake was that they had driven out to see. He told them that he had driven them all round it!" Rollo laughed heartily at this story, and Henry would probably have laughed too if he had understood it; but, as Mr. George related it in English, Henry did not comprehend one word of the narration from beginning to end. In the mean time the horse trotted rapidly onward along the valley, which seemed to grow narrower and narrower as they proceeded; and the impending precipices which here and there overhung the road became more and more terrific. The Lütschine, a rapid and turbid stream, swept swiftly along--sometimes in full view and sometimes concealed. Now and then there was a bridge, or a mill, or some little hamlet of Swiss cottages to diversify the scene. Mr. George and Rollo observed every thing with great attention and interest. They met frequent parties of travellers returning from Grindelwald to Lauterbrunnen--some on foot, some on horseback, and others in carriages which were more or less spacious and elegant, according to the rank or wealth of the travellers who were journeying in them. At length they arrived at the fork of the valley. Here they gazed with astonishment and awe at the stupendous precipice which reared its colossal front before them and which seemed effectually to stop their way. On drawing near to it, however, it appeared that the valley divided into two branches at this point, as has already been explained. The road divided too. The branch which led to the right was the road to Lauterbrunnen. The one to the left Rollo supposed led to Grindelwald. To make it sure, he pointed to the left-hand road and said to Henry,-- "To Grindelwald?" "Yes, sir," said Henry, "to Grindelwald." The scenery now became more wild than ever. The valley was narrow, and on each side of it were to be seen lofty precipices and vast slopes of mountain land--some smooth and green, and covered, though very steep, with flocks and herds, and others feathered with dark evergreen forests, or covered with ragged rocks, or pierced with frightful chasms. Here and there a zigzag path was seen leading from hamlet to hamlet or from peak to peak up the mountain, with peasants ascending or descending by them and bearing burdens of every form and variety on their backs. In one case Rollo saw a woman bringing a load of hay on her back down the mountain side. The valley, bordered thus as it was with such wild and precipitous mountain sides, might have had a gloomy, or at least a very sombre, expression, had it not been cheered and animated by the waterfalls that came foaming down here and there from the precipices above, and which seemed so bright and sparkling that they greatly enlivened the scene. These waterfalls were of a great variety of forms. In some cases a thin thread of water, like the jet from a fire engine, came slowly over the brink of a precipice a thousand feet in the air, and, gliding smoothly down for a few hundred feet, was then lost entirely in vapor or spray. In other cases, in the depth of some deep ravine far up the mountain, might be seen a line of foam meandering for a short distance among the rocks and then disappearing. Rollo pointed to one of these, and then said to Mr. George,-- "Uncle, look there! There is a short waterfall half way up the mountain; but I cannot see where the water comes from or where it goes to." "No," said Mr. George. "It comes undoubtedly from over the precipice above, and it flows entirely down into the valley; but it only comes out to view for that short distance." "Why can't we see it all the way?" asked Rollo. "I suppose," said Mr. George, "it may flow for the rest of the way in the bottom of some deep chasms, or it may possibly be that it comes suddenly out of the ground at the place where we see it." "Yes," said Rollo. "I found a great stream coming suddenly out of the ground at Interlachen." "Where," asked Mr. George. "Right across the river," said Rollo. "I went over there this morning." "How did you get over?" said Mr. George. "I went over on a bridge," said Rollo. "I took a little walk up the road, and pretty soon I came to a bridge which led across the river. I went over, and then walked along the bank on the other side. There was only a narrow space between the river and the precipice. The ground sloped down from the foot of the precipice to the water. I found several very large springs breaking out in this ground. One of them was _very_ large. The water that ran from it made a great stream, large enough for a mill. It came up right out of the ground from a great hole all full of stones. The water came up from among the stones." "And where did it go to?" asked Mr. George. "O, it ran directly down into the river. The place was rather steep where it ran down, so that it made a cascade all the way." "I should like to have seen it," said Mr. George. "Yes," said Rollo; "it was very curious indeed to see a little river come up suddenly out of the ground from a great hole full of stones." Talking in this manner about what they had seen, our travellers went on till they came to Lauterbrunnen. They found a small village here, in the midst of which was a large and comfortable inn. There were a number of guides and several carriages in the yards of this inn, and many parties of travellers coming and going. The principal attraction of the valley, however, at this part of it, is an immense waterfall, called the Fall of the Staubach, which was to be seen a little beyond the village, up the valley. This is one of the most remarkable waterfalls in all Switzerland. A large stream comes over the brink of a precipice nearly a thousand feet high, and descends in one smooth and continuous column for some hundreds of feet, when it gradually breaks, and finally comes down upon the rocks below a vast mass of foam and spray. Rollo and Mr. George could see this waterfall and a great many other smaller ones which came streaming down over the faces of the precipices, along the sides of the valley, as they came up in the char à banc, before they reached the inn. "I don't see how such a large river gets to the top of such a high hill," said Rollo. That this question should have arisen in Rollo's mind is not surprising; for the top of the precipice where the Staubach came over seemed, in fact, the summit of a sharp ridge to any one looking up to it from the valley below; and Rollo did not imagine that there was any land above. The apparent wonder was, however, afterwards explained, when our travellers began to ascend the mountain on the other side of the valley that afternoon to go up to the Wengern Alp. The guide drove the char à banc to the door of the inn, and Mr. George and Rollo got out. They went into the inn and ordered dinner. "We are going to see the Staubach," said Mr. George to the waiter, "and we will be back in half an hour." "Very well," said the waiter; "your dinner shall be ready." So Mr. George and Rollo came out of the inn again in order to go and see the waterfall. They were beset at the door by a number of young men and boys, and also by several little girls, some of whom wanted to sell them minerals or flowers which they had gathered among the rocks around the waterfall; and others wished to guide them to the place. "To the Staubach? To the Staubach?" said they. "Want a guide? Want a guide?" They said this in the German language. Mr. George understood enough of German to know what they meant; but he could not reply in that language. So he said, in French,-- "No; we do not wish any guide. We can find the way to the Staubach ourselves. There it is, right before our eyes." Mr. George, while he was saying this, was taking out some small change from his pockets to give to the children. He gave a small coin apiece to them all. Seeing this, the boys who had wished to guide him to the Staubach became more clamorous than ever. "To the Staubach?" said they. "To the Staubach? Want a guide? Want a guide?" Mr. George paid no further attention to them; but, saying "Come, Rollo," walked on. The would-be guides followed him a short distance, still offering their services; but, finding soon that Mr. George would not have any thing more to say to them, they gradually dropped off and went back to the inn to try their fortune with the next arrival. Mr. George and Rollo walked on along a narrow road, which was bordered by queer, picturesque-looking huts and cottages on either hand, with gardens by the sides of them, in which women and girls were hoeing or weeding. They met two or three parties of ladies and gentlemen returning from the Staubach; and presently they came to a place where, close to the side of the road, was a small shop, before which a party of ladies and gentlemen had stopped, apparently to look at something curious. Mr. George and Rollo went to the place and found that it was a shop for the sale of carved toys and images such as are made in many parts of Switzerland to be sold to travellers for souvenirs of their tour through the country. There were shelves put up on the outside of the shop, each side of the door, and these shelves were covered with all sorts of curious objects carved in white or yellow fir, or pine. There were images of Swiss peasants with all sorts of burdens on their backs, and models of Swiss cottages, and needle boxes, and pin cases, and match boxes, and nut crackers, and groups of hunters on the rocks, or of goats or chamois climbing, and rulers ornamented with cameo-like carvings of wreaths and flowers, and with the word "Staubach" cut in ornamental letters. Rollo was greatly interested in this store of curiosities, so much so, in fact, that for the moment all thoughts of the Staubach were driven from his mind. "Let us buy some of these things, uncle George," said he. "And carry them over the Wengern Alp?" said Mr. George. "Yes," said Rollo. "They won't be very heavy. We can put them in the carpet bag." "Well," said Mr. George, "you may buy one or two specimens if you wish, but not many; for the guide has got the carpet bag to carry, and we must not make it very heavy." "Or we can send them in the carriage round to Grindelwald," said Rollo, "and not have to carry them at all." "So we can," said Mr. George. Rollo accordingly bought two Swiss cottages, very small ones, and a nut cracker. The nut cracker was shaped like a man's fist, with a hole in the middle of it to put the nut in. Then there was a handle, the end of which, when the handle was turned, was forced into the hollow of the fist by means of a screw cut in the wood, and this would crack the nut. While Rollo was paying for his toys he felt a small hand taking hold of his own, and heard a voice say, in English,-- "How do you do?" The English "How do you do?" is a strange sound to be heard in these remote Swiss valleys. Rollo turned round and saw a boy look up to him with a smile, saying again at the same time,-- "How do you do?" In a moment Rollo recognized the boy whom he had seen at Basle in the court yard of the diligence office while he had been waiting there for the horses to be harnessed. His sister Lottie was standing near; and she, as well as her brother, appeared to be much pleased at seeing Rollo again. Rollo had a few minutes' conversation with his young friends, and then they separated, as Rollo went on with his uncle to see the waterfall; while they, having already been with their father and mother to see it, went back to the inn. Mr. George had recommended to Rollo not to buy too many specimens of the carving, not only on account of the difficulty of transporting them, but also because he thought that they would probably find a great many other opportunities to purchase such things before they had finished their rambles in Switzerland. He was quite right in this supposition. In fact, Rollo passed three more stands for selling such things on the way to the Staubach. Mr. George and Rollo continued their walk along the road, looking up constantly at the colossal column of water before them, which seemed to grow larger and higher the nearer they drew to it. At length they reached the part of the road which was directly opposite to it. Here there was a path which turned off from the road and led up through the pasture towards the foot of the fall. The entrance to this path was beset by children who had little boxes full of crystals and other shining minerals which they wished to sell to visitors for souvenirs of the place. Mr. George and Rollo turned into this path and attempted to advance towards the foot of the fall; but they soon found themselves stopped by the spray. In fact, the whole region all around the foot of the fall, for a great distance, was so full of mist and driving spray that going into it was like going into a rain storm. Mr. George and Rollo soon found that they were getting thoroughly wet and that it would not do to go any farther. "And so," said Rollo, in a disappointed tone, "though we have taken the pains to come all this way to see the waterfall, we can't get near enough to see it after all." Mr. George laughed. "I wish we had brought an umbrella," said Rollo. "An umbrella would not have done much good," replied Mr. George. "The wind whirls about so much that it would drive the spray upon us whichever way we should turn the umbrella." "The path goes on a great deal nearer," said Rollo. "Somebody must go there, at any rate, without minding the spray." "Perhaps," said Mr. George, "when the wind is in some other quarter, it may blow the spray away, so that people can go nearer the foot of the fall without getting wet. At any rate, it is plain that we cannot go any nearer now." Saying these words, Mr. George led the way back towards the road, and Rollo followed him. After retreating far enough to get again into a dry atmosphere, they stopped and looked upward at the fall. It seemed an immense cataract coming down out of the sky. After gazing at the stupendous spectacle till their wonder and admiration were in some measure satisfied, they returned to the inn, where they found an excellent dinner all ready for them. While they were thus employed in eating their dinner, Henry was engaged in eating his, with at least as good an appetite, in company with the other guides, in the servants' hall. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 8: See the map at the commencement of the first chapter.] CHAPTER IX. THE WENGERN ALP. It was about twelve o'clock when Rollo and Mr. George, having finished their dinner, came out into the yard of the inn for the purpose of setting out for the ascent of the mountain. "Well, Rollo," said Mr. George, "now for a a scramble." Thus far the road which the young gentlemen had travelled since leaving Interlachen had been quite level and smooth, its course having been along the bottom of the valley, which was itself quite level, though shut in on both sides by precipitous mountains. Now they were to leave the valley and ascend one of these mountain sides by means of certain zigzag paths which had been made with great labor upon them, to enable the peasants to ascend and descend in going to and from their hamlets and pasturages. The paths, though very steep and very torturous, are smooth enough for horses to go up, though the peasants themselves very seldom use horses. A horse would eat as much grass, perhaps, as two cows. They prefer, therefore, to have the cows, and do without the horse. And so every thing which they wish to transport up and down the mountain they carry on their backs. There were various other guides in the yard of the inn besides Henry: some were preparing apparently for the ascent of the mountain with other parties; others were bringing up carriages for people who were going to return to Interlachen. Henry, when he saw Mr. George and Rollo coming out, asked them if they were ready. "Yes," said Mr. George. "Bring the horse. You shall ride first, Rollo." Mr. George was to have but one horse for himself and Rollo, and they were to ride it by turns. He thought that both he himself and Rollo would be able to walk half way up the mountain, and, by having one horse between them, each could ride half the way. Besides, it is less fatiguing, when you have a long and steep ascent to make, to walk some portion of the way rather than to be on horseback all the time. There was another consideration which influenced Mr. George. Every additional horse which should be required for the excursion would cost about two dollars a day, including the guide to take care of him; and, as Mr. George expected to spend at least two days on the excursion, it would cost four dollars more to take two horses than to take only one. "And I think," said Mr. George to Rollo, after having made this calculation, "we had better save that money, and have it to buy beautiful colored engravings of Swiss scenery with when we get to Geneva." "I think so too," said Rollo. So it was concluded to take but one horse with them, on the understanding that each of the travellers was to walk half the way. Rollo accordingly, when the horse was brought to the door, climbed up upon his back with the guide's assistance, and, after adjusting his feet to the stirrup, prepared to set out on the ascent. His heart was bounding with excitement and delight. When all was ready the party moved on, Rollo on the horse and Mr. George and Henry walking along by his side. They proceeded a short distance along the road, and then turned into a path which led towards the side of the valley opposite to the Staubach. They soon reached the foot of the slope, and then they began to ascend. The path grew more and more steep as they proceeded, until at length it became very precipitous; and in some places the horse was obliged to scramble up, as it were, as if he were going up stairs. Rollo clung to his seat manfully in all these places; and he would have been sometimes afraid were it not that, in every case where there could be even any apparent danger, Henry would come to his side and keep by him, ready to render assistance at a moment's notice whenever any should be needed. In this way the party moved slowly on up the face of the mountain, making many short turns and windings among the rocks and going back and forth in zigzags on the green declivities. Sometimes for a few minutes they would be lost in a grove of firs, or pines; then they would come out upon some rounded promontory of grass land or projecting peak of rocks; and a few minutes afterwards they would move along smoothly for a time upon a level, with a steep acclivity, rough with rocks and precipices on one side, and an abrupt descent on the other down which a stone would have rolled a thousand feet into the valley below. Of course the view of the valley became more commanding and more striking the higher they ascended. Rollo wished at every turn to stop and look at it. He did stop sometimes, the guide saying that it was necessary to do so in order to let the horse get his breath a little; for the toil for such an animal of getting up so steep an ascent was very severe. Rollo would have stopped oftener; but he did not like to be left behind by his uncle George, who, being active and agile, mounted very rapidly. Mr. George would often shorten his road very much by climbing directly up the rocks from one turn of the road to the other; while the horse, with Rollo on his back, was compelled to go round by the zigzag. At last, after they had been ascending for about half an hour, Mr. George stopped, at a place where there was a smooth stone for a seat by the side of the path, to wait for Rollo to come up; and, when Rollo came, Mr. George took him off the horse to let him rest a little. The view of the valley from this point was very grand and imposing. Rollo could look down into it as you could look into the bed of a brook in the country, standing upon the top of the bank on one side. The village, the inn, the little cottages along the roadside, the river, the bridges, and a thousand other objects, all of liliputian size, were to be seen below; while on the farther side the streaming Staubach was in full view, pouring over the brink of the precipice and falling in a dense mass of spray on the rocks at the foot of them. Rollo could understand now, too, where the fall of the Staubach came from; for above the brink of the precipice, where the water came over, there was now to be seen a vast expanse of mountain country, rising steep, but not precipitously, far above the summit of the precipice, and of course receding as it ascended, so as not to be seen from the valley below. From the elevation, however, to which Rollo had now attained, the whole of this vast region was in view. It was covered with forests, pasturages, chalets, and scattered hamlets; and in the valleys, long, silvery lines of water were to be seen glittering in the sun and twisting and twining down in foaming cascades to the brink of the precipice, where, plunging over, they formed the cataracts which had been seen in the valley below. The Staubach was the largest of these falls; and the stream which produced it could now be traced for many miles as it came dancing along in its shining path down among the ravines of the mountains. "I see now what makes the fall of the Staubach," said Rollo. "Yes," said Mr. George. "I should like to be on the brink of the precipice where it falls over," said Rollo, "and look down." "Yes," said Mr. George; "so should I. I don't think that we could get near enough actually to look down, but we could get near enough to see the water where it begins to take the plunge." After resting a suitable time at this place and greatly admiring and enjoying the view, our party set out again. Rollo proposed that his uncle should ride now a little way and let him walk; but Mr. George preferred that Rollo should mount again. There was still nearly another hour's hard climbing to do and a long and pretty difficult walk of several miles beyond it, and Mr. George was very desirous of saving Rollo's strength. It might perhaps be supposed, from the blunt manner in which Mr. George often threw the responsibility upon Rollo when he was placed in difficult emergencies and left him to act for himself, that he did not think or care much for his nephew's comfort or happiness. But this was by no means the case. Mr. George was very fond of Rollo indeed. If he had not been fond of him he would not have wished to have him for his companion on his tour. He was very careful, too, never to expose Rollo to any real hardship or suffering; and his apparently blunt manner, in throwing responsibilities upon the boy, only amused him by making it appear that his uncle George considered him almost a man. Mr. George, knowing that the first part of the way from Lauterbrunnen to the Wengern Alp was by far the most steep and difficult, had accordingly arranged it in his own mind that Rollo should ride until this steep part had been surmounted. "You may mount again now, Rollo," said he. "I will walk a little longer and take my turn in riding a little farther on." So Rollo mounted; and there was now another hour of steep climbing. The zigzags were sometimes sharp and short and at others long and winding; but the way was always picturesque and the views became more and more grand and imposing the higher the party ascended. At one time, when Rollo had stopped a moment to let his horse breathe, he saw at a turn of the path a few zigzags below him a little girl coming up, with a basket on her back. Rollo pointed to her and asked the guide, in French, who that girl was. Henry said he did not know. Henry, foolishly enough, supposed that Rollo meant to ask what the girl's name was; and so he said that he did not know. But this was not what Rollo meant at all. He had no particular desire in asking the question to learn the child's name. What he wished to know was, what, according to the customs of the country, would be the probable province and function of such a sort of girl as that, coming alone up the mountain in that way with a burden on her back. Henry, if he had understood the real intent and meaning of the question, could easily have answered it. The girl lived in a little hamlet of shepherds' huts farther up the mountain, and had been down into the village to buy something for her father and mother; and she was now coming home with her purchases in the basket on her back. All this Henry knew very well; but, when Rollo asked who the girl was, Henry thought he meant to ask who she herself was individually; and so, as he did not know her personally, he could not tell. Travellers often get disappointed in this way in asking questions of the natives of the country in which they are travelling. The people do not understand the nature and bearing of the question, and they themselves are not familiar enough with the language to explain what they do mean. The guide stood for a minute or two looking intently at the girl as she slowly ascended the path, especially when she passed the angles of the zigzag, for there she turned sometimes in such a manner as to show her face more plainly. "No," said he, at length; "I do not know her. I never saw her before. But I'll ask her who she is when she comes up." "Uncle George!" said Rollo, calling out very loudly to his uncle, who was at some distance above. "Ay, ay," said Mr. George, responding. Rollo attempted to look up to see where his uncle was standing; but in doing this he had to throw his head back so far as to bring a fear suddenly over him of falling from his horse. So he desisted, and continued his conversation without attempting to look. "Here is a girl coming up the mountain with a basket on her back. Come down and see her." "Come up here," said Mr. George, "and we will wait till she comes." So Rollo chirruped to his horse and started along again. In a few minutes he reached the place where his uncle George was standing, and there they all waited till the little girl came up. "Good morning," said the girl, as soon as she came near enough to be heard. She spoke the words in the German language and with a very pleasant smile upon her face. The peasants in Switzerland, when they meet strangers in ascending or descending the mountains, always accost them pleasantly and wish them good morning or good evening. In most other countries, strangers meeting each other on the road pass in silence. Perhaps it is the loneliness and solitude of the country and the sense of danger and awe that the stupendous mountains inspire that incline people to be more pleased when they meet each other in Switzerland, even if they are strangers, than in the more cheerful and smiling regions of France and England. The guide said something to the girl, but Rollo could not understand what it was, for he spoke, and the answer was returned, in German. "She says her name is Ninette," said Henry. Rollo's attention was immediately attracted to the form of the basket which Ninette wore and to the manner in which it was fastened to her back. The basket was comparatively small at the bottom, being about as wide as the waist of the girl; but it grew larger towards the top, where it opened as wide as the girl's shoulders--being shaped in this respect in conformity with the shape of the back on which it was to be borne. [Illustration: THE MOUNTAIN GIRL.] The side of the basket, too, which lay against the back was flat, so as to fit to it exactly. The outer side was rounded. It was open at the top. The basket was secured to its place upon the child's back and shoulders by means of two flat strips of wood, which were fastened at the upper ends of them to the back of the basket near the top, and which came round over the shoulders in front, and then, passing under the arms, were fastened at the lower ends to the basket near the bottom. The basket was thus supported in its place and carried by means of the pressure of these straps upon the shoulders. "Uncle George," said Rollo, "I should like to have such a basket as that and such a pair of straps to carry it by." "What would you do with it," asked Mr. George, "if you had it?" "Why, it would be very convenient," said Rollo, "in America, when I went a-raspberrying. You see, if I had such a basket as that, I could bring my berries home on my back, and so have my hands free." "Yes," said Mr. George, "that would be convenient." "Besides," said Rollo, "it would be a curiosity." "That's true," replied Mr. George; "but it would be very difficult to carry so bulky a thing home." After some further conversation it was concluded not to buy the basket, but to ask the girl if she would be willing to sell the straps, or bows, that it was fastened with. These straps were really quite curious. They were made of some very hard and smooth-grained wood, and were nicely carved and bent so as to fit to the girl's shoulders quite precisely. Accordingly Mr. George, speaking in French, requested Henry to ask the girl whether she would be willing to sell the straps. Henry immediately addressed the girl in the German language, and after talking with her a few minutes he turned again to Mr. George and Rollo and said that the girl would rather not sell them herself, as they belonged to her father, who lived about half a mile farther up the mountain. But she was sure her father would sell them if they would stop at his cottage as they went by. He would either sell them that pair, she said, or a new pair; for he made such things himself, and he had two or three new pairs in his cottage. "Very well," said Mr. George; "let us go on. "Which would you rather have," said Mr. George to Rollo, as they resumed their march, "this pair, or some new ones?" "I would rather have this pair," said Rollo. "They are somewhat soiled and worn," said Mr. George. "Yes," said Rollo; "but they are good and strong; and as soon as I get home I shall rub them all off clean with sand paper and then have them varnished, so as to make them look very bright and nice; and then I shall keep them for a curiosity. I would rather have this pair, for then I can tell people that I bought them actually off the shoulders of a little girl who was carrying a burden with them up the Alps." In due time the party reached the little hamlet where Ninette lived. The hamlet consisted of a scattered group of cabins and cow houses on a shelving green more than a thousand feet above the valley. The girl led the party to the door of her father's hut; and there, through the medium of Henry as interpreter, they purchased the two bows for a very small sum of money. They also bought a drink of excellent milk for the whole party of Ninette's mother and then resumed their journey. As they went on they obtained from time to time very grand and extended views of the surrounding mountains. Whether they turned their eyes above or below them, the prospect was equally wonderful. In the latter case they looked down on distant villages; some clinging to the hillsides, others nestling in the valleys, and others still perched, like the one where Ninette lived, on shelving slopes of green pasture land, which terminated at a short distance from the dwellings on the brink of the most frightful precipices. Above were towering forests and verdant slopes of land, dotted with chalets or broken here and there by the gray rocks which appeared among them. Higher still were lofty crags, with little sunny nooks among them--the dizzy pasturages of the chamois; and above these immense fields of ice and snow, which pierced the sky with the glittering peaks and summits in which they terminated. Mr. George and Rollo paused frequently, as they continued their journey, to gaze around them upon these stupendous scenes. At length, when the steepest part of the ascent had been accomplished, Mr. George said that he was tired of climbing, and proposed that Rollo should dismount and take his turn in walking. "If you were a lady," said Mr. George, "I would let you ride all the way. But you are strong and capable, and as well able to walk as I am--better, I suppose, in fact; so you may as well take your turn." "Yes," said Rollo; "I should like it. I am tired of riding. I would rather walk than not." So Henry assisted Rollo to dismount, and then adjusted the stirrups to Mr. George's use, and Mr. George mounted into the saddle. "How glad I am to come to the end of my walking," said Mr. George, "and to get upon a horse!" "How glad I am to come to the end of my riding," said Rollo, "and to get upon my feet!" Thus both of the travellers seemed pleased with the change. The road now became far more easy to be travelled than before. The steepest part of the ascent had been surmounted, and for the remainder of the distance the path followed a meandering way over undulating land, which, though not steep, was continually ascending. Here and there herds of cattle were seen grazing; and there were scattered huts, and sometimes little hamlets, where the peasants lived in the summer, to tend their cows and make butter and cheese from their milk. In the fall of the year they drive the cattle down again to the lower valleys; for these high pasturages, though green and sunny in the summer and affording an abundance of sweet and nutritious grass for the sheep and cows that feed upon them, are buried deep in snows, and are abandoned to the mercy of the most furious tempests and storms during all the winter portion of the year. Our travellers passed many scattered forests, some of which were seen clinging to the mountain sides, at a vast elevation above them. In others men were at work felling trees or cutting up the wood. Rollo stopped at one of these places and procured a small billet of the Alpine wood, as large as he could conveniently carry in his pocket, intending to have something made from it when he should get home to America. The woodman, at Henry's request, cut out this billet of wood for Rollo, making it of the size which Rollo indicated to him by a gesture with his finger. At one time the party met a company of peasant girls coming down from the mountain. They came into the path by which our travellers were ascending from a side path which seemed to lead up a secluded glen. These girls came dancing gayly along with bouquets of flowers in their hands and garlands in their hair. They looked bright and blooming, and seemed very contented and happy. They bowed very politely to Mr. George and to Rollo as they passed. "_Guten abend_," said they. These are the German words for "Good evening."[9] "_Guten abend_," said both Mr. George and Rollo in reply. The girls thus passed by and went on their way down the mountain. "Where have they been?" asked Mr. George. "They have been at work gathering up the small stones from the pasturages, I suppose," said Henry. "Companies of girls go out for that a great deal." After getting upon the horse, Mr. George took care to keep _behind_ Rollo and the guide. He knew very well that if he were to go on in advance Rollo would exert himself more than he otherwise would do, under the influence of a sort of feeling that he ought to try to keep up. While Rollo was on the horse himself, having the guide with him too, Mr. George knew that there was no danger from this source, as any one who is on horseback or in a carriage never has the feeling of being left behind when a companion who is on foot by chance gets before him. Consequently, while they were coming up the steep part of the mountain, Mr. George went on as fast as he pleased, leaving Rollo and Henry to come on at their leisure. But now his kind consideration for Rollo induced him to keep carefully behind. "Now, Rollo," said he, "you and Henry may go on just as fast or just as slow as you please, without paying any regard to me. I shall follow along at my leisure." Thus Rollo, seeing that Mr. George was behind, went on very leisurely, and enjoyed his walk and his talk with Henry very much. "Did you ever study English, Henry?" said Rollo. "No," said Henry; "but I wish I could speak English, very much." "Why?" asked Rollo. "Because there are so many English people coming here that I have to guide up the mountains." "Well," said Rollo, "you can begin now. I will teach you." So he began to teach the guide to say "How do you do?" in English. This conversation between Rollo and Henry was in French. Rollo had studied French a great deal by the help of books when he was at home, and he had taken so much pains to improve by practice since he had been in France and Switzerland that he could now get along in a short and simple conversation very well. While our party had been coming up the mountain, the weather, though perfectly clear and serene in the morning, had become somewhat overcast. Misty clouds were to be seen here and there floating along the sides or resting on the summits of the mountains. At length, while Rollo was in the midst of the English lesson which he was giving to the guide, his attention was arrested, just as they were emerging from the border of a little thicket of stunted evergreens, by what seemed to be a prolonged clap of thunder. It came apparently out of a mass of clouds and vapor which Rollo saw moving majestically in the southern sky. "Thunder!" exclaimed Rollo, looking alarmed. "There's thunder!" "No," said Henry; "an avalanche." The sound rolled and reverberated in the sky for a considerable time like a prolonged peal of thunder. Rollo thought that Henry must be mistaken in supposing it an avalanche. At this moment Rollo, looking round, saw Mr. George coming up, on his horse, at a turn of the path a little way behind them. "Henry," said Mr. George, "there is a thunder shower coming up; we must hasten on." "No," said Henry; "that was an avalanche." "An avalanche?" exclaimed Mr. George. "Why, the sound came out of the middle of the sky." "It was an avalanche," said the guide, "from the Jungfrau. See!" he added, pointing up into the sky. Mr. George and Rollo both looked in the direction where Henry pointed, and there they saw a vast rocky precipice peering out through a break in the clouds high up in the sky. An immense snow bank was reposing upon its summit. The glittering whiteness of this snow contrasted strongly with the sombre gray of the clouds through which, as through an opening in a curtain, it was seen. Presently another break in the clouds, and then another, occurred; at each of which towering rocks or great perpendicular walls of glittering ice and snow came into view. "The Jungfrau," said the guide. Mr. George and Rollo gazed at this spectacle for some minutes in silence, when at length Rollo said,-- "Why, uncle George! the sky is all full of rocks and ice!" "It is indeed!" said Mr. George. It was rather fortunate than otherwise that the landscape was obscured with clouds when Mr. George and Rollo first came into the vicinity of the Jungfrau, as the astonishing spectacle of rocks and precipices and immense accumulations of snow and ice, breaking out as it were through the clouds all over the sky, was in some respects more impressive than the full and unobstructed view of the whole mountain would have been. "I wish the clouds would clear away," said Rollo. "Yes," said Mr. George. "I should like to see the whole side of the mountain very much." Here another long and heavy peal, like thunder, began to be heard. Mr. George stopped his horse to listen. Rollo and Henry stopped too. The sound seemed to commence high up among the clouds. The echoes and reverberations were reflected from the rocks and precipices all around it; but the peal seemed slowly and gradually to descend towards the horizon; and finally, after the lapse of two or three minutes, it entirely ceased. The travellers paused a moment after the sound ceased and continued to listen. When they found that all was still they began to move on again. "I wish I could have seen that avalanche," said Rollo. "Yes," said Mr. George. "I hope the clouds will clear away by the time we get to the inn." It was just about sunset when the party reached the inn. Rollo was beginning to get a little tired, though the excitement of the excursion and the effect produced on his mind by the strange aspect of every thing around him inspired him with so much animation and strength that he held on in his walk very well indeed. It is true that a great portion of the mountain scenery around him was concealed from view by the clouds; but there was something in the appearance of the rocks, in the character of the vegetation, and especially in the aspect and expression of the patches of snow which were to be seen here and there in nooks and corners near the path,--the remains of the vast accumulations of the preceding winter which the sun had not yet dispelled,--that impressed Rollo continually with a sentiment of wonder and awe, and led him to feel that he had attained to a vast elevation, and that he was walking, as he really was, among the clouds. The inn, when the party first came in sight of it, appeared more like a log cabin in America than like a well-known and much-frequented European hotel. It stood on a very small plot of ground, which formed a sort of projection on a steep mountain side, facing the Jungfrau. In front of the hotel the land descended very rapidly for a considerable distance. The descent terminated at last on the brink of an enormous ravine which separated the base of the Wengern Alp from that of the Jungfrau. Behind the house the land rose in a broad, green slope, dotted with Alpine flowers and terminating in a smooth, rounded summit far above. The house itself seemed small, and was rudely constructed. There was a sort of piazza in front of it, with a bench and a table before it. "That is where the people sit, I suppose," said Mr. George, "in pleasant weather to see the Jungfrau." "Yes," said Rollo. "For the Jungfrau must be over there," said Mr. George, pointing among the clouds in the southern sky. All doubt about the position of the mountain was removed at the instant that Mr. George had spoken these words, by another avalanche, which just at that moment commenced its fall. They all stopped to listen. The sound was greatly prolonged, sometimes roaring continuously for a time, like a cataract, and then rumbling and crashing like a peal of thunder. "What a pity that the clouds are in the way," said Rollo, "so that we can't see! Do you think it will clear up before we go away?" "Yes," said Mr. George. "I am very sure it will; for I am determined not to go away till it does clear up." There were one or two buildings attached to the inn which served apparently as barns and sheds. The door of entrance was round in a corner formed by the connection of one of these buildings with the house. Henry led the horse up to this door, and Mr. George dismounted. The guide led the horse away, and Rollo and Mr. George went into the house. A young and very blooming Swiss girl received them in the hall and opened a door for them which led to the public sitting room. The sitting room was a large apartment, which extended along the whole front of the house. The windows, of course, looked out towards the Jungfrau. There was a long table in the middle of the room, and one or two smaller ones in the back corners. At these tables two or three parties were seated, eating their dinners. In one of the front corners was a fireplace, with a small fire, made of pine wood, burning on the hearth. A young lady was sitting near this fire, reading. Another was at a small table near it, writing in her journal. Around the walls of the room were a great many engravings and colored lithographs of Swiss scenery; among them were several views of the Jungfrau. On the whole, the room, though perfectly plain and even rude in all its furniture and appointments, had a very comfortable and attractive appearance. "What a snug and pleasant-looking place!" said Rollo, whispering to Mr. George as they went in. "Yes," said Mr. George. "It is just exactly such a place as I wished to find." Mr. George and Rollo were both of them tired and hungry. They first called for rooms. The maid took them up stairs and gave them two small rooms next each other. The rooms were, in fact, _very_ small. The furniture in them, too was of the plainest description; but every thing was neat and comfortable, and the aspect of the interior of them was, on the whole, quite attractive. In about fifteen minutes Rollo knocked at Mr. George's door and asked if he was ready to go down. "Not quite," said Mr. George; "but I wish that you would go down and order dinner." So Rollo went down again into the public room and asked the maid if she could get them some dinner. "Yes," said the maid. "What would you like to have?" Rollo was considerate enough to know that there could be very little to eat in the house except what had been brought up in a very toilsome and difficult manner, from the valleys below, by the zigzag paths which he and his uncle had been climbing. So he said in reply,-- "Whatever you please. It is not important to us." The maid then told him what they had in the house; and Rollo, selecting from these things, ordered what he thought would make an excellent dinner. The dinner, in fact, when it came to the table, proved to be a very excellent one indeed. It consisted of broiled chicken, some most excellent fried potatoes, eggs, fresh and very nice bread, and some honey. For drink, they had at first water; and at the end of the meal some French coffee, which, being diluted with boiled milk that was very rich and sweet, was truly delicious. "I have not had so good a dinner," said Mr. George, "since I have been in Europe." "No," said Rollo; "nor I." "It is owing in part, I suppose, to the appetite we have got in climbing up the mountain," said Mr. George. Just as the young gentlemen had finished their dinner and were about to rise from the table, their attention was attracted by an exclamation of delight which came from one of the young ladies who were sitting at the fireplace when Mr. George and Rollo came in. "O Emma," said she, "come here!" Mr. George and Rollo looked up, and they saw that the young lady whose voice they had heard was standing at the window. Emma rose from her seat and went to the window in answer to the call. Mr. George and Rollo looked out, too, at another window. They saw a spectacle which filled them with astonishment. "It is clearing away," said Rollo. "Let us go out in front of the house and look." "Yes," said Mr. George; "we will." So they both left their seats, and, putting on their caps, they went out. As soon as they reached the platform where the bench and the table were standing they gazed on the scene which was presented to their view with wonder and delight. It was, indeed, clearing away. The clouds were "lifting" from the mountains; and the sun, which had been for some hours obscured, was breaking forth in the west and illuminating the whole landscape with his setting beams. Opposite to where Mr. George and Rollo stood, across the valley, they could see the whole mighty mass of the Jungfrau coming into view beneath the edge of the cloudy curtain which was slowly rising. The lower portion of the mountain was an immense precipice, the foot of which was hidden from view in the great chasm, or ravine, which separated the Jungfrau from the Wengern Alp. Above this were rocks and great sloping fields of snow formed from avalanches which had fallen down from above. Still higher, there were brought to view vast fields of ice and snow, with masses of rock breaking out here and there among them, some in the form of precipices and crags, and others shooting up in jagged pinnacles and peaks, rising to dizzy heights, to the summits of which nothing but the condor or the eagle could ever attain. Still higher were precipices of blue and pellucid ice, and boundless fields of glittering snow, and immense drifts, piled one above the other in vast volumes, and overhanging the cliffs as if just ready to fall. In a short time the clouds rose so as to clear the summit of the mountain; and then the whole mighty mass was seen revealed fully to view, glittering in the sunbeams and filling half the sky. The other guests of the inn came out upon the platform while Rollo and Mr. George were there, having wrapped themselves previously in their coats and shawls, as the evening air was cool. Some other parties of travellers came, too, winding their way slowly up the same pathway where Mr. George and Rollo had come. Mr. George and Rollo paid very little attention to these new comers, their minds being wholly occupied by the mountain. In a very short time after the face of the Jungfrau came fully into view, the attention of all the company that were looking at the scene was arrested by the commencement of another peal of the same thundering sound that Mr. George and Rollo had heard with so much wonder in coming up the mountain. A great many exclamations immediately broke out from the party. "There! hark! look!" said they. "An avalanche! An avalanche!" The sound was loud and almost precisely like thunder. Every one looked in the direction from which it proceeded. There they soon saw, half way up the mountain, a stream of snow, like a cataract, creeping slowly over the brink of a precipice, and falling in a continued torrent upon the rocks below. From this place they could see it slowly creeping down the long slope towards another precipice, and where, when it reached the brink, it fell over in another cataract, producing another long peal of thunder, which, being repeated by the echoes of the mountains and rocks around, filled the whole heavens with its rolling reverberations. In this manner the mass of ice and snow went down slope after slope and over precipice after precipice, till at length it made its final plunge into the great chasm at the foot of the mountain and disappeared from view. In the course of an hour several other avalanches were heard and seen; and when at length it grew too dark to see them any longer, the thundering roar of them was heard from time to time all the night long. Rollo, however, was so tired that, though he went to bed quite early, he did not hear the avalanches or any thing else until Mr. George called him the next morning. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 9: They are pronounced as if spelled Gooten arbend.] CHAPTER X. GOING DOWN THE MOUNTAIN. Mr. George and Rollo met with various adventures and incidents in going down the next day to Grindelwald which are quite characteristic of mountain travelling in Switzerland. They did not set out very early in the morning, as Mr. George wished to stay as long as possible to gaze on the face of the Jungfrau and watch the avalanches. "Rollo," said he, as they were standing together in front of the hotel after breakfast, "how would you like to go up with me to the top of that hill?" So saying, Mr. George pointed to the great rounded summit which was seen rising behind the hotel. "Yes," said Rollo; "I should like to go very much indeed." "Very well," said Mr. George; "we will go. But first let me get my pressing book to put some flowers in, in case we find any." Mr. George's pressing book was a contrivance which he had invented for the more convenient desiccation of such flowers as he might gather in his travels and wish to carry home with him and preserve, either for botanical specimens or as souvenirs for his friends. It was made by taking out all the leaves of a small book and replacing them with an equal number of loose leaves, made for the purpose, of blotting paper, and trimmed to the right size. Such small flowers as he might gather in the various places that he visited could be much more conveniently pressed and preserved between these loose leaves of blotting paper than between the leaves of an ordinary book.[10] So Mr. George, taking his pressing book in his hand, led the way; and Rollo following him, they attempted to ascend the hill behind the inn. They found the ascent, however, extremely steep and difficult. There were no rocks and no roughnesses of any kind in the way. It was merely a grassy slope like the steep face of a terrace; but it was so steep that, after Mr. George and Rollo had scrambled up two or three hundred feet, it made Rollo almost dizzy to look down; and he began to cling to the grass and to feel afraid. "Rollo," said Mr. George, "I am almost afraid to climb up here any higher. Do you feel afraid?" "No, sir," said Rollo, endeavoring at the same time to reassure himself. "No, sir; I am not much afraid." "Let us stop a few minutes to rest and look at the mountain," said Mr. George. Mr. George knew very well that there was no real danger; for the slope, though very steep, was very grassy from the top to the bottom; and even if Rollo had fallen and rolled down it could not have done him much harm. After a short pause, to allow Rollo to get a little familiar with the scene, Mr. George began to move on. Rollo followed. Both Rollo and Mr. George would occasionally look up to see how far they were from the top. It was very difficult, however, to look up, as in doing so it was necessary to lean the head so far back that they came very near losing their balance. After going on for about half an hour, Mr. George said that he did not see that they were any nearer the top of the hill than they were at the beginning. "Nor I either," said Rollo; "and I think we had better go back again." "Well," said Mr. George, "we will; but let us first stop here a few minutes to look at the Jungfrau." The view of the Jungfrau was of course more commanding here than it was down at the inn. So Mr. George and Rollo remained some time at their resting-place gazing at the mountain and watching for avalanches. At length they returned to the inn; and an hour or two afterwards they set out on their journey to Grindelwald. The reader will recollect that Grindelwald was the valley on the other side of the Wengern Alp from Lauterbrunnen, and that our travellers, having come up one way, were going down the other.[11] The distance from the inn at the Wengern Alp to Grindelwald is seven or eight miles. For a time the path ascends, for the inn is not at the summit of the pass. Until it attains the summit it leads through a region of hills and ravines, with swamps, morasses, precipices of rocks, and great patches of snow scattered here and there along the way. At one place Rollo met with an adventure which for a moment put him in considerable danger. It was at a place where the path led along on the side of the mountain, with a smooth grassy slope above and a steep descent ending in another smooth grassy slope below. At a little distance forward there was a great patch of snow, the edge of which came over the path and covered it. A heavy mist had come up just before Rollo reached this place, and he had accordingly spread his umbrella over his head. He was riding along, holding the bridle in one hand and his umbrella in the other, so that both his hands were confined. Mr. George was walking at some distance before. The guide, too, was a little in advance, for the path was too narrow for him to walk by the side of the horse; and, as the way here was smooth and pretty level, he did not consider it necessary that he should be in very close attendance on Rollo. Things being in this condition, the horse--when he came in sight of the snow, which lay covering the path at a little distance before him--concluded that it would be safer both for him and for his rider that he should not attempt to go through it, having learned by experience that his feet would sink sometimes to great depths in such cases. So he determined to turn round and go back. He accordingly stopped; and turning his head towards the grassy bank above the path and his heels towards the brink on the other side, as horses always do when they undertake such a manoeuvre in a narrow path, he attempted to "go about." Rollo was of course utterly unable to do any thing to control him except to pull one of the reins to bring him back into the path, and strike his heels into the horse's side as if he were spurring him. This, however, only made the matter worse. The horse backed off the brink; and both he and Rollo, falling head over heels, rolled down the steep slope together. [Illustration: THE FALL.] And not together exactly, either; for Rollo who was usually pretty alert and ready in emergencies of difficulty or danger, when he found himself rolling down the slope, though he could not stop, still contrived to wriggle and twist himself off to one side, so as to get clear of the horse and roll off himself in a different direction. They both, however, the animal and the boy, soon came to a stop. Rollo was up in an instant. The horse, too, contrived, after some scrambling, to gain his feet. All this time the guide remained in the path on the brink of the descent transfixed with astonishment and consternation. "Henry," said Rollo, looking up to the guide, "what is the French for _head over heels_?" A very decided but somewhat equivocal smile spread itself over Henry's features on hearing this question, which, however, he did not understand; and he immediately began to run down the bank to get the horse. "Because," said Rollo, still speaking in French, "that is what in English we call going _head over heels_." Henry led the horse round by a circuitous way back to the path. Rollo followed; and as soon as they reached it Rollo mounted again. Henry then took hold of the bridle of the horse and led him along till they got through the snow; after which they went on without any further difficulty. The path led for a time along a very wild and desolate region, which seemed to be bordered on the right, at a distance of two or three miles, by a range of stupendous precipices, surmounted by peaks covered with ice and snow, which presented to the view a spectacle of the most astonishing grandeur. At one point in the path Rollo saw at a distance before him a number of buildings scattered over a green slope of land. "Ah," said he to the guide, "we are coming to a village." "No," said the guide. "It is a pasturage. We are too high yet for a village." On asking for a further explanation, Rollo learned that the mountaineers were accustomed to drive their herds up the mountains in the summer to places too cold to be inhabited all the year round, and to live there with them in these little huts during the two or three months while the grass was green. The men would bring up their milking pails, their pans, their churns, their cheese presses, and their kettles for cooking, and thus live in a sort of encampment while the grass lasted, and make butter and cheese to carry down the mountain with them when they returned. At one time Rollo saw at the door of one of the huts a man with what seemed to be a long pole in his hand. It was bent at the lower end. The man came out of a hut, and, putting the bent end of the pole to the ground, he brought the other up near to his mouth, and seemed to be waiting for the travellers to come down to him. "What is he going to do?" asked Rollo. "He has got what we call an Alpine horn," said the guide; "and he is going to blow it for you, to let you hear the echoes." So, when Mr. George and Rollo reached the place, the man blew into the end of his pole, which proved to be hollow, and it produced a very loud sound, like that of a trumpet. The sounds were echoed against the face of a mountain which was opposite to the place in a very remarkable manner. Mr. George paid the man a small sum of money, and then they went on. Not long afterwards they came to another hut, which was situated opposite to a part of the mountain range where there was a great accumulation of ice and snow, that seemed to hang suspended, as it were, as if just ready to fall. A man stood at the door of this hut with a small iron cannon, which was mounted somewhat rudely on a block of wood, in his hand. "What is he going to do with that cannon?" asked Rollo. "He is going to fire it," said Henry, "to start down the avalanches from the mountain." Henry here pointed to the face of the mountain opposite to where they were standing, and showed Rollo the immense masses of ice and snow that seemed to hang suspended there, ready to fall. It is customary to amuse travellers in Switzerland with the story that the concussion produced by the discharge of a gun or a cannon will sometimes detach these masses, and thus hasten the fall of an avalanche; and though the experiment is always tried when travellers pass these places, I never yet heard of a case in which the effect was really produced. At any rate, in this instance,--though the man loaded his cannon heavily, and rammed the charge down well, and though the report was very loud and the echoes were extremely sharp and much prolonged,--there were no avalanches started by the concussion. Rollo and Mr. George watched the vast snow banks that overhung the cliffs with great interest for several minutes; but they all remained immovable. So Mr. George paid the man a small sum of money, and then they went on. After going on for an hour or two longer on this vast elevation, the path began gradually to descend into the valley of Grindelwald. The village of Grindelwald at length came into view, with the hundreds of cottages and hamlets that were scattered over the more fertile and cultivated region that surrounded it. The travellers could look down, also, upon the great glaciers of Grindelwald--two mighty streams of ice, half a mile wide and hundreds of feet deep, which come flowing very slowly down from the higher mountains, and terminate in icy precipices among the fields and orchards of the valley.[12] They determined to go and explore one of these glaciers the next day. As they drew near to the village, the people of the scattered cottages came out continually, as they saw them coming, with various plans to get money from them. At one place two pretty little peasant girls, in the Grindelwald costume, came out with milk for them. One of the girls held the pitcher and the other a mug; and they gave Mr. George and Rollo good drinks.[13] At another house a boy came out with filberts to sell; and at another the merchandise consisted of crystals and other shining minerals which had been collected in the mountains near. At one time Rollo saw before him three children standing in a row by the side of the road. They seemed to have something in their hands. When he reached the place, he found that they had for sale some very cunning little Swiss cottages carved in wood. These carvings were extremely small and very pretty. Each one was put in a small box for safe transportation. In some cases the children had nothing to sell, and they simply held out their hands to beg as the travellers went by; and there were several lame persons, and idiots, and blind persons, and other objects of misery that occasionally appeared imploring charity. As, however, these unfortunates were generally satisfied with an exceedingly small donation, it did not cost much to make them all look very happy. There is a Swiss coin, of the value of a fifth part of a cent, which was generally enough to give; so that, for a New York shilling, Rollo found he could make more than sixty donations--which was certainly very cheap charity. "In fact," said Rollo, "it is so cheap that I would rather give them the money than not." At length the party arrived safely at Grindelwald and put up at an excellent inn, with windows looking out upon the glaciers. The next day they went to see the glaciers; and on the day following they returned to Interlachen. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 10: Flowers dry faster and better between sheets of blotting paper than between those of common printing paper, such as is used for books; for the surface of this latter is covered with a sort of sizing used in the manufacture of it, and which prevents the moisture of the plant from entering into the paper.] [Footnote 11: See map.] [Footnote 12: It may seem strange that streams of ice, hundreds of feet thick and solid to the bottom, can _flow_; but such is the fact, as will appear more fully in the next chapter.] [Footnote 13: See frontispiece.] CHAPTER XI. GLACIERS. A glacier, when really understood, is one of the most astonishing and impressive spectacles which the whole face of Nature exhibits. Mr. George and Rollo explored quite a number of them in the course of their travels in Switzerland; and Rollo would have liked to have explored a great many more. [Illustration: THE CREVASSE.] A glacier is a river of ice,--really and truly a river of ice,--sometimes two or three miles wide, and fifteen or twenty miles long, with many branches coming into it. Its bed is a steep valley, commencing far up among the mountains in a region of everlasting ice and snow, and ending in some warm and pleasant valley far below, where the warm sun beats upon the terminus of it and melts the ice away as fast as it comes down. It flows very slowly, not usually more than an inch in an hour. The warm summer sun beams upon the upper surface of it, melting it slowly away, and forming vast fissures and clefts in it, down which you can look to the bottom, if you only have courage to go near enough to the slippery edge. If you do not dare to do this, you can get a large stone and throw it in; and then, if you stand still and listen, you hear it thumping and thundering against the sides of the crevasse until it gets too deep to be any longer heard. You cannot hear it strike the bottom; for it is sometimes seven or eight hundred feet through the thickness of the glacier to the ground below. The surface of the glacier above is not smooth and glassy like the ice of a freshly-frozen river or pond; but is white, like a field of snow. This appearance is produced in part by the snow which falls upon the glacier, and in part by the melting of the surface of the ice by the sun. From this latter cause, too, the surface of the glacier is covered, in a summer's day, with streams of water, which flow, like little brooks, in long and winding channels which they themselves have worn, until at length they reach some fissure, or crevasse, into which they fall and disappear. The waters of these brooks--many thousands in all--form a large stream, which flows along on the surface of the ground under the glacier, and comes out at last, in a wild, and roaring, and turbid torrent, from an immense archway in the ice at the lower end, where the glacier terminates among the green fields and blooming flowers of the lower valley. The glaciers are formed from the avalanches which fall into the upper valleys in cases where the valleys are so deep and narrow and so secluded from the sun that the snows which slide into them cannot melt. In such case, the immense accumulations which gather there harden and solidify, and become ice; and, what is very astonishing, the whole mass, solid as it is, moves slowly onward down the valley, following all the turns and indentations of its bed, until finally it comes down into the warm regions of the lower valleys, where the end of it is melted away by the sun as fast as the mass behind crowds it forward. It is certainly very astonishing that a substance so solid as ice can flow in this way, along a rocky and tortuous bed, as if it were semi-fluid; and it was a long time before men would believe that such a thing could be possible. It was, however, at length proved beyond all question that this motion exists; and the rate of it in different glaciers at different periods of the day or of the year has been accurately measured. If you go to the end of the glacier, where it comes out into the lower valley, and look up to the icy cliffs which form the termination of it, and watch there for a few minutes, you soon see masses of ice breaking off from the brink and falling down with a thundering sound to the rocks below. This is because the ice at the extremity is all the time pressed forward by the mass behind it; and, as it comes to the brink, it breaks over and falls down. This is one evidence that the glaciers move. But there is another proof that the ice of the glaciers is continually moving onward which is still more direct and decisive. Certain philosophers, who wished to ascertain positively what the truth was, went to a glacier, and, selecting a large rock which lay upon the surface of it near the middle of the ice, they made a red mark with paint upon the rock, and two other marks on the rocks which formed the shore of the glacier. They made these three marks exactly in a line with each other, expecting that, if the glacier moved, the rock in the centre of it would be carried forward, and the three marks would be no longer in a line. This proved to be the case. In a very short time the central rock was found to have moved forward very perceptibly. This was several years ago. This rock is still on the glacier; and the red mark on it, as well as those on the shores, still remains. All the travellers who visit the glacier look at these marks and observe how the great rock on the ice moves forward. It is now at a long distance below the place where it was when its position was first recorded. Then, besides, you can actually hear the glaciers moving when you stand upon them. It is sometimes very difficult to get upon them; for at the sides where the ice rubs against the rocks, immense chasms and fissures are formed, and vast blocks both of rock and ice are tumbled confusedly together in such a manner as to make the way almost impracticable. When, however, you fairly get upon the ice, if you stand still a moment and listen, you hear a peculiar groaning sound in the _moraines_. To understand this, however, I must first explain what a moraine is. On each side of the glacier, quite near the shore, there is usually found a ridge of rocks and stones extending up and down the glacier for the whole length of it, as if an immense wall formed of blocks of granite of prodigious magnitude had been built by giants to fence the glacier in, and had afterwards been shaken down by an earthquake, so as to leave only a confused and shapeless ridge of rocks and stones. These long lines of wall-like ruins may be traced along the borders of the glacier as far as the eye can reach. They lie just on the edge of the ice, and follow all the bends and sinuosities of the shore. It is a mystery how they are formed. All that is known, or rather all that can be here explained, is, that they are composed of the rocks which cleave off from the sides of the precipices and mountains that border the glacier, and that, when they have fallen down, the gradual movement of the ice draws them out into the long, ridge-like lines in which they now appear. Some of these moraines are of colossal magnitude, being in several places a hundred feet broad and fifty or sixty feet high; and, as you cannot get upon the glacier without crossing them, they are often greatly in the traveller's way. In fact, they sometimes form a barrier which is all but impassable. The glacier which most impressed Mr. George and Rollo with its magnitude and grandeur was one that is called the Sea of Ice. It is called by this name on account of its extent. Its lower extremity comes out into the valley of Chamouni, the beautiful and world-renowned valley, which lies near the foot of Mont Blanc. In order to reach this glacier, the young gentlemen took horses and guides at the inn at Chamouni, and ascended for about two hours by a steep, zigzag path, which led from the valley up the sides of the mountain at the place which formed the angle between the great valley of Chamouni and the side valley through which the great glacier came down. After ascending thus for six or eight miles, they came out upon a lofty promontory, from which, on one side, they could look down upon the wild and desolate bed of the glacier, and, upon the other, upon the green, and fertile, and inexpressibly beautiful vale of Chamouni, with the pretty little village in the centre of it. This place is called Montauvert. There is a small inn here, built expressly to accommodate travellers who wish to come up and go out upon the glacier. Although the traveller, when he reaches Montauvert, can look directly down upon the glacier, he cannot descend to it there; for, opposite to the inn, the valley of ice is bordered by cliffs and precipices a thousand feet high. It is necessary to follow along the bank two or three miles among stupendous rocks and under towering precipices, until at length a place is reached where, by dint of much scrambling and a great deal of help from the guide, it is possible to descend. [Illustration: THE NARROW PATH.] Rollo was several times quite afraid in making this perilous excursion. In some places there seemed to be no path at all; and it was necessary for him to make his way by clinging to the roughnesses of the rocks on the steep, sloping side of the mountain, with an immense abyss yawning below. There was one such place where it would have been impossible for any one not accustomed to mountain climbing to have got along without the assistance of guides. When they reached this place, one guide went over first, and then reached out his hand to assist Rollo. The other scrambled down upon the rocks below, and planted his pike staff in a crevice of the rock in order to make a support for a foot. By this means, first Mr. George, and then Rollo, succeeded in getting safely over. Both the travellers felt greatly relieved when they found themselves on the other side of this dangerous pass. In coming back, however, Rollo had the misfortune to lose his pike staff here. The staff slipped out of his hand as he was clinging to the rocks; and, after sliding down five or six hundred feet to the brink of the precipice, it shot over and fell a thousand feet to the glacier below, where it entered some awful chasm, or abyss, and disappeared forever. Mr. George and Rollo had a pretty hard time in scrambling over the moraine when they came to the place where they were to get upon the glacier. When they were fairly upon the glacier, however, they could walk along without any difficulty. It was like walking on wet snow in a warm day in spring. Little brooks were running in every direction, the bright waters sparkling in the sun. The crevasses attracted the attention of the travellers very strongly. They were immense fissures four or five feet wide, and extending downward perpendicularly to an unfathomable depth. Rollo and Mr. George amused themselves with throwing stones down. There were plenty of stones to be found on the glacier. In fact, rocks and stones of all sizes were scattered about very profusely, so much so as quite to excite Mr. George's astonishment. "I supposed," said he, "that the top of the glacier would be smooth and beautiful ice." "I did not think any thing about it," said Rollo. "I imagined it to be smooth, and glassy, and pure," said Mr. George; "and, instead of that, it looks like a field of old snow covered with scattered rocks and stones." Some of the rocks which lay upon the glacier were very large, several of them being as big as houses. It was remarkable, too, that the largest of them, instead of having settled down in some degree into the ice and snow, as it might have been expected from their great weight they would have done, were raised sometimes many feet above the general level of the glacier, being mounted on a sort of pedestal of ice. The reason of this was, that when the block was very large, so large that the beams of the sun shining upon it all day would not warm it through, then the ice beneath it would be protected by its coolness, while the surface of the glacier around would be gradually melted and wasted away by the beams of the sun or by the warm rains which might occasionally fall upon it. Thus, in process of time, the great bowlder block rises, as it were, many feet into the air, and remains there perched on the top of a little hillock of ice, like a mass of monumental marble on a pedestal.[14] In excursions on the glaciers the guides take a rope with them, and sometimes a light ladder. The rope is for various purposes. If a traveller were to fall into any deep pit, or crevasse, or to slip down some steep slope or precipice, so that he could not get up again, the guides might let the rope down to him, and then when he had fastened it around his waist they could draw him up, when, without some such means of rescuing him, he would be wholly lost. In the same manner, when a party are walking along any very steep and slippery place, where if any one were to fall he would slide down into some dreadful abyss, it is customary for them to walk in a line with the rope in their hands, each one taking hold of it. Thus, if any one should slip a little, he could recover himself by means of the rope, when, without such a support, he would perhaps have fallen and been dashed to pieces. Sometimes, when the place is very dangerous indeed, so that several guides are required to each traveller, they tie the rope round the traveller's waist, so that he can have his hands free and yet avail himself of the support of the rope in passing along. The ladder is used for scaling low precipices, either of rock or ice, which sometimes come in the way, and which could not be surmounted without such aid. In long and dangerous excursions, especially among the higher Alps, one of the guides always carries a ladder; and there are frequent occasions where it would not be possible to go on without using it. [Illustration: ASCENT OF MONT BLANC.] A hatchet, too, is of great advantage in climbing among the immense masses of ice which are found at great elevations, since, by means of such an implement, steps may be cut in the ice which will enable the explorer to climb up an ascent too long to be reached by the ladder and too steep to be ascended without artificial footholds. In ascending Mont Blanc the traveller sometimes comes to a precipice of ice, with a chasm of immense depth, and four or five feet wide, at the bottom of it. In such a case the foot of the ladder is planted on the outside of the chasm, and the top of it is made to rest against the face of the precipice, ten or fifteen feet perhaps from the brink. One of the boldest and most skilful of the guides then ascends the ladder, hatchet in hand, and there, suspended as he is over the yawning gulf below, he begins to cut steps in the face of the precipice, shaping the gaps which he makes in such a manner that he can cling to them with his hands as well as rest upon them with his feet. He thus slowly ascends the barrier, cutting his way as he advances. He carries the end of the rope up with him, tied around his waist; and then by means of it, when he has reached the summit, he aids the rest of the party in coming up to him. Mr. George and Rollo, however, did not venture into any such dangers as these. They could see all that they desired of the stupendous magnificence and awful desolation of these scenes without it. They spent the whole of the middle of the day on the glacier or on the slopes of the mountains around it; and then in the afternoon they came down the zigzag path again to Chamouni, very tired and very hungry. To be tired and hungry, however, when you come home at night to a Swiss inn, is a great source of enjoyment--on account of the admirable arrangements for rest and refreshment which you are sure to find there. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 14: Any loose rock of large size detached from its native ledge or mountain is called a _bowlder_.] CHAPTER XII. ROLLO A COURIER. Rollo came in one morning to the hotel at Meyringen, after having been taking a walk on the banks of a mighty torrent that flows through the valley, and found his uncle George studying the guide book and map, with an appearance of perplexity. Mr. George was seated at a table on a balcony, which opened from the dining room of the inn. This balcony was very large, and rooms opened from it in various directions. There were several tables here, with seats around them, where those who chose to do so could take their breakfast or their dinner in the open air, and enjoy the views of the surrounding mountains and waterfalls at the same time. Mr. George was seated at one of these tables, with his map and his guide book before him. "Well, uncle George," said Rollo, "are you planning our journey?" "Yes," said Mr. George; "and I am very much perplexed." "Why, what is the difficulty?" asked Rollo. "There is no possibility of getting out of this valley," said Mr. George, "except by going all the way back to Thun,--and that I am not willing to do." "Is there no _possible_ way?" asked Rollo. "No," said Mr. George, "unless we go over the Brunig Pass on foot." "Well," said Rollo, "let us do that." "We might possibly do that," continued Mr. George, still looking intently at his map. "We should have to go over the Brunig to Lungern on foot, with a horse for our baggage. Then we should have to take a car from Lungern down the valleys to the shore of Lake Lucerne, and there get a boat, for six or eight miles, on the lake to the town." "Well," said Rollo, joyfully, "I should like that." Rollo liked the idea of making the journey in the way that his uncle George had described, on account of the numerous changes which would be necessary in it, in respect to the modes of conveyance. It was for this very reason that his uncle did _not_ like it. "Yes, uncle George," said Rollo, again. "That will be an excellent way to go to Lucerne. Don't you think it will?" "No," said Mr. George. "It will be so much trouble. We shall have three different arrangements to make for conveyance, in one day." "No matter for that, uncle George," said Rollo. "I will do all that. Let me be the courier, uncle George, and I'll take you from here to Lucerne without your having the least trouble. I will make all the arrangements, so that you shall have nothing to do. You may read, if you choose, the whole of the way." "How will you find out what to do?" asked Mr. George. "O, I'll study the guide book carefully," replied Rollo; "and, besides, I'll inquire of the landlord here." "Well," said Mr. George, hesitatingly, "I have a great mind to try it." "Only you must pay me," said Rollo. "I can't be courier without being paid." "How much must I pay?" asked Mr. George. "Why, about a quarter of a dollar," replied Rollo. "It is worth more than that," said Mr. George. "I will give you half a dollar if you make all the arrangements and get me safe to Lucerne without my having any care or trouble. But then if you get into difficulty in any case, and have to appeal to me, you lose your whole pay. If you carry me through, I give you half a dollar. If you don't really carry me through, you have nothing." Rollo agreed to these conditions, and Mr. George proceeded to shut up the map and the guide book, and to put them in his hands. "I will sit down here now," said Rollo, "and study the map and the guide book until I have learned all I can from them, and then I will go and talk with the landlord." Mr. George did not make any reply to this remark, but taking out a small portfolio, containing writing materials, from his pocket, he set himself at work writing some letters; having, apparently, dismissed the whole subject of the mode of crossing the Brunig entirely from his mind. Rollo took his seat at a table on the balcony in a corner opposite to the place where his uncle was writing, and spread out the map before him. His seat commanded a very extended and magnificent view. In the foreground were the green fields, the gardens, and the orchards of the lower valley. Beyond, green pasturages were seen extending over the lower declivities of the mountains, with hamlets perched here and there upon the shelving rocks, and winding and zigzag roads ascending from one elevation to another, while here and there prodigious cataracts and cascades were to be seen, falling down hundreds of feet, over perpendicular precipices, or issuing from frightful chasms. Rollo stopped occasionally to gaze upon these scenes; and sometimes he would pause to put a spy glass to his eye, in order to watch the progress of the parties of travellers that were to be seen, from time to time, coming down along a winding path which descended the face of the mountain about two or three miles distant, across the valley. With the exception of these brief interruptions, Rollo continued very steadily at his work; and in about half an hour he shut up the map, and put it in its case, saying, in a tone of great apparent satisfaction,-- "There! I understand it now perfectly." He was in hopes that his uncle would have asked him some questions about the route, in order that he might show how fully he had made himself acquainted with it; but Mr. George said nothing, and so Rollo went away to find the landlord. * * * * * That night, just before bed time, Mr. George asked Rollo what time he was going to set out the next morning. "Immediately after breakfast," said Rollo. "Are we going to ride or walk?" asked Mr. George. "We are going to walk over the pass," said Rollo. "The road is too steep and rocky for horses. But then we are going to have a horse to carry the trunk." "Can you put our trunk on a horse?" asked Mr. George. "Yes," replied Rollo, "the guide says he can." "Very well," said Mr. George, "and just as soon as we get through breakfast I am going to walk on, and leave you to pack the trunk on the horse, and come along when you are ready." "Well," said Rollo, "you can do that." "Because, you see," continued Mr. George, "you will probably have various difficulties and delays in getting packed and ready, and I don't want to have any thing to do with it. I wish to have my mind entirely free, so as to enjoy the walk and the scenery without any care or responsibility whatever." Sometimes, when fathers or uncles employ boys to do any work, or to assume any charge, they stand by and help them all the time, so that the real labor and responsibility do not come on the boy after all. He gets paid for the work, and he _imagines_ that he does it--his father or his uncle allowing him to imagine so, for the sake of pleasing him. But there was no such child's play as this between Mr. George and Rollo. When Rollo proposed to undertake any duty, Mr. George always considered well, in the first instance, whether it was a duty that he was really competent to perform. If it was not, he would not allow him to undertake it. If it was, he left him to bear the whole burden and responsibility of it, entirely alone. Rollo understood this perfectly well, and he liked such a mode of management. He was, accordingly, not at all surprised to hear his uncle George propose to leave him to make all the arrangements of the journey alone. "You see," said Mr. George, "when I hire a courier I expect him to take all the care of the journey entirely off my mind, and leave me to myself, so that I can have a real good time." "Yes," said Rollo, "that is right." And here, perhaps, I ought to explain that what is called a courier, in the vocabulary of tourists in Europe, is a _travelling servant_, who, when he is employed by any party, takes the whole charge of their affairs, and makes all necessary arrangements, so that they can travel without any care or concern. He engages the conveyances and guides, selects the inns, pays the bills, takes charge of the baggage, and does every thing, in short, that is necessary to secure the comfort and safety of the party on their journey, and to protect them from every species of trouble and annoyance. He has himself often before travelled over the countries through which he is to conduct his party, so that he is perfectly familiar with them in every part, and he knows all the languages that it is necessary to speak in them. Thus when once under the charge of such a guide, a gentleman journeying in Europe, even if he has his whole family with him, need have no care or concern, but may be as quiet and as much at his ease, all the time, as if he were riding about his own native town in his private carriage. The next morning, after breakfast, Mr. George rose from the table, and prepared to set out on his journey. He put the belt of his knapsack over his shoulder, and took his alpenstock in his hand. "Good by, Rollo," said he. "I will walk on, taking the road to the Brunig, and you can come when you get ready. You will overtake me in the course of half an hour, or an hour." Rollo accompanied Mr. George to the door, and then wishing him a pleasant walk, bade him good by. In a few minutes the guide came around the corner of the house, from the inn yard, leading the horse. He stopped to water the horse at a fountain in the street, and then led him to the door. In the mean time the porter of the inn had brought down the trunk, and then the guide proceeded to fasten it upon the saddle of the horse, by means of two strong straps. The saddle was what is called a pack saddle, and was made expressly to receive such burdens. After having placed the trunk and secured it firmly, the guide put on the umbrella, and Mr. George's and Rollo's greatcoats, and also Rollo's knapsack. These things made quite a pile on the horse's back. The burden was increased, too, by several things belonging to the guide himself, which he put on over all the rest, such as a great-coat and a little bag of provisions. At length, when all was ready, Rollo bade the innkeeper good by, and set out on his journey. The guide went first, driving the horse before him, and Rollo followed, with his alpenstock in his hand. They soon passed out of the village, and then travelled along a very pleasant road, which skirted the foot of the mountain range,--all the time gradually ascending. Rollo looked out well before him, whenever he came to a straight part of the road, in hopes of seeing his uncle; but Mr. George was nowhere in view. Presently he came to a place where there was a gate, and a branch path, turning off from the main road, directly towards the mountain. Here Rollo, quite to his relief and gratification, found his uncle. Mr. George was sitting on a stone by the side of the road, reading. He shut his book when he saw Rollo and the guide, and put it away in his knapsack. At the same time he rose from his seat, saying,-- "Well, Rollo, which is the way?" "I don't know," said Rollo. The guide, however, settled the question by taking hold of the horse's bridle, and leading him off into the side path. The two travellers followed him. The path led through a very romantic and beautiful scene of fields, gardens, and groves, among the trees of which were here and there seen glimpses of magnificent precipices and mountains rising very near, a little beyond them. After following this path a few steps, two girls came running out from a cottage. One of them had a board under her arm. The other had nothing. They both glanced at the travellers, as they passed, and then ran forward along the road before them. "What do you suppose those girls are going to do?" asked Rollo. "I can't conceive," replied Mr. George. "Some thing for us to pay for, I'll engage." "And shall you pay them?" asked Rollo. "No," said Mr. George. "_I_ shall not pay them. I shall leave all such business to my courier." The purpose with which the two girls had come out was soon made to appear; for after running along before the party of travellers for about a quarter of a mile, they came to a place where two shallow but rather broad brooks flowed across the pathway. When Rollo and Mr. George came up to the place they found that the girls had placed boards over these streams of water for bridges. One of the boards was the one which the girl had brought along with her, under her arm. The other girl, it seems, kept her board under the bushes near the place, because it was too heavy to carry back and forth to the house. It was their custom to watch for travellers coming along the path, and then to run on before them and lay these bridges over the brooks,--expecting, of course, to be paid for it. Rollo gave them each a small piece of money, and then he and Mr. George went on. Soon the road began to ascend the side of the mountain in long zigzags and windings. These windings presented new views of the valley below at every turn, each successive picture being more extended and grand than the preceding. At length, after ascending some thousands of feet, the party came to a resting-place, consisting of a seat in a sort of bower, which had been built for the accommodation of travellers, at a turn of the road where there was an uncommonly magnificent view. Here they stopped to rest, while the guide, leading the horse to a spring at the road side, in order that he might have a drink, sat down himself on a flat stone beside him. "How far is it that we have got to walk?" asked Mr. George. Rollo looked at his watch, and then said, "We have got to walk about three hours more." "And what shall we come to then?" asked Mr. George. "We shall come down on the other side of the mountain," said Rollo, "to a little village called Lungern, where there is a good road; and there I am going to hire a carriage, and a man to drive us to the lake. It is a beautiful country that we are going through, and the road leads along the shores of mountain lakes. The first lake is up very high among the mountains. The next is a great deal lower down, and we have to go down a long way by a zigzag road, till we get to it. Then we go along the shore of this second lake, through several towns, and at last we come to the landing on the Lake of Lucerne. There I shall hire a boat." "What kind of a boat?" asked Mr. George. "I don't know," said Rollo. "How do you know that there will be any boat there?" asked Mr. George. "Because the guide book says there will," replied Rollo. "They always have boats there to take people that come along this road to Lucerne." "Why do they not go all the way by land?" asked Mr. George. "Because," said Rollo, "the whole country there is so full of mountains that there is no place for a road." Just at this time the guide got up from his seat, and seemed ready to set out upon his journey; and so Mr. George and Rollo rose and went on. After ascending about an hour more, through a series of very wild and romantic glens, with cottages and curious-looking chalets scattered here and there along the borders of them, wherever the ground was smooth and green enough for cattle to feed, our travellers came, at length, to the summit of the pass, where, in a very pleasant and sheltered spot, surrounded with forest trees, there stood a little inn. On arriving at this place the guide proceeded to take off the load from the horse and to place it upon a sort of frame, such as is used in those countries for burdens which are to be carried on the back of a man. "What is he going to do?" asked Mr. George. "He is going to carry the baggage the rest of the way himself," said Rollo. "You see it is so steep and rocky from here down to Lungern that it is dreadful hard work to get a horse down and up again; especially _up_. So the guide leaves the horse here, and is going to carry the baggage down himself on his back. That rack that he is fastening the trunk upon goes on his back. Those straps in front of it come over his shoulders." "It seems to me," said Mr. George, "that that is a monstrous heavy load to put on a man's back, to go down a place which is so steep and rocky that a horse could not get along over it. But then I suppose my courier knows what he is about." So Mr. George, with an air and manner which seemed to say, It is none of my concern, walked up a flight of steps which led to a sort of elevated porch or platform before the door of the inn. For a moment Rollo himself was a little disconcerted, not knowing whether it would be safe for a man to go down a steep declivity with such a burden on his back; but when he reflected that this was the arrangement that the guide himself had proposed, and that the guide had, doubtless, done the same thing a hundred times before, he ceased to feel any uneasiness, and following Mr. George up the steps, he took a seat by his side, at a little table, which was placed there for the accommodation of travellers stopping at the inn to rest. Rollo and his uncle spent half an hour at this hotel. For refreshment they had some very excellent and rich Alpine milk, which they drank from very tall and curiously-shaped tumblers. They also amused themselves in looking at some specimens of carved work, such as models of Swiss cottages--and figures of shepherds, and milkmaids with loads of utensils on their backs--and groups of huntsmen, with dogs leaping up around them--and chamois, or goats, climbing about among the rocks and mountains. Rollo had bought a pretty good supply of such sculptures before; but there was one specimen here that struck his fancy so much that he could not resist the temptation of adding it to his collection, especially as Mr. George approved of his making the purchase. It was a model of what is called a chalet,[15] which is a sort of hut that the shepherds occupy in the upper pasturages, in the summer, where they go to tend the cows, and to make butter and cheese. The little chalet was made in such a manner that the roof would lift up like a lid, and let you see all there was within. There was a row of cows, with little calves by them, in stalls on one side of the chalet, and on the other side tables and benches, with pans of milk and tubs upon them, and a churn, and a cheese press, and other such like things. There was a bed, too, for the shepherd, in a sort of a garret above, just big enough to hold it. In about half an hour the guide seemed ready to proceed, and the whole party set out again on their journey. The guide went before, with the trunk and all the other baggage piled up on the rack behind him. He had a stout staff in his hand, which he used to prevent himself from falling, in going down the steep and rocky places. Some of these places were very steep and rocky indeed--so much so that going down them was a work of climbing rather than walking, and Rollo himself was sometimes almost afraid. What made these places the more frightful was, that the path in descending them was often exceedingly narrow, and was bordered, on one side, by a perpendicular wall of rock, and by an unfathomable abyss of rocks and roaring cataracts on the other. To behold the skill and dexterity with which the guide let himself down, from rock to rock, in this dreadful defile, loaded as he was, excited both in Mr. George and Rollo a continual sentiment of wonder. At length the steepest part of the descent was accomplished, and then the road led, for a mile, through a green and pretty valley, with lofty rocks and mountains on either hand, and chalets and pretty cottages at various distances along the roadside. At one place, in a very romantic and delightful spot, they came to a small chapel. It had been built there to commemorate some remarkable event, and to afford a resting-place for travellers. The door of this chapel was fastened, but Rollo could look in through a window and see the altar, and the crucifix, and the tall candles, within. He and Mr. George sat down, too, on the stone step of the chapel for a little while, to rest, and to enjoy the view. While they were there another traveller came by, ascending from Lungern, and he stopped to rest there too. He was lame, and seemed to be poor. He had a pack on his back. Mr. George talked with this man in French while they sat together on the steps of the chapel, and when he went away Mr. George gave him a little money. After leaving the chapel the travellers continued their descent, the valley opening before them more and more as they proceeded, until, at length, the village of Lungern came in sight, far below them, at the head of a little lake. "There!" said Rollo, as soon as the village came in sight. "That is Lungern. That is the place where the carriage road begins." "I am glad of that," said Mr. George. "A ride in a carriage will be very pleasant after all this scrambling over the mountains--that is, provided you get a good carriage." When, at length, the party reached the inn, the guide set down his load on a bench at the door of it, and, smiling, seemed quite pleased to be rid of the heavy burden. "Are we going to take dinner here?" said Mr. George to Rollo. "No, sir," said Rollo. "At least, I don't know. We'll see." The landlord of the inn met the travellers at the door, and conducted them up a flight of stone stairs, and thence into a room where several tables were set, and different parties of travellers were taking refreshments. The landlord, after showing them into this room, went down stairs again to attend to other travellers. Mr. George and Rollo walked into the room. After looking about the room a moment, however, Rollo said he must go down and see about a carriage. "Wait here a few minutes, uncle George," said he, "while I go and engage a carriage, and then I will come back." So saying, Rollo went away, and Mr. George took his seat by a window. Presently the waiter came to Mr. George, and asked him, in French, if he wished for any refreshment. "I don't know," said Mr. George. "I will wait till the boy comes back, and then we'll see." In a short time Rollo came back. "The carriage will be ready in twenty minutes," said he. "Very well," said Mr. George. "And the waiter wants to know whether we are going to have any thing to eat." "Yes," said Rollo, "we are going to have a luncheon." Rollo then went to the waiter, and said, in French, "Bread, butter, coffee, and strawberries, for two." "Very well, sir," said the waiter, and he immediately went away to prepare what Rollo had ordered. In due time the refreshment was ready, and Mr. George and Rollo sat down to the table, with great appetites. Every thing was very nice. The strawberries, in particular, though very small in size, as the Alpine strawberries always are, were very abundant in quantity, and delicious in flavor. There was also plenty of rich cream to eat them with. When, at length, the travellers had finished eating their luncheon, the landlord came to say that the carriage was ready. So Rollo paid the bill, and then he and Mr. George went down to the door. Here they found a very pretty chaise, with a seat in front for the driver, all ready for them. The trunk and all the other baggage were strapped securely on behind. Mr. George and Rollo got in. The top of the chaise was down, so that the view was unobstructed on every side. "Well," said Rollo, "do you think it _is_ a good carriage?" "A most excellent one," said Mr. George. "We shall have a delightful ride, I am sure." Mr. George was not disappointed in his anticipations of a delightful ride. The day was very pleasant, and the scenery of the country through which they had to pass was as romantic and beautiful as could be imagined. The road descended rapidly, from valley to valley, sometimes by sharp zigzags, and sometimes by long and graceful meanderings, presenting at every turn some new and charming view. There were green valleys, and shady dells, and foaming cascades, and dense forests, and glassy lakes, and towering above the whole, on either side, were vast mountain slopes, covered with forests, and ranges of precipitous rocks, their summits shooting upward, in pinnacles, to the very clouds. After journeying on in this manner for some hours the carriage arrived at an inn on the shores of the Lake of Lucerne. There was a landing there, and a number of boats, drawn up near a little pier. "Yes," exclaimed Rollo, when he saw the boats, "this is the place. The name of it is Alpnach. We are to go the rest of the way by water." "That will be very pleasant," said Mr. George, as he got out of the carriage. "I shall like a row on the lake very much. I will go directly down to the landing, and you can come when you get ready." So Mr. George walked on down to the pier, leaving Rollo to perform his duties as a courier, according to his own discretion. Rollo first paid the driver of the carriage what was due to him, according to the agreement that he had made with the Lungern landlord, and then explained to the Alpnach landlord, in as good French as he could command, that he wanted a boat, to take him and the gentleman who was travelling with him to Lucerne, and asked what the price would be. The landlord named the regular price, and Rollo engaged the boat. The landlord then sent for a boatman. In a few minutes the boatman was seen coming. He was followed by two rather pretty-looking peasant girls, each bringing an oar on her shoulder. These two girls were the boatman's daughters. They were going with their father in the boat, to help him row. The boatman took up the trunk, and the girls the other parcels of baggage, and so carried the whole, together with the oars, down to the boat. Rollo followed them, and the whole party immediately embarked. It was a bright and sunny day, though there were some dark and heavy clouds in the western sky. The water of the lake was very smooth, and it reflected the mountains and the skies in a very beautiful manner. Mr. George and Rollo took their seats in the boat, under an awning that was spread over a frame in the central portion of it. This awning sheltered them from the sun, while it did not intercept their view. The man and the girls took each of them an oar, standing up, however, to row, and _pushing_ the oar before them, instead of _pulling_ it, according to our fashion.[16] Thus they commenced the voyage. Every thing went on very pleasantly for an hour, only, as the boatman and his daughters could speak no language but German, Mr. George and Rollo could have no conversation with them. But they could talk with each other, and they had a very pleasant time. At length, however, the clouds which had appeared in the western sky rose higher and higher, and grew blacker and blacker, and, finally, low, rumbling peals of thunder began to be heard. The boatman talked with his daughters, pointing to the clouds, and then said something to Mr. George in German; but neither Mr. George nor Rollo could understand it. They soon found, however, that the boat was turned towards the shore. They were very glad of this, for Rollo said that he had read in the guide book that the Swiss lakes were subject to very violent tempests, such as it would be quite dangerous to encounter far from the shore. Rollo said, moreover, that the boatmen were very vigilant in watching for the approach of these storms, and that they would always at once make the best of their way to the land whenever they saw one coming on. In this instance the wind began to blow, and the rain to fall, before the boat reached the shore. Rollo and Mr. George were sheltered by the awning, but the boatman and the two girls got very wet. They, however, continued to work hard at the oars, and at length they reached the shore. The place where they landed was in a cove formed by a point of land, where there was a little inn near the water. As soon as the boat reached the shore Mr. George and Rollo leaped out of it, and spreading their umbrella they ran up to the inn. They waited here nearly an hour. They sat on a piazza in front of the inn, listening to the sound of the thunder and of the wind, and watching the drops of rain falling on the water. At length the wind subsided, the rain gradually ceased, and the sun came out bright and beaming as ever. The party then got into the boat, and the boatman pushed off from the shore; and in an hour more they all landed safely on the quay at Lucerne, very near to a magnificent hotel. Our two travellers were soon comfortably seated at a table in the dining room of the hotel before an excellent dinner, which Rollo had ordered. Mr. George told Rollo, as they took their seats at the table, that he had performed his duty as a courier in a very satisfactory manner, and had fully earned his pay. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 15: Pronounced _shallay_.] [Footnote 16: The Swiss always stand up in rowing, and _push_ the oar. Thus they look the way they are going.] CHAPTER XIII. CONCLUSION. It is not possible to describe in such a volume as this more than a small part of the excursions which Mr. George and Rollo made or the adventures which they met with in the course of their tour in Switzerland. They remained in the country of the Alps more than a fortnight; and they enjoyed, as Rollo said, every moment of the time. There was no end to the cascades and waterfalls, the ice and snow-clad summits, the glaciers, the romantic zigzag paths up the mountain sides, the picturesque hamlets and cottages, and the groups of peasants toiling in the fields or tending flocks and herds in the higher pasturages. Rollo's heart was filled all the time that he remained among these scenes with never-ceasing wonder and delight. The inns pleased him, too, as much perhaps as any thing else; for the climbing of mountains and the long excursions on foot gave him a most excellent appetite; and at the inns they always found such nice breakfasts, dinners, and suppers every day that Rollo was never tired of praising them. Rollo found the cost, too, of travelling in Switzerland much less than he had expected. He did not expend nearly all the allowance which his father had granted him. When he came to settle up his accounts, after he had got back to Paris, he found that he had saved about seventy-five francs, which made nearly fifteen dollars; and this sum he accordingly added to his _capital_--for that was the name by which he was accustomed to designate the stock of funds which he had gradually accumulated and reserved. Just before Mr. George and Rollo left Switzerland, on their return to Paris, they received a letter from Mr. Holiday, who was still in Paris, in consequence of which they concluded to make a short tour on the Rhine on their way to France. The adventures which they met with on this tour will form the subject of another volume of this series. 
43639	----	[Transcriber's Note: Bold text is surrounded by =equal signs= and italic text is surrounded by _underscores_.] Our Little Swiss Cousin The Little Cousin Series [Illustration] Each volume illustrated with six or more full-page plates in tint. Cloth, 12mo, with decorative cover, per volume, 60 cents. [Illustration] LIST OF TITLES BY MARY HAZELTON WADE (unless otherwise indicated) =Our Little African Cousin= =Our Little Armenian Cousin= =Our Little Brown Cousin= =Our Little Canadian Cousin= By Elizabeth R. Macdonald =Our Little Chinese Cousin= By Isaac Taylor Headland =Our Little Cuban Cousin= =Our Little Dutch Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little English Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little Eskimo Cousin= =Our Little French Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little German Cousin= =Our Little Hawaiian Cousin= =Our Little Indian Cousin= =Our Little Irish Cousin= =Our Little Italian Cousin= =Our Little Japanese Cousin= =Our Little Jewish Cousin= =Our Little Korean Cousin= By H. Lee M. Pike =Our Little Mexican Cousin= By Edward C. Butler =Our Little Norwegian Cousin= =Our Little Panama Cousin= By H. Lee M. Pike =Our Little Philippine Cousin= =Our Little Porto Rican Cousin= =Our Little Russian Cousin= =Our Little Scotch Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little Siamese Cousin= =Our Little Spanish Cousin= By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet =Our Little Swedish Cousin= By Claire M. Coburn =Our Little Swiss Cousin= =Our Little Turkish Cousin= [Illustration] L. C. PAGE & COMPANY New England Building, Boston, Mass. [Illustration: CARL.] Our Little Swiss Cousin By Mary Hazelton Wade _Illustrated by_ L. J. Bridgman [Illustration] Boston L. C. Page & Company _MDCCCCIII_ _Copyright, 1903_ BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY (INCORPORATED) _All rights reserved_ Published, July, 1903 _Fourth Impression, December, 1906_ Colonial Press Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co. Boston, Mass., U. S. A. Preface IN the very heart of Europe lies a small country nestling among the mountains. It is unlike any other in the world. Its people speak four different languages; they believe in different religions; the government is not alike in different parts; yet the Swiss states are bound together by a bond stronger than unity of language or creed can possibly make. Our brave Swiss cousins believe in liberty for all and brotherly love. These make the most powerful of ties. In their mountains and valleys they have fought against the enemies who would have destroyed them, and the tyrants who would have made them slaves. They have driven out their foes again and again, for their cause was noble and unselfish, and to-day the republic formed by them can teach other countries many wise and worthy lessons. How the stories of William Tell and Arnold von Winkelried stir our hearts whenever we hear them repeated! These were only two of many heroes who have made the country famous for its bravery and unselfishness. Surely we shall be glad to turn our minds for a while to its fertile valleys, beautiful lakes, and the noble mountains among which the good monks live with their trusty dogs, that they may give aid and comfort to unfortunate travellers overtaken by cold and storm. Contents CHAPTER PAGE I. CARL'S HOLIDAY 9 II. THE MOUNTAIN PASTURE 27 III. THE SCHOOLMASTER'S VISIT 43 IV. THE BRAVE ARCHER 51 V. THE HAYMAKERS 63 VI. THE MARMOT 76 VII. GLACIER AND AVALANCHE 92 VIII. SANTA CLAUS NIGHT 105 IX. THE WONDERFUL ABBEY 110 List of Illustrations PAGE CARL _Frontispiece_ THE CHALET 30 "'FOLLOWING ITS MASTER ABOUT JUST LIKE A DOG'" 49 CLIMBING THE MATTERHORN 79 "IT WAS A RIVER OF SOLID ICE!" 95 ON THE LAKE 121 Our Little Swiss Cousin CHAPTER I. CARL'S HOLIDAY "TO-MORROW, to-morrow!" Carl kept repeating to himself. He was standing at the window of the little cottage and looking out toward the great mountain. He had lived under its shadow all his life. Its snowy summit was coloured a fiery red as it stood against the sky in the sunset light. People in far-away lands would give a great deal to see such a glorious sight. But Carl saw another picture in his mind. It was the grand procession of the next day, that would celebrate the close of school before the summer vacation. Thousands of children would march in the line. They would carry the flag of Switzerland,--the white cross on a red ground. It was the emblem of their country's freedom, and they loved it well. There would be bands of music; there would be a speech by the mayor of the city. Feasts would be spread, to which all the children were invited. Yes, the glorious day was near, and Carl was very happy. "Carl, my boy, are you thinking of the good time to-morrow?" said a voice at the other side of the room. Carl started, and, turning round, he saw his father standing in the doorway. "O father, is that you? How glad I am to see you!" and the little boy rushed into the good man's arms. "Yes, I am all ready for the festival. Mother has my best clothes laid out on the bed. She is planning to go, too, and now you are home just in time to go with us. I am very, very glad." Carl was so excited that he talked faster than usual. "I am tired of working in a hotel in the city, the country is so much pleasanter," answered his father. "And now I shall spend the summer with your mother and you. The people of the village wish me to take the cows to the mountain pasture. You shall go, too, and we will have a good time together." "That will be fine. I never spent the whole summer there before. How soon are we to start, father?" "Next week. The days are growing warmer and the flowers must already be in bloom upon the Alps. But now we must see your mother and talk about to-morrow. On my way home I heard in the village that you were going to the festival. Nearly all the neighbours are going too, aren't they?" At this moment the door opened and a kind-faced woman came in, bringing a pail of milk in each hand. Her eyes were as blue as the sky, and her hair was nearly as fair as Carl's. It was easy to see that she was the boy's mother. A happy smile lighted her face when she saw who was in the room. It was as much a surprise to her as it had been to Carl. She supposed her husband was still working in the big hotel at Lucerne, where so many strangers came from other lands. When her husband told her of the work he had been doing, the heavy trunks which he had to lift till his back had grown lame, her face grew full of pity. "It was too hard for you, Rudolf," she cried. "It is far better for you to take care of the cows this summer. We will go with you, Carl and I, and we shall have a merry time." She moved quickly about the room as she strained the milk into the crocks and made ready the simple supper. In a few minutes the little family gathered around the table. There was sweet, fresh milk from the cows. There was the black rye bread which Carl had been used to eating all his life,--indeed, he had never seen white bread in his home. Besides these, there was a round cheese, from which each one cut a slice as he wished. Best of all, there was a sort of cake made of dough and chopped dried fruits. Apples and cherries and almonds were all mixed in this cake and Carl thought it was very nice. It was put on the table to-night in honour of his father's home-coming. Night after night Carl had a supper like this. Morning after morning, the breakfast was the same. The only difference was that sometimes there was the cake with the dried fruits. Yet Carl was very happy and healthy. To be sure, he had meat and coffee for dinner only once a week. This was on Sunday. It was no wonder that he looked forward to that day as the best of all, for it seemed a feast day to him. At the noon meal on other days there was only soup or potatoes with the bread and cheese. There was little change through the year except at the time when the fruit and nuts were ripe and they could be eaten fresh. After the supper was over, the family sat a while longer around the table and talked about the school festival. Carl's father had just come from Lucerne. He told the boy how the buildings were decorated. He named the bands that would furnish the music. "I am to march, father," Carl said. "And I am to carry the flag of my country. Children from all the villages around the lake are to take part, I hear. Just think! although we are back in the country, our school has its place in the procession." Carl's mother showed her husband the bright red skirt that she was going to wear. It would reach to the tops of her shoes. There was a white waist with big sleeves that she had starched and ironed. There was a new black bodice she had just made; it would be laced about the waist, and it fitted her finely. She had polished the bands of silver to fasten across the back of her head above the long braids of glossy hair. She would certainly look very well in her finery, and her husband would be proud of her. Oh, yes, that was certain. What kind of a hat would she wear? None at all! There was no need, and it would be a shame to hide the silver bands; they were too pretty. What did it matter if some of the women of Switzerland dressed like the people of other lands? Carl's mother was not ready to follow new fashions yet awhile. The old customs of her village were good enough for her. It was a small room where Carl and his parents sat and talked. Everything was fresh and clean; the floor had been scrubbed so that no spot could be seen upon it. The table was unpainted. The chairs had straight, stiff backs; no rocking-chair or lounge had ever found a place here. Carl's mother had never rested herself on such a piece of furniture in her life. There was one strange-looking object in the room. It was large and white. It reached far up toward the ceiling, and was made of porcelain. It was the family stove. It had belonged to Carl's great-grandfather, and had stood in this very place, summer and winter, for a hundred years at least. It would not seem like home without it. When baby Carl was first old enough to notice things around him, he used to creep up to the stove and try to touch the pictures painted on its sides. One was the scene of a battle where the Swiss were driving their enemies down a mountain. On the other side, a hunter was painted. He was bringing home a chamois that hung from his shoulders. When the boy grew older, he used to climb the steps that led up to the top of the stove. It was so nice and warm there behind the curtains that hung from the ceiling down to the front edge. It made a cosy little room where Carl could lie and warm himself after a walk in the winter air. Sometimes the boy slept there all night long; but that was only in the coldest weather. In the daytime his mother often put her fruit there to dry, or perhaps she hung wet clothes there. It had many uses. There were no real stairs in the house. There was an upper room, however, and when a person wished to enter it he must first climb on top of the stove and then pass through a hole in the ceiling. It was a strange way of building the house; don't you think so? Perhaps you wonder that Carl did not get burned when he lay on top of the stove. That was because there was never any fire in it! This probably seems the strangest thing about it, but you must understand that the fire was built in a sort of furnace out in the hall. The heat passed from this furnace into the porcelain stove, so it was not unpleasantly warm when one touched it. After talking a while with his father, Carl climbed up to the top of the stove, and creeping through the hole in the ceiling, he entered his bedroom. He quickly said his prayers and then jumped into bed. He must get to sleep as early as possible, for he would be called before daybreak. At least, his mother promised to call him, but she did not need to do so,--he was the first one in the house to wake. "Father! mother!" he shouted, before the clock cried "cuckoo," three times. It was none too early; lights moving from room to room could already be seen in the neighbours' houses. The whole village was astir. There was a walk of several miles for all who were going to the celebration. This walk would bring them to the shores of the lake. A steamer would be waiting at the pier to take them across to the city of Lucerne on the other side. A party of merry people moved along the road just as the sunrise coloured the mountain-tops. Every one was dressed in his Sunday best. There were many little girls, all in white, their yellow hair hanging in long braids. Some of them had immense wreaths of flowers or laurel leaves to carry in the procession, but the flags were carried by the boys. See! there is the beautiful lake just ahead. How blue its waters are! The shadows of lofty mountains can be seen if you look down upon the clear surface. Brave men have lived on its shores. Noble deeds have been done near by. Every Swiss loves this lake, as he thinks of the history of his country. The little steamer was quickly loaded with its gay passengers, and made its way over the waters. Other steamers soon came in sight, but all were moving in the same direction,--toward the city of Lucerne. Such a festival is not held every year. Each village generally celebrates the close of school by a picnic or steamer-ride. There is usually something pleasant for the children, but not always a time like this. When the day was over, it was hard for Carl to tell what he had enjoyed most. In the morning, after the children had marched around the city to lively music, they went out to a large open space where the feast was served. Every one had all the coffee and cakes he wished. There were many odd little cakes that only Swiss women know how to make. The children enjoyed them hugely. After the feast games were played, and there were rides on the flying horses. You will laugh when you hear the name of one of the games. It is "Blind Cow." Carl is very fond of it. It is much like our "Blind Man's Buff." Carl and his friend Franz chose one corner of a large field. Marie, Franz's sister, and Freda, another little friend, were with them. They were soon joined by other children, and they had a lively game. Carl was the cow oftener than any one else. He didn't care. It was great fun stumbling around with blinded eyes, and trying to catch the others. When they thought they were quite safe and out of reach, one of them was sure to laugh and show where he was. Then Carl would make a sudden spring, and catch the laugher. Before the afternoon was over, the mayor spoke to the children about the kind teacher who had helped not only the Swiss, but children all over the world. That teacher's name was Pestalozzi. Carl knew the story well, but he loved to hear it over and over again. More than a hundred years ago there was a good man who lived in Switzerland very near Carl's house. It was a time of war. Soldiers from other countries had chosen Switzerland for their battle-field. They took possession of the homes of the people. They destroyed their crops. They ate their supplies of food. The Swiss suffered greatly. After these enemies had gone away, they found themselves poor, and many of them were starving. Pestalozzi was not a rich man, but his heart was filled with pity. He went among the poor and gave them all he had. He was especially fond of the children. He cared for them as well as he could; he got them bread to eat and clothes to wear; best of all, he taught them and kept their minds busy. But at last his money was all spent. What could he do now? He gathered the ragged, hungry boys around him. They had grown to love him, and were willing to do anything he directed. He showed them how to sew and spin and do many other kinds of work. They were soon able to earn enough money to support themselves and their school. Pestalozzi did not teach in the way others did. He said: "It is not enough for these children to study their lessons from books and then be whipped if they do not get them. They must see how real things are; they must study from objects. The living birds and flowers should help them. They must learn to shape things for themselves, and see as much as possible with their own eyes. Then they will love to study; they will enjoy their schools, and be happiest when there." He set a new fashion for the world. His pupils learned so fast and well that other teachers came to watch and learn his ways. His fame spread to other countries, to England and America. They also copied his manner of teaching. Not only Swiss children, but those of different lands, began to enjoy their schools better. It all came about through the kind and loving work of Pestalozzi. Carl has never known of a boy being whipped in his school. Such a punishment is seldom given in Switzerland. The teacher tries love and kindness first. If these fail, the boy is turned out of school. It is a terrible disgrace; it will follow the boy all his life, and he dreads it above everything. After the mayor had spoken of Pestalozzi to the children, he bade them be proud of their schools and their school-buildings, which were finer than even the council-houses. He told them to be glad that all children of Switzerland, no matter how poor they were, could go to these schools and learn of the great world around them. As he spoke, he could see in the faces of thousands of little ones that they were proud indeed. Carl whispered to Franz, who stood beside him: "There is no country like ours, is there, Franz? We could not be happy anywhere else, I'm sure." His friend replied, "No, indeed, Carl. It is the home of free men, and we must grow up to keep it so. I don't care if we do have to study for six hours every school-day. We learn all the faster and, besides, we have ever so many holidays." The best part of the holiday came in the evening, for that was the time for fireworks. There was a grand display on the shore of the lake. There were rockets, and Roman candles, and fire-pictures, and many other beautiful pieces which lighted the sky and were reflected in the waters of the lake. Many of the people watched the display from the decks of the little steamers, which were also bright with coloured lights. The time came all too soon for the homeward journey. "What a lovely time I've had," sighed Carl, as he reached his own door. "I only wish it were going to be to-morrow instead of to-day." "It was a fine show indeed," said his father. "Everybody looked well and happy. But I must say that I liked the dress of the people of our own village better than that of any other." CHAPTER II. THE MOUNTAIN PASTURE "HERE, Carl, take this kettle, and you, Franz, may carry the other," said Carl's mother. It was two days after the school holiday, and again the village was astir before sunrise. There was a great jingling of cow-bells as the men and boys moved about from farm to farm and gathered the cattle together. Rudolf was to take all the cows in the village to the mountain pastures for the summer. Carl and his friend Franz would help him in taking care of them. Carl's mother would make the cheese. In the autumn, they would bring the cows back and divide the cheese according to the number of cows each family owned. It was a joyful time and well deserving a holiday. Almost every one in the village would keep the herder and his family company on his way up the mountainside. Their food and cooking dishes must be carried; the cows must be kept in the right path, while their friends, who were leaving them for months, must be cheered and kept in good heart. At last everything was made ready. Brown Katze, the handsomest cow in the village, led the line. She tossed her head as though she could already sniff the fresh air of the uplands. How the bells jingled! What gay songs rang out! Carl was a fine singer himself, and if you listened you could hear his voice above all the rest. The procession at first followed a narrow path through the woods. There were many beech and chestnut trees where Carl would go nutting in the fall. After a while these were left behind, and evergreens were the only trees to be seen. It was already growing cooler and the cows pushed onward. They seemed to know of the pleasure before them,--the sweet grass and herbs which they would soon be able to eat to their hearts' content. Ah! the woods came to an end at last, and the beautiful pastures were reached. There is nothing in the world like them. It is no wonder that the cheeses made here are noted all over the world. Here were thousands of the lovely Alpine roses, royal red-purple in colour. Here too, harebells, violets, and pansies were growing wild. It was difficult to walk without stepping on some delicate, beautiful flower. The party followed a narrow path through the meadow. They soon came to the little cottage where Carl would pass the summer. The building was broad and low, and had a wide, overhanging roof on which great rocks were lying, here and there. They were needed to keep it from blowing off during the hard storms of the winter. [Illustration: THE CHALET.] Carl's father opened the door and looked carefully around to see if everything had remained safe since the summer before. Yes, it was all right; no one would know from the appearance that people had not been inside the room for eight months at least. There was the stove over which the milk would be heated before it could be made into cheese. The rough table stood in the corner, while at the farther end was a supply of hay to be used in case the cattle had need of it. It was a large room, but there were many low windows, so it would be bright and cheerful when the shutters had been taken down. Just back of this room was the stable, where the cows could find shelter at night. Shouldn't you think Carl would be lonely here? No other houses could be seen, no matter in what direction he turned. He might not look upon any human faces except those of Franz and his father and mother for days at a time. In whatever way he might turn, his eyes would meet mountains,--mountains everywhere. But he loved to be here; he loved these mountains with all his heart. They gave him a feeling of freedom and of strength, and he would often say to himself: "Ah! the good God has given us a wonderful world to live in, and we are a part of it all." Day after day of the short summer Carl and Franz would drive the cows higher and higher in search of new feeding-grounds. At last they would come to the bare, brown rocks near the summit, and they would know that the season's work was nearly over. The villagers who had come with the family had a picnic dinner at the chalet, as the Swiss call a mountain cottage like Carl's. Then a few songs were sung with a hearty good-will. The time passed so quickly that the people came near forgetting how late it was growing when one of the party, standing in the doorway, heard the clock strike four. "Good friends, we must start homeward at once," he cried. "Think of the long climb down and the dark path through the woods." What a bustle and commotion there was now! What hearty hand-shakings were given! Then away they went, calling back from time to time, or blowing another farewell upon their horns when they were hidden from sight by the trees below. Carl and Franz turned to help Rudolf in the care of the cows, for the milking must be done before nightfall. Carl's mother made up fresh beds from the hay and put away the provisions. She would soon have plenty to do besides, for the cheese-making would be her work. "Carl," she said to her boy that night, "you will be old enough to be a herder yourself before long. In four or five years you and Franz can bring the cows here to pasture by yourselves, and do all the work, too. You must learn how to make cheese this summer." So it was that the two boys took their first lessons, and before many days they had become good helpers inside the house as well as outdoors. They would lift the great kettles of milk and place them over the fire to heat. At just the right moment, the rennet must be put in to curdle the milk and separate the curds from the whey. Now for the beating with a clean pine stick. Carl's strong arms could aid his mother well in this work, upon which the goodness of the cheese depended. "Well done," the herder's wife would say. "It is easy enough to make cheese with two such good lads to help me." She was very fond of Franz, and loved him like a son. The faces of both boys grew bright when they were praised like this, and they were all the more eager to work. There was plenty to do yet, for the boiling and pressing must come next. At last a big mould was ready to set away; but even now it must be watched and turned, day after day. Carl's mother proudly watched her store grow larger as the weeks passed by. Those cheeses would bring large sums of money,--at least, it seemed so to her. But, of course, the money would be divided among the different families, according to the number of cows each sent to the pasture. One morning as Carl was watching the herd, he looked down the mountainside and saw a party of strangers coming up the winding path. Then he heard a voice call: "Hullo, hullo, little boy! Is your home near by? And can we get a little something to eat? We are very hungry." It was a gentleman who spoke these words. A lady and a little girl about ten years old were with him. They looked like Americans. Carl had seen many strangers from other lands, and he said to himself: "Yes, they must be Americans." The little girl was very pretty, and she gave Carl a sweet smile when he ran to help her up over a rough place. "Yes, sir, I'm sure my mother will welcome you," said our little Swiss cousin. "There she is, now." And he pointed to the cottage a short way off, where his mother sat knitting in the doorway. When Carl went home to dinner an hour afterward, he found the strangers still there. They had lunched on bread and cheese and the rich sweet milk, and they declared they had never tasted anything nicer in their lives. "Oh, my!" said the little girl, "I believe I was never so hungry in my life before." "Carl," she went on, for his mother had told her his name, "do you ever carve little houses to look like this one? If you do, I will ask my father to buy one. He told me that Swiss boys do carve all sorts of things." "I am sorry," answered Carl, "but I never did work of that kind. Over to the west of us are villages where every one carves. The men do so as well as the boys. One family will make the toy houses all their lives; another will carve chamois and nothing else; still another will cut out toy cows. But we in our village have other work." "But why don't the wood-carvers change? I should think they would get tired of always doing the same thing," said Ruth, for this was the child's name. "I suppose they never think about it. It is hard work living among these mountains of ours. People wish to earn all they can, and if one makes the same kind of thing, over and over again, he learns how to do it very quickly." "I understand now," answered Ruth. "And I see, too, why the Swiss have such a queer way of making watches. One man in a village keeps making one part of the works; another man works steadily, year after year, on another part, and so on. All these different parts are sent to the factory in the city, and quickly put together into complete watches. That is what my father told me, and he must know, I'm sure." "Yes, that is the work of the people around Geneva," answered Carl. "I have never been to that city yet, but I hope to go there before long." "We stayed there a week. Nearly every one I met spoke in French, while you talk German all the time, Carl. That seems so queer. You live in the same country, and yet you speak in different languages. Why, father says we shall soon visit another part of Switzerland where I shall hear nothing but Italian." "I suppose it must seem strange to you," replied Carl, thoughtfully, "yet we all love our country, and each other. We would fight promptly to save Switzerland, or to help any part in time of danger. We even have different religious beliefs; but while we of our village are Catholics, and try to do as the good priests tell us, there are many others not far away who are Protestants. Yet we are at peace with one another. Oh, I believe our country is the freest and best in all the world. Excuse me, please; I can't help thinking so." Ruth laughed. "I like you all the better, Carl, for feeling in this way. Of course, I love America the best, and shall be glad to get home again after we have travelled awhile longer. But I think your country is the most beautiful I have ever seen. And father says we Americans can learn some good lessons from Switzerland. I shall understand more about that, however, when I am older." "How long have you been here in Switzerland?" Carl asked. "It is two months, I think. But we haven't been travelling all the time. Mother wasn't well and we stayed most of the time at the queerest place I ever heard of. This was so mother could drink the waters and get cured." "Do you remember the name of the place?" asked Carl. "Yes, it is called the Leuken Baths." "I've often heard of those waters. They are boiling as they come bursting out of the ground, aren't they?" "Yes, but that is not the odd part of it, because there are many other boiling springs in the world. It is the way that people are cured at these baths that made me laugh. Why, Carl, some of them stay in the water _all day long_! They wear flannel gowns and sit soaking while they play games on floating tables, and even eat their dinners there. The men smoke, while the women laugh and chat. The hot water brings out a rash all over the body, and the blood, after a while, becomes purer." Carl laughed when he pictured the food on floating tables and people sitting around them with only heads and shoulders out of water. "Did your mother do like these others?" he asked, and he turned his head toward the beautifully dressed lady who sat talking with his parents. "No, she said that was too much, but she drank a good deal of the water, and she feels better than she has for years," replied Ruth. "Come, come, my dear, we have stayed a long time. I fear we have kept these good people from their work. We must thank them, and go back to the town." It was Ruth's father who said these words. He was standing in the doorway, and ready to start. "I shall not forget you, Carl," said the little girl. "I shall often think of this little cottage up on the mountain, with the pretty flowers growing around it and the cows feeding near by." After they had gone, Carl hastily picked a bunch of Alpine roses. "She thought they were beautiful," he said to himself. "Perhaps she will press one of them, and keep it to remember me by." Then with strong bounds and leaps the little boy overtook the party before they had gone very far. When he reached them, however, he was suddenly overcome with shyness. He hastily put the flowers into the hands of Ruth's mother, and was far away again before she could thank him. "He is a dear little fellow," said the lady. "He will make a strong man, and a good one, too, I believe. We will always keep these beautiful flowers. Perhaps we may come here again in a year or two, Ruth. Then we can tell Carl how much we thought of his little gift." CHAPTER III. THE SCHOOLMASTER'S VISIT "GOOD news! good news!" cried Carl, as he came running into the house, quite out of breath. "The schoolmaster is coming, mother. I know it must be he. Come, Franz, let's go to meet him." The sun was just hiding his head behind the mountain-tops, and the little family were about to sit down to their evening meal. "Do go at once, my dear boys," said Carl's mother. "Tell the good teacher how glad we are at his coming." It was not a complete surprise, for the schoolmaster had promised Carl to spend a week with him on the mountain pastures, if it were possible. Another place was quickly set at the table. In a few minutes the boys returned, and with them was a man with a kind face and a hearty voice. "Welcome, welcome! my friend," said Rudolf. "It is indeed a pleasure to see you here. What news is there from the good folks of our village?" "They are all well, and send greetings. Even poor little Gretel, the cretin, seemed to understand where I was coming, and she sent you her love." What is a cretin, you wonder? A person of weak mind is so called in Switzerland. You often find such people who are not as bright as they should be. The mind is dull and dark, it cannot see and understand like others. Why is it that cretins are often found in the homes of the poor? Some think it is because the Swiss are such hard workers, and yet do not have the nourishing food they should. "Have you been at home all summer?" asked Rudolf. "No, I had business that took me over the St. Bernard Pass. It was a hard journey, even in this summer-time, for I travelled most of the way on foot." "O, how I wish I could have gone with you," cried Franz. "I have always longed to visit the good monks and see their brave dogs." "It must be a terrible tramp over the mountain in winter," the schoolmaster went on. "Yet every year there are some people who need to go that way at that season. How much worse it would be, however, if the monastery were not there, with the priests living in it and giving their lives to help others." "They say that the cold is so great that the monks cannot stand more than a few years of such a life," said Rudolf. "It is true," replied the schoolmaster. "Many of them die before their time, while others must after a while go down to warmer lands. The noble dogs that they raise stand the cold much better." "I have often made a picture for myself of a snow-storm on the St. Bernard," said Carl, thoughtfully. He had not spoken for a long time. "How the drifts pile up and fill the pathway. The snow falls thick and fast, and after a while the poor traveller cannot tell which way to turn. He grows cold and numb; he is quite tired out. At last he gives up hope, and perhaps he sinks down, and perhaps he loses all sense of where he is. Now is the very time that the good monks, watching the storm, loose the dogs. But first, food and reviving drink are fastened to the collars of the trusty animals. "Off they bound, down the mountainside, scenting the air on every side. They understand their duty and work faithfully. They find the poor traveller in time to save his life and guide him to the home of the priests. Ah! how I love these good men and their faithful dogs." "Your cheeks have grown quite rosy with the story, my boy," said the schoolmaster. "The picture in your mind must be bright, indeed. But we cannot praise too highly both the monks and their loving deeds. Sometimes, alas! the dogs do not find the travellers in time, however. Then they can only drag their dead bodies to the monastery, where they will stay till friends of the travellers come to claim them. But enough of this sad thought for to-night; let us talk of other things." "Dear master," said Franz, "please tell us of other things you have seen this summer. We always love to hear your stories." "Let me see. O, yes, now I think of something that will interest you boys. I travelled for quite a distance with a hunter. He had been in search of chamois, but he says they are getting very scarce now. He was bringing home only one." [Illustration: "'FOLLOWING ITS MASTER ABOUT JUST LIKE A DOG.'"] "It seems a shame to kill the poor creatures," said Carl's father. "They are gentle and harmless, and take pleasure in living where others find only danger. Once I came suddenly upon a herd of them. They seemed to be having a game of chase together, and were frolicking gaily. But at the sound of my footstep they fled like the wind over the snow and ice. In a moment, almost, they were out of sight." "Why can they climb where no one else is able to go?" asked Carl. "Behind each hoof there is another called the false hoof," replied the schoolmaster. "I looked at those of the dead chamois the hunter was carrying home. These extra hoofs give the creature the power to hold himself in places which would not be safe without their aid. Their bodies are very light and their legs are slim, while they seem to be entirely without fear of anything save men." "Poor little things," exclaimed Franz. "We are taught to be kind to the birds and to protect them in every way. I never in my life knew of a Swiss harming a bird's nest. We ought to be kind to the chamois as well. I once knew a boy who had a tame one for a pet. His father caught it when it was very young. It was the dearest little thing, following its master about just like a dog. In summer its hair was yellowish brown, but in winter it grew darker and was almost black." "Did you know that the chamois always have a sentinel on guard while they are feeding?" asked the schoolmaster. "No, sir," said both boys together. "Yes, it is true, the hunters have told me so. If this chamois guard hears the slightest sound or discovers even a footprint, he at once gives an alarm. Away flees the herd in search of safety. "But, dear me! it is growing late and you must be up early in the morning. Then you must show me your store of cheeses," he added, turning to Carl's mother. "The cows are looking fine; they must enjoy the pastures here. And now, good night. May you all sleep well in the care of the loving Father." In a few minutes every one in the little cottage was resting quietly. CHAPTER IV. THE BRAVE ARCHER IT was a bright summer day. In the morning Carl's father had said to the boys: "You may have a holiday and may go where you please with the schoolmaster. I will attend to the cows all the day." So they had taken a lunch and had climbed to the summit of the mountain. Their kind teacher had told them stories of the flowers and the stones. "They never seemed so much alive to me before," said Carl, as they sat resting on a big gray rock, far up above the pastures. "I like to hear you talk in school, dear master, but it is far better up here among the grand mountains and in the fresh air. Perhaps William Tell himself once stood on this very spot." "It is quite likely," replied the schoolmaster. "You know that his home was not many miles from our village. He was never so happy as when wandering among the mountains. Those were wonderful times in which he lived. But there is the same feeling now as then. We Swiss love freedom best of all, and are ever ready to give our lives for it, if there be need." "How cruel the Austrians were! They thought that because theirs was a large and powerful country they could do with us as they pleased. But they found themselves mistaken after awhile, didn't they?" said Franz. "Yes, my boy, but never forget that our freedom started in the work of _three_ men, and three only, who joined together with brave hearts. They worked with no selfish feeling, and, before the end came, they had filled all Switzerland with the daring to be free." "Yes, yes, we will always remember that. And only think! one of those three men lived here in our Canton. I am always proud to think of it." "Boys, look at our country now, and then turn back to the sad times long ago. Can you imagine the way those three men felt when they met in the dark night on the field of Rütli? Can you not see them pledging themselves to their country in throwing off the yoke of Austria? "They hated their rulers so much that a peacock was not allowed to live in Switzerland. That was, you know, because a peacock feather was the emblem of Austria." "Wasn't it about that time that William Tell lived?" asked Carl. "Yes, and he was known through all the country as a brave man and a skilful archer. It was very natural that he should refuse to show honour to the Austrian governor." "It makes me angry whenever I think of Gessler," cried Franz. "It seems to me only another name for cruel power. But is it possible that he really had his hat stuck up on a pole in the market-place of Altdorf, and that every Swiss who passed by was ordered to bow down before it?" "I believe so, although some people think the whole story of William Tell is only a legend, and that is a part of it. Our history shows, however, that this brave man really lived." "Won't you repeat the story?" asked Franz. "I love to hear it over and over again." "Yes, if you like." "After Gessler's hat had been stuck on the pole, William Tell was one of those who passed by. Bow before the hat of the cruel tyrant! It was not to be thought of. Tell took no notice of it whatever. He did not appear to know it was there. "Now it happened that one of Gessler's spies stood near by. He watched Tell closely. He sent word to his master at once that there was one Swiss who would not give him proper honour. You know what followed, my boys. Tell was seized and bound. "Gessler must have said to himself, 'I will make an example of this insolent peasant.' For Tell was brought before him and ordered to stand at a great distance from his little son and shoot at an apple on the boy's head. If he struck the apple he was to be allowed to go free. "Do you think Tell feared he could not do it? No, he was too good an archer. But his child was so dear to him that his very love might make his hand tremble. Think again! the boy might move from fright, and then the arrow would enter his body instead of the apple on his head. "It was a terrible thing to think of. But William Tell made ready for the trial. The time came. A crowd of people gathered to see the test. The boy did not move a muscle. The arrow went straight to its mark. The people shouted with joy. "Then it was that Gessler, who had been watching closely, noticed that Tell held a second arrow. "'Why didst thou bring more than one, thou proud peasant?' angrily asked the tyrant. "'That I might shoot thee had I failed in cleaving the apple,' was the quick answer. "'Seize him! Bind him hand and foot, and away with him to the dungeon!' shouted the enraged governor. "His men seized Tell, and strong chains made the noble Swiss helpless. He was carried to a boat already waiting on the shore, for the dungeon was across the deep, blue waters of Lake Lucerne. "Ah! how sad must have been the hearts of our people as they watched Gessler and his servants get into the boat and row away. They thought they would never see the brave archer again. "But this was not God's will. A sudden storm arose before the party had gone very far. The wind blew fearfully, and the little boat was tossed about on the waves as though it were a feather. The rowers could not keep the boat in her course. It seemed as though, every moment, she would be dashed against the rocks and destroyed. Then it was that Gessler remembered that Tell was as skilful with a boat as he was with a bow and arrow. "'Take off the peasant's chains,' he cried. 'Let him guide us to a safe landing-place. It is our only chance of being saved.' "Tell was made free. His quick mind told him what to do. He seized the oars, and with strong strokes soon brought the boat close to the shore. Then, springing out, he pushed the boat off into the water. "Would Gessler be saved? Tell wondered if it were possible. Then he said to himself, 'If the tyrant is not destroyed, he must go home through the pass in the mountains.' "With this thought, he hurried up over the crags, and hid himself behind a great rock. He waited patiently. At last he heard footsteps and voices. His enemy was drawing near. He stood ready with bent bow. As Gessler came into view, whizz! flew the arrow straight into the tyrant's heart! He could never again harm Switzerland or the Swiss." "Brave Tell! Brave Tell!" shouted Carl. "Dear master, have you ever visited the chapel which stands to-day in honour of this great countryman of ours?" "Yes, Carl, and when you come back to the lowlands in the fall, you shall visit it with me. You and Franz must also go to look at the stone on which Tell stepped as he sprang from Gessler's boat. Even now, we can seem to feel Tell's joy when he wandered among the mountains, and thought of plans by which he could help his country. For after Gessler was killed, there was the whole army of Austria to be driven out." "People needn't tell me that the story of William Tell and the apple is only a legend," exclaimed Franz. "I believe every word of it, don't you, Carl?" "Indeed I do. Won't you tell us another story? Look! the sun is still high in the sky. We need not go home for an hour yet." "Let me see, boys. Shall it be a tale of old Switzerland and of her struggles with her enemies?" "Yes, yes," cried both boys. "We are never tired of hearing of the lives of our great men." "Very well, then, you shall listen to the story of Arnold of Winkelried. "It was a time of great danger. The Austrians were pouring into our country. Their soldiers, protected by the strongest steel armour, bore fearful weapons. Our people were poor, and had only slings or bows and arrows with which to defend themselves. What should be done? There was the Austrian army, closely drawn up, with shields glistening in the sunlight,--here were the Swiss, few and unprotected, but burning with love for their country. "It seemed as though all chance of saving Switzerland was hopeless. Then the brave Arnold spoke. "'Friends,' said he, 'I am ready to give my life for my country. I will rush into the ranks of our enemies and make an entrance for you. Be ready; follow with all your might, and you may throw them into confusion. You who live after me must take care of my wife and children when I am gone.' "There was not a moment to be lost. "'Make way for Liberty!' cried Arnold, then ran with arms extended wide, as if to clasp his dearest friend. "A hundred spears were thrust toward him. He gathered as many as he could in his hands and arms. They entered his body on all sides, but before the hero fell he had made an opening into the ranks of the enemy through which his comrades dashed. Thrown into confusion, the Austrians fled, and were driven out of our loved country. "Switzerland was saved for us, my lads, through the sacrifice of that noble man, Arnold von Winkelried. May you live to do him honour!" "I can see him now, as he rushed into the midst of the cruel Austrians," cried Carl, jumping to his feet. "Noble, noble Arnold! I do not believe any other land has such a hero. Dear master, I will try to be braver and truer all my life, and be ready to serve my country faithfully in time of need." "I, too," exclaimed Franz, "will be more of a man from this very moment." "Well said, my dear boys. But come, it is growing late and you will be needed at home." CHAPTER V. THE HAYMAKERS "MOTHER! mother! here come the mowers," called Carl, as he came toward the house with a pail of milk in each hand. The wooden milking-stool was still strapped around the boy's waist, and its one leg stuck out behind like a little stiff tail. You would have laughed at the sight, as did the two haymakers who had by this time reached the hut. "What, ho! Carl," said one of the men, "are you changing into a monkey now you have come up to the highlands for the summer?" "I was so busy thinking," replied the boy, "that I forgot to leave the stool in the stable when I had finished the milking. I am glad you are here to-night. How does the work go?" "Pretty hard, my boy, pretty hard, but I love it," answered the younger man of the two mowers. "Still, I shouldn't advise you to be a haymaker when you grow up. It is too dangerous a business." "It isn't such hard work gathering the hay in these parts as it is in most places," said the older man. "Ah! many a time I have worked all day long on the edge of a precipice; it is a wonder I am living now." "It is not strange that the law allows only one person in a family to be a haymaker," said Carl's mother, who had come to the door to welcome her visitors. "I am very glad my husband never chose the work. I should fret about him all through the summer. But come in, friends, and lay down your scythes. We are glad to see you." The two mowers were on their way to higher places up on the mountain. They were cutting the wild hay which could be found here and there in little patches among the rocks and cliffs. Could this work be worth while? We wonder if it is possible. But the Swiss value the mountain hay greatly. It is sweet and tender and full of fine herbs, while the higher it grows, the better it is. The cattle have a treat in the winter-time when they have a dinner of this wild mountain hay. Carl's friends had large nets tied up in bundles and fastened to their backs. Their shoes had iron spikes in the strong soles. These would keep their feet from slipping, as they reached down over the edge of a sharp cliff or held themselves on some steep slope while they skilfully gathered the hay and put it in the nets. But, even then, they must not make a false step or grow dizzy, or let fear enter their heads. If any of these things should happen, an accident, and probably a very bad one, too, would surely follow. When all the nets were filled, they would be stored in safe nooks until the snow should come. Then for the sport! For the mowers would climb the mountains with their sledges, load them with the nets full of hay, and slide down the slopes with their precious stores. "May I go with you when you collect the hay in November?" Carl asked his friends. "I won't be afraid, and it is such fun travelling like the wind." "It will take your breath away, I promise you," said the boy's father. He had come into the house just in time to hear what was being said. "I will risk you, Carl, however. You would not be afraid, and he who is not afraid is generally safe. It is fear that causes most of the accidents. But come, my good wife has made the supper ready. Let us sit down; then we can go on talking." "How good this is!" said one of the visitors, as he tasted the bread on which toasted cheese had been spread. Carl's mother did not sit down to the table with the others. She had said to herself, "I will give the mowers a treat. They are not able to have the comforts of a home very often." So she stood by the fire and held a mould of cheese close to the flames. As fast as it softened, she scraped it off and spread it on the slices of bread. Every one was hungry, so she was kept busy serving first one, then another. She smiled at the men's praise. They told her they had spent the night before with two goatherds who lived in a cave. It was only a few miles away on the west slope of the mountain. "They have a fine flock of goats," said one of the men, "and they are getting quantities of rich milk for cheese. But it cannot be good for them to sleep two or three months in such a wretched place. They look pale, even though they breathe this fine mountain air all day long." "Carl and Franz don't look sickly, by any means," laughed Rudolf, as he pointed to the boys' brown arms. The sleeves of their leather jackets were short and hardly reached to their elbows. The strong sunshine and wind had done their work and changed the colour of the fair skin to a deep brown. "You will have good weather for haying, to-morrow," said Franz, who was standing at the window and looking off toward a mountain-top in the distance. "Pilatus has his hood on to-night." "A good sign, surely," said Rudolf. "We shall probably see a fine sunrise in the morning. You all know the old verse, "'If Pilatus wears his hood, Then the weather's always good.'" The "hood" is a cloud which spreads out over the summit of the mountain and hides it from sight. Carl has often looked for this the night before a picnic or festival. If he saw it, he would go to bed happy, for he felt sure it would be pleasant the next day. "I shouldn't think Pilatus would be happy with such a name," said Franz. "I wonder if it is really true that Pilate's body was buried in the lake up near its summit." "That is the story I heard when I was a little boy at my mother's knee," said the old hay-cutter. "I have heard it many times since. It may be only a legend, but it seems true to me, at any rate." "Tell it to us again," said Rudolf. "There are no stories like the ones we heard in our childhood." "It was after the death of our Master," said the mower, in a low, sad voice. "Pilate saw too late what he had done. He had allowed the Wise One to be put to death. He himself was to blame, for he could have saved Him. He could not put the thought out of his mind. At last, he could bear it no longer, and he ended his own life. "His body was thrown into the Tiber, a river that flows by the city of Rome. The river refused to let it stay there, for it was the body of too wicked a man, so it cast it up on the shore. Then it was carried to the Rhine, but this river would not keep it, either. What should be tried now? Some one said, 'We will take it to the summit of a mountain where there is a deep lake, and drop it in the dark waters.' "It was done, and the body found a resting-place at last." "You did not finish the story," said Rudolf. "It is said that the restless spirit of Pilate is allowed to arise once each year and roam through the mountains for a single night on a jet-black horse. On that night the waters of the lake surge and foam as if a terrible storm were raging." "Are you going to the party to-morrow night?" asked the younger mower. "The goatherds told me about it. I wish we could be there, but our work is too far away. The villagers are getting ready for a good time." "What party?" cried Carl and Franz together. They were excited at the very idea. "Why, haven't you heard about it? You know there is a little village about two miles below the pasture where those goatherds live. The young folks have planned to have a dance and a wrestling match. I am surprised you have not heard about it. They expect all the herders and mowers to come from near and far. You will certainly be invited in the morning." And so it was. Before the cows were let out to pasture, a horn was heard in the distance. "Hail, friends!" it seemed to call. Carl rushed into the house for his own horn and gave a strong, clear blast, then another and another. It was an answering cry of welcome and good-will. A boy about twelve years old soon came into view. He wore a tight-fitting leather cap and heavy shoes with iron-spiked soles like Carl's. He came hurrying along. "There is to be a party at our village to-night," he said, as soon as he was near enough for Carl to hear. "It will be moonlight, you know, and we will have a jolly time. All your folks must come, too." Carl and Franz were soon talking with the boy as though they had always known him, yet they had never met before. "My folks came near forgetting there was any one living here this summer," the strange boy said. "They only thought about it last night, but they very much wish you to come." He stayed only a few moments, as he had been told to return at once. "There is plenty to do, you know, to get ready for a party," he said. "Besides, it will take me a good hour to go back by the shortest path around the slope, it winds up and down so much. But you will come, won't you?" Carl's father and mother were as much pleased by the invitation as were the boys. The milking was done earlier than usual, and the cows were locked up in the stable before the sunset light had coloured the snowy tops of the distant mountains. It was quite a long tramp for Carl's mother, but she only thought how nice it would be to join in dance and song again. The wrestling match took place in the afternoon. The father would not have missed that for a good deal, so he left home three hours, at least, before the others. The boys stayed behind to help the mother in the milking and to show her the way to the village afterward. The party was a merry one. They drank cup after cup of coffee, and all the good old songs of Switzerland were sung with a will. Carl's mother showed she had not forgotten how to dance. Carl and Franz were too shy to join in the dancing, but it was fun enough for them to watch the others. Oh, yes, it was a merry time, and the moon shone so brightly that it lighted the path homeward almost as plainly as though it were daytime. "Next week we return to our own little village in the valley," said Rudolf, as the family walked back after the party. "Our old friends will be glad to see us as well as the fine store of cheese we shall bring. Then for another merrymaking. Carl, you must show us then what you learned at the gymnasium last year." The boy's father was proud of Carl's strength and grace. "How fine it is," he often said to himself, "that every school in our country has a gymnasium, so that the boys are trained in body as well as in mind. That is the way to have strong men to defend our country and to govern it. I will buy Carl a rifle for his very own. The boy deserves it, he has worked so hard and so well all summer. He can shoot well already, and I will train him myself this winter, and in a year or two more he can take part in the yearly rifle match. I am very glad I have a son." CHAPTER VI. THE MARMOT IT was the week after Carl got back to the village. What a busy day it had been for his mother! You would certainly think so if you had looked at the wide field back of the house. A great part of it was covered with the family wash. Sheets, sheets, sheets! And piece after piece of clothing! What could it all mean? And did this little family own so much linen as lay spread out on the grass to-day? It was indeed so. In Carl's village it is the custom to wash only twice a year. Of course, chests full of bedding are needed to last six months, if the pieces are changed as often in Switzerland as they are in our country. When Carl's mother was married, she brought enough linen to her new home to last for the rest of her life. Carl's grandmother had been busy for years getting it ready for her daughter. A Swiss woman would feel ashamed if she did not have a large quantity of such things with which to begin housekeeping. When the washing had been spread out on the grass, Carl's mother went into the house feeling quite tired from her day's work. The two women who had been helping her had gone home. She sat down in a chair to rest herself, and closed her eyes. Just then she heard steps outside. "It is Carl getting home from school," she thought, and she did not look up, even when the door opened. "Well, wife, we have caught you sleeping, while it is still day. Wake up, and see who has come to visit us." She opened her eyes, and there stood not only her husband and Carl, but a dear brother whom she had not seen for years. How delighted she was! He had changed from a slim young fellow into a big, strong man. [Illustration: CLIMBING THE MATTERHORN.] "O, Fritz, how glad I am to see you," she cried. "Do tell us about all that has happened. We have not heard from you for a long time. What have you been doing?" "I have spent part of my time as a guide among the highest mountains of the Alps. There is not much work of that kind to do around here; the passes are not dangerous, you know. Most of the travellers who come to this part of Switzerland are satisfied if they go up the Rigi in a train. But I have taken many dangerous trips in other parts of the country, and been well paid for them." "Have you ever been up the Matterhorn?" asked Carl. "Only once, my boy. It was the most fearful experience of my whole life. I shudder when I think of it. There was a party of three gentlemen besides another guide and myself. You know it is the shape of that mountain that makes it so dangerous to climb. It reaches up toward the heavens like a great icy wedge. "Of course, we had a long, stout rope to pass from one to another. It was fastened around the waist of each of us, as soon as we reached the difficult part. Our shoes had iron spikes in the soles to help us still more, while each one carried a stout, iron-shod staff. The other guide and myself had hatchets to use in cutting steps when we came to a smooth slope of ice. "Think of it, as we sit here in this cozy, comfortable room. There were several times that I was lowered over a steep, ice-covered ridge by a rope. And while I hung there, I had to cut out steps with my hatchet. "There was many a time, too, that only one of us dared to move at a time. In case the footing was not safe, the others could pull him back if he made a misstep and fell." "Did you climb that dangerous mountain in one day?" asked Rudolf. "I thought it was impossible." "You are quite right. We went the greater part of the distance the first day, and then camped out for the night. Early the next morning we rose to finish the fearful undertaking. And we did succeed, but I would never attempt it again for all the money in the world." "O, Fritz, how did you feel when you had reached the summit?" asked Carl's mother. "In the first place, I was terribly cold. My heart was beating so rapidly I could scarcely think. It was not from fear, though. It was because the air was so thin that it made the blood rush rapidly through the lungs to get enough of it. "But I can never forget the sight that was before us. Everything we had ever known seemed so little now, it was so far below us. Towns, lakes, and rivers were tiny dots or lines, while we could look across the summits of other snow-capped peaks." "Was it easy coming down?" asked Carl, "that is, of course, did it seem easy beside the upward climb?" "I believe the descent was more terrible, my boy. It was hard to keep from growing dizzy, and it would have been so easy to make a false step and slide over some cliff and fall thousands of feet. I couldn't keep out of my mind the story of the first party who climbed to the summit of the Matterhorn." "I do not wonder, my dear brother, the whole world sorrowed over their fate," said Carl's mother. "Only think of their pride at succeeding, and then of the horrible death of four of the party." "Do tell us about it; I never heard the story," said Carl. "A brave man named Whymper was determined to climb the mountain," answered his father. "Every one else had failed. He said to himself: 'I will not give up. I will keep trying even if the storms and clouds and ice-walls drive me back again and again.' "He kept on trying, but each time with no success. At last Whymper formed a party with three Englishmen. They hired the trustiest guides known in the country, besides two men to carry the tents and provisions. After great trouble they reached the summit and planted a flag there to tell the story of their coming. "But on their way down one of the Englishmen slipped. He struck the guide as he fell and the two men hung over the precipice. They were fastened to the others by the rope; surely they could be saved! But, alas! the rope broke under the sudden weight. Not only those men, but two others, were swept down four thousand feet! "The others who were left were filled with such horror they could not move for a long while. Their skilful guide had been killed; could they descend the mountain safely now? It looked impossible; they were dizzy and faint. It seemed as though there were only one thing left: they would have to stay where they were till death should come. "After a while, however, their courage returned and they succeeded in reaching the foot of the mountain at last without any other accident, but with a sad and fearful story to tell of those who started out with them." "I should think we would have heard of your climbing the Matterhorn, Fritz," said Rudolf. "It was a great thing to do, and few have dared it. We are proud of you, indeed. How would you have liked to be in your uncle's place, Carl?" "I wish I could have been with him, father. When I am older, I hope I may have a chance to do such daring deeds. I'll be glad to try, anyway." Carl's mother shivered, as she quickly said: "There are other kinds of brave deeds, Carl, which I hope you will be ever ready to do. Speak the truth and be an honest man in all things. That kind of bravery in you will satisfy me. But be willing for your mother's sake to stay away from icy mountain peaks." The loving woman's eyes had filled with tears. Carl ran to her and put his arms around her neck. "Don't fret, my dear mother, I will always try to do what you wish." And he kissed her again and again. As he did so, he began to cough. "I believe Carl has the whooping-cough," said his father. "He never had it when he was little, and every now and then he gives a regular whoop." "I wish we had some marmot fat; that would cure him quickly," said his mother. "At any rate, it would make him feel better." "I have a bottle of the oil in my satchel," said his uncle. "It is good for so many things, I keep it on hand. Here, Carl, open the bag and take a dose at once. I got it from the fat of the last marmot I killed." "O, uncle, I never saw one in my life. I've heard so much about marmots, I would rather hear you tell about them than take the medicine." "You may have both the medicine and the story, Carl. While we sit around the stove this evening you shall hear of the fun I have had hunting the shy little creature." Uncle Fritz was certainly good company. He helped Rudolf and Carl in doing the night's work about the little farm while the supper was made ready. Two or three of the neighbours came in after that. They had heard of Fritz's arrival, and wished to welcome him. It was a very pleasant evening, for Fritz was glad to see his old friends and had much to tell. Before bedtime came, Carl asked his uncle to tell about marmot hunting. "You know you promised me before supper," he said. "What shall I tell?" laughed Fritz. "You all know, to begin with, what a shy little creature it is, and how it passes the winter." "It lies asleep month after month, doesn't it?" asked Carl. "The schoolmaster told us so." "Yes, my dear. It lives high up on the mountainsides and close to the snow-line. Of course, the summer season is very short there. All through the long winter of six or eight months the marmot lies in his burrow and does not move. You would hardly call it sleep, though. The little creature scarcely breathes; if you should see him then, you would think he was dead. "But as soon as there is warmer weather he begins to rouse himself. How thin he is now! At the beginning of winter he was quite fat. That fat has in some wonderful way kept him alive through the long months." "Does he stay in this burrow all alone, uncle?" "O, no. Marmots live together in families in the summer-time, and when the time comes for a long rest, a whole family enter the burrow and stretch themselves out close together on the hay." "Where does the hay come from?" asked one of the visitors. "Why, the marmots carry it into the burrow and line it as carefully as birds prepare their nests." "I have heard," said Rudolf, "that one marmot lies on his back and holds a bundle of hay between his legs, while two or three others drag him through the long tunnel into the burrow. That is the reason the hair is worn off the backs of so many of them." Fritz held his sides with laughter. "Did you believe such a silly story as that, Rudolf? I thought you knew more about the animals of our mountains than that, surely. "When a marmot's back is bare, you may know it is because the roof of his burrow is not high enough. His hair has rubbed off against it as he moved while asleep." "How large do the marmots grow?" asked Carl. "Are they pretty creatures, uncle; and are they clever?" "They are rather stupid, it seems to me, Carl, and they are not as pretty as squirrels. They are larger, however. The colour of their fur is a yellowish-gray. Their tails are short, like those of rabbits. They move about in a slow, clumsy way." "Why are they so hard to catch, if that is so?" said Carl's mother. "While they are feeding, there is always one of them acting as a guard. He stands near the opening into the burrow, and gives a cry of alarm if he hears the slightest strange sound. Then all the others scamper with him through the passageway into their home." "But can't the hunters easily dig it out and reach them?" asked Carl. "Sometimes the tunnel that leads to the burrow is many feet long. A friend of mine unearthed one that was actually thirty feet from the outside opening of the burrow." "How did you manage to catch them? You have killed quite a number, haven't you?" asked Rudolf. "Yes, I have been quite successful, and this is the way I worked: If I found any tracks or signs of their burrows, I crept along very softly. I kept looking ahead in all directions. Away off in the distance, perhaps, I saw something looking like a family of marmots asleep in the sunshine. "I crept nearer and nearer. I must not make a sound or I would lose my chance. At last, when I was close upon them, I lifted a stone and blocked the opening to their burrow. Then I whistled. The poor little things waked up too late and saw that their way home was cut off. They gave a shrill cry, like a whistle, and fled together into the nearest cranny. There they cowered while I drew near and pinned one of them to the ground. It was an easy matter to end its life after that. "If I wished to carry it home alive, I seized it by its hind legs and dropped it into a bag; the poor little thing was helpless then." "You will stay with us for a while, won't you, Fritz?" asked one of the neighbours. "You have been a long time away, and have been living a rough and dangerous life as a guide. It seems good, indeed, to see you back again." "Yes, I shall rest here for a month or so with my good sister and Rudolf. Then I must be away among my mountains again. I am never so happy as when I am climbing some difficult slope." "It is growing late, friends," said one of the visitors. "We must bid you good night, for to-morrow brings its work to each of us." "Good night, good night, then. But let us first have a song in memory of old days," said Fritz. All joined with a good-will. Half an hour afterward the lights were out in the little house and every one was settled for a good night's rest. CHAPTER VII. GLACIER AND AVALANCHE IT was cold weather now. Some snow had already fallen, and Carl had helped his father and mother in getting ready for the long, cold winter. Uncle Fritz had been gone for quite a while, and the family had settled down to their old quiet life. One evening Carl was sitting by the big stove and telling his mother about the day's work at school, when the door opened, and who should stand there but Fritz. Carl rushed into his arms, exclaiming: "I knew you would come back, because you promised, Uncle Fritz." "Yes, but I shall stay only a day or two. Then I must be off again. There is a little village up in the mountains about twenty miles away. I must go there before the weather grows any colder, for if a big snow-storm should come up it would make hard walking." "Will you go all the way on foot, uncle?" asked Carl. "I do believe you never ride in a train if you can help it." Fritz laughed. "I must say I enjoy the walking best. But, anyhow, this time my way lies across country. How would you like to go too? I have to cross a glacier before I get there. Did you ever see a glacier, my boy?" "No, Uncle Fritz, and I have always longed to do so. O, mother, may I go? I will study hard at school, and make up all the lessons I lose while I am away." "How long will you be gone, Fritz?" asked his sister. "Not over three days, if the weather is good; and after that I shall not stay in this part of the country. I am going to Geneva, so it will be Carl's last chance for a long time to go with me." [Illustration: "IT WAS A RIVER OF SOLID ICE!"] In this way it came to pass that Carl went with his uncle. "Do take good care of him, Fritz," the loving mother called, as the man and boy left the little cottage the next morning. "You know he is my only child." "Never fear, sister. I will watch well, and try to keep danger away," Fritz promised. Soon after the two travellers had left the village, the way became quite rough. Fritz told many stories of his wild life as a guide, and Carl was so interested he had no time to think about himself. After three hours of hard walking, the two travellers stopped to rest and eat the lunch of bread and cheese Carl's mother had given them. A long tramp was still before them, and the way grew rougher at every step. The sun was just setting when the little mountain village at last came in sight. It looked, at first, like a small bunch of black dots high up on the steep slope before them. But before it could be reached, the glacier must be crossed. It was a river, indeed, but not like most other rivers in the world. It was a river of solid ice! When it first came in sight, it seemed like a broad, smooth sheet. Carl was a little bit disappointed. He turned to his uncle, and said: "I don't see anything wonderful or dangerous in a glacier, I'm sure." "Wait till you get a little nearer," was the answer. "It is not as easy to cross it as it at first seems." "Why does it stay a river of ice all the time, uncle? I should think it would melt in the summer-time, and be like other rivers," Carl went on. "High up in the mountains the snow stays all the year round. You know that?" "O, yes, Uncle Fritz." "Very well, then. The mass gets heavier and heavier, and much of it is gradually changed into ice." "Yes, I know that, too." "The great weight makes it begin to slide down. It comes very slowly, of course,--so slowly that it does not seem to move at all. But it does move, and brings with it rocks and trees and whatever is in its way." "I see now why it is called a _river_ of ice, uncle. But it doesn't move as fast in the winter as in the summer, does it?" "O, no, it can hardly be said to move at all during the coldest months of the year. In the summer-time, however, it moves much faster than it seems to do. I have been crossing a glacier more than once when I was suddenly startled by a tremendous noise. It would seem like the roar of thunder; but as the sky was clear, it was certainly not thunder. It was a sound made by the glacier itself as it passed over uneven ground. It is very likely that deep cracks opened in the ice at the same time, making a noise like an explosion. "But here we are, my dear, on the edge of the ice river. Don't you think now that it is a wonderful sight?" "Yes, indeed. How beautiful the colour is! It is such a lovely blue. But dear me! look at this mass of rocks all along the edge. The glacier is a giant, isn't it, to make these great stones prisoners and bring them along in its course? They look strong and ugly, yet they are helpless in its clutches. It isn't easy walking over them, either, is it?" After some hard climbing they found themselves on the glacier. It was not smooth, as Carl had at first thought, but was often cut into deep furrows or piled into rough masses. "Look out, now, Carl. We must cross that deep chasm ahead of us very carefully. It is wider than it looks. Here! Follow me." Fritz led the way to a place where the chasm was narrow enough for him to spring across with the aid of his mountain staff. Carl followed, while Fritz reached over from the other side and seized the boy as he landed. Carl laughed. He wasn't the least bit frightened. "I think you did that because of what mother said, Uncle Fritz. You act as though I were a child, but I am very sure-footed and have been in slippery places before." "No doubt of that, Carl. You are a brave boy, too. But it is very easy to make a misstep in such a place. I shouldn't like it very much if you were down at the bottom of that chasm at this moment. It wouldn't be easy getting you up again, even though it is not deep." Here and there the two travellers met little streams of water flowing along over the surface. The day had been quite warm for this time of the year, the ice had melted a little, and the water was running off in these streams. "O, uncle, look!" cried Carl, as they came near another chasm in the glacier. "Here is another bridge of ice over which we can cross. How clear it is; it looks like glass." By this time the moon was shining in all her glory. "It is like fairy-land," said Carl to himself as he looked back at the glacier which they were just leaving, and then onward to the mountain-tops in the distance, lighted up by the soft yellow light. "The mountains are God's true temples, aren't they?" said Fritz, after a few moments. "But come, my dear, it is getting late. We must move quickly now, even though we are tired. The lights in the village above us are calling, 'Hurry, hurry, good people, before we sleep for the night!'" It had been a long, hard day, but Carl had enjoyed every moment. That night as he lay in the warm bed prepared for him, he thought it all over before he slept. How kind these new friends were, too. Although he and his uncle had reached the village so late, a warm supper was made ready for them at once and everything done for their comfort. Why, the good woman of the house had even taken a hot stone from the hearth and put it into Carl's bed. "I want you to sleep warm, my boy," she said, as she kissed him good night, "and it must be colder up here than in your own home in the valley." The next day Carl had a chance to look around the little village. You would hardly call it a village, either. There were only six or eight houses. Their roofs were weighted down with rocks, like the cottage where Carl had stayed through the summer. It was the only way to be sure of safety, for the winter winds blew fiercely here; Carl knew that. There were long months when the cows must stay in their stable, week after week. "But how neat the barn is!" exclaimed the boy. "It is almost like a sitting-room. Your father has a table and chairs here, as though he stayed here a good deal of the time." "Yes, father likes his cattle so much, he wishes to be with them all he can," answered Marie, who was the only child in the house where Carl and his uncle were staying. "Don't you think our cows are lovely, and did you notice the big black one in the first stall? She is the queen of the herd. Father let me name her, and so I called her 'Marie,' after myself." "O, yes, I noticed her first of all," answered Carl. "I should think you would like it here better in summer than in winter. Aren't you ever afraid of avalanches, Marie?" "Yes, indeed, Carl. Sometimes I lie awake and tremble all night. I can't help it. That is when the wind blows very hard and the house rocks to and fro. Then I think of the great drifts of snow above us on the mountain. What if they should start down and come in this direction! There would be an end of us; the whole village would be buried. "Once last winter, I was wakened by a terrible noise. I knew what it was at once. It was an avalanche. It was coming this way with a sound like thunder. I ran into mother's room; she and father were on their knees, praying. The danger lasted only a few minutes and then all was still. But, do you know, Carl, in the morning we had sad news. "The house of a neighbour had been carried away. His cattle were buried somewhere in the great snowslide and were never heard of again. But he and his family were safe because they happened to be spending the night with another neighbour." "Was it a strong wind that caused the avalanche that night?" asked Carl. "No, father said that could not have been the reason. But you know that sometimes even the cracking of a whip is enough to start the dry snow in the winter-time. Then, as it sweeps downward like a waterfall, more and more is added to it and in a short time it becomes a snowy torrent. O, it is fearful then!" and Marie pressed her hands together in fright at the very thought. "You poor little girl. Don't talk about it any more. I'm so sorry I said a word about avalanches," said Carl. His voice was very gentle, because he felt so sorry for Marie. "Perhaps there won't be any more coming down this side of the mountain," he added. "Then you will be just as safe as I am in my home in the valley." "Carl, Carl! where are you?" The words came from the direction of the house. It was Carl's uncle, who had wondered what had become of the boy. The children came hurrying out of the barn. "It is growing dark, my dear, and I was afraid you had wandered off somewhere," said Fritz. "I promised your mother to look out for you, Carl, so you see I am doing my duty. Come into the house now. We will have a pleasant evening with our good friends. Then, with morning light, we must start on our homeward way." That night many stories were told of the fairies and the gnomes. It is no wonder that when Carl went to sleep he dreamed he was living in a cave with the fairies, and that the gnomes brought him a pile of gold heavy enough to make him rich all the rest of his life. CHAPTER VIII. SANTA CLAUS NIGHT IT was two weeks before Christmas. Carl had been back from his visit to the mountain village for more than a month. No harm had come to him on his way home, although heavy snow had fallen, which made hard walking. It was worst of all in crossing the glacier, but the boy's uncle took great care, and no accident came to either of them. And now the joyful day had come which Carl liked best of all the year. He had saved up money for months beforehand to buy presents for his parents and his friend Franz. What would he receive, himself? He thought sometimes, "I wonder if father will buy me a rifle. He thinks I can shoot pretty well now, I know that. But a rifle of my own! That would be too good to be true." It was the custom of Carl's village to have the Christmas tree on Saint Claus's Day, two weeks before the real Christmas Day. They did not wait for the time at which we give the presents. Christmas was a holiday, of course, but it was somewhat like Sunday; everybody went to church. There was a sermon, and a great deal of music. Saint Claus's Day was the time for fun and frolic. Good children looked forward to that day with gladness; but the bad children! dear me! they trembled for fear they would be carried off to some dreadful place by Saint Claus's servant. All the day before Carl was greatly excited. He could hardly wait for night to come, but it did come at last. The supper-table was scarcely cleared before a loud knocking and stamping of feet could be heard outside. Rudolf hurried to open the door, while Carl clapped his hands. Who should enter but a jolly-looking old fellow with rosy cheeks and twinkling eyes. He was dressed from head to foot in furs. Surely this was Santa Claus himself. There was a great pack of goodies on his back. Carl could see the red apples and bags of candy sticking out. But who was the creature that followed Santa Claus? His face was black, his clothes were black, everything about him was black as soot. He carried a broom over his shoulder. "This is my servant," said Santa in a big, strong voice. "I hope the child in this house has been good. I just called at a place where there was a boy who had not minded his mother. I was going to let my servant carry him off, but he promised to be good, so I forgave him this time." Santa Claus tried to scowl fiercely while he said these words. "Have you been a good boy?" he cried, suddenly turning toward Carl. "O, yes, sir, I have tried hard," answered the boy, who was half afraid, although, somehow, this same Santa Claus spoke very much like a friend of the family who lived near by. "Very well, then." With this, Santa covered the floor with nuts and fruit which he shook out of his pack. A party of men who had followed him and his servant into the house, and were dressed up in all sorts of funny ways, laughed and joked with Carl's father and mother. After a few moments of fun, Santa Claus went away, first wishing the boy and his parents good night and a merry day on the morrow. They had many more calls to make before their work would be done, and they must hurry on their way, they said. When the door was closed, Carl said, "Father, I don't believe that is the real Santa Claus; it is neighbour Hans, who has dressed up like him. I knew his voice, too." Carl danced around the room laughing, while his father and mother laughed, too. "When I was a little tot," Carl went on, "I used to be scared, I tell you. I was afraid of doing naughty things all the year for fear mother would tell Santa Claus, and his servant would then sweep me away with his broom. Oh, I know better now." And Carl ran first to his father, and then to his mother, and gave each of them a hearty kiss. The next morning, when he came downstairs, there was the dearest little fir-tree in the corner of the room, and under it lay some mittens and stockings, besides the rifle for which Carl had hoped and longed. "Santa Claus helped me get them," said Rudolf, and they all sat down to breakfast laughing at the merry joke. CHAPTER IX. THE WONDERFUL ABBEY IT was the beautiful spring-time, and the country had begun to look green and fresh again after the long months of snow and frost. "Carl, my dear, how would you like to go on a pilgrimage to the Blessed Abbey?" asked his father one night as they finished milking the cows. "Easter Sunday is almost here, and the people of the village are talking of going to Einsiedeln together." "O, father, that would make me happier than anything else in the world. What a fine time we can have! And only to think that I can see the place with my own eyes. Do you really mean it?" "Yes, my boy, but do you think you can walk so far without getting tired out?" Carl laughed. "Look at me, father; see how I have grown since last summer," and the boy stretched to make himself seem as tall as possible. "Very well, then. Your mother knows about it, and is getting things ready for the journey now." The next three days Carl could think of nothing else. He was full of excitement. The night before they were to start, he said to his father: "Please tell me the story of the Wonderful Abbey again. I wish to have the picture still brighter in my mind as we journey along our way to-morrow." Rudolf leaned back in his chair. His face was lighted by a happy smile as he said: "Carl, my dear child, I love to think of the good souls who have made this world so beautiful by living in it. Yes, they have made it more beautiful than the grandest mountains or the loveliest lakes can make it. "One of those good men was the holy Meinrad, who lived over a thousand years ago. He came from Germany to teach the priests at a small convent on the Lake of Zurich. After a while he said, 'I will live the life of a hermit in a little cell in the forest. I can best worship God if I live alone.' "So he went up on the mountainside and made a hut, where he prayed and fasted day after day. It is said that the wild beasts felt his goodness, and would do him no harm. Whenever there was need, he went out to do good deeds among men. People heard of him through all the country round. They came to ask his advice when they were in trouble, or to seek help in other ways. "But one day two robbers came to Meinrad's cell. They came with a bad purpose; they thought he must have a store of gold hidden away, and they wished to get it. The holy man gave them food and drink, but what do you think these wicked men did in return for such kindness? They cruelly murdered him! Then, finding no money, they hurried away. "Meinrad had two birds who kept him company in the lonely forest. They were ravens, and had grown very tame, loving their master dearly. "When the murderers fled, these birds followed them down the mountainside, across the lake, and into the town. The men stopped at an inn for food and rest. The birds flapped their wings against the windows, and kept up shrill cries. Every one in the inn wondered what it could mean. When this had kept up for several hours, the men thought, 'This is a warning to us from Heaven. We will confess what we have done.' "They told the fearful story, and were put to death by the angry people who heard it. Ever since that time the place has been called the Ravens' Inn, and two ravens were carved out of stone and placed upon the wall. When we go to Zurich, Carl, you shall see those stone ravens, for they are still there." "Now, please tell me about the holy abbey, father," said Carl, "and how it was blessed by the angels." "After a while," his father went on, "the priests, who had heard the story of Meinrad's death, decided to build a grand church. It was to be on the very spot where Meinrad's cell had stood and he had been murdered. It was a beautiful building. When it was entirely finished, bishops and knights came to consecrate it to the Lord. People gathered from far and near to listen to the service. "Now, it was the custom of the good Bishop Conrad to pray at midnight. On the night before the great day of consecration, he arose for his usual prayer, and, as he did so, was surprised to hear beautiful music in the air around him. He listened closely. Behold! it was the chorus of angels; they were consecrating the chapel. He bowed his head in wonder and awe. "The next morning, when the people had come together for the sacred service, the bishop waited in silence till nearly noon, and then he told the crowd of listeners what had happened during the night. There was nothing for him to do now; the angels had already made this a holy place. "But the people would not, could not, believe it. They still pressed the bishop to go on with the service. At last, he felt that he could not satisfy them in any other way, so had already begun, when a clear voice was heard to say, 'Brother, do not go on; for see, it is already consecrated.' "Then the people were able to understand that the bishop had spoken truly, and the place was indeed a holy one now. Ever since that time good Catholics of France and Germany, as well as from our own country, make pilgrimages to the abbey of Einsiedeln. It is now a very grand building. Thousands and thousands of dollars have been spent to make it beautiful. "And Carl, dear, you shall see there the very image of Jesus and Mary which the good priest Meinrad brought to the place when he first sought his home there. Better still, my boy, you shall drink from the fountain from which Jesus himself once drank, as I have been told." Carl listened closely to his father's words. Others might tell him afterward that this was only a legend, but he was an earnest little Catholic, and believed that every word of it was true. The moment of starting came at last. Rudolf, with his wife and Carl, was joined by several others of the village people. Franz was among them, together with his parents. There were many, many miles to walk, and several days must be spent upon the way. The nights were passed at taverns along the roadside. As our friends journeyed onward, they were joined by other parties, all going in the same direction,--to the abbey blessed by the angels. In one party there was a blind man, who hoped to see again after he had drunk from the wonderful fountain. In another, there was a person who was lame, and who moved painfully along on crutches. He believed he would be able to leave these crutches behind him if he could once reach the abbey. As Carl drew nearer and nearer, he could see that thousands and thousands of people were all going the same way. And now as they began to climb the mountainside, there were crosses at every turn in the road. He never passed them by without stopping to kneel and pray. He was a stout little fellow, as we know, but he was growing very tired now. His feet were quite sore, and there were deep cuts in the soles. This showed that he had walked very many miles over the hard roads. But there were many others like him who had never travelled so far from home before; and some of them were old and feeble, too. He would not let his mother think he was tired. Oh, no, not for the world. Ah! the spires were at last in sight, and every one hurried forward. It was very, very beautiful, Carl thought, when he had passed through the great doorway, and looked upon the wonderful sight within. He had never before seen anything half so grand. The walls and ceilings were richly gilded, and there were many statues in the nooks and corners. But best of all was the precious image of the Divine Child and His mother. It was only a clumsy-looking little wooden figure, and was black with age, but it was adorned with precious stones that sparkled brilliantly. Before Carl entered the sacred building, he first stopped at the fountain, and drank from each one of the fourteen spouts. This alone would make his life better, he thought. But after he had received a blessing from the priest within the church, and had touched the marble on which the image of Jesus rested, he could go away perfectly happy. There were many small inns in the village, and you may be sure that they were well filled at this time. Carl's family were together with their friends at one of them, and they had a merry time. When they were well rested, however, Carl's father said to the boy: "We will take a trip to Zurich before going home. It is only a few miles away, and I promised to show you the stone ravens, you know. An old friend of mine lives right on the shore of the lake, and he will be glad to have us lodge with him." [Illustration: ON THE LAKE.] What a lively place Zurich seemed to the little country boy. Every one was so busy, and there was so much going on all the time. "Why is it such a busy place, father?" asked Carl. "It is largely because of the business in silk, Carl. We do not raise silk in Switzerland; it is too cold. But the cocoons are brought here from Italy, and thousands of people are kept busy in spinning, weaving and dyeing the precious stuff. "The wife of my good friend is at her loom every moment she can spare from the work of her house. But she tells me the pay is very poor, yet the rich man who gives her the work sells the silk for great prices. Ah! it is hard to be poor." Yes, it was true. Nearly every little home around the lake had its loom, and one could hear the whirr and the click in the houses as he passed along. Carl took trips on the pretty steamboats on the lake. They had been built in the city and Rudolf took the boy to the shipyard where others were being made. "All the iron steamers of Switzerland are built here," he said, "besides others which are sent to Italy and Austria. Yes, it is a great and busy place." "Our schoolmaster told us once that people call these lakes of ours 'the eyes of the earth.' Don't you think that is a pretty idea, father? They are very bright and clear, as they lie walled in between the mountains. "And, father, he says that there were people living on these lakes ages and ages ago. It was before any history was written, even." "Then how do they know that such people lived on the lakes?" asked Rudolf. "Whole rows of piles have been discovered under the water. Many were found right here in Lake Zurich. They must once have reached up much higher, but have rotted away!" "Is that the only proof that people built their houses out over the water, Carl?" "O, no, the schoolmaster says that many tools have been found in the beds of earth between the piles. They were almost all of stone. Besides these, there were things to use in housekeeping, and nets for fishing, and cloth, and even embroidery." "Dear me! I never happened to hear of these strange people before," exclaimed Rudolf. "What name did the master give them, Carl?" "He called them Lake-dwellers, because they built their houses out over the water." "Does he know any more about them and why they chose such queer places for their homes instead of the pretty valleys or mountainsides?" "He said it must have been in a warlike time and probably these people felt safer to dwell in this way. You see they could easily defend themselves in such places. Yet they had some farms and gardens, so they did not stay there all the time. "They had very queer homes. The floors were made of round sticks, laid side by side. The chinks were filled in with clay and rushes. The roofs were made of straw and rushes put on in layers." "How strange this all is. I don't really see how so much could be discovered," said Rudolf, half to himself. Then he went on, "I suppose they had no cows or other domestic animals, of course." "O, yes, they had, father." Carl was proud to think he could tell his father so many things about them. "They had cattle, and sheep, and goats, and pigs; and they kept them in stalls in these lake dwellings. "Why, only think! though it was three thousand years ago, probably, these people not only fished and hunted, but they spun flax and wove cloth. They made bread of wheat and other grains to eat with the fish they caught and the deer they killed. They must have known quite a deal to do that, even if they didn't write books to tell about themselves. Don't you think so?" "Yes, Carl, I certainly think so. But come, it is getting late and we must go back to your mother and our friends. To-morrow we shall leave them and turn our faces toward our own little home. Are you ready for the long tramp?" "Yes, my feet are tough now, and I don't believe they will get so sore as they did in coming. What a lovely time I have had. You are such a good, kind father to bring me here, as well as to the chapel of the holy Meinrad." Carl looked up at Rudolf with such a happy face that his father bent down and kissed him. THE END. THE LITTLE COUSIN SERIES The most delightful and interesting accounts possible of child-life in other lands, filled with quaint sayings, doings, and adventures. Each 1 vol., 12mo, decorative cover, cloth, with six or more full-page illustrations in color. Price per volume $0.60 _By MARY HAZELTON WADE (unless otherwise indicated)_ =Our Little African Cousin= =Our Little Armenian Cousin= =Our Little Brown Cousin= =Our Little Canadian Cousin= By Elizabeth R. Macdonald =Our Little Chinese Cousin= By Isaac Taylor Headland =Our Little Cuban Cousin= =Our Little Dutch Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little English Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little Eskimo Cousin= =Our Little French Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little German Cousin= =Our Little Hawaiian Cousin= =Our Little Indian Cousin= =Our Little Irish Cousin= =Our Little Italian Cousin= =Our Little Japanese Cousin= =Our Little Jewish Cousin= =Our Little Korean Cousin= By H. Lee M. Pike =Our Little Mexican Cousin= By Edward C. Butler =Our Little Norwegian Cousin= =Our Little Panama Cousin= By H. Lee M. Pike =Our Little Philippine Cousin= =Our Little Porto Rican Cousin= =Our Little Russian Cousin= =Our Little Scotch Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little Siamese Cousin= =Our Little Spanish Cousin= By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet =Our Little Swedish Cousin= By Claire M. Coburn =Our Little Swiss Cousin= =Our Little Turkish Cousin= THE GOLDENROD LIBRARY The Goldenrod Library contains only the highest and purest literature,--stories which appeal alike both to children and to their parents and guardians. Each volume is well illustrated from drawings by competent artists, which, together with their handsomely decorated uniform binding, showing the goldenrod, usually considered the emblem of America, is a feature of their manufacture. Each one volume, small 12mo, illustrated, decorated cover, paper wrapper $0.35 LIST OF TITLES =Aunt Nabby's Children.= By Frances Hodges White. =Child's Dream of a Star, The.= By Charles Dickens. =Flight of Rosy Dawn, The.= By Pauline Bradford Mackie =Findelkind.= By Ouida. =Fairy of the Rhone, The.= By A. Comyns Carr. =Gatty and I.= By Frances E. Crompton. =Great Emergency, A.= By Juliana Horatia Ewing. =Helena's Wonderworld.= By Frances Hodges White. =Jackanapes.= By Juliana Horatia Ewing. =Jerry's Reward.= By Evelyn Snead Barnett. =La Belle Nivernaise.= By Alphonse Daudet. =Little King Davie.= By Nellie Hellis. =Little Peterkin Vandike.= By Charles Stuart Pratt. =Little Professor, The.= By Ida Horton Cash. =Peggy's Trial.= By Mary Knight Potter. =Prince Yellowtop.= By Kate Whiting Patch. =Provence Rose, A.= By Ouida. =Rab and His Friends.= By Dr. John Brown. =Seventh Daughter, A.= By Grace Wickham Curran. =Sleeping Beauty, The.= By Martha Baker Dunn. =Small, Small Child, A.= By E. Livingston Prescott. =Story of a Short Life, The.= By Juliana Horatia Ewing. =Susanne.= By Frances J. Delano. =Water People, The.= By Charles Lee Sleight. =Young Archer, The.= By Charles E. Brimblecom. COSY CORNER SERIES It is the intention of the publishers that this series shall contain only the very highest and purest literature,--stories that shall not only appeal to the children themselves, but be appreciated by all those who feel with them in their joys and sorrows. The numerous illustrations in each book are by well-known artists, and each volume has a separate attractive cover design. Each 1 vol., 16mo, cloth $0.50 _By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON_ =The Little Colonel.= (Trade Mark.) The scene of this story is laid in Kentucky. Its heroine is a small girl, who is known as the Little Colonel, on account of her fancied resemblance to an old-school Southern gentleman, whose fine estate and old family are famous in the region. =The Giant Scissors.= This is the story of Joyce and of her adventures in France. Joyce is a great friend of the Little Colonel, and in later volumes shares with her the delightful experiences of the "House Party" and the "Holidays." =Two Little Knights of Kentucky.= WHO WERE THE LITTLE COLONEL'S NEIGHBORS. In this volume the Little Colonel returns to us like an old friend, but with added grace and charm. She is not, however, the central figure of the story, that place being taken by the "two little knights." =Mildred's Inheritance.= A delightful little story of a lonely English girl who comes to America and is befriended by a sympathetic American family who are attracted by her beautiful speaking voice. By means of this one gift she is enabled to help a school-girl who has temporarily lost the use of her eyes, and thus finally her life becomes a busy, happy one. =Cicely and Other Stories for Girls.= The readers of Mrs. Johnston's charming juveniles will be glad to learn of the issue of this volume for young people. =Aunt 'Liza's Hero and Other Stories.= A collection of six bright little stories, which will appeal to all boys and most girls. =Big Brother.= A story of two boys. The devotion and care of Steven, himself a small boy, for his baby brother, is the theme of the simple tale. =Ole Mammy's Torment.= "Ole Mammy's Torment" has been fitly called "a classic of Southern life." It relates the haps and mishaps of a small negro lad, and tells how he was led by love and kindness to a knowledge of the right. =The Story of Dago.= In this story Mrs. Johnston relates the story of Dago, a pet monkey, owned jointly by two brothers. Dago tells his own story, and the account of his haps and mishaps is both interesting and amusing. =The Quilt That Jack Built.= A pleasant little story of a boy's labor of love, and how it changed the course of his life many years after it was accomplished. =Flip's Islands of Providence.= A story of a boy's life battle, his early defeat, and his final triumph, well worth the reading. _By EDITH ROBINSON_ =A Little Puritan's First Christmas.= A story of Colonial times in Boston, telling how Christmas was invented by Betty Sewall, a typical child of the Puritans, aided by her brother Sam. =A Little Daughter of Liberty.= The author's motive for this story is well indicated by a quotation from her introduction, as follows: "One ride is memorable in the early history of the American Revolution, the well-known ride of Paul Revere. Equally deserving of commendation is another ride,--the ride of Anthony Severn,--which was no less historic in its action or memorable in its consequences." =A Loyal Little Maid.= A delightful and interesting story of Revolutionary days, in which the child heroine, Betsey Schuyler, renders important services to George Washington. =A Little Puritan Rebel.= This is an historical tale of a real girl, during the time when the gallant Sir Harry Vane was governor of Massachusetts. =A Little Puritan Pioneer.= The scene of this story is laid in the Puritan settlement at Charlestown. The little girl heroine adds another to the list of favorites so well known to the young people. =A Little Puritan Bound Girl.= A story of Boston in Puritan days, which is of great interest to youthful readers. =A Little Puritan Cavalier.= The story of a "Little Puritan Cavalier" who tried with all his boyish enthusiasm to emulate the spirit and ideals of the dead Crusaders. _By OUIDA (Louise de la Ramée)_ =A Dog Of Flanders=: A CHRISTMAS STORY. Too well and favorably known to require description. =The Nurnberg Stove.= This beautiful story has never before been published at a popular price. _By FRANCES MARGARET FOX_ =The Little Giant's Neighbours.= A charming nature story of a "little giant" whose neighbours were the creatures of the field and garden. =Farmer Brown and the Birds.= A little story which teaches children that the birds are man's best friends. =Betty of Old Mackinaw.= A charming story of child-life, appealing especially to the little readers who like stories of "real people." =Brother Billy.= The story of Betty's brother, and some further adventures of Betty herself. =Mother Nature's Little Ones.= Curious little sketches describing the early lifetime, or "childhood," of the little creatures out-of-doors. =How Christmas Came to the Mulvaneys.= A bright, lifelike little story of a family of poor children, with an unlimited capacity for fun and mischief. The wonderful never-to-be forgotten Christmas that came to them is the climax of a series of exciting incidents. _By MISS MULOCK_ =The Little Lame Prince.= A delightful story of a little boy who has many adventures by means of the magic gifts of his fairy godmother. =Adventures of a Brownie.= The story of a household elf who torments the cook and gardener, but is a constant joy and delight to the children who love and trust him. =His Little Mother.= Miss Mulock's short stories for children are a constant source of delight to them, and "His Little Mother," in this new and attractive dress, will be welcomed by hosts of youthful readers. =Little Sunshine's Holiday.= An attractive story of a summer outing. "Little Sunshine" is another of those beautiful child-characters for which Miss Mulock is so justly famous. _By MARSHALL SAUNDERS_ =For His Country.= A sweet and graceful story of a little boy who loved his country; written with that charm which has endeared Miss Saunders to hosts of readers. =Nita, the Story of an Irish Setter.= In this touching little book, Miss Saunders shows how dear to her heart are all of God's dumb creatures. =Alpatok, the Story of an Eskimo Dog.= Alpatok, an Eskimo dog from the far north, was stolen from his master and left to starve in a strange city, but was befriended and cared for, until he was able to return to his owner. Miss Saunders's story is based on truth, and the pictures in the book of "Alpatok" are based on a photograph of the real Eskimo dog who had such a strange experience. _By WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLE_ =The Farrier's Dog and His Fellow.= This story, written by the gifted young Southern woman, will appeal to all that is best in the natures of the many admirers of her graceful and piquant style. =The Fortunes of the Fellow.= Those who read and enjoyed the pathos and charm of "The Farrier's Dog and His Fellow" will welcome the further account of the adventures of Baydaw and the Fellow at the home of the kindly smith. =The Best of Friends.= This continues the experiences of the Farrier's dog and his Fellow, written in Miss Dromgoole's well-known charming style. =Down in Dixie.= A fascinating story for boys and girls, of a family of Alabama children who move to Florida and grow up in the South. _By MARIAN W. WILDMAN_ =Loyalty Island.= An account of the adventures of four children and their pet dog on an island, and how they cleared their brother from the suspicion of dishonesty. =Theodore and Theodora.= This is a story of the exploits and mishaps of two mischievous twins, and continues the adventures of the interesting group of children in "Loyalty Island." _By CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS_ =The Cruise of the Yacht Dido.= The story of two boys who turned their yacht into a fishing boat to earn money to pay for a college course, and of their adventures while exploring in search of hidden treasure. =The Lord of the Air= THE STORY OF THE EAGLE =The King of the Mamozekel= THE STORY OF THE MOOSE =The Watchers of the Camp-fire= THE STORY OF THE PANTHER =The Haunter of the Pine Gloom= THE STORY OF THE LYNX =The Return to the Trails= THE STORY OF THE BEAR =The Little People of the Sycamore= THE STORY OF THE RACCOON _By OTHER AUTHORS_ =The Great Scoop.= _By MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL_ A capital tale of newspaper life in a big city, and of a bright, enterprising, likable youngster employed thereon. =John Whopper.= The late Bishop Clark's popular story of the boy who fell through the earth and came out in China, with a new introduction by Bishop Potter. =The Dole Twins.= _By KATE UPSON CLARK_ The adventures of two little people who tried to earn money to buy crutches for a lame aunt. An excellent description of child-life about 1812, which will greatly interest and amuse the children of to-day, whose life is widely different. =Larry Hudson's Ambition.= _By JAMES OTIS_, author of "Toby Tyler," etc. Larry Hudson is a typical American boy, whose hard work and enterprise gain him his ambition,--an education and a start in the world. =The Little Christmas Shoe.= _By JANE P. SCOTT WOODRUFF_ A touching story of Yule-tide. =Wee Dorothy.= _By LAURA UPDEGRAFF_ A story of two orphan children, the tender devotion of the eldest, a boy, for his sister being its theme and setting. With a bit of sadness at the beginning, the story is otherwise bright and sunny, and altogether wholesome in every way. =The King of the Golden River=: A LEGEND OF STIRIA. _By JOHN RUSKIN_ Written fifty years or more ago, and not originally intended for publication, this little fairy-tale soon became known and made a place for itself. =A Child's Garden of Verses.= _By R. L. STEVENSON_ Mr. Stevenson's little volume is too well known to need description. It will be heartily welcomed in this new and attractive edition. BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE THE LITTLE COLONEL BOOKS (Trade Mark) _By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON_ Each, 1 vol. large, 12mo, cloth decorative, per vol. $1.50 =The Little Colonel Stories.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated. Being three "Little Colonel" stories in the Cosy Corner Series, "The Little Colonel," "Two Little Knights of Kentucky," and "The Giant Scissors," put into a single volume. =The Little Colonel's House Party.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated by Louis Meynell. =The Little Colonel's Holidays.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated by L. J. Bridgman. =The Little Colonel's Hero.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated by E. B. Barry. =The Little Colonel at Boarding School.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated by E. B. Barry. =The Little Colonel in Arizona.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated by E. B. Barry. =The Little Colonel's Christmas Vacation.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated by E. B. Barry. =The Little Colonel, Maid of Honour.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated by E. B. Barry. Since the time of "Little Women," no juvenile heroine has been better beloved of her child readers than Mrs. Johnston's "Little Colonel." =The Little Colonel.= (Trade-Mark) =Two Little Knights of Kentucky.= =The Giant Scissors.= A Special Holiday Edition of Mrs. Johnston's most famous books. Each one volume, cloth decorative, small quarto, $1.25 New plates, handsomely illustrated, with eight full-page drawings in color. "There are no brighter or better stories for boys and girls than these."--_Chicago Record-Herald._ "The books are as satisfactory to the small girls, who find them adorable, as for the mothers and librarians, who delight in their influence."--_Christian Register._ These three volumes, boxed as a three-volume set to complete the library editions of The Little Colonel books, $3.75 =In the Desert of Waiting=: THE LEGEND OF CAMELBACK MOUNTAIN. =The Three Weavers=: A FAIRY TALE FOR FATHERS AND MOTHERS AS WELL AS FOR THEIR DAUGHTERS. =Keeping Tryst.= Each one volume, tall 16mo, cloth decorative $0.50 Paper boards .35 There has been a constant demand for publication in separate form of these three stories, which were originally included in three of the "Little Colonel" books, and the present editions, which are very charmingly gotten up, will be delightful and valued gift-books for both old and young. =Joel: A Boy of Galilee.= By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON. Illustrated by L. J. Bridgman. New illustrated edition, uniform with the Little Colonel Books, 1 vol., large 12mo, cloth decorative $1.50 A story of the time of Christ, which is one of the author's best-known books, and which has been translated into many languages, the last being Italian. =Asa Holmes=; OR, AT THE CROSS-ROADS. A sketch of Country Life and Country Humor. By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON. With a frontispiece by Ernest Fosbery. Large 16mo, cloth, gilt top $1.00 "'Asa Holmes; or, At the Cross-Roads' is the most delightful, most sympathetic and wholesome book that has been published in a long while. The lovable, cheerful, touching incidents, the descriptions of persons and things, are wonderfully true to nature."--_Boston Times._ =The Rival Campers=; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF HENRY BURNS. By RUEL P. SMITH. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated by A. B. Shute $1.50 Here is a book which will grip and enthuse every boy reader. It is the story of a party of typical American lads, courageous, alert, and athletic, who spend a summer camping on an island off the Maine coast. "The best boys' book since 'Tom Sawyer.'"--_San Francisco Examiner._ "Henry Burns, the hero, is the 'Tom Brown' of America."--_N. Y. Sun._ =The Rival Campers Afloat=; OR, THE PRIZE YACHT VIKING. By RUEL P. SMITH, author of "The Rival Campers." Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 This book is a continuation of the adventures of "The Rival Campers" on their prize yacht _Viking_. Every reader will be enthusiastic over the adventures of Henry Burns and his friends on their sailing trip. They have a splendid time, fishing, racing, and sailing, until an accidental collision results in a series of exciting adventures, culminating in a mysterious chase, the loss of their prize yacht, and its recapture by means of their old yacht, _Surprise_, which they raise from its watery grave. =The Young Section-hand=; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF ALLAN WEST. By BURTON E. STEVENSON, author of "The Marathon Mystery," etc. 12mo, cloth, illustrated by L. J. Bridgman $1.50 Mr. Stevenson's hero is a manly lad of sixteen, who is given a chance as a section-hand on a big Western railroad, and whose experiences are as real as they are thrilling. "It appeals to every boy of enterprising spirit, and at the same time teaches him some valuable lessons in honor, pluck, and perseverance."--_Cleveland Plain Dealer._ =The Young Train Despatcher.= By BURTON E. STEVENSON, author of "The Young Section-hand," etc. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 A new volume in the "Railroad Series," in which the young section-hand is promoted to a train despatcher. Another branch of railroading is presented, in which the young hero has many chances to prove his manliness and courage in the exciting adventures which befall him in the discharge of his duty. =Jack Lorimer.= By WINN STANDISH. Square 12mo, cloth decorative. Illustrated by A. B. Shute $1.50 Jack Lorimer, whose adventures have for some time been one of the leading features of the _Boston Sunday Herald_, is the popular favorite of fiction with the boys and girls of New England, and, now that Mr. Standish has made him the hero of his book, he will soon be a favorite throughout the country. Jack is a fine example of the all-around American high-school boy. He has the sturdy qualities boys admire, and his fondness for clean, honest sport of all kinds will strike a chord of sympathy among athletic youths. =The Roses of Saint Elizabeth.= By JANE SCOTT WOODRUFF, author of "The Little Christmas Shoe." Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in color by Adelaide Everhart $1.00 This is a charming little story of a child whose father was caretaker of the great castle of the Wartburg, where Saint Elizabeth once had her home, with a fairy-tale interwoven, in which the roses and the ivy in the castle yard tell to the child and her playmate quaint old legends of the saint and the castle. =Gabriel and the Hour Book.= By EVALEEN STEIN. Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in colors by Adelaide Everhart $1.00 Gabriel was a loving, patient, little French lad, who assisted the monks in the long ago days, when all the books were written and illuminated by hand, in the monasteries. It is a dear little story, and will appeal to every child who is fortunate enough to read it. =The Enchanted Automobile.= Translated from the French by MARY J. SAFFORD. Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in colors by Edna M. Sawyer $1.00 The enchanted automobile was sent by the fairy godmother of a lazy, discontented little prince and princess to take them to fairyland, where they might visit their old story-book favorites. Here they find that Sleeping Beauty has become a famously busy queen; Princess Charming keeps a jewelry shop, where she sells the jewels that drop from her lips; Hop-o'-My-Thumb is a farmer, too busy even to see the children, and Little Red Riding Hood has trained the wolf into a trick animal, who performs in the city squares for his mistress. They learn the lesson that happy people are the busy people, and they return home cured of their discontent and laziness. =Beautiful Joe's Paradise=; OR, THE ISLAND OF BROTHERLY LOVE. A sequel to "Beautiful Joe." By MARSHALL SAUNDERS, author of "Beautiful Joe," "For His Country," etc. With fifteen full-page plates and many decorations from drawings by Charles Livingston Bull. One vol., library 12mo, cloth decorative $1.50 "Will be immensely enjoyed by the boys and girls who read it."--_Pittsburg Gazette._ "Miss Saunders has put life, humor, action, and tenderness into her story. The book deserves to be a favorite."--_Chicago Record-Herald._ "This book revives the spirit of 'Beautiful Joe' capitally. It is fairly riotous with fun, and as a whole is about as unusual as anything in the animal book line that has seen the light. It is a book for juveniles--old and young."--_Philadelphia Item._ ='Tilda Jane.= By MARSHALL SAUNDERS, author of "Beautiful Joe," etc. One vol., 12mo, fully illustrated, cloth, decorative cover, $1.50 "No more amusing and attractive child's story has appeared for a long time than this quaint and curious recital of the adventures of that pitiful and charming little runaway. "It is one of those exquisitely simple and truthful books that win and charm the reader, and I did not put it down until I had finished it--honest! And I am sure that every one, young or old, who reads will be proud and happy to make the acquaintance of the delicious waif. "I cannot think of any better book for children than this. I commend it unreservedly."--_Cyrus Townsend Brady._ =The Story of the Graveleys.= By MARSHALL SAUNDERS, author of "Beautiful Joe's Paradise," "'Tilda Jane," etc. Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated by E. B. Barry $1.50 Here we have the haps and mishaps, the trials and triumphs, of a delightful New England family, of whose devotion and sturdiness it will do the reader good to hear. From the kindly, serene-souled grandmother to the buoyant madcap, Berty, these Graveleys are folk of fibre and blood--genuine human beings. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Page 10, "red cross on a white ground" changed to "white cross on red ground" Page 100, closing single quotation mark added. (for the night!'") Page A-14, "Boston Sunday <i>Herald</i>" changed to "<i>Boston Sunday Herald</i>" Page A-15, "By" made mixed case instead of smallcaps to follow rest of advertising pages layout. 
22255	----	THE COUNTS OF GRUYÈRE BY MRS. REGINALD DE KOVEN ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK DUFFIELD & COMPANY 1916 Copyright, 1916, by DUFFIELD & CO. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE PROLOGUE 3 I. ORIGIN OF THE PEOPLE 7 II. INFLUENCE OF THE CHURCH 14 III. SOVEREIGNTY OF THE HOUSE OF SAVOY 25 IV. FOREIGN WARS 46 V. THE BURGUNDIAN WARS (COUNT FRANÇOIS I) 57 VI. THE BURGUNDIAN WARS (COUNT LOUIS) 67 VII. STRUGGLE FOR SUCCESSION 85 VIII. RELIGIOUS REFORM 94 IX. THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF GRUYÈRE 105 X. GRUYÈRE WITHOUT ITS COUNTS 128 APPENDIX 139 BIBLIOGRAPHY 141 ILLUSTRATIONS LA PLACE DE GRUYÈRE _Frontispiece_ _From a watercolour by Colonel R. Goff_ THE CHÂTEAU _Facing p._ 10 GATEWAY " 22 LACE-MAKERS " 38 FORTIFIED HOUSES--NORTH WALL " 56 THE CITY ON THE HILL " 72 TERRACE OF THE CHÂTEAU " 90 CHURCH OF ST. THEODATE " 112 JOUSTING COURT " 132 * * * * * THE COUNTS OF GRUYÈRE * * * * * BIS SEPTEM SEACULA CURRENT MOENIA FUNDAVIT BELLO FORTISSIMUS HAEROS VANDALUS ATQUE SUO SIGNAVIT NOMINE MUROS GRUS VIXIT AGNOMEN COMITE DEDIT ADVENA PRIMO RUBEA GRUEM VEXILLA AC SCUTI PILOSI SUSTENTENT QUORUM EUTIS PARRIDA RUGIS AC ARMATA MANUS VULSIS RADICIBUS ARAE EST HUIC CELEBRIS SERVES ET LONGA PROPAGO NEPOTUM DIVES OPUM OLIVES PIETA VESTIS AURIS EXTITIT ET NOSTRIS PER PLURIMA SAECULA TERRAS PRAEFUIT GRUERIUS SEXTAE LEGIONIS VANDALORUM DUX ANNO 436 _Behold now twice seven centuries.--That a Vandal hero bravest among warriors.--Founded this fortress.--This fortified city has since preserved the name of the Grue.--The stranger became the first count.--His descendants carried the Grue on their scarlet banners.--And on their hairy shields.--To the Vandal hero succeeded a long line of illustrious descendants.--Rich in fortune, rich in their piety.--These Counts won the order of the golden vest.--And for many centuries the posterity of Gruerius.--Chief of the sixteenth Vandal legion who lived in the year 436 governed our country._ PROLOGUE On the edge of a green plain around which rise the first steps of the immense amphitheatre of the Alps, a little castled city enthroned on a solitary hill watches since a thousand years the eternal and surpassing spectacle. Around its feet a river runs, a silver girdle bending northward between pastures green, while eastward over the towering azure heights the sunrise waves its flags of rose and gold. In the dim hours of twilight or by a cloudy moonlight, the city pitched amid the drifting aerial heights seems built itself of air and cloud, evanescent and unreal. By the fair light of noonday, sharp and clear upon its eminence, it is like a Dürer drawing, massed lines of crenelated bastions, sharp-pointed belfreys, and towered gateways completing a mediæval vignette ideal in composition. Strange as the distant vision seems to the traveler fresh from the rude and time-stained chalets of the mountains, still more surprising is the scene which greets his arrival by the precipitous road, past the double towered gateway, within the city walls. Expressly set it seems for a theatrical _décor_ in its smiling gayety, its faultlessly pictorial effect. Every window in the blazoned houses is blossoming with brightest flowers, as for a perpetual fête. The voices of the people are soft with a strange Italianate patois, and the women at the fountain, the children at their play, the old men sunning themselves beside the deep carved doorways are seemingly living the happy holiday life which belongs to the picture. The one street in the city, opening widely in a long oval _place_, is bounded by stone houses fortified without and bearing suspended galleries for observation and defence, forming thus a continuous rampart along the whole extent of the hillside. At the eastern extremity of this enclosure beyond the slender belfrey of the Hotel de Ville and the ancient shrine where a great crucifix looks down upon the scene, a flagged pathway rises sharply under a tall clock tower within the enceinte of the castle set at the steep extremity of the ridge. There behind strong walls a terrace looks from a crenelated parapet over the descending sunset plains, a prospect as fair as any in all Italy. Within a second rampart, semi-circular in form, the castle with its interior court looks eastward and southward over the encircling valley with its winding river, up to the surrounding nether heights of the Bernese Oberland. Walls twelve feet in thickness tell the history of its ancient construction, and chambers cut in the massive stone foundations recall the rude life of the early knights and vassals who defended this _château-fort_ from the Saracen invasion. Noble halls, later superimposed upon the earlier foundations, with stone benches flanking the walls and recessed windows overlooking the jousting court, evoke the glittering days of chivalry and the vision of the sovereign race of counts who here held their court. Ten centuries have passed over this castle on the hill; six told the story of its sovereignty over the surrounding country, but unlike most of the châteaux of Switzerland it has been carefully restored and maintains its feudal character. The caparisoned steeds no longer gallop along the ancient road, the crested knights no longer break their lances in the jousting court; but in the wide street of the little city is heard a speech, and in the valleys and from the hillsides echo herdsmen's songs, which contain Latin and French words, Greek, Saracen and German, a patois holding in solution the long story of the past. GRUYÈRE CHAPTER I ORIGIN OF THE PEOPLE Triply woven of the French, German and Italian races, the Swiss nation discovers in its Romand or French strain another triple weave of Celtic-Romand-Burgundian descent. While the high mountainous regions of eastern Switzerland were early scaled and settled by the Germanic tribes, the western were still earlier inhabited by the ancient Celtic-Helvetians and then civilized and cultivated by the most luxurious of Roman colonies. Resisting first and then happily mingling with their Roman conquerors, the Celtic people were transformed into a Romand race, similar in speech and origin to the French. In the heart of this Romand country was an ancient principality where the essential qualities of the beauty loving and imaginative races, Roman and Celtic, expressed themselves uniquely. A fountain of Celtic song and legend, a centre of chivalry and warlike power, this principality is known only to the outer world by the pastoral product which bears its name "Gruyère." Remarkable in the interest of the unbroken line of its valorous and lovable princes, and in the precious and enchanting race mixture of its brave, laughter-loving people, its supreme historical interest lies in its little recorded and astonishing political significance among the independent feudal principalities of Europe. When the Teuton barbarians came to devastate the enchanting loveliness of the templed Roman garden which was Switzerland for three idyllic centuries, they stopped at last at the penultimate peaks of the Occidental Alps, at a certain region called _aux fenils_ (_ad fines_), where a glacial stream rushes across the narrow valley of the Griesbach, among the southern mountains of the Bernese Oberland. Thus western or Romand Switzerland preserves a character definitely apart from the eastern, and this barrier across the Bernese valley, unpassed for a thousand years, still divides the German from the Romand speaking peasantry. To the north and west lies Gruyère, greenest of pastoral countries, uniquely set in a ring of azure heights, where like a lost Provence, the Romand spirit has preserved its eternal youthfulness and charm. Greatly loved by all the Swiss, its annals piously preserved by ancient chroniclers, this country is German only in its eastern rocky portion; but where the castle stands and in all the wide valleys which open towards the setting sun, it is of purest Romand speech and character. Here ruled for six hundred years a sovereign line of counts whose history, a pastoral epic, is melodious with song and legend, and glowing with all the pageantry and chivalry of the middle ages. Although skirted by the great Roman roads, and flanked by outpost towers, Gruyère was never romanized, being settled only in its outlying plains by occasional Gallo-Roman villas, while the interior country, ringed by a barrier of almost inaccessible mountains, was left to the early Helvetian adventurers who had first penetrated its wild forests and its mountain fastnesses. Here, unaffected alike by Roman domination or Teuton destruction, they had set up the altars of their Druid faith and here preserved their ancient customs and their speech. Here also traveled the adventurous Greek merchants from old Massilia (Marseilles), leaving in their buried coins and in the Greek words of the Gruyère dialect the impress of their ancient visitation. A country fit for mysterious rites, for the habitation of the nature deities of the Druid mythology, was Gruyère in those early days. The deep caverns, the "black" lakes, and the terrifying depths of the precipitous defiles through which the mountain streams rushed into marshy valleys, were frequented by wild beasts and birds, and haunted in the imagination of the people by fairies and evil spirits holding unholy commerce for the souls of men. Here until the Teuton invasion the early Celts lived unmolested, when some fugitives from the once smiling cities and the cultivated plains came to join them in the refuge of their mountain homes. Strange to their half-savage brothers were these softened and romanized Celts who had tended the olives and the vines on sunny lake sides, and who in earlier days had mingled in Dionysian revels with Roman maidens with curled locks and painted cheeks. Strange their tales of the white pagan temples, and all the glories of the imperial cities left smouldering in ashes after the Teuton hordes had worked their will. The arduous pioneer life of their predecessors and the task of clearing and cultivating their wild asylum among the mountains and the marshes was now their lot. Adopting slowly the altered speech of these later romanized inhabitants and converted to the Christian faith by Gallo-Roman priests, the indigenous inhabitants finally lost all memory of the teachings of their Druid bards and the firm belief in reincarnation which sent the Celtic warrior laughing to his death; but in the traditions of the peasantry, abounding with nature myths, sorcerers still haunt their mountain caves, fairies and May maidens still flutter about their crystal streams. [Illustration: THE CHÂTEAU] One more strain, that of the heroes of the Nibelungen, the blond Burgundian giants who had forced the Romans to share with them a portion of their conquered territories, was destined to add height and virile force to the Celto-Roman people of this country. Strangely differing from their ancient enemies the merciless Teutons, these mighty Burgundians, most human of all the vandal hords, in an epic of tragic grandeur rivaling the classic tales of mythology, for a century maintained an autonomous and mighty kingdom. Gentle as gigantic, indomitable in war, invading but not destroying, their greatest monarch, Gondebaud, who could exterminate his rival brothers, and enact a beneficient code of laws which forms the basis of the Gallic jurisprudence, was their protagonist and prototype. Beside his figure, looming in the mists of history, is Clothilde, his niece, the proselyting Christian queen, who fled in her ox cart from Geneva to the arms of Clovis the Merovingian, first king of France. Enthroned at Lyons, Gondebaud issued the laws which regulated the establishment of his people in their new domains, which spread over what was later the great French Duchy of Burgundy, the whole extent of occidental Switzerland and Savoy. "Like brothers," it is related by the Latin chroniclers, they mingled with the resident inhabitants, dividing lands and serfs by lot, marrying their daughters, and quickly adopting their language and their Christian faith. Thus the whole of Romand Switzerland was deeply impregnated with the Burgundian influence, assimilating its vigorous race type and ruled by its laws. Although the country later passed under the universal domination of Charlemagne, the character of the people was little affected by the distant rule of the great monarch, and when the Carlovingian Empire fell apart and Rodolph I, of the second Burgundian line, crowned himself king in the monastery of St. Maurice, his subjects were of the same race and customs as those of his predecessors. Differing in blood from the early Burgundian rulers, these Rodolphian kings, allied to the Carlovingian emperors and long governors of lower or Swiss Burgundy, ruled pacifically and under the beloved Rodolph II and his still better loved Queen Berthe, and their son Conrad, resisted the Saracen invasion and preserved for a hundred and fifty years the autonomy of their kingdom. Nobles with their serfs and freemen already divided the land, their prerogatives and vassalage long since established by the laws of Gondebaud. The Oberland, or Pays-d'en-Haut, Hoch Gau, or D'Ogo, in the German tongue, a country no longer wild but rich in fertile valleys and wooded mountain sides, was given to a Burgundian lord, under the title of King's Forester or Grand Gruyer; Count he was or Comes D'Ogo, first lord of the country afterwards called Gruyère. Although Burgundian, the subjects of Count Turimbert were of different races. In the country of Ogo, called Haute Gruyère, they were German, while in the lower northern plains, called Basse Gruyère, they were Celtic or Celto-Roman. Between these two divisions the mountain torrent of the Sarine rushes through a deep gorge called the Pas de la Tine. For many years the Gallo-Roman peasants feared to penetrate this terrifying barrier between the rising valleys and the frowning heights, until, according to a legend, a young adventurer broke his way through the primeval woods and the rocky depths of the gorge to find out-spread before him the fertile upper plateaux of the Pays-d'en-Haut. "It happened," so runs another legend, "that the Roman peasants who had passed the Pas de la Tine and led their herds along the course of the Sarine, wished to cut their way through the thick forest, but encountered other peasants who spoke a different language. Here peacefully they halted on the hither side of the dividing Griesbach, 'where it touched the limit of the Alamanni.'" (_In ea parte quae facit contra Alamannos._) CHAPTER II INFLUENCE OF THE CHURCH Twenty lords of Gruyère made up the line which maintained a singularly kindly and paternal rule over the differing people of their pastoral kingdom; all of one race, and all but the three last in the direct descent from father to son. Six centuries they ruled, distinguished first for their inexhaustible love of life, their knightly valor and their fidelity to the Catholic faith. The first Count Turimbert, with his wife Avana, lived in the first castle belonging to the domain at Castrum in Ogo or Château d'Oex. His was the time of good Queen Berthe, who, for defence against the Saracen invasion, built a long series of towers on height after height from Neuchatel to the borders of Lake Leman, many of which, situated in the county of Gruyère, became the property of its ruling family. That Turimbert was of importance among the secular landholders of the tenth century is attested by his participation in the Plaid of St. Gervais, a tribunal famous as being one of the earliest on record, and held by the Seigneur de la Justice of Geneva. His exchange of lands with Bishop Boson of Lausanne is also recorded in the first of a series of yellow parchments, which in monastic Latin narrate the succeeding incidents of the Gruyère sovereignty and tell the story of the long predominance of the church in Switzerland. Seven centuries before Turimbert, in the period of the Roman domination, a cloister had been founded at St. Maurice D'Agaune, near the great Rhone gateway of the Alps, in memory of the Theban legion who had preferred death to the abjuration of their Christian faith. Here, three centuries later, the converted Burgundian king, Sigismund, took refuge after the murder of his son, enlarging it into a vast monastery where five hundred monks, singing in relays from dawn to dawn in never ceasing psalmodies, implored heaven for pardon of his crime. In the seventh century came the missionary monks from Ireland, St. Columban and his successor, St. Gall, who built his hermitage on the site of the great mediæval centre of arts and learning which still bears his name. At the same time, St. Donat, son of the governor of lower Burgundy, and disciple of Columban, mounted the archiepiscopal throne at Besançon. In his honor the earliest church of the county of Gruyère was erected near the castle of Count Turimbert in the Pays-d'en-Haut. Under the influence of these powerful religious institutions, the country was cultivated and the people instructed, but under Rodolph III the second Burgundian kingdom rapidly approached its dissolution. Weakly subservient to the church, and dispossessing himself of his revenues to such an extent that he was forced to beg a small pittance for his daily necessities from his churchly despoilers, it was said of him that "_Onc ne fut roi comme ce roi_." Ceding the whole of the province of Vaud, including part of the possessions of Count Turimbert, to the bishop of Lausanne, the already practically dispossessed monarch named the Emperor Henry II of Germany, as heir to his throne. And although Henry the II was unable to enter into this inheritance during the lifetime of Rodolph, the latter's nephew, the Emperor Conrad the Salique, assumed control of the kingdom which then was incorporated into the German Empire. Not without devastating wars and desperate opposition on the part of the heirs of the Rodolphian line was the country preserved to the German sovereign, and under his distant rule it became a prey to continuous dissensions between the bishops and the feudal lords. "Oh, King," appealed the prelates, "rise and hasten to our succour--Burgundia calls thee. These countries lately added to thy dominions are troubled by the absence of their lord. Thy people cry to thee, as the source of peace, desiring to refresh their sad eyes with the sight of their King." The answer to this appeal was the establishment of the Rectorate of Burgundy under the Count Rudolph of Rheinfelden and his successors, the Dukes of Zearingen, who founded in the borders of ancient Gruyère the two cities of Berne and Fribourg. Between these centres of the rising power of the bourgeoisie arose mutual dissensions and quarrels with the already hostile lords and bishops, and the country was more than ever the scene of wars innumerable. Still holding the supreme power, the Church alone could bring the peace for which the country longed. At Romont, near the borders of Gruyère, Hughes, Bishop of Lausanne, invoking a great assembly of prelates, proclaimed the _Trêve de Dieu_ before a throng of people carrying palm branches and crying "_Pax, Pax Domini_." Thus in this corner of the world was adopted the law originating in Acquitaine, which prevailed over all Europe and which alone controlled in those strange times the violence and the pillage which was the permitted privilege of the robber bishops and the robber lords. Gruyère and its rulers reflected the influence of the all-powerful hierarchy, and Turimbert and his successors took their part in the great religious society extending over all Europe, where the conservation of faith was of supreme importance, and when men belonged more to the church than to their country. The possession of the great monasteries surpassed those of the largest landholders, and Rome with its mighty prelates for the second time became the capital of the world. When Hildebrand the monk, mounting the papal throne as Gregory VII, excommunicated the German Emperor, Henry IV, he placed the imperial crown upon the head of none other than Rudolph of Rheinfelden, the governor of Transjurane Burgundy and of the province of Gruyère. After Henry, forced to submission, had scaled the icy heights of the Alps to prostrate himself before Hildebrand at Canossa, after Rudolph had been killed in battle by Henry's supporter Godfrey de Bouillon, Hildebrand's pupil and successor Urban II, journeying to Clermont in Cisjurane Burgundy, summoned all Europe in torrents of fiery eloquence to rise and deliver the Holy Land from the power of the Saracens. Unmarked in the churchly parchments which alone record the history of these times, were the successors of Turimbert; but in the period of the first Crusade, Guillaume I, of the succeeding and unbroken line of Gruyère counts, appears as the head of a numerous and powerful family preëminent for their loyalty to the church. Among the shining names of chivalry immortalized in the annals of the Holy wars are those of Guillaume, of his son Ulric, chanoine of the Church at Lausanne, and of his nephews Hughes and Turin. Not with Peter the Hermit, the hallucinated dwarf whose sobbing eloquence had led an innumerable motley host of unnamed peasants to certain disaster in the deserts of the East, went the hundred Gruyèrian soldiers led by Guillaume, but with the knights and priests of Romand Switzerland, the Burgundian French and Lombard nobles who swelled the fabled hosts of Godfrey de Bouillon. With gifts of lands to churches and to priories and with the blessing of the lord bishop of their county the Gruyère pilgrims, eager to battle for the holy cause, obeyed with ardor the cry of _Dieu le veut, Diex le volt_, and leaving their country, faced without faltering, dangers and distant lands and carried their scarlet banner with its silver crane, bravely among the bravest. "The young bergères of Gruyère," so runs the chronicle, "barred the gates of the city to prevent their departure, by force the gates were burst, and the poor maidens wept as they listened to the standard-bearers cry, a hundred times repeated, "_En Avant la Grue, S'agit d'aller, reviendra qui pourra._" How wide is the ocean we must cross," they asked as they galloped down the valleys, "as wide as the lake we must pass when we go to pray to our Lady of Lausanne?" Tasso, the poet of the Crusades, so well appreciated the valor of the Swiss soldiers that he chose their leader for the honor of first scaling the walls of Jerusalem. "Over the moat, on a sudden filled to the brim With a thousand thrown faggots, and with rolled trees stout and slim, Before all he ventured. On helmet and buckler poured floods of sulphurous fire. Yet scatheless he passed through the furnace of flame, And with powerful hand throwing the ladder high over the wall, mounted with pride." Again when the Christians were in want of wood for the catapults and rolling towers with which to scale and batter down resisting walls, Tasso leads this same undaunted servant of de Bouillon into the forest enchanted by the Satanic ally of the Musselmans. "Like all soldiers I must challenge fate-- Surprises, fears and phantoms know I not. Floods and roaring monsters, the terrors Of the common herd affright not me! The last realm of hell I would invade, Descending fearless, sword in hand." Such, according to Tasso, was the spirit of the Swiss Crusaders. Did the banner of Gruyère float with those of Tancred, of Robert of Normandy and of all the flower of the French noblesse over the walls of Jerusalem delivered? No record tells of it. Many of the hundred "beaux Gruèriens" doubtless perished on the holy soil. A fraction only of the host which in multitudes like the stars and desert sands invaded the east, assembled for the assault upon the Holy City. Famine, thirst and pestilence decimated the great armies upon which fell the united cohorts of the oriental powers. Blasphemy and prostitution, the refuge of despair, alternated in the camp of the Crusaders with fanatic visions of visiting archangels, of armed and shining knights descending the slopes of heaven in their defence. From such a phantasmagoria, surpassing in the historical records all the poetic imaginations of its famous chroniclers, only a few returned to tell the tale. Among these fortunate pilgrims was Guillaume of Gruyère, who, once more safe among his home mountains, ended his life with lavish gifts to the holy church of which he was so preëminent a servant. The priory of Rougemont founded by him upon his return, the church of St. Nicholas in the same region, near the borders of the Griesbach, still exist in testimony of his devotion and preserve the memory of his name and reign. Exemplifying by his deeds the dominating religious exaltation of his time he was allied by marriage with a family equally illustrious for its loyalty to the church. His wife, Agathe de Glane, was sister to Pierre and Philippe de Glane, protectors and tutors of the young count of Upper Burgundy, who through his mother's marriage to the duke of Zearingen shared with the latter the rule of the united provinces under the sovereignty of the German Empire. Son of a father done traitorously to death by his own vassals, the young count of Burgundy was himself as basely murdered while at prayer in the church of Payerne by these same vassals, and with him the brothers-in-law of Guillaume de Gruyère, Pierre and Philippe de Glane. Guillaume de Glane, son and nephew of the murdered protectors of their young suzerain, profoundly moved by the tragedy which had befallen his house, determined to renounce the world and commanding that not one stone should remain of his great castle of Glane dedicated these same stones to the enlargement of the monastery of Hauterive, where, taking the garb of a monk, he finished the remainder of his days. Such was the origin of the power of the great Cistercian monastery which still stands at the junction of the rivers Glane and Sarine in the county of Fribourg. Not content with this unequalled act of piety and renunciation, the insatiable Bishop of Lausanne exacted the cession of every château and every rood of land belonging to the family of de Glane, part of which--through the marriage of Agnes to Count Rodolphe I, and of Juliane to Guillaume of the cadet branch of Gruyère--had extended the domain of the latter house. Undeterred by the greed of the bishop, Rodolphe piously preserved the traditions of his predecessors Raimond and Guillaume II, who had founded the monasteries of Humilimont and Hautcret, by continued gifts to the latter as well as to Hauterive. Yet the robber bishop implacably demanded another act of renunciation from Count Rodolphe, one of serious significance to the future of his house, by which he authorized the transference of the market of the county from Gruyère to the neighboring city of Bulle which belonged to the bishop. The city of Bulle thereafter became the centre of exchange of the county, while Gruyère, although now the _chef-lieu_ of the reigning counts, was permanently deprived of all possibility of progress or enlargement. Thus the city of Bulle, busy and flourishing even to this day, has kept its place in the growing commercial importance of the county, while Gruyère is still the little feudal city of the middle ages, precious historically as it is picturesque, but crystalized in a permanent immobility. Forty marks, scarcely more than the worth of the mess of pottage for which Esau sold his heritage, was the price accepted by Count Rodolphe for the commercial existence of Gruyère. [Illustration: GATEWAY] Rodolphe's far more virile successors, Pierre I and Rodolphe II and III, attempted with the support of the people to defy the power of the bishop, and in disregard of the act of their predecessor, to keep up the marché at Gruyère. But the power which could excommunicate an emperor did not hesitate to launch the same formidable curse upon the princes of Gruyère and they were forced to yield. The foundation of the church of St. Théodule at Gruyère and of the rich and venerated convent of the Part Dieu by his daughter-in-law, Guillemette de Grandson (widow of his eldest son Pierre) attested the unabated devotion of the Gruyère house to the Catholic religion. CHAPTER III SOVEREIGNTY OF THE HOUSE OF SAVOY In the middle of the thirteenth century the counts of Gruyère--who had so long been oppressed by the grasping prelates of the Church--came within the orbit of another power, that of the rising house of Savoy. Fortifying their influence by alliances with the kingdoms of Europe, extending its domains over occidental Switzerland and far into Italy, the counts of Savoy were already in a position to dispute the power of the bishops, when Count Pierre took his place at the head of his house. Although he had occupied for two years the bishopric of Lausanne, which had so long been inimical to the counts of Gruyère, the spiritual overlordship of the country of Vaud did not satisfy the genius or the ambition of the ablest personage in a family which numbered five reigning queens, and who, himself was marquis in Italy, earl of Richmond in England and uncle and adviser to King Henry III of England and of his brother the Emperor Richard. Although he lived by preference in England where his lightest word could control the tumults of the populace, the wisdom of Count Pierre's choice of delegates greatly extended his Savoyard domain. "Proud, firm and terrible as a lion," "the little Charlemagne" as his contemporaries called him, was wise also and affable with his subjects. Brilliant in intellect, master of happy and courteous speech, he fascinated where he controlled. The princely air of pride and power, seen in the portraits of Pierre de Savoy, the blazing dark eyes and mobile mouth of his Gallo-Roman ancestors, present the truly majestic semblance of the founder of a dynasty and the eminently sympathetic overlord of the Gallo-Roman counts of Gruyère. Such was the great ruler and law-giver who easily supplanting his niece as head of the house of Savoy, reduced to a loyal vassalage all the nobles of Roman Switzerland. Not without opposition from the bishops and feudal lords nor without jealousy from the German emperor did Count Pierre arrive at a height where he saw only heaven above and his mountainous domain! "From Italy through the Valais," so a chronicler of his house relates, "at the rumor that a rival German governor of Vaud was besieging his castle of Chillon, he reached the heights above Lake Leman. There he surveyed the banners of the noble army, and the luxurious tents in which they took their ease before his castle. Hiding his soldiers at Villeneuve, alone and unobserved he rowed to Chillon, where from the great tower he watched the young nobles as they danced and reveled in jeweled velvets and shining armor, with the maidens of the lake-side. Then at a given signal, he emerged to lead his waiting army to the complete rout of the surprised besiegers." Among these holiday warriors was Rodolphe III of Gruyère, who with his comrades--eighty-four barons, seigneurs, chevaliers, ecuyers and nobles of the country--were taken to the castle of Chillon where, according to the chronical: "_Comté Pierre ne les traita pas comme prisonniers mais les festoya honorablement. Moult fut grande la despoilie et moult grande le butin._" After a year's imprisonment Count Rodolphe was ransomed by his people, and first among all the Romand knights swore fealty to his new overlord at the château of Yverdun. Growing in favor with Pierre de Savoy and his successors, the counts of Gruyère became their trusted courtiers and counselors, and through many vicissitudes and many wars merited the encomium of Switzerland's first historian, that the "Age of chivalry produced no braver soldiers than these counts, their suzerain had no more devoted vassals." The submission of Rodolphe of Gruyère having been confirmed in formal treaty, his grandson and successor Count Pierre the Third, loyally supported during a long and brilliant reign the banners of his overlord against the rising power of Rudolph of Hapsburg. When Berne, allied with Savoy, was besieged by the Hapsburg army, Count Pierre generously supplied money to the beleaguered city and in the final battle when the city fell, it was a Jean de Gruyère who snatched the torn and bloodstained Bernese banner from the hands of the enemy. When asked the name of the hero who had saved the flag, his comrades answered "_c'est le preux de Gruyère_," and to this day the Bernese family of Gruyère bear the title thus bravely won by their progenitor. The role of mediator, filled with distinction by his successors, was first assigned to Count Pierre III, who as avoyer of Fribourg at that time allied with Austria, was empowered to arbitrate the differences which arose between the houses of Savoy and Hapsburg. Always loyal to his suzerain, Count Pierre served under the Savoy banner in the war with Hughes de Faucigny, dauphin of the Viennois, and only after the marriage of Catherine (daughter of Amédée V of Savoy) to the redoubtable Leopold of Austria had sealed a truce between the rival powers which divided and devastated the country, did he consent to join the Austrian army in Italy under Duke Leopold himself. In the brilliant cortège which followed Duke Leopold to Italy, Count Pierre, accompanied by a number of his relatives, was notable by the command of a hundred horsemen and a force of archers. Mounted on horses, armored like their riders and covered with emblazoned velvets, such a force of cavalry was the strongest as well as the most imposing instrument of warfare in this time, when the knights, willing only to conquer by personal bravery, despised all arms except their lances and their swords. Contested by the warring Guelphs and Ghibellines, the city of Milan and the palace of the newly crowned German emperor himself was with difficulty protected by the imperial guard. The soldiers of Duke Leopold, arriving without the city walls, under a hail of stones and arrows, broke through the outer barricades and burst the city gates, and then Gruyère again, at the head of his horsemen dashed through, bringing release to the imprisoned emperor and victory to the Austrian arms. Not long was the alliance between the houses of Hapsburg and Savoy to endure. The rising powers of the cities, still more the prowess of the mountaineers, the Waldstetten, who soon after Duke Leopold's Italian campaign had vanquished him and his shining warriors at the famous battle of Morgarten, resisted with growing success the Savoyard and the Hapsburg sovereignty, and divided in ever changing alliances the fermenting elements of the tottering feudal society. The horn of the Alps, sounding the tocsin over the rocky defile of the Swiss Thermopylae, announced the approaching end of the feudal rule of the middle ages and the dawn of liberty in Switzerland. Although at first a willing ally of Pierre de Savoy, the city of Berne, greatly enlarging its possessions by conquests and alliances and growing rapidly in independence and republican enlightenment, warred incessantly with the nobles of the surrounding country and with particular virulence attacked the counts of Gruyère. So serious a menace did the proud city become to all the knights of Romand Switzerland, that they were driven to attempt its humiliation. All the great lords of Helvetia west and east joined the brave alliance. The banners of Hapsburg and Savoy were united in the determined onslaught upon the powerful city, and a large force from Fribourg, eager to aid in bringing her rival low, swelled the forces of the nobles in a glittering army of three thousand knights, who with their attendant vassals gayly and confidently practised feats of arms before the little fortified city of Laupen while awaiting the arrival of the Bernois. Among them, Count Pierre de Gruyère, refusing an enormous indemnity for losses at the hands of the Bernois and as ever faithful to his order and to Savoy, took his place with other nobles of his house. Warriors each one by training and tradition, not yet had any fear of defeat chilled their ardor or their courage, nor had they learned the wisdom of concealing their threatened attack upon the growing republic. The citizens of Berne were given ample time to send a messenger to the victorious mountaineers of Morgarten, and this was their reply: "Not like the birds are we who fly from a storm-stricken tree. In trouble best is friendship known. Tell the Bernois we are friendly and will send them aid." The June sun was setting over the plateau when the nobles desisting from their sports drew up their cavalry, supported by a chosen band of infantry from Fribourg. Retreating before the advance of the latter, the Waldstetten, in the forefront of the Bernese army, sought, as was their custom, an advantageous position for attack. From the heights above the city, with their terrifying war cries, and with the same furious onslaught which had overwhelmed Duke Leopold's glorious horsemen at Morgarten, they fell upon the nobles in a bloody melée in which horses, men and valets perished in a hopeless confusion. Three Gruyère knights were left lifeless on the battlefield and eighty-four others, who thus paid the price of their temerity in thinking to stem the already formidable confederation of citizens and free people in Switzerland. Undeterred by this defeat and continually menaced by the incursions of the Bernois, Count Pierre de Gruyère successfully held them in check, and, no less wise as ruler than he was valorous in war, enlarged the power and extent of his domain by political and matrimonial alliances with the great Romand families of Blonay, Grandson and Oron, as well as with the warlike La Tour Chatillons of the Valais, and with the powerful Wissenbourgs and the semi-royal Hapsburg-Kibourgs of eastern Switzerland. Leaving to his nephews, "Perrod" and "Jeannod," the seigneuries of Vanel and Montsalvens which they had inherited from their father, he shared with them the rule of the people. The "three of Gruyère" whose acts are recorded in the dry and unpoetic parchments of the time, were united in a paternal and pacific rule under which people and country reached a legendary height of arcadian prosperity. First to deserve the name so cherished in the legends of Gruyère of "pastoral king," Count Pierre III saw his herds increase and valleys and mountain sides blossom into fabulous fertility. His was the golden age of the herdsmen the "Armaillis," of whom it was related in symbolic legend that, "their cows were so gigantic and milk so abundant that it overflowed the borders of the ponds into which they poured it." By boat they skimmed the cream in these vast basins, and one day a "_beau berger_," busy with the skimming, was upset in his skiff by a sudden squall and drowned. The young lads and maidens sought long and vainly for his body and wore mourning for his tragic fate. Discovered only several days later, when amid floods of boiling cream they whipped the butter into a mound high as a tower, his body was buried in a great cavern in the golden butter, filled full by the bees with honey rays wide as a city's gates. "Where," asks a living Romand writer, "is the eclogue of Virgil or Theocritus to surpass the beauty of this legend?" Dying full of years and honors, Count Pierre left the care of his beloved people and his happy country to his nephews the cherished Perrod and Jeannod, who even in the churchly parchments are known by the nicknames affectionately given them by their uncle. Together they ruled, although Pierre IV, the eldest and ablest, bore the title of Lord of Gruyère. Always by the side of his uncle in all his wars and on the bloody plain of Laupen, Perrod had already won his title of Chevalier, and did not lack occasion to further prove his courage in a new war with the Bernois who in one of their many incursions had advanced far among the upper Gruyère mountains, near the twin châteaux of Laubeck and Mannenburg, lately acquired by the Gruyère house. Accustomed to success and confident of an easy victory, the Bernois scattered about the valleys, leaving the flag to their leader with a few men-at-arms. But the Gruyèriens, wary and prepared, were already massed upon the heights over the defile of Laubeck-Stalden, whence they fell suddenly upon the Banneret of Berne, who, thinking only to save the flag, cast it far behind him among his few followers, and meeting alone the attack of the enemy, died faithful to his duty and his honor. Bitterly lamenting, the Bernois retreated with their flag, while Count Perrod and his victorious band, returning to the castle, celebrated famously with songs and jests, in a brave company of knights and ladies, their triumph over their redoubtable enemies. Not so gayly did the banners of Gruyère return homeward in the next contest with Berne, for, now allied with Fribourg and determined to avenge their late defeat, they advanced in great numbers and with fire and sword ravaged the country of the count of Gruyère and attacked the châteaux of his allies, the lords of Everdes and Corbières. Already the château of Everdes was burning, the Ogo bridge was lost, and while Corbières was hotly besieged by the men of Fribourg, the Bernois advancing within sight of the castle of Gruyère to attack the outpost Tour de Trême, encountered at the Pré de Chénes a small band of Gruyèriens. Here, until the arrival of the main force of Count Pierre, two heroes, justly celebrated and sung in all the annals of Gruyère, alone behind a barrier of corpses withstood the onslaught of the Bernois. Two men of Villars sous Mont were they: Ulric Bras le Fer, and the brave Clarimboz. So strong the arms with which they wielded the great halberds of the time, that the handles, clotted with the blood of their foes were glued to their clenched fists, so that it was necessary to bathe them long in warm water to detach them. Although the Bernois burnt the Tour de Trême and captured sixty of the defendants, Count Pierre and his soldiers forced them to retire, and the castle and city of Gruyère were saved. Strong men were these knights and vassals of Gruyère to withstand and gayly to forget the bloody assaults of their determined foes, for in the intervals of war alarms they passed a holiday life of jest and song. Within the circle of their starlit heights, they nightly watched the brandon lights on peak and hilltop; and while the sentinels in every tower scanned the wide country for a sign of the approaching foe, within they made merry in the banqueting hall. In the long summer afternoons, tourneys in the jousting court, or tribunals held in the same green enclosure alternated with generous feasts out-spread on the castle terrace for the enjoyment of the people. Often Count Pierre would mount his horse and ride among the mountains where he administered justice before the doors of the chalets, adopting the orphans who were brought to him, giving dots to the daughters of the poor, and sometimes taking part in the wrestling contests of the herdsmen--their brother in sport--their father in misfortune. During all the years of the fourteenth century the feudal society of Switzerland, although so fiercely attacked by the rising bourgeoisie power, blazed like the leaves in autumn in a passing October glory with the snows of winter seemingly still afar. At Chambéry, the court of Amédée VII of Savoy, called Le Comté Vert from the emerald color of the velvet in which he and his courtiers were clad, the brother rulers of Gruyère took part in all the fêtes and tourneys. Present when the great order of the Annonciata was instituted, and again, when the emperor of Germany was received at banquets served by knights on horseback, they sat at tables where fountains of wine sprinkled their rubies over gilded viands in vessels of wrought gold. But at Gruyère the young brother rulers held a little court which for intimate gayety and charm surpassed all others. Gallic in its love of beauty, loving life and all its loveliest expressions, it was a court of dance and song--the heart of hearts of Gruyère, itself the centre and the very definition of Romand Switzerland. Often intermarried, the Burgundian counts preserved in its perfection the blond beauty of their ancient race, surpassing in athletic skill the strongest of their subjects, and with the same bonhomie with which their conquering ancestors had mingled with their vassals, they exemplified in their kindly rule the Burgundian device: "_Tout par l'amour, rien par la force._" The people doubly Celt in origin, added to the Celtic ardor the quick imagination, the gift of playing lightly with life, and a high and passionate idealism expressing itself in an unequaled and valorous devotion to their rulers, together with an arcadian union of simplicity and finesse, the individual mark of their sunny pastoral life. The château on its green hill was a fit centre of the closely mingled life of the rulers and their people. Rebuilt on its ancient rude foundations under the reign of Pierre de Savoy, it possessed the great towers and sentinel tourelles, the moat, drawbridge, courtyards, terrace and arsenal of the time, but in its enchanting situation, its intimate, inviting charm, it quite uniquely expressed the sense and love of beauty of its unknown artist architect. Within were the high hooded fireplaces of the time, blazoned with the silver crane on scarlet of the Gruyère arms, armorial windows and walls brilliantly painted with lozenges or squares of blue and scarlet. In the great Hall of the Chevaliers, Count Pierre and his brother Jeannod held their revels among a familiar company of their cousins of Blonay, Oron, Montsalvens and Vanel, _preux chevaliers_ all, assembled at Gruyère after long days at the chase. There, also, were the daughters of the house, brave in jewels and brocades, and answering to the names of Agnelette and Margot, Luquette and Elinode, who took their part in the fair company dancing and singing through the long summer nights. Or Chalamala, last and most famous of the Gruyère jesters, would preside over a _Conseil de folie_, with his jingling bells and nodding peacock plumes, recounting with jest and rhyme the legends of the ancient heroes of Gruyère. Only Count Perrod was forbidden to wear his spurs, having one day torn the pied stockings of the fool. "Shall I marry the great lady of La Tour Chatillon?" he had asked his merry counselor. "If I were lord of Gruyère," was the reply, "I would not give up my fair mistress for that ill-featured dame." Devoted Catholics as were the Gruyère people, their religion was a source of comfort and protection, but even more a reason for rejoicing and for the innumerable fêtes in honor of their favorite saints, for which the little city was almost continually decorated. Passion plays and mysteries culminated at Easter in a wild carnival week in which priests and people sang and danced together in masks and parti-color from dawn to starlight. In the fête called _Jeu des Rois_, a parade in costume was led by a crowned king in scarlet robes, accompanied by his fool, by his knights and his minstrels. Music and dancing and feats of arms were followed by a religious ceremony, and at night-fall after the play, the king's banquet, where white-bearded magi offered him gifts of gold and silver goblets, of frankincense and myrrh, finished the revel. [Illustration: LACE-MAKERS] Or again on the first Sunday in May all would assemble for the sport called _Château d'Amour_ of ancient Celtic origin. In the midst of a green field or in the square before the _Hotel de Ville_, a wooden fortress was erected, surrounded by a little moat and with high towers and a donjon. Maidens and more maidens, smiling and flower-crowned and with white arms outstretched, poured down a rain of arrows and wooden lances from the battlements, or oftener pelted their lovers the assailants with showers of roses. Then at a given signal, in a sudden escalade, the besiegers broke over the walls, each to receive a kiss and a rose as prize of victory. Then besiegers and besieged together burned the fortress, and the day ended with bacchic libations and with dances. Meeting by moonlight nights to sing their love songs and rhymed legends in the city square, the Gruyère people better loved their dances, the long Celtic Korols (or Coraules), when, singing in chorus in wild winding farandoles, they went dancing over vales and hills, day in and day out until human strength could bear no more. Such was the famous dance quaintly recounted in ancient French by a Gruyère chronicler. "It happened one day that the Count de Gruyère returning to his castle, found thereby a great merry-making of young lads and maidens dancing in Koraule. The same Count, greatly loving of such sport, forthwith took the hand of the loveliest of the maidens and joined the company. Whereupon, no one tiring, they proceeded, dancing always, through the hard-by village of Enney up to Château D'Oex in the Pays-d'en-Haut, and wonderful was it to see the people in all the villages they passed joining in that joyous band. Seven hundred were they when they finished, having danced continuously for three days over the mountain leagues between Gruyère and Château D'Oex, and great was the fame of Count Perrod and his dancing in this _Grande Coquille_." Such was life in this idyllic country, the beloved _Grévire_ of the melodious Romand speech, where "the houses are high with roofs leaning far towards the ground, where the plums are so ripe they fall with the breeze, where there are oats and tressed wheat, cows black and white and rich cheese, black goats, too, and horned oxen--and beautiful maids who would wed." Nourished on rich milk smelling of the aromatic grasses of their pastures, white and pink as the apples of their orchards; light-footed and vigorous from their mountain life, their dancing and their athletic sports, the Gruyère people developed a beauty celebrated even in the grave pages of the historians. From their hearts warm with the sun, their fancy fed by the beauty of their ravishing country, issued songs witty and sad, and always melodious with their soft Italian vocables, a literature in Romand patois. Thus the golden age of chivalry, rhyming harmoniously with the golden age of the herdsmen, in the blue circle of the Gruyère heights, grew to its noon day. Then, suddenly as a tempest gathering across the sun pours quick destruction over a parterre of flowers, black horror swallowed up Gruyère. The plague called the Black Death, born in the Levant and rushing like a destroying flood with terrifying rapidity over the borders of Switzerland, penetrated even into the mountain-encircled country of Count Pierre. The devils and evil spirits of the caverns and the forests seemed now in the imagination of the Celtic people to be the sinister authors of this mysterious and devastating curse. The youths and maidens, no longer dancing to rhymed choruses of love and joy, swung wildly in dances of death among the abandoned corpses. Sprung from the carnival dances, where the masked Death forcing the terrified maidens to his embrace led them to the cemeteries to celebrate the memory of the dead, the priest countenanced these masks as religious rites and taught the superstitious people that their gifts would ease the souls of those sent suddenly unshrived to hell. With solemn phrase and syncopated notes, the _danse macabre_ wound through the darkened street around the shadowed crucifix up to the chapel door, where in hideous masks, and dancing still, the hallucinated people, cast their gold before the altar. "And as the coins, tin, tin, fell in the basins, so, ha, ha, hi, hi! the poor souls laugh in purgatory." So, taught by the priests and prelates ignorant as themselves, the sadly altered Gruyère people incessantly danced and prayed, sometimes giving themselves to the strange lascivious customs to which the whole country was abandoned, and sometimes joining in the cruel persecution of the Jews, accused of poisoning their fountains and their streams. Nothing was lacking in the reign of terror which overwhelmed Gruyère in the last years of Count Pierre's reign. Fires and earthquakes succeeded to the plague, and in the midst of their terrors their implacable enemies, the Bernois, attacked them. "O! Misfortune, and three times misfortune, beware how you touch Berne!" the refrain of an old song too often forgotten by Count Pierre, was once more exemplified in the revenge which the Bernois wreaked upon the Gruyère châteaux of Laubeck and Mannenburg, for the thefts of their herds. On St. Etienne's day, in the dark December of 1349, the avenging Bernois took the field, and a thousand strong assembled before the walls of the twin fortresses. Reeling and shouting to the sound of fifes and drums, in a gross satire of the dance of the fanatic flagellants, they whipped themselves into a furious rage and then attacked the walls. Both donjons, although strongly fortified, fell and were destroyed. Unappeased, the Bernois were advancing towards Gruyère when their cupidity was tempted by offers of rich indemnities by Count Pierre's messengers, with whom, together with a crowd of prisoners, they returned to Berne. Rage and despair as black as this the darkest winter of his reign, possessed Count Pierre, but milder counsels spoken by the gentle voices of his countess and the two sainted Dames de Vaud, Isabelle de Savoie-Chalons and her daughter prevailed. Like a trio of angels singing over the deathlike darkness and terror of the time, they brought peace where there was no peace; and with the august assistance of the reigning prince of Savoy and the bishop of Lausanne established another Trêve de Dieu between the warring cities of Berne and Fribourg, and truce between Berne and the country of Gruyère. At last, where fire and sword, where the power of rival cities and proud knights allied, had failed, the love and high influence of these noble ladies of the middle age most wonderfully succeeded. Memorable for its beneficent and permanent effects, the treaty was unique for its high and unselfish spirit of conciliation, and the final words of exhortation which stilled the waters tossed by two centuries of storm have the sacred accent of heavenly inspiration. "The parties in this present treaty shall in all sincerity forget all bitterness, all offence and all resentment. Secret hate shall give place to the old love, which, God helping, shall endure forever." Although by this pact Count Pierre's private wars were ended, the old warrior, unaffrighted by the anathema of excommunication, launched by Pope Clement VI against the foes of the archbishop of Sion, joined the barons who invaded the Valais at the instance of his father-in-law the lord of La Tour Chatillon. But this was his last war and during the remaining twenty years of his reign he and his people lived together, happily free at last from danger of invasion or attack. Dying at eighty, Count Pierre ended a reign, shared peacefully with his uncle and brother, of over sixty years. Strong and tenacious of character, hospitable and courageous as all his acts declare, he was the exemplar of all the traits which have united to express the typical Gruyère prince, and under him his pastoral domain blossomed into its climax of idyllic prosperity. Loyal knight and brilliant comrade of his suzerain, compassionate and kindly master, by his high unflagging gayety, his frank and affectionate dealings with his adoring subjects, he was the very soul and leader of the astonishing _épopée_ of revel and of song which has made his reign celebrated in the history of Gruyère. His brother-ruler Jeannod, as the years rolled by, became water to his wine, as gravely sad as Pierre was gay. Three wives preceded him to the grave, all childless, and after a fourth barren marriage he bestowed the greater part of his inheritance upon the church, and when a few years after his brother's death he was carried sumptuously in gold and silken sheets to his prepared resting place in the cathedral of Lausanne, a multitude of sacred lamps burning perpetually in shrines and monasteries over all the land celebrated his pious memory and his disappointments. CHAPTER IV FOREIGN WARS Rodolphe IV, eldest son of Count Pierre, although sole inheritor of the title and authority of count, had two younger brothers Pierre and Jean, who perpetuated the strongly contrasted traits of the elder Pierre and Jean. But in the second generation the rôles were changed. Pierre was the religious brother, and became prior of Rougemont, while Jean, even more eager for martial glory than his father, went far from home to join the English armies of Edward III and the Black Prince in their wars with Charles V of France. Count Rodolphe, surpassing his predecessors in the brilliancy of his alliances, married two grand-daughters of Savoy, and through his second countess, Marguerite de Grandson, was related to the distinguished family whose soldiers following Pierre de Savoy to England there established a noble line of Grandisson. These Grandissons were intimately related with the kings of England through the Savoyard Queen Eleanor. The glorious progress of the English armies, the fame of Crécy, the capture of the King of France resounding through all Europe, inflamed with chivalric ardor, young Othon de Grandson, and in his company Jean de Gruyère, to set out in the spring of 1372 for England. Warmly received at Windsor, they were present at the fête of St. George, and assigned a place in the naval forces of Lord Pembroke, sailing shortly after with his fleet for the western shores of France. Bravely and confidently enough the English set out for the scene of their earlier and easy conquests, but the Black Prince, stricken with mortal disease, no longer led their armies; Spain under Pedro the Cruel was allied with the already disaffected English possessions in Brittany, and when Pembroke sailed up to the harbor of La Rochelle he was attacked by an overwhelmingly superior Spanish fleet. Recounted immortally in the glowing pages of Froissart, is the story of Pembroke's hopeless battle with the Spanish fleet. Confiding in the skill and valor of his soldiers and bestowing the title of chevalier on every man among them in the last hour before the combat, he gave the signal to advance. It was dawn and the tide flowed full, when, with a favoring wind, the forty great Spanish vessels, bearing the floating pennons of Castille, advanced to the sound of fife and drum in battle line upon the English fleet. Arrived at close quarters, and grappling Pembroke's ships with chains and iron hooks, they poured down from their tall towers a rain of stones and lead upon the lower and exposed decks of the English, who with swords and spears sustained the fierce attack all day until darkness fell. With the twenty-two newly-made knights who valiantly defended Pembroke's ship was Jean de Gruyère, and when at last, grappled by four great galleons, they were boarded and every resisting arm subdued, he was taken prisoner with Pembroke. On another vessel, fighting as bravely, Othon de Grandson was also taken prisoner and with Jean de Gruyère was transported in captivity to Spain. Dearly paying for their ambition and their new titles, they were furnished in recompense for their valor with lands in Spain by a Burgundian noble, and by industrious commercial enterprise paying their ransom and their debts, after two years regained their liberty and their homes. Rodolphe IV, reigning count of Gruyère, displayed in his long career no quality worthy of his generous and high spirited father, no trace of the conciliatory wisdom or devoted piety of his mother. Calculating in his marriages, he was unjust and even dishonest with his people, whom he forced to pay twice over for their exemptions and their privileges. Still dishonestly withholding the signed and purchased acknowledgement of their new privileges from his subjects, he was surprised alone at night in the castle by a doughty peasant, who forced the paper from his unwilling hands and threw it out of the window to a waiting confederate. Left in charge of the Savoyard troops who had driven the invading Viscounti from the Valais, and entrusted with the guardianship of the châteaux and prisoners won by the Savoyard arms, he exacted and obtained large sums for his services, although those services consisted in a complete surprise and defeat at the hands of the sturdy inhabitants of the Valais, wherein, except for the heroic defence of the very subjects he had so oppressed, he would himself have perished. From the benefits of the peace which was ultimately established in the Valais, these same loyal subjects were excluded. How greatly Count Rodolphe was lacking in the noble and humanitarian qualities which had so generally characterized the counts of Gruyère, was shown in his dealings with his young relative Othon de Grandson. The comrade of his brother, Jean de Gruyère, in his French campaigns and in his long captivity in Spain, Othon de Grandson was later doubly related to Count Rodolphe, as brother-in-law of his first wife Marguerite d'Alamandi, and as nephew of his second countess, Marguerite de Grandson. The tragic hero of an unjust drama of prosecution which divided in opposing camps the nobles of Romand Switzerland, Othon de Grandson was falsely accused of complicity in the poisoning of Count Amédée VII of Savoy, and although declared innocent by a royal French tribunal, was again implacably accused by his rival in love, Count Estavayer, on his return to his estates. Calling God to witness that his accuser lied, he consented to defend and prove his innocence in a trial of arms, where, in the presence of his suzerain and of his council and knights assembled, he fell mortally wounded at the feet of his opponent. No effort was made by Count Rodolphe to defend his relative, while Rodolphe le Jeune was not only an unprotesting witness of his undeserved and tragic fate, but the purchaser with his father's assistance of the confiscated Grandson estates. Again, although selling the newly acquired châteaux of Oron and Palézieux to increase their revenues, the two Rodolphes, in total disregard of the rights of the new owners, attempted to retake them by force of arms, and except for the immediate intervention of the count of Savoy, would have plunged the newly pacified country into a general war. An enchanting legend regarding the first wife of Count Rodolphe illuminates the dismal story of his inglorious reign. Marguerite d'Alamandi has been confused in the tradition with Marguerite de Grandson, the second wife of Rodolphe. It is Marguerite d'Alamandi, and not the other Marguerite who is the heroine of the tale which has been elaborated into a moving little drama by a poet pastor of the eighteenth century, and which beautifully preserves the customs and the atmosphere of that distant time. Countess Marguerite of Gruyère, so runs the story, was so sadly afflicted that she had borne no heir, that she had no longer any joy in her fair castle, no comfort with her beloved lord. Vainly journeying to distant shrines, as vainly invoking the aid of sorcerers and magicians, she went one day, clad as one of her poor subjects, to pray in the chapel at the foot of the Gruyère hill. There, as the November day was closing, poor Jean the cripple, well known through the country, came also to tell his beads. Very simple and kindly was poor Jean, with always the same blessing for those who gave him food or mocked him with cruel jeers. Perceiving in the shadow a poor woman sadly weeping, he gave her all his day's begging, a piece of black bread with a morsel of coarse cheese, repeating his usual blessing, "May God and our Lady grant thee all thy noble heart desires." That evening, again clad in her jewels and brocades, the Countess Marguerite, at the close of a feast laid for her husband's comrades after a day at the chase, offered each knight a bit of this bread and cheese, with a moving story of poor Jean and a prayer that all should wish what her heart so long and vainly had desired. Nine months later, so concludes the tale, a fair son and heir was born to the happy dame. On the walls of the Hall of the Chevaliers, among the painted legends of the house, poor Jean and Countess Marguerite live in pictured memory; and a room next the great kitchen of the château, called by the cripple's name, has been pointed out for many generations as the spot where, fed on the fat of the land, he enjoyed the bounty of the countess during the remainder of his days. Rodolphe le Jeune, the long awaited heir of this story, did not live to inherit the rule of the domain whose fame his father had so sadly stained. Brilliantly educated at the court of Savoy, and later the councilor of the countess regent, he emulated his uncle's heroic example and joined the English armies under Buckingham in France, there winning praise and the offer of the chevalier's accolade. But he failed to fulfil the promise of his youth and died prematurely, leaving his young son Antoine, the last hope of the family, to succeed to his grandfather. Count Antoine's overlord, the youthful count of Savoy, confided the education of his vassal and protégé to a venerable prelate of Lausanne; but heeding nothing of his pious instructions the young ruler wasted his revenues in extravagant hospitality, lived gaily with his mistresses, and celebrated the weddings of his two sisters with famous feasting and generous marriage gifts. Unlike his predecessors, who shared the rule of Gruyère with brothers or sons, he reigned alone, and gave himself wholly to the ambition of maintaining the pleasure-loving reputation of his house. More than ever under Count Antoine was Gruyère a court of love. The numerous and beautiful children of his mistresses filled the castle with their youthful gayety and charm, and his two splendid sons, François and Jean, proudly acknowledged by their father and legitimized with the sanction of the pope, took their place among the young nobles of the country as heirs of the Gruyère possessions. Again the gay Coraules of flower-crowned shepherds and maids wound over the valleys and hills. Again minstrels and chroniclers recorded and sang the lovely traditions of their pastoral life. "Gruyère, sweet country, fresh and verdant Gruyère Did thy children imagine how happy they were? Did thy shepherds know they lived an idyll? Had they read Theocrite, had they heard of Virgil? No, no! as in gardens the lilac and rose Grow in innocent beauty, their days drew to a close." So in a fond ecstasy of recollection, sings a Romand poet, and thus in the famous lines of Uhland is related the Coraule of Count Antoine. _The Count of Gruyère_ Before his high manor, the Count of Gruyère, One morning in Maytime looked over the land. Rocky peaks, rose and gold, with the dawning were fair, In the valleys night still held command. "Oh! Mountains! you call to your pastures so green, Where the shepherds and maids wander free, And while often, unmoved, your smiles I have seen, Ah! to-day 'tis with you I would be." Then afloat on the breeze, there came to his ear, Sweet pipes faintly blowing--still distant the sounds---- As across the deep valley, each with his dear, Came the shepherds, dancing their rounds. And now on the green sward they danced and they sang, In their holiday gowns, a pretty parterre, With oft sounding echoes the castle walls rang, To the joy of the Count of Gruyère. Then slim as a lily, a beauteous maid, Took the Count by the hand to join the gay throng. "And now you're our captive, sweet master," she said, "And our leader in dancing and song." Then, the Count at the head, away they all went, A-singing and dancing, through forest and dell. O'er valleys and hillsides, with force all unspent, Till the sun set and starry night fell. The first day fled fast, and the second dawned fair, The third was declining, when over the hills Quick lightning flashed whitely--the Count was not there! "Has he vanished?" they asked of the rills. The black storm clouds have burst, the streams are like blood By the red lightning's glare, and dark night is rent, Oh, look! where our lost one fights hard with the flood, Until a branch saves him, pale and spent. "The mountains which drew me with smiles to their heights, With thunders have kept me, their lover, at bay. Their streams have engulfed me, not these the delights I dreamed of, dancing the hours away. "Farewell, ye green Alps! youths and maidens so gay, Farewell! happy days when a shepherd was I, Stern fates I have questioned have answered me nay, So I leave ye, with smiles and a sigh. "My poor heart's still burning, the dance tempts me yet, So ask me no longer, my lily, my belle! For you, love and frolic, but I must forget, Take me back, then, my frowning castel." No attacks from feudal lords or from rival cities threatened Gruyère during the reign of Count Antoine, which came to its end in undisturbed tranquility. The kindly and _complaisant_ father, brother and lover essayed as he grew in years to correct some of the follies of his youth, and according to the opinion of Gruyère's principal historian married the mother of the children he had already legitimized. A pious and lamenting widower, he instituted many masses and anniversaries for the repose of the soul of his wife, the Countess Jeanne de Noyer of blessed memory; and erecting a chapel to his patron St. Antoine in the parochial church of Gruyère caused to be painted therein the kneeling portraits of himself and his countess, in perpetual testimony of his devotion to the rites of matrimony and religion. [Illustration: FORTIFIED HOUSES--NORTH WALL] CHAPTER V THE BURGUNDIAN WARS (Count François I) The inheritance of the estates Count Antoine had so diminished by his improvident generosity was bitterly contested by the husbands of his two sisters, but the duke of Savoy did not hesitate to recognize the rights of his legitimized descendants, and François I of Gruyère and his brother Jean of Montsalvens entered without difficulty into the enjoyment of their inheritances. Count François, flower of the race of pastoral kings, presents one more historical example of the brilliant intellect, of the abounding vitality and extraordinary beauty with which nature--unheeding law--seems unwisely to sanction the overwhelming preference and inclination of unmarried lovers. A celebrated chronicler of Zurich who had seen the famous personage whom the historians describe as "the handsomest noble in Romand Switzerland," records in Latin how greatly he exceeded in his noble proportions and mighty stature the majority of mankind, and spoke also of his armor, fit for giants, which was long preserved in the château of Gruyère. Becoming in his youth the favorite companion and support of Amédeé IX, during his early years in Italy, he was entrusted by that gentle ruler, when he acceded to the ducal throne of Savoy, with every important office in his domain. Governor and Bailli of Vaud, "conseiller" and "chambellan" of the court, he was chatelain of Moudon and Faucigny, military governor of the great fortress of Montbéliard; and finally, as maréchal of Savoy, became the general-in-chief of all his forces. When Amédeé, resigning his flute playing and his many charities, returned to Italy and abandoned his throne to the Duchess Yolande--worthy sister of Louis the XI of France--François de Gruyère was still the principal support of the throne. The virtual governor by reason of his judicial and military administration of the whole duchy of Savoy, Count François of Gruyère did not neglect to continue and to strengthen the amicable relations of his house with Fribourg. Winning prizes in its tournaments, taking part in all its fêtes and often dwelling in the imposing château which he had erected within its gates, he became a personage of the utmost importance and influence with the city authorities, and persuaded them to renounce their alliance with the dukes of Austria and swear allegiance to Savoy. In the triumphal entry which he made therein, on the occasion of the formal signing of its vassalage to its new suzerain, his splendid appearance as he advanced mounted and in armor, followed by the bishop of Lausanne, the court of justice and all the authorities of Fribourg, is recorded in the annals of the city. Equally respected at Berne, he indefatigably labored with the proud and stiffnecked council of its citizens until they also consented to form an alliance with Savoy. But although frequently residing at Fribourg or at the ducal court of Chambéry, and absent for the most part in the administration of his multifarious offices, he did not forget Gruyère, where he wisely and economically regulated the finances, increased and improved the herds, and effectually restrained the people in their habitual depredations upon the possessions of Berne and Fribourg. But Switzerland, the battlefield of so many warring powers, was now to become the scene of a European drama, of rival principalities and potentates avid of world control--a family tragedy of the related rulers of France, Germany, Burgundy and Savoy. By his delegated rule of the latter country, François de Gruyère, although playing his part only in the prologue, took his place beside the great figures of the Emperor Ferdinand of Germany, Louis XI of France, the Duchess Yolande and their magnificent cousin Charles the Bold of Burgundy. Sent by his father, Charles VII of France, at the head of the redoubtable Armagnacs, to help the German emperor to subdue the Confederated Cantons, the dauphin Louis XI had such a taste of the quality of the Swiss soldier as he was never afterwards to forget, when, at the battle of St. Jacques, fighting as heroes never fought before, snatching the arrows from their bleeding wounds, battling to the last, fourteen hundred Swiss despatched eight thousand French and Austrians with eleven hundred of their horses. Such soldiers Louis XI preferred as allies rather than antagonists and, when he succeeded to the throne made haste to attach them to his cause. He was wiser in this than his sister Yolande, who assured of the precious alliance with the leading cities of the Swiss Confederates, lately so ably negotiated by the count of Gruyère, paid less attention to preserving their friendship, than to her ambitious designs upon the vast territories and untold wealth of Burgundy. These territories she dreamed of annexing to Savoy through a marriage with Marie, daughter and heiress of Duke Charles and her young son Philibert, and for this reason took sides with the duke against France and her treacherous brother. Taking Hannibal and Alexander as his models, the duke of Burgundy, already ruler of the Flemish provinces and the richest potentate in Europe, dreamed of a kingdom which should extend from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean and as far as the borders of the Rhine. With the alliance of the German emperor, he saw the possibility of a still further extension of his power, and for this reason promised his daughter to the heir of the empire, Maximilian. With the passing of her hopes for this coveted marriage alliance, the Duchess Yolande was content to maintain her alliance with Duke Charles, and to preserve her regency under his protection and support, little dreaming of the swift and terrible destruction which awaited him in the shadow of the Alps. That destruction stealthily prepared by all the arts at the command of the most malevolently skilful monarch who ever wore a crown, was not at the outset so lightly defied by the great duke of Burgundy, who had no mind to alienate the country of Romand Switzerland, which had originally formed a part of his own domain, and was still allied to its divided half by a common language and centuries of amicable commercial relations. Supported by the Duchess Yolande, he was still more closely allied with his brother-in-law, the able Jacques de Savoy, who was count of Romont and ruler of the whole Savoyard country of Vaud. An early comrade of Duke Charles, he had been appointed maréchal of his Flemish provinces, and by this office maintained the close relations between Romand Switzerland and Burgundy. But Louis devilishly and implacably planning his rival cousin's ruin, sowed dissension between the confederated cities and their lately acknowledged suzerain the duchess of Savoy. Determined to attach to himself the indomitable Swiss soldiers, he bought with pensions and unlimited promises the alliance of Berne and Fribourg and the associated cantons of German Switzerland. Divided between French and German-speaking inhabitants, the French citizens in the two cities who were loyal to Savoy and sympathetic with their Burgundian cousins, were outwitted by Louis' agent, his former page Nicholas de Diesbach. In October of the year 1474, the adherents of Louis in Berne had so prevailed that war was formally declared against Burgundy by the confederates, and in November before the fortress of Héricourt, Louis' brother-in-law the Archduke Sigismund of Austria, with the assistance of the Bernois, inflicted the first bloody defeat upon Duke Charles. Messengers were then sent by Charles to Berne to treat for peace but with no result, and two months later the Bernois, who had already seized a Savoy fortress in the Jura, took possession of three châteaux in the Pays de Vaud belonging to Count Romont. Justly indignant at this invasion of the Savoy territory, the duchess sent the Count de Gruyère to Berne to remonstrate against the infraction of the still existing alliance with her house. A strange reception was accorded him. No penitence for the unwarranted attack upon the Savoy fortresses, but an insolent ultimatum, declaring instant war unless she immediately recalled Count Romont from his command in the Flemish provinces, and herself declared war upon Duke Charles. No more Lombard soldiers of Duke Charles were to be permitted to pass through the Bernese territories, but Swiss soldiers unarmed or armed should pass at their discretion. Equally unsuccessful with Fribourg, the duchess, wondering "whence came the evil wind which had blown upon the two cities," heeded no one of the commands which had been issued by Berne, and, as double-faced though far less skilful than her brother, still continued to negotiate with the two cities, still permitted the Lombard troops to pass. The result was that the Bernois addressed themselves directly to the count of Gruyère, whom they had already forbidden to take sides with Burgundy, holding him personally responsible for the passage of the Lombards and threatening instant invasion of his estates. Count François now addressed his friends of Fribourg, asserting that he had forbidden the passage of the troops and so far influenced the city authorities that they sent their advocate to their allies of Berne, asking to be released from bearing arms against Duke Charles. But this was the utmost that he could accomplish for his hesitating and untrustworthy mistress, and with the refusal of Berne to release Fribourg from assisting them in their war against Duke Charles, he permitted his subjects to form new treaties with the cities by which, though refusing to bear arms against Savoy, they were bound to join in the war against Burgundy. That the Duchess Yolande could not fail to suffer in the defeat of her allies was no less plain to her than to her general, and threatened with reprisals, seeing the storm gather about his head, Count François, sick of heart and of body, retired to his château. There, fortunate in that he was spared the necessity of openly bearing arms against the duchy he had so long and ably governed, he died in the very moment of the outbreak of the impending conflict. The most illustrious of the sovereigns who presided over the destinies of Gruyère, François I has left an imperishable memory and bore a unique role in the history of the fifteenth century in Switzerland. By a personal force and ability surpassing any of the nobles of his time, he justified the confidence of the suzerains he successively served. Everything possible was accomplished under his administration for the duchy of Savoy, torn between such powers as Burgundy and France. Gloved in velvet, the hand of François was of iron, but a rare judgment and discretion characterized him, so that whether as supreme judge, presiding as his suzerain's delegate over the tribunals of Fribourg, or as general holding the Savoy fortresses and the Savoy armies in readiness for defence, he supported the reign of law and justice in the land, and so long as he lived succeeded in keeping the Savoy rulers on their ducal throne. Never had Gruyère enjoyed such a rule, and greatly did it redound to his credit that his little pastoral domain was preserved in growing prosperity and independence between the threatening and ambitious republics of Berne and Fribourg. Even in the days of his brilliant youth when he brought his Italian bride, the noble Bonne da Costa, from among the ladies of the Piemontaise court of Savoy, to share with him the pleasures of his charming little domain, he showed how strong a defender he could be of its liberties and possessions. For when threatened by the Fribourgeois he sent them such a message, declaring that war if they wished it should be waged with "sword and fire," as sufficed effectually to calm the turbulent disturbers of the peace, and induce the city authorities to the pacific relations which thereafter were established. Again when the succession of a prince of Savoy was contested for the bishopric of Lausanne, he superbly cut short the deliberations of the council of prelates, saying, "Why bargain thus? Whether they wish it or not, he shall be bishop." The Savoy possessions suffered no curtailment during his administration, and no flower fell from the Gruyère crown while he so splendidly wore it, but many liberties harmonious with the growing republicanism of Switzerland were voluntarily granted to his beloved subjects, who inconsolably lamented their loss when the noble features and towering form of their incomparable ruler were shut forever from mortal sight in the church under the Gruyère hill. CHAPTER VI THE BURGUNDIAN WARS (Count Louis) Among the many benefits with which Count François' ability and sagacity had enriched his inherited estates were the acquisition of the seigneuries of Grandcour and Aigremont, and the repurchase of the beautiful castles of Oron and Aubonne. The two latter residences were assigned during his life to his two sons Louis and François, Louis being early established at Aubonne, and François becoming seigneur of Oron. Louis, worthy successor of his father, passed at Aubonne by the shores of lake Leman a youth of peace and happiness. Writing from thence to his young wife Claude de Seyssel, a daughter of an illustrious knight of Savoy, Louis showed in the following intimate little letter, the charming nature he had inherited from his parents. Ma Mie, I recommend myself to thee. I have thy letter sent by Gachet, and I think that my wish to see thee is as great as thine to see me, but I must still delay a little. Ma Mie, I recommend to thee the little one, my horse and all the household. Recommend me to our good Aunt Aigremont, to her sister and to M. Aigremont and the nurse, to the maid and Perrisont. Ma Mie, please God, to give thee a good and long life and all thy heart desires. Written at Aubonne, the morrow of St. Catherine's day. Louis de Gruyère, All thine. A Ma Mie. The joy of this happy household, of kind relatives and devoted servants, was soon broken by the early death of the child, their first-born son, Georges, who was taken from his parents six years before their accession to the rule and responsibilities of their estates. The birth of two other children, François and a daughter Helène, had consoled them, and it was a truly "_joyeuse entrée_" which they made on a beautiful July Sunday in the year 1475 to the square before the Gruyère church, formally to take possession of their domain according to the ancient custom of their predecessors. The herald crying out the summons of the count, his subjects, who had collected from towns and villages and valleys, raised their hands and swore fidelity. Count Louis, with his hand on the holy book, promised to protect them; and the standard-bearer, waving the silver crane, declared that their flag should lead them against all their foes. Three months only were to pass before this banner took the field, for the storm clouds approaching from the neighboring kingdoms of Burgundy and France were thundering now over Switzerland, and the bitter rivalries of Duke Charles and his cousin of France had now reached the moment of collision on Helvetian soil. Fortified by a renewal of his alliance with the German emperor, the duke of Burgundy, eager to chastise the Confederates who had dared to defy his imperial ally and who had humiliated him at Héricourt, prepared to invade Switzerland. But Louis, the _diabolus ex machina_, who had secretly fostered the discord between Burgundy and the Confederates, hastily signed a nine-years' truce with Charles, and remarking with his usual sardonic smile that his "fair cousin did not know his foes," left him and his sister to the tender mercies of the enemies he had arrayed against them. A clause in the treaty which preserved Louis from all participation in the impending conflict, stipulated that Savoy and the Confederates should be included in the peace, provided that they committed no single act of depredation or hostility for a period of three months. Secretly subsidized by Louis with ample funds to prosecute the war, the Confederates immediately sought a pretext for the attack upon the possessions of Savoy, and found one ready to their hand in the confiscation by Count Romont of the celebrated contraband load of German sheepskins carried illegally through his country by some Bernese carters. Calling to their aid the inhabitants of the Valais, who had long resented the suzerainty of Savoy, they prepared to march against the duchess and Count Romont. The frightened duchess now again attempted to negotiate with this strong combination, when the news of Duke Charles' advance with a splendid army dissipated her fears, and she openly declared for Burgundy and sent her forces to join those of Charles. Another cause involving the count of Gruyère precipitated the internal quarrels of Savoy and the Confederates. Count Romont, incited by the jealousy of the family of de Vergy, which (through their alliance with the sisters of Count Antoine de Gruyère, had disputed the inheritance of his legitimized successor François) pillaged and captured the Gruyère châteaux of Oron, Aubonne and Palézieux, and Duke Charles sent a force of Burgundian and Savoyard soldiers to invade Gruyère itself. Calling his friends the Fribourgeois to his side, Count Louis met and conquered this army, capturing a banner which is still preserved in the church at Lessoc. No further hesitation was thereafter possible for the ruler of Gruyère, who was thus compelled to take sides against the duchess if he wished to preserve his country from dismemberment and the cruel and ferocious devastation which the Confederates were now inflicting upon the beautiful country of Romand Switzerland, and particularly upon the country of Vaud, the apanage of Duke Charles' maréchal, Count Romont. For, fully supplied with funds by Louis, nothing could arrest the German inhabitants of Fribourg and Berne, who, in a three-weeks' campaign of murder, violence and pillage, utterly devastated and conquered the above provinces, burning the châteaux, decapitating their defenders and soiling the reputation of the Swiss soldier by inexcusable acts of cupidity and ferocity. Never was so venal and brutal a war waged at the will of a foreign and detestably traitorous king, and the coming of the great Duke Charles was awaited by all the inhabitants of the Romand country as a welcome deliverance from the hated Bernois. Postponing his Italian campaign, Duke Charles, deaf to his advisers and eager to chastise the cruel depredations of the "insolent cowherds" he so despised, started from Nancy with his magnificent army in midwinter of the year 1476 as for a brief pleasure excursion, and laid siege to Grandson which had been captured by the Bernois. After a stubborn resistance the Bernois garrison, promised pardon by a venal German volunteer of the Burgundian cause, surrendered only to suffer the same cruel fate which they had dealt to the defenders of the Savoy fortresses. But now flocking to the aid of their confederates came the unconquerable victors of the Austrian dukes, the Waldstetten; and the horn of the Alps with the same fatal clarion led the mountaineers from the heights above Grandson to their old victory over the nobles, and to the surprising defeat of such an army of wealth and kingly power as the world had not seen since Xerxes. Massed in his jeweled tents and golden chapel were the treasures of the richest potentate in all Europe; harnesses and habiliments of gold and velvet, tapestries and gemmed crowns and orders, ropes of pearls, rubies and diamonds (which still glorify the tiaras of the pope and emperors)--all these were sold for a few sous or were trampled in the snow by the ignorant shepherds and cowherds of the Alps. After such an unimaginable tragedy, Duke Charles, like a beaten child, weeping with rage and sick with despair, at last roused himself to send with the consent of the Duchess Yolande a deputation to treat with the Confederates; and this deputation was sent to Count Louis of Gruyère. Announcing this extraordinary event to the authorities at Fribourg, he wrote: "It is true that I received last Saturday a letter from M. de Viry, with a sauf-conduit, to take me to Vauruz, to talk of peace. When asked what authority I had to act for you, Gentlemen of Fribourg, I replied that I had none whatsoever. I said, moreover, that I could not engage to approach you without the written consent of M. de Bourgogne, but that I would, with this guarantee, work body and soul in the matter. These gentlemen assured me on their honor that they would not have spoken without his consent, but I answered that trusting them in all else, I would have nothing further to do with their propositions without this writing from the Duke. Whereupon, it was agreed that M. de Viry, who was to dine with Madame (the Duchess Yolande) to-day at Lausanne, would send me news by this Tuesday or Wednesday." [Illustration: THE CITY ON THE HILL] Repeating in this communication the report that Duke Charles had recovered from his illness and would be within a mile of Fribourg in a few days, Count Louis added that a trusted agent of his own had been sent to the duke's camp and had reported that he was still ill, that his artillery was in poor condition and that some of his supporters had deserted him. Ill as he was, Duke Charles, hastily collecting a new army to avenge his defeat and too proud to confide to paper his real desire for peace, refused the condition of Count Louis, sending a haughty reply that "he was not accustomed to make advances to his foes, that he was, nevertheless, disposed particularly to make terms with Fribourg but not with its confederates." Thus the pride which was the origin of all his woes caused Duke Charles to reject the mediator who would have worked with "soul and body" for his welfare, and thus vanished the fair prospect of peace between Burgundy and the Confederates. Although the latter had been victorious at Grandson, the country captured in their three-weeks' campaign had in a still shorter time been recaptured by the Savoyards, and a strong party in Romand Switzerland was opposed to them. At this juncture, the German emperor, twice foresworn, deserted their ally the Archduke Sigismond, and the Bernois, alarmed for the safety of their city, hastily invoked the promised aid of Louis XI. No answer came from their perfidious ally and the Swiss Confederates, alone at last, were left to defend their own country and their freedom. Emperor and king alike were absent, all their machinations finished, and although on the memorable day of Morat, Savoy was pitted against its own cities, and the Confederates against their Burgundian cousins in as unnatural and unnecessary a conflict as ever divided ancient friends, the Swiss soldiers then immortally testified to their patriotism and their valor. Three months had passed since Grandson and Duke Charles had succeeded in assembling a new army--less in numbers than that which had there been annihilated--a motley force of Savoyards and discontented Italian mercenaries ready to desert his cause, but containing three thousand English under Somerset who were eager to fight with the enemy of France. The duke, still ill and half insane with fury and the determination to avenge his defeat, was in no condition easily to accomplish that revenge. He was determined to let no further time elapse, therefore he assembled these forces and established his fortified camp within a mile of the little city of Morat, held by a Bernese garrison. Magnificently fighting before the great breaches in the defending walls, the Bernese held the city during ten long days, giving time for their confederates to assemble behind the hills which concealed their approach from the Burgundian camp. Six thousand more men of Berne were joined by the Waldstetten mountaineers, the German troops of Archduke Sigismund, one hundred horse and six hundred foot from Gruyère, "all men of great stature, athletic force and indomitable courage;" and, lastly, by the men of Zurich, who had marched day and night to swell this army of 24,000 which were to meet a like number of Burgundians. On the 22nd day of June, the anniversary of the death of the ten thousand martyrs who had fallen at Laupen, their descendants prepared with masses and with prayers to avenge their death. It was a day of pelting rain, and when the Burgundians, advancing to the attack, had waited six hours under the downpour for any sign of an approaching foe, they retired to their camp with soaked powder and loosened bow-strings at the very moment when the clouds dispersed and the sudden sunshine illuminated the serried pikes of the Swiss as they advanced in unexpected numbers over the crest of the hills. Duke Charles had retired to his tent and was surprised at table by a messenger announcing the imminent attack of the enemy. He was compelled to don his armor on the battlefield itself where he took command of his confused ill-arranged forces, fighting beside the English soldiers under Somerset in the thick of the battle as it raged about the green hedge and little moat which divided the two armies. Against them was Duke René, battling with the Swiss to regain his lost Lorraine, and Louis of Gruyère with his brave soldiers. Many times the Swiss halberdiers were driven back under the fire of the Burgundian artillery, as many times the Burgundian cavalry charged with brilliant success, and a hope of regaining his lost honor began to smile upon Duke Charles, when a terrible clamor arose from the very midst of his camp. Again the horn of the Alps, the loud appalling roar of the "Bull of Uri," the "Cow of Unterwalden," which had overwhelmed in panic terror the Austrian knights at Sempach and Morgarten and which the Burgundians themselves had heard at Grandson, fell upon their ears; and quickly following the crash of their own guns which had been captured and turned upon themselves by their own adversaries, the mountaineers of the Waldstetten. At the hedge, in the very centre of the conflict, Duke Charles and Somerset still desperately encouraged their men to a hopeless resistance. Here in the midst of the carnage was Duke René, leaping from his fallen horse and fighting by the side of Count Louis under the scarlet banner of Gruyère; here fell Somerset and here fell at last the great banner of Burgundy in the arms of its dying defender. Soon the Burgundians were completely surrounded by the rear-guard of the Swiss, and by the Morat garrison, and Duke Charles breaking his way through his beaten and disorganized army with a force of three thousand cavalry, succeeded in making his escape. Red was the water of the little lake where, in a mad retreat, the Burgundians were drowned in thousands; red was the battlefield where, after all hope was gone, a still greater number were massacred in cold blood by the implacable Swiss. "Cruel as Morat" was the saying which, passing into common speech, commemorated for centuries this unforgotten conflict. Ill-prepared to meet the united and well-nigh unconquerable Swiss as was Duke Charles, the irremediable defeat which he suffered in this celebrated battle might have been averted. But like a predestined victim of the gods, driven mad by pride, and surrounded by rumors of the desertion of his supporters, he had most unhappily chosen the only Savoyard prince who was unalterably faithful to him, for his distrust, and had forbidden Count Romont and his strong army of nine thousand men to take part in the conflict. Thus the able general and the fresh, unbroken force which might have saved the day watched from a neighboring hill the the annihilation of the Burgundian army. Retiring at last from his post of observation when he saw the great banner fall, Count Romont offered to cover the retreat of the duke, who, still refusing his aid although deserted by all but a dozen of his guard, fled madly across country, taking refuge at last at Morges. The fleeing remnant of his army was pursued by the Lorraine and Gruyère cavalry to Avenches, Count Romont and his Savoyards alone escaping the general destruction; while Count Louis of Gruyère, still riding triumphantly at the head of his horsemen, as far as Lausanne, laid that city under contribution. The appetite of the Bernois was by no means appeased by the great spoils of the Burgundian army, and in spite of the injunction of Louis the XI, who did not intend to lose the jurisdiction of Savoy, they again took the field, capturing Payerne, burning Surpierre and Lucens; while the château of Romont, besieged by their allies of Fribourg and defended gallantly to the last by Count Romont himself, fell also. At Lausanne, the rage and cupidity of the Bernois knew no restraint, and the city and cathedral were sacked remorselessly, thus bringing to an end an utterly unwarranted campaign of wanton destruction. Duchess Yolande, who had hastened to the relief of Duke Charles, was also so suspected by her defeated ally that he caused her to be arrested by his maître d'hôtel and some brutal Italian soldiers and cast into the Burgundian fortress of Rouvres, whence, finally convinced that her brother was the most powerful as well as the most friendly of her foes, she appealed to him for deliverance. Brought by his agents to France after three months' imprisonment, Louis summoned her to his presence at Plessis-les-Tours: "Madame la Bourguignonne," he said with his evil smile, "you are welcome." "I am a good French woman," replied his sister, "and ready to obey the will of your Majesty." Whether, as has been recorded, Louis really loved his sister, who was almost as able and far more attractive than himself, he kept her in strict imprisonment until she signed a paper of perpetual fidelity to him, and then he sent her back to Savoy and reëstablished her on her ducal throne. The prince bishop of Geneva was even more eager than his sister-in-law to desert Duke Charles, and fearing that his city would suffer the fate of Lausanne, offered to assist the Bernois in invading Burgundy, there to complete the duke's destruction; whereupon the Bernois at the price of an enormous indemnity consented to spare Geneva, and to cease all further conquests in the Pays de Vaud. They also agreed, under the repeated commands of King Louis to send their deputies to a convention of the ambassadors of all the powers to meet at Fribourg in July, 1476. A great and imposing company were these ambassadors, who from France and Austria, Savoy, and the confederated cities and cantons of Switzerland met to treat of the long needed peace. Among them were Duke René of Lorraine and Count Louis of Gruyère, who together with a representative of Archduke Sigismund, were chosen as arbitrators to decide the terms of the proposed treaty. Acting for Savoy, the count of Gruyère, who only by _force majeure_ had sided with its foes, now ably and happily proved his real fidelity to its interests, providing for the restoration of all its possessions in the Pays de Vaud. At a second conference at Annecy, when the alliance between the Confederates and Savoy was amicably regulated, he was also present, receiving from the Genevan delegates rich donations for his invaluable services. For Duke Charles, also Count Louis was as before willing to negotiate a peace with Fribourg, but when a second deputation of the same messengers whom the duke had before despatched to him, was again unable to furnish the written authority he required, he was once more unable to mediate on the duke's behalf. But when his friend and co-arbitrator, Duke René of Lorraine, appealed for assistance to the Swiss to repel Duke Charles' final attack upon his duchy, no answer was forthcoming from Gruyère, and among the German-Swiss confederates at whose hands Duke Charles suffered his cruel death before the walls of Nancy, Count Louis' soldiers had no part. Small benefit was destined to accrue, as the history of Europe unrolled through the succeeding years, from the fall of the house of Burgundy. For while Louis XI by his evil plotting had enlarged his kingdom, by obliterating the barrier of Burgundy between France and Austria he had at the same time made way for centuries of wars. "Here," said the 15th Louis before the tomb of the last duke of Burgundy, "is the cradle of all our wars." As for Switzerland, the system of mercenary service inaugurated by Louis debased its honor and divided its sons, who, fighting in the opposing armies of Europe, delayed for many years the development and the independence of their country. For a few years only, Savoy and Romand Switzerland enjoyed peace. Duchess Yolande, although still threatened by the Savoy princes, was sustained upon the throne by her brother who in this one instance was faithful to his promises. She reëstablished the customs of the ducal court and organized plays and festivities; and surrounding herself with a train of musicians, with the soothing sounds of flutes and harps, attempted to forget the fierce trials and tumults of her reign. But her spirit and her strength were broken, and, succumbing to an early death, she left her young son Philibert to succeed to the duchy under the governorship of the Count de la Chambre, who had been chosen by King Louis. The influence of this agent, however, became too great for the designing king who intended to preserve his jurisdiction over Savoy. He, therefore, instigated a revolt in the Piemontaise provinces of the duchy with the connivance of its ruler the Savoyard prince, Count Philippe de la Bresse. Realizing the necessity at once to control this revolt, which favored the never slumbering desires of the Count de la Bresse to grasp the control of Savoy, the Count de la Chambre, accompanied by the Count de Gruyère and his brother, journeyed to Piémont. The Count de la Bresse, on the arrival of these representatives of his nephew, caused the Count de la Chambre to be arrested in his bed and by acts of dangerous violence imperiled the lives of the Count of Gruyère and his brother. The lately renewed alliance with the powerful cities of Berne and of Fribourg now proved of invaluable assistance to the threatened duchy of Savoy, for at the appeal of the count de la Chambre they exacted an indemnification for these injuries, and reduced the Count de la Bresse to submission. After the death of Duke Philibert, his brother and successor Duke Charles III renewed the useful alliance with the confederated cities, and confirmed the appointment of Count Louis de Gruyère as "conseiller" and "chambellan" of his court with the grant of additional pensions. It was not long before Count Louis had a fresh opportunity of proving his loyalty to Savoy, an opportunity doubtless welcomed by him to obliterate the memory of his former and enforced opposition; for when the warlike margrave of Saluzzo revolted from his allegiance to Savoy, Count Louis practically organized an army of Bernois and Savoyards to reduce him to submission, supplying a far greater number of Gruyèriens than was required of him, and financing the expedition with loans from Fribourg for which he was personally liable. Before the walls of Saluzzo, it was he who led the assaults, preserved the assailants from destruction when the garrison made an unexpected sortie, dispersed a relieving army, and at last made a triumphant entry into the city behind the allied banners of Berne and Gruyère. Engaged thus in the mutual support of Savoy, Count Louis, always working heart and soul for peace if he could, for war if compelled, so merited the approbation of the Bernois that their captain wrote that "Count Louis de Gruyère and his brother had conducted themselves as faithful and valorous friends of their allies." Count Louis was also enthusiastic over this new alliance of the Confederates with his beloved Savoy, and declared that "he was resolved to live and die with his allies and that with God's help their united strength would prevail against all foes." Count Louis' new allies warmly appreciated the chivalry, generosity and independence for which he was justly renowned, and in the various differences which arose among the restless subjects of Gruyère, advised them to trust to the justice of their ruler. Preserving to his last day the enthusiasm and the frank amenity of a singularly charming and well-balanced character, Count Louis was wise in the management of his estates, encouraged printing at Rougemont, and sharing the love of pomp and beauty of the Savoy court, was an amateur in architecture and as enthusiastic in his religion as he was in all things else. When a tornado followed by a disastrous fire destroyed a part of the city and the château of Gruyère, he planned and partially executed an extensive enlargement of his ancestral manor, rebuilding it in the later style of the fifteenth century. He also rebuilt the adjoining chapel of St. Jean, asking and receiving from the pope a grant of indulgence for the faithful who should communicate therein on the anniversary of its second foundation and on the fête of its patron saint. The chapel richly furnished with sacred books, chalices, luminaries, and ecclesiastical ornaments still preserves with its commemorative inscription the name and fame of Count Louis. CHAPTER VII STRUGGLE FOR SUCCESSION In view of the tender age and delicate health of his only son, Count Louis, having long enjoyed a formal alliance with Fribourg, thought it wise to make a like treaty with Berne; and foreseeing that his son's life would probably not be a long one, he drew up a will in which he appointed his successors. In this will, he decreed that his brother François should be the next heir, after him his daughter Hélène, and next, in default of male heirs of the direct line, the son of his brother, Jean de Montsalvens. The signing of the treaty with Berne was the last political act of his reign of twenty-three years, in which, from beginning to end, he had well seconded the constructive administration of his father. Inheriting Count François' brilliant qualities, with less extended powers over Savoy, his opportunities for the display of his soldierly abilities were greater; and although wars and disasters had reduced his revenues and lessened the growth of the estates, he was able to pay a debt to Fribourg incurred by his father, and besides rebuilding the chapel and château made various important acquisitions of property. Through his wife he was connected with one of the oldest and most powerful families of Savoy whose representatives were distinguished like those of Gruyère for honorable offices at the ducal court, and whose vast possessions extended over a large part of Savoy, including the city of Aix-les-Bains. The Countess Claude, left to the charge of a young and delicate son, who after a brilliant début in the tournaments and festivities at Chambéry died at the early age of seventeen, was surrounded by a multitude of annoyances and demands from the powerful republic of Berne, which she met with more courage than discretion. Although during her popular husband's reign, the people of Gruyère voluntarily assisted in the assemblage of the materials for the restoration of the château, they revolted when the countess imposed taxes upon them for the continuation of the work, and a most unusual bitterness of feeling arose, which was only pacified by the arbitration of the Council of Fribourg. Little understanding her people--who, as always, could be ruled by love and not by force--she was not only compelled to yield in this matter, but conceded to the Bernois the fortress of Mannenburg, to keep the peace with her formidable neighbor. The countess, grief-stricken at the death of her only son, was for a brief period relieved from her onerous responsibilities by her brother-in-law, François III, who, according to Count Louis' will, followed his nephew in the rule of Gruyère. Although succeeding at an advanced age to the throne of his ancestors and occupying it for less than a year, Count François III had shared the offices of "conseiller" and "chambellan" at the court of Savoy with his brother Louis, and was held in equal honor by the cities of Fribourg and Berne. Like Louis, he was admitted to the diplomatic councils of the European powers, and allying himself with the prince of Orange, who, with the Orleans league, disputed the control of France with Louis XII, prevented the threatened intervention of the Swiss Confederates. Astonishing as was the influence of so small a principality as that of Gruyère, containing at no time more than twenty thousand inhabitants, it was due not only to its intermediate situation between the republics of Berne and Fribourg and the possessions of Savoy but to the great personal importance of its rulers--particularly of Count François and his two sons Louis and François, who were not only supreme in their control of the duchy of Savoy, but were unquestionably the greatest nobles in Romand Switzerland. Holding its sovereignty directly from the emperor, Gruyère had long been an independent state, and by the grant of Wenceslas its rulers were not only empowered to issue money but had always possessed unqualified rights of justice and administration over their subjects. An interregnum of discord was unfortunately destined to lessen the power and diminish the prosperity of Gruyère, for Count François III, who had accompanied the prince of Orange in his unfortunate invasion of Italy, succumbed to the fatigue of the campaign, leaving the countess and her daughter to a long and bitter struggle for the latter's rights to the succession. Although by the old Burgundian law, the right of female succession was not without precedent, the general inclination of popular sentiment was definitely against it; and while Hélène by her father's will was authorized during her life to claim the rule of Gruyère, that will directed that his nephew Jean of the cadet branch of the family should succeed her. But the wills of Count Antoine as well as of his son François provided for the immediate and direct succession of the next in line of that cadet branch, Jean de Montsalvens, the brother of Count Louis, and not the young son designated by the latter. Fully foreseeing the impending difficulties which would beset his wife and daughter when they should attempt to carry out his designs, Count Louis could never have imagined that the Countess Claude would assist the family which had already disputed the right of his own line to the throne by consenting to a marriage of her daughter with Claude de Vergy. Legitimized by the pope, sustained by Savoy, Count François had by his incomparable ability brought Gruyère to such a height of power and prosperity that, after the first attempt to dispossess him, he had been left undisturbed. Count Louis, however, had been violently attacked by Count Guillaume de Vergy, who had instigated during the Burgundian wars, the seizure of Aubonne and the invasion of Gruyère, while during the short reign of his son François raids of undisciplined marauders sent out by the same family only too plainly announced their hostile intentions. With the rapidly succeeding deaths of the young François II and his uncle François III, the astute Guillaume de Vergy--a very great noble, head of his family and maréchal of Burgundy--saw an opportunity of grasping the long coveted succession for his son Claude by means of a marriage with Hélène of Gruyère. But he reckoned without the well founded claims and stout opposition of Jean de Montsalvens, between whom and his son on one side and Hélène and her mother on the other side such a contest arose as nearly plunged Switzerland into civil war. While Berne was on Hélène's side, Fribourg supported Jean de Montsalvens. The duke of Savoy supported the two ladies, but could find no better solution of their difficulties than to ask them to receive the rival pretendant as a guest in the château. When finally their friends the Bernois and their enemies of Fribourg proposed to install Jean provisionally at Gruyère under the protection of an armed force, the countess thought prudent to retire, leaving the château to the management of her chatelain. But while the duke of Savoy and the two cities were temporizing and hesitating between the rival claimants, the mountaineers of Gessenay, leaders of the German-Swiss people of Gruyère, and who were violently opposed to the marriage of Mdlle. de Gruyère with the detested family of de Vergy, formally acknowledged Jean de Montsalvens as their ruler. In spite of the popular opposition, Hélène's marriage was duly celebrated and her rival soon after installed himself at the château. Whereupon, the duke of Savoy indignant at the disregard of his futile propositions, sent a messenger to Berne commanding their intervention in favor of Hélène, and another to Jean himself with a mandate immediately to evacuate the château. Berne informed the men of Gessenay of its intention to support Hélène, and commanded them to keep the peace. The prospect of a general war seemed so imminent that the king of France sent his ambassador, the Cardinal d'Amboise, to investigate the matter, and the maréchal of Burgundy so influenced the emperor that he issued an imperial mandate recognizing Claude de Vergy as ruler of the disputed province. But Jean de Montsalvens, supported by his mountaineers, with an enrolled force of four thousand men, dismissed with calm politeness the messenger of Savoy, ignored the threats of the two cities as well as the mandate of the emperor, and preserved so bold a front against all his foes that he gained the assistance of Berne and the unanimous support of all his people, and was formally recognized as count of Gruyère. The duke of Savoy and the two cities now proposed a council of all the parties concerned by which the rival claims should be decided, but refusing at first to submit his rights to arbitration, Count Jean delayed until he was assured by popular consent of the success of his cause, and then appearing before the council at Geneva, was formally confirmed in his already established succession. [Illustration: TERRACE OF THE CHÂTEAU] The Countess Claude, although supported by such friends as the maréchal of Burgundy, the duke of Savoy, the king of France, and the emperor of Germany, had been reduced to sad straits. From her retreat at the château of Aubonne, without heat, without food, she had appealed to the guard which Berne and Fribourg had established at Gruyère for a little of her home butter and cheese to keep her from actual starvation. The council at Geneva provided for her necessities by requiring the restoration of the amount of her dot, and to her and her daughter possession of the châteaux of Aubonne and Molière for their lives, with a purchasable reversion in favor of Count Jean. But when, dying early, Hélène, in defiance of this provision, left these properties to her husband and his family, there were more quarrels about their possession, and again the European powers were invoked by Guillaume de Vergy, who procured from Louis XII of France a protest as unheeded as the mandate of the emperor, against their diversion to Count Jean. But the maréchal at last succeeded in his long considered plan of amicably uniting the rival claims, for in a family council it was finally agreed that his daughter Marguerite should marry Count Jean's son and successor, and that the purchase money of the two châteaux, supplied by Count Jean, should constitute her dowry. So was concluded a quarrel of more than sixty years, begun and ended by a marriage. The estates so manfully won by Count Jean were not destined to bring him unmixed satisfaction. The men of Gessenay demanded pay for their support in the form of costly enfranchisements from contributions or taxes; the revenues of Gruyère had already been decreased by the long legal processes of the succession, the maintenance of the army of defence, and the payment of Countess Claude's dot and her daughter's pension, as well as by the heavy purchase money of the châteaux of Aubonne and Molière. While still preserving its appearance of luxury the court of Gruyère was now supplied and maintained by loans from Berne and Fribourg, while Count Jean, who had prevailed against so powerful an array of foes, was like his predecessors, despoiled by the bishop of Lausanne, who demanded the cession of his rights over a rich part of his possessions. Thus the reign which had begun by an astonishing display of courage and firmness was so embarrassed by the expenditure incident to its establishment, that it ran thereafter a very inglorious course unmarked by the happy prosperity of former years. When Maximilian I prepared to proceed to Italy to be crowned emperor of the Romans, the Bernois consented to enroll Count Jean's son, his son-in-law, the seigneur of Châtelard, and Claude de Vergy, under the Gruyère banner in the army of confederates which was to swell the imperial forces. But with the refusal of Venice to permit the passage of Maximilian this dream of worldly experience and adventure was necessarily abandoned. Except for the service of the Count's illegitimate son Jean, who fought with a force of Gruyèriens in the battle of Novara, when the Swiss preserved Milan to its dukes against the invading army of Louis XII, no military honor accrued to Gruyère during his reign. CHAPTER VIII RELIGIOUS REFORM The death of Count Jean in the beginning of the 16th century left to his son Jean II the task of upholding the old ideals of the Gruyère house against the continually growing democracy in Switzerland, as well as against the advance of religious reform. Endowed with all his father's firmness, he possessed the chivalric ardor of his predecessors and a full share of their personal charm. The long and intimate relation of Gruyère and Savoy which had been interrupted by his father's maintenance of his rights of succession against the will of Duke Philibert II, were renewed by Count Jean II, who soon merited the title so worthily won by his predecessors of the "greatest noble in Romand Switzerland." When Count Philippe de Bresse, after a lifetime spent in envious agitations against the ruling dukes at last succeeded to the throne of Savoy, he splendidly atoned for his ill-treatment of Count Louis de Gruyère and his brother by immediately investing Count Jean II with the offices held by his predecessors; and when he magnificently celebrated his reconstitution of the Order of the Annonciata in the chapel of Chambéry, he invested Count Jean with the order, and at the ensuing fêtes gave him a seat at his side. The gift of this order, bestowing upon its possessor the privilege of diplomatic negotiations with the thrones of Europe, brilliantly recognized the position already held by the counts of Gruyère of arbitrators for Savoy and Romand Switzerland in the continual differences which arose between them and the monarchs of France and Austria. Although still only a duchy, Savoy had long been related by marriage with all the kingdoms of Europe. It was triply related to France through the wife and the sister of Louis XI and through Louise de Savoie, mother of François I; it was doubly related to the latter's great rival, the emperor Charles V, through Philibert's wife, the able Marguerite d'Autriche, and again through the emperor's sister-in-law, the Duchess Beatrix of Portugal, wife of Philibert's successor, Charles III. Fortified and elated by this imperial alliance, Duke Charles III began his unfortunate reign with a magnificent progress through Piémont and Savoy, where, particularly in the Pays de Vaud, he was cordially welcomed. At Geneva "the youth of the city were gayly decked out in damask, velvet and cloth of gold, while a corps of the most beautiful women, superbly dressed as amazons carrying lances and shields, were led by a fair Spaniard in honor of the Duchesse." At Vevey, bells rang, and a great procession of soldiers in parti-color followed by others in pure white, with a hundred pages also in white, carrying the white cross of Savoy, came out from the gates to meet him. Presenting his suzerain with the donations of the Pays de Vaud at Lausanne, Count Jean was also present with the bishops of Tarentaise, Lausanne and de Bellay at the general assembly of the Savoy estates at Morges, and at the château of Oron received the duke and his suite at a splendid banquet. The Swiss, divided by religious wars, and since the battles of Grandson, Morat and Nancy the actual arbiters of Europe, were constantly solicited for their alliance, and yielding to their cupidity and a widespread spirit of adventure, continually divided their forces into mercenary bands, fighting for Italy and then France in the long series of disastrous Italian campaigns undertaken by Charles VIII and his successors, Louis XII and François I. "_Point d'argent, point de Suisse_," a saying only too well merited by the conduct of these mercenary armies, originated from these French-Italian campaigns. In 1499 the Swiss, fighting with France, betrayed the duke of Milan to Louis XII. At Novara, fifteen years later, they fought for the duke, and took for themselves a large part of Piémont. At Marignan, the young François I at the head of a brilliant army of the French noblesse, furnished with all the accoutrements and artillery of modern warfare, received his baptism of fire, and Bayard won his shining immortality. There also the Swiss in a second battle of giants, although defeated, won as they had at St. Jacques the admiration of their conqueror; and just as Louis XI had tempted them by unlimited pay to join his cause, again François I induced them by promises of permanent pensions to a perpetual alliance, and to the peace called "perpetual" which afterward was maintained between Switzerland and France. With the strictest historical justice this alliance, based on cupidity, was by the same ignoble motive made void of result. When the great Emperor Charles V, allied with the pope and England, threatened the French possessions in Italy, the Swiss soldiers compelled the French general to engage the imperial forces under the most unfavorable conditions, and in the disastrous battle of the Bicoque brought about the defeat of their allies, the loss of Milan and the evacuation of Italy. Among the 16,000 Swiss who here demonstrated the worst of their national qualities, was a force of 400 men from Gruyère under the command of Count Jean, who fought with his natural son Jean, his brother Jacques and his cousin of Blonay in the thick of the battle. The French were hopelessly outnumbered by the combined imperial and Italian armies and suffered a crushing defeat, and the Swiss soldiers whose pay had been stolen by the mother of François I returned to their own country after the battle. Confessing in truth that they were "_mal payés, mal dotés_," Count Jean also declared that the Milanese duchy would never be recovered by the French king unless he came himself to Italy to conduct the campaign. He, therefore, returned to his estates after this disheartening experience where he found the long smouldering resentment against the predatory bishop of Lausanne at the point of explosion. By threat of arms, he exacted payment for his despoiled rights from the bishop, and before a great assemblage of his nobles, communes and people solemnly enacted the cessation of all trade with the bishop's market at Bulle in favor of Fribourg, with whose authorities he also established new commercial relations. But Count Jean, who had great reason to pursue these wise measures for the rehabilitation of his already impoverished and mortgaged estates, was soon drawn into the contest which arose between the democratic and Savoyard parties of Geneva, when the former, making an alliance with the republics of Berne and Fribourg, essayed to shake off the control of Savoy. The severance of the alliance of those cities with Savoy, announced a formidable alignment of the adherents of liberty in Romand Switzerland against the ruling duchy. But before this new combination had become sufficiently consolidated to accomplish its end, there were many efforts at pacification and compromise, and the count of Gruyère most reluctantly was forced to accept the office of arbiter between Savoy and the free cities. Again as so often had happened before, the ruler of Gruyère was faced with a choice between his suzerain and the republics of Switzerland. Count Jean unhesitatingly chose the former, and announced in his capacity of arbitrator the dissolution of the alliance of the free cities with Geneva. The result of this exceedingly courageous action was his own arraignment by Fribourg for conduct which they announced as unjustifiable and actionable. But the duke of Savoy was determined to reward Count Jean for his fidelity, and prevailed upon Berne and Soleure to renew their alliances but released Fribourg from all relations with his house, thus delivering Count Jean from its threatened revenge. This treaty, regulating the relations of Savoy with the cities of Berne and Soleure, did not, however, finish the contest between the Genevan democrats and the duke of Savoy, for the duke within a month sent an army within sight of the city to reduce it to submission. The feudal powers in Switzerland were now arrayed with Savoy against the rebels of Geneva in a league of young nobles, who assembled in force at Coppet to attack the city of Geneva. But now, although the heir of Gruyère was among the nobles, the people joined the army of Berne and Fribourg which marched to the aid of the rebellious city. Resorting to their old pastime of devastation, the army of liberty burned château after château in their march to Geneva, and uniting their forces with the rebels they summoned the duke of Savoy to account for his responsibility in the threatened attack. In an assemblage of the ambassadors of the ten confederated cantons, the duke of Savoy secured his continued control of Geneva, but paid dearly for it in the hypothecation to the greedy cities of Berne and Fribourg of the whole of the Pays de Vaud. Following this important concession, the victorious cities solemnly ratified their treaties with Geneva, and with the establishment of religious reform, which had developed simultaneously with the struggle for political independence, Geneva finally succeeded in freeing itself from the rule of Savoy. Catholic among the Catholics, Count Jean vigorously supported the duke in the defence of their religion, and converted his château of Oron into a refuge for the fugitives from the Lutheran persecution. While the Bernois were breaking the sacred images and wrecking the churches and chapels, Count Jean regularly maintained the celebration of mass at Oron, and threatened to wreak vengeance upon the Lutheran heretics who fell into his hands. Therefore, the Bernois, with evangelical pronunciamentos, commanded him to desist, and under threat of depriving him of the château and seigneurie of Oron, forced the adoption in this Catholic stronghold of the Lutheran faith. At Gruyère all the people were faithful, and in large numbers journeyed to Fribourg, declaring they would die rather than abandon their religion. At the warning that a band of Bernese Lutherans was preparing to invade Gruyère, the Fribourgeois summoned the people to be ready at the sound of the tocsin to take arms to repel them. Epidemics succeeded to these alarms, the restless people continually demanded new concessions, and finally the Bernois, openly declaring war upon Savoy, rapidly conquered the long coveted Pays de Vaud and summoned the count of Gruyère to acknowledge their sovereignty. When Count Jean stoutly rejected the demands of the Bernois, they immediately threatened the invasion of his estates; but their watchful rivals of Fribourg energetically protested, and when an ambassador of Charles V arrived on the scene to lend the Imperial support to the threatened principality, the Bernois consented to recognize the independence of Gruyère but exacted and at last obtained Count Jean's acceptance of their sovereignty over his possessions in the Pays de Vaud. Berne's demands were no sooner satisfied than Fribourg with an army prepared to take Corbières, but at this Count Jean's loyal subjects rose in a body, and the Fribourgeois, threatened by the people of Berne, consented to arbitrate their claims at the very moment when the valiant Count Jean was seized with sudden illness and ended his greatly tormented existence. "Towards the end of the month of November," a contemporary chronicler relates, "died at Gruyère, the noble and powerful lord Jean, Count of the said Gruyère, who before his death had suffered great troubles and pains, as much from the change in the overlordship and government of his country as from that of religion." The change of overlordship had been a desolating disaster to the loyal vassal of the good Duke Charles of Savoy, who, when François I despoiled him of all but a remnant of his duchy, was sent into a poverty-stricken exile. A less firm resistance on the part of Count Jean against the encroaching powers of the confederated cities would have brought a like fate on Gruyère. In an epoch of transition, when the old feudal order was giving place to the increasingly triumphant democracy in Switzerland, in a period embittered by cruel religious persecutions, involved in the wars and events which altered the political and moral aspect of Europe, he preserved to the last the integrity of his domain and its fidelity to its ancient faith. Personifying all the virtues of the old order of chivalry, greatly honored by his suzerain, loved and respected at home, it cannot be denied that he was at the same time the exemplar of its faults, and of these a great and practically licensed immorality was the chief. From the earliest period in the history of Gruyère, many of the illegitimate sons of its rulers were dedicated to the church, and often rising to high places among its prelates shared in the prevailing laxity and were naturally forced to condone and finally to recognize the continuance of this state of affairs. With even less attempt at concealment than had been observed by his ancestors in the pursuance of these irregular relations Count Jean openly installed his mistress the famous Luce d'Alberguex, at the château. An ideal Gruyère beauty was la Belle Luce, with the vigorous perfection of her race and a smile of such naïve sweetness and charm as still lingers in the popular tradition. Count Jean gave her his fairest mountain as a gage of his affection and villages and rich pasture lands to her brave son, his namesake, who had fought by his side at the Bicoque. The gallant count was, according to tradition, very prodigal in his favors, and a certain road, leading to the neighboring village of Charmey where the unhappy Countess Marguerite could watch her faithless lord as he rode away on his various adventures, is still known as the "_Charrière de Crêve-Coeur_." Married for reasons of family policy to the daughter of the de Vergys, who resided for the most part in the château of Oron, Count Jean passed his happiest days with la Belle Luce at Gruyère. After the death of his countess, and the passing of his youthful loves, he married Catherine de Monteynard, with whom he honorably passed the last decade of his life. CHAPTER IX THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF GRUYÈRE The three sons of Count Jean II not strangely reflected the conditions of their birth and the widely differing characters of their mothers. François, only son of his second marriage, which was founded on a real preference and esteem, possessed the kindly and charitable nature of his mother and the firm character of his distinguished Gruyère ancestors. Jean, the illegitimate son of Luce d'Alberguex, was lovable and valorous, but lacking in firmness or dignity of character. Michel, the heir of Gruyère, and the child of Count Jean's loveless marriage with Marguerite de Vergy, while personifying in their perfection the physical beauty and charm of his line, was like the fair fruit of a decaying tree hollow at heart, and was only too well fitted by his fantastic pretensions and his frivolous weakness of character for the tragic rôle which was assigned to him in the fall of his house. "_Véla, Michel li preux li beaux Fleur de tous autres damoiseaux._" a couplet describing the romantic figure of the last count of Gruyère, is still rhymed by the people and still finds its place among their records. Imposing in height as his great forerunner François de Gruyère, his features were of a beautiful regularity and nobility, his manner had that princely pride and simplicity which was the greatest charm of François I of France. At the French court, as in all Switzerland, he was renowned as "the handsomest knight of his day." With the extinction of the court at Chambéry, where his predecessors had received their education in chivalry and where they had so faithfully and honorably served the dukes of Savoy, the young Michel was sent to the still more brilliant court of France. Blazing with the beauty of the great ladies who ruled the adored and adorable young king, the resort of painters and poets, the rendezvous of all the noblesse of France, this court at its highest pitch of pageantry and pride was a dazzling school for the young _damosel_ of Gruyère. Here in the white and gold dress of the "_Enfants du Roi_," and next as king's _Pannétier_, he passed eight years of his youth, patterning his ideals only too faithfully upon the young sovereign he served. On his return to Switzerland fresh from this experience in France, he joined the league of young nobles called "_de la cuiller_," from their vow to make a sweet morsel of the rebel republicans of Geneva. In highwaymen raids in company with his mad cousin de Beaufort of Coppet and Rolle, he defied the formidable seigneurs of Berne, and was only saved from their chastisement by their regard for his father. After these escapades, he departed for Italy to the court of the emperor Charles the Fifth, who at first treated him with extraordinary confidence, but when he demanded to be appointed prince of the empire and gentleman of the bed-chamber, the emperor refused. Passing only enough time at Gruyère to receive the vows of fidelity from his subjects and to make a tour of his estates, he proceeded by way of France to carry out a mission of the emperor in Flanders. At Paris where the emperor halted on his way to deal with his rebellious Flemish subjects, Count Michel was so pleasantly entertained in the round of fêtes and _divertissements_ which celebrated the imperial visit, that he postponed again and again the adjustment of the important differences with Fribourg which had been left in abeyance at the death of his father. His mission to Flanders was so carelessly executed that he soon lost the confidence of the emperor who, openly declaring that "he thought little of him," sent him away from Turin. On his return to Paris after another brief visit to his country Count Michel received a better welcome from François I, who invested him with the Order of the King and with the Collar of St. Michæl. No better example of the personal charm of François I is to be found in history than his influence over his Swiss allies. Assuring the ambassadors of Berne, when they visited Paris with the hope of being released from their military service, that the disastrous results of his Italian campaigns were due only to the derangement of his finances, he promised personally to lead them in his approaching invasion, beguiled them with fair words and promises, even engaging to place the crown diamonds in their custody as gage of their pay, and professing that he was "_l'ami de coeur_" of the Confederates bound them for weal or woe to his cause. At the battle of Sésia when Bayard fell before the armies of the emperor and the traitorous Constable of France, it was the Swiss who saved the existence of the French forces. At the disastrous defeat of Pavia, losing half of their soldiers, they fought with a desperate courage for the lost cause of the still beloved king, who at the moment of surrender could salute the Swiss guard and say to his captor: "If all my soldiers had fought like these, I would not be your prisoner but you would be mine." In the complications which arose from Berne's renewed demands for the recognition of their authority over Gruyère, Count Michel became a figure of international importance. When his domain was threatened with invasion, he declared that he had received it from God and his fathers, and would not submit. The Fribourgeois, in the interests of the Catholic party, were against Berne, and declared they would support him to the full extent of their power. Six other Catholic cities also ranged themselves with Fribourg, and war seemed so imminent that the matter was taken before the Diet, when, with the aid of the French ambassadors and a summons from the emperor Charles V to respect the independence of his imperial fief, Count Michel was able to retain the freedom of Gruyère, but compelled like his father to admit Berne's authority over his possessions in the Pays de Vaud. In the support which François I gave to Count Michel, he followed not so much his predilection for a courtier whom he had invested with the Order of St. Michel as his habitual policy of conciliating the Swiss, whose support was indispensable to him in the war he had again declared against the emperor. In December of the year 1543, Count Michel at the invitation of the king joined the French army before Landrécies, where with a small force of cavalry armed and equipped at his own expense he was fortunate enough to assist his old master in relieving the siege of the city. But this was the only fortune which fell to the Gruyère banner during the various campaigns in which he was engaged. "Fanfarront" and proud, the new and richly embroidered flag he commanded represented the symbolic and hitherto honorable "Grue," in a guise as "fanfarront" as Count Michel himself. Assuming the title of prince, and for his poverty-stricken little domain the powers and independence of a royal principality, he was not content to furnish the two thousand men required by the king, but rashly undertook to double the number. Still more rashly he left the levée of these troops to a delegate, who hastily assembled a motley and disreputable collection of untrained men from all parts of the country, with a few ignorant peasants from Gruyère itself who were in no way fitted to sustain the valorous reputation of their country. Detained by the quarrels which against all advice he continually pursued with Geneva and Berne, he delegated his command of these troops to the same untrustworthy agent who had collected them, a certain Sire de Cugy of Vaud. At a critical moment in the battle of Cérisolles this helpless band of peasants not surprisingly took to their heels and seriously endangered the victory of the French. The other Swiss soldiers sustained their old reputation with prodigies of valor, but upon the Gruyèriens were lavished every epithet of contempt. The pitiful episode was the object of many royal witticisms. To the king who "supposed that they were of the same stuff as the Confederates," his chronicler du Bellay replied that "it was folly to disguise an ass as a charger"----"Why pay these cowards," asked the king in return, "who fled like _Grues hier_?" How important the little Swiss province was considered among the great kingdoms of Europe, was again shown in the multitude and variety of observations in the contemporary memoirs upon the conduct of the men who untruthfully called themselves Gruyèriens. A comment of Rabelais in his Pantagruel, adds to the general reproach. "It has always been the custom in war, to double pay for the day when the battle is won. With victory there is profit and somewhat for payment; with defeat, it is shame to demand reward, as did the runaways of Gruyère after the battle of Serizolles." Thus Rabelais mocked the last Gruyère soldiers as Tasso praised the first, and an undeserved stigma was set on the banner which had been carried unstained through six centuries of warfare at home and abroad. [Illustration: CHURCH OF ST. THEODATE] With a persistency which deserved a better reward, Count Michel now determined to redeem his disgrace, and joined the French armies in the prolonged attempt to relieve the city of St. Dizier, besieged by the imperial forces. But fortune on this occasion was unfavorable to the French and no glory was gained and no rehabilitation of the unfortunate Gruyèriens. In a third campaign under the command of the Duc de Guise, Count Michel was again with the French before Boulogne, and a witness of the peace of Crépy which was signed at the moment when that city fell into the hands of the English. Thus although putting forth every effort to restore the ancient reputation of his house, the unlucky Count Michel was forced to return without laurels to Gruyère where, during the last peaceful years of the reign of François I, no further military service was required of him. But the Bernois still tormented him for recognition of their sovereignty over the disputed seigneuries of Palézieux, and continued to lend him money, thus gradually and surely laying their hands on his long coveted possessions. With a like calculating generosity, Fribourg accepted mortgages on such portions of his property as were not already mortgaged to Berne, while Count Michel, like a butterfly caught in the closing net of its captors, lived gayly in the lingering sunshine of this false prosperity. A romantic imbroglio in which his cousin de Beaufort was involved afforded him congenial distraction, and again served to attract the attention of the king of France and the emperor to the affairs of Gruyère. Passing their brilliant youth together at the court of François I, where the young sire de Beaufort was also "_Enfant du Roi_," the comrades were also associated in the mad escapades of the "_Lique de la Cuiller_," against the Geneva republicans, and when de Beaufort carried off the beautiful Marie de la Palud, it was to Gruyère that he fled, riding madly across country to ask Count Michel's protection. The mother of the runaway beauty--a certain Countess de la Varax, was determined to recover her daughter and as a bourgeoise of Berne, denounced the ravisher to the city authorities, but when informed by the countess of Beaufort that she had been married by bell and by book, and had Count Michel's promise to intercede in her favor, they declined to prosecute her or her husband. Fribourg also took the side of the lovers, and sent a letter in their behalf to the king of France. But the Countess de la Varax had already secured the support of both emperor and king, who, thinking the matter of high political importance, sent pressing letters by their ambassadors to Berne and Fribourg and, later, to the Diet of the Confederation, commanding that de Beaufort should give up his bride. Informed of these royal and imperial commands, the Sire de Beaufort declared he would die rather than give up his wife or emerge from his Gruyère asylum, and prayed the seigneurs of Berne to write to the king in his favor. Before the grave assemblage of the Confederation of the Diet at Baden, Count Michel magnificently declared that as for him he would protect the refugees at all costs, and left the matter to the justice of the delegates. The Diet as stoutly declining to dissolve a legalized marriage, defied the summons of the king and the emperor and ordered the pursuit of the lovers to cease. The two counts of Gruyère and of Beaufort were so gratified by this support that when the emperor prepared to invade Switzerland they offered to join the Confederate army in the defence of their country. With the passing of this threat of invasion Count Michel lost his last opportunity of military distinction. The remainder of his reign was one long struggle with the net of financial embarrassment which now encompassed him. The youthful impression of magnificence gained at the French court, the vanity of his extraordinary beauty, the favor of the dazzling François I, the actual independence of his imperial principality exalted his imagination to a pitch of pretension utterly beyond his capacity of either leadership or organization. He was fertile in imagination, persistent and indefatigable, but he had unfortunately inherited no trace of the firmness or judgment displayed by the long line of his ancestors, while from the intriguing de Vergy strain, he derived a treacherous and feeble duplicity, which lost him the confidence of the sovereigns he served and the cities with which he was allied. Although maintaining an apparent friendship with Berne and Fribourg, whose monetary assistance he constantly demanded, he succeeded by a complicated system of loans and partial payments of interest in possessing himself of a long line of châteaux-forts extending from Gruyère to the Pays de Gex. As he was the acknowledged head of the still existing league "de la Cuiller," his acquisition of this formidable line of fortresses only too clearly indicated his design of restoring the supremacy of the nobles in Switzerland, and by a brilliant dash for liberty at once to obliterate the power and the embarrassing financial claims of Berne and Fribourg. His friends had already begun to collect ammunition, and apparitions of armed bands were reported to Berne, when a warning from the French ambassador that a project was on foot to threaten their liberties and to reëstablish the exiled duke of Savoy, caused the authorities to send word to the baillis in the several departments to watch Count Michel and find out the secret of his intentions. When he was summoned to appear at Berne to account for these suspicious occurrences, Count Michel forthwith abandoned his far-reaching and unpracticable scheme, and sent a request to the council asking for time to prepare the documents to establish his innocence. Vanished now were his splendid hopes of reëstablishing the noblesse under his leadership, and crushed under the enormous debts which he had incurred in the acquisition of the now useless fortresses, he was forced to make a supreme effort to preserve himself and his domain from utter and imminent ruin. His long attachment to François I, although rewarded by the very considerable dignity of the royal Order of St. Michæl, had been far less profitable in substantial results, for his old master, according to his custom, had failed to pay either the salaries of his positions at court or the pensions alloted to Gruyère according to the terms of the Perpetual Peace. To the arrears of these pensions and salaries, Count Michel added the expenses of his various expeditions with the French armies and the pay of the soldiers who had so disgraced him at Cérisolles. The sum of these claims, drawn up in an interminable document and presented to François I's son and successor Henri II, amounted to no less than 1,700,000 francs. King Henri, who had by no means forgotten the sort of service rendered by these soldiers, was irritated at the fantastic sum of Count Michel's claims, and after a long delay offered half of the arrears of the pay of his soldiers but rejected the other demands, declaring that as a knight of the Order of St. Michæl the count was a French subject and had no right as a Confederate to the pensions granted by the terms of the Perpetual Peace. This offer Count Michel indignantly refused, threatening to send back the Order of St. Michæl, and appealing to the Diet to confirm his undoubted status as a Confederate. Berne and Fribourg and at length the Diet ratified this claim and sent messengers to the king recommending its recognition, but assigned the greatly reduced sum of 60,000 francs as the amount of the pensions due. The king replying that he would in no case alter his decision, the Berne authorities, with a singular consideration for their unfortunate debtor procured the additional recommendations of all the cantons; but the king still insisted that as Chevalier of St. Michæl, the count was bound to come to Paris to present his claims before the tribunal of the order. The count, however, as persistently refused to go to Paris "to be mocked by the King," and defiantly proposed that the latter should be summoned to personally appear before the Diet. A less extravagant demand, a less obstinate refusal, would have surely obtained a better recognition from the monarch who "never broke his word," but failing to persuade either the king or his claimant, the Confederates were forced to abandon their intervention and Count Michæl got nothing at all. Ill and despairing, he now abandoned the administration of his hopelessly involved estates to his brother François, who with the aid of an appointed council vainly essayed to bring order out of confusion. In an open assembly the people were asked to guarantee a new loan on the promise of the cession of all the Gruyère revenues at a fixed date. Irritated but still faithful to their ruler they consented, but the delay thus obtained only postponed the inevitable disaster. Berne and Fribourg now announced their intention of assuming the debts of the entirely mortgaged domain and dividing it between them. The unhappy people of Gruyère prepared to witness the dispossession of their ruler and the dismemberment of their beloved country when Count Michel played his last card, marrying through the good offices of his uncle Claude de Vergy, (who had now succeeded his father as maréchal of Burgundy) the widow of the Baron d'Alègre, Madeleine de Miolans, a daughter of a once illustrious Savoyard family. To her devotion and that of his de Vergy's relatives, who spared nothing but the necessary funds to avert his impending ruin, Michel owed a short reprieve from the execution of his creditors. Four months' delay was granted his wife in which to raise the interest due on the loans; but although journeying to Paris and soliciting every influence to procure the required sum, the countess of Gruyère failed in her efforts. The poor lady now saw the end of her dream of rehabilitating the fallen fortunes of the man she had so unwisely married. How potent was the charm of the bankrupt hero who could still inspire her unlimited devotion was still better proved by the affection of his half brother François. Modest, dignified and charitable, as his brilliant senior was wasteful and rash, François' loyalty was unaltered by any disgrace of misfortune. But in the very climax of his ills Count Michel lost this invaluable brother and friend. In a letter to his implacable executors he thus poured out his grief: "Sirs, this letter is to inform you that in addition to all the misfortunes and adversities, illnesses and otherwise, which it has pleased God to send me, it has been His good pleasure to take from me my brother François d'Aubonne who died yesterday morning at eleven o'clock at Gruyère. The sorrow and grief which I suffer, dear Sirs, you cannot imagine, at thus losing my second self and the brother who has rendered me constant loyalty and service. Therefore, to you who are my chief masters, fathers and friends, I confide my sorrow, praying you as good fathers, friends, lords and ancient protectors of my house to console and assist me as has hitherto been your good pleasure." "Fanfarront" no longer, but helpless as a child in the face of the ills he had wrought, Count Michel sent his courageous wife on her many futile errands in his behalf, while he waited alone at the château for the inevitable end. Writing again and again to Fribourg and Berne, declaring that his illness gave him no peace and that the slightest effort to think redoubled his pains, he found no better occupation for one of his solitary days than to re-read his treaty with Fribourg. "Magnifique Monsieur l'Avoyer, and honored lords, to your good graces I affectionately commend myself. "While I was sitting the other day, overwhelmed by the sufferings of my poor body, I began to re-read my treaty of Combourgeoisie with your city, to distract the ennui of my malady, when the countess' little dog who had been gamboling about me dragged off, while I was not looking, the ribbon and seal, which greatly annoyed me. I send you back the paper, therefore, asking you to be as good as to affix another seal, by which you will greatly oblige him who in heart and affection, Magnifique Monsieur l'Avoyer, is entirely your good citizen and servant." The four months' respite had now passed, and the countess with her devoted sister presented herself before the Diet to make a last effort to procure a postponement of the sentence of dispossession. In silence the deputies listened to her tearful appeal, when realizing that no answer was possible and unwilling to listen to the fatal decree, the countess and her sister requested permission to retire. Respectfully conducting the weeping women from the chamber, the delegates then formally authorized the transference of Gruyère to the cities of Berne and Fribourg. At ten o'clock in the evening of this same fatal day, Count Michel, followed by a single faithful domestic, mounted his horse and rode away from Gruyère. The shadows of a November night, the sighing winds, the falling leaves, were the fitting accompaniment of this tragic departure. Significant also was it that with the fall of the house of Gruyère, the last remaining feudal sovereignty, the old chivalric order forever passed from Switzerland. With the extinction of the power of Savoy, and the establishment of the inclusive league of cantons and cities representing the new and united nation, the little principality of Gruyère was in any case doomed to the acceptance of the prevailing form of government. But although hastening by his extravagance the fall of his house, Count Michel had various difficulties for which he was not personally responsible. With the repeated enfranchisement of his people from their feudal contributions and taxes, his revenues had already been seriously reduced, and the long legal process and armed resistance necessitated by his grandfather's struggle with the rival de Vergys, had exhausted a large part of the accumulated capital. Thus only a rigid system of retrenchment would have sufficed to preserve the financial integrity of Gruyère. For such an administration Count Michel was utterly unfitted both by character and training, and he precipitated his own inevitable ruin, when, yielding to his unbounded and unrealizable ambitions, he essayed to reverse the course of events and restore the power of feudality in Switzerland, at the very moment of its disorganization. His refusal to accept any portion of his claims on the French crown, his rejection of the proposition to sell, while it was yet time, any part of his estates, were examples of his immoderate and unreasoning pride. But another cause, the machinations of the powerful and envious de Vergys, singularly conspired to hasten the final dismemberment of the coveted province. Causing first the exhaustion of the Gruyère revenues, through the forced and loveless alliance with the ruling and legitimate line, the de Vergy strain produced in Michel a changeling heir, who was empty of heart as he was bankrupt in purse. Thus as the old order of feudalism, yielding to the progress of free thought, free speech and free faith, in the whole extent of Europe crumbled and fell, then was fulfilled in the already democratic Switzerland the old prophecy of the fool Chalamala, that "the Berne Bear would some day eat the Grue in the caldron of Fribourg." To Berne in the final division was allotted the mountainous regions of Gessenay and château d'Oex, while Fribourg took possession of the lower pasture lands, the city and the château, and the château itself they converted into the seat of government. In the deserted castle where for six centuries Count Michel's vigorous forbears had pacifically ruled with their vigorous sons, the last pitiful illegitimate child of the line was discovered by the Bailli of Fribourg. Sent with her mother, an old domestic of the château, the little Guillauma was brought up in the _hospice_ and supported, like her mother, at the expense of the city. Thus finished in utter disgrace the illustrious line of pastoral kings. At the château of Oron, where the countess of Gruyère had fled after the decree of dispossession, her despairing husband joined her. In the cold of the November weather, the empty château, without servants, heat or supplies, was only a temporary refuge, although the council of Berne mercifully sent the countess a small sum of money for her immediate necessities. The paternal patience of the calculating Berne authorities was solicited by their equally hypocritical victim, in the following humble appeal sent by Count Michel upon his arrival at Oron. "Since it has pleased God so to chastise and afflict me that I am compelled to depart from your Excellencies and to follow the path He has pointed out to me, I praise Him in that His punishment is meted out to me in mercy and not according to my sins; my absence and inability to serve you as I have all my life desired being of equal affliction with my loss. I have always had such confidence in your great kindness and humanity, that I am assured that your magnificences will have compassion on me and my wife, who is departing to solicit you as humbly as possible to pardon my not appearing before you, as my heart is so desolate that I can say or do naught to help in these circumstances. Therefore, may it please you to listen to her proposition and to grant as great a degree of honor and welfare as is possible to your child." Although Berne had permitted the temporary residence of the deposed count at Oron, and had granted to the countess the revenues of a small piece of land, the refugees soon left the "logis" which they found "_si froid et si mal fourni de vivres_," and repaired to Burgundy and the protection of their powerful de Vergy relatives. For many years the dispossessed princeling was destined to pursue his adventurous career in the various kingdoms of Europe. With his immediate necessities supplied by his wife's income, in the accustomed luxury of the châteaux of his relatives he quickly recovered his old pose of an independent and only temporarily deposed potentate, and proceeding to Paris in his character as Chevalier du Roi, was able to obtain a surprising degree of recognition. Welcomed by Catherine de Medici as a Catholic among the Catholics, he was present as a councilor of the King's Order at the private and preliminary trial conducted by the queen mother of the assassin of his old general and commander the Duc de Guise. King Charles IX may possibly have granted a part of Count Michel's claims upon the French crown, and was in any case so much influenced by his representations that he wrote to Berne and Fribourg recommending his reëstablishment in his estates. When informed by the council of the respective cities of the conditions of his dispossession, King Charles made no further effort on his behalf. The still undiscouraged adventurer then repaired to Flanders to the palace and protection of his powerful aunt the Sénéschale of Hainault. From Hainault as a base of supplies, he journeyed about Flanders and Belgium, finding temporary sympathizers and supporters in various notabilities with whom he consulted as to the best method of recovering his estates, or at least wresting them from the hands of Berne and Fribourg. The Cardinal de Granvelle, who was intimately known to the king of Spain, and the Belgian ambassador to the Spanish court were solicited to represent his claims for recognition as a good Catholic to his Spanish majesty. To his suggestions that Gruyère would be a valuable addition to the Spanish territories, no more attention was paid than to his desire to be decorated with the Order of the Toison d'Or and to be received as a colonel in the Spanish army. For Philip II, enlightened by the cardinal as to the character of the pretendant for his favor, had no wish to tempt him from the service of France, and still less to embroil himself with the Swiss Confederation by intriguing with a dispossessed bankrupt for the recovery of his lost estates. Deserted by the kings of France and Spain, the count, since the death of his faithful wife, old and alone, proceeded to the court of the emperor. A new friend, the Alsatian Count Bollwiler, was solicited to arrange for him another advantageous matrimonial alliance, while the Emperor Maximilian II was so moved by the recital of his woes that he sent a letter to Berne and Fribourg requesting that in view of the count's advanced age and many adversities, he should be permitted to repurchase and enjoy his lost principality for the brief remainder of his days. A long memorial from the count accompanied the emperor's letter and announced that with the aid of his new and powerful friends, he would soon be in a position to buy back Gruyère. He ended with an appeal for compassion on his bald head and his white beard. With respectful attention to the august request of of the emperor, Berne and Fribourg replied that no provision had been made for the repurchase of Gruyère, and detailed the conditions by which they had acquired the property. The emperor thereupon declined to renew his recommendations, and after this final defeat, Count Michel, deprived of his last hope of royal or imperial assistance, the neediest and loneliest of adventurers, lived a hand-to-mouth existence with the faithful domestic who had followed him since the day he had departed from Gruyère. Nursing always the same chimera of some day returning triumphant to his lost province, he pursued his peregrinations, finding a final refuge in the Burgundian château of Thalémy, belonging to his cousin François de Vergy, where he died at last in March of the year 1576. On a day in May a messenger from Burgundy announced his decease to his uncle the protonataire Dom Pierre de Gruyère. With tolling of bells the news was proclaimed, and a month later, before a great throng of people from all parts of the country, a memorial service was held in the church at Gruyère. "_Desolatione magna desolata est Grueria, ploratus et ulleratus auditi sunt in Grueria, et in omnibus finibus eius._" With such a text the last Gruyère prelate celebrated the honors due to the last count of his line. "Desolate with a great desolation," in truth were the people who, bitterly weeping, lamented the loss of their happy independence, preserved through so many long centuries under the kindly rule of their beloved counts. A halo of melancholy romance had gathered through the popular traditions about the figure of Count Michel, so that he has strangely become the typical representative of the beauty, strength and valor of his far worthier predecessors. Conflicting reports about the place of his death and entombment, strange tales of his reappearance, have made him a second Boabdil, unburied, always returning to the beloved home of his youth. An hallucinated exile in life, his ghost, hallucinated, ever returning, haunts his lost and lovely Gruyère. CHAPTER X GRUYÈRE WITHOUT ITS COUNTS Nearly four hundred years have passed since the fall of its counts, but the merciless march of democracy, although changing the government of Gruyère has left the people strangely unaltered. In spite of the injunctions of the Lutheran Bernois, they still danced and sang, and until the dawn of the present century still spoke their musical patois. The château, long used as the residence of a préfet of Fribourg, was offered for sale when in the middle of the 19th century the prefecture was transferred to Bulle. For a long time left to decay, it was finally doomed to demolition, when for the same sum offered by a housebreaker of Vevey, it was happily purchased by M. Bovy of Geneva. His brother, a painter and pupil of Ingres, devoted the remaining strength left to him after a disabling paralysis, to the restoration of the château, and in this enthusiastic service exhausted the family fortune. His friends and companions in Paris gathered about him, and to the beautiful frescoes with which he adorned the walls of the Hall of the Chevaliers were added the landscape vignettes of the salon. Thus several Corot canvases are strangely found in this out of the way corner in the Swiss mountains, a lovely tribute of the great modern master to the long past glories of Gruyère. In the jousting court flowers bloom bravely through the passing seasons, the old well with its moss covered roof jewels the terrace with its emerald green; through the chapel windows the painted light streams over walls where in silver on scarlet still flies the Grue. On the clock tower, still circling, the hands mark the passing of time and the bells in the church still ring out their summons to prayer. At Easter the "Bénichons" bring the people together for their old dances and songs, and in the long "Veillées" the lads and the maids through the summer nights or in winter beside their bright fires, watch the dawning of love. The maidens, like Juliet, lean from low vine-covered windows, and with beckoning candles invite their lovers to climb. The spring pastures still blossom with marjolaine and narcissus, with cowslips and rue, the orchards still redden in autumn with ripe fruit which falls with the breeze, with tressed wheat, goats, and cows black and white; the green fertile country abounds, and as in Provence a Mireille is the poet's dream of its maids, so is "_Marie la Tresseuse_" in poems and tales the wheat weaving girl of Gruyère. The "Armaillis" still drive their herds to the mountains, still singing "_Le ranz des vaches_," the song which among all others best reveals the soul of their race. "Lioba," "Lioba," one should hear the refrain as it echoes from the valleys and hills, the same cry, musical, lingering, melancholy, which through century after century has been sung by generations of Gruyère herdsmen. "Le Ranz des Vaches." The herdsmen of the Colombettes, To milk the cows arose. Ha! Ha! Lioba. Come! Come! Large and small, The black, the white, the short, the tall, Starry forehead, red and gold, All the young and all the old. Under the oak tree come! Ha! Ha! Lioba. Bells came first, Jet black came last, But at the stream they stopped aghast. Ha! Ha! Lioba. Alas, poor Pierre! what will you do? Trouble enough you have, 'tis true. Ha! Ha! Lioba. At the Curé's door You now must tap, He'll tell you how to cross the gap. Ha! Ha! Lioba. And what should I to the Curé say? A mass shall I beg, or will he pray To help my cows go over? Ha! Ha! Lioba. The Curé he, of a cheese was fain, "A creamy cheese, or your cows remain On the other side, 'tis very plain." Ha! Ha! Lioba. "Send us your pretty maid," said Pierre, "To carry the cheese, I speak you fair." Ha! Ha! Lioba. "Too pretty by far is my rosy maid, She might not return," the Curé said. Ha! Ha! Lioba. "What belongs to the Church We may not take, Confession humble we then should make." Ha! Ha! Lioba. "Go to friend Pierre, The mass shall be said, Good luck be yours, rich cheese and bread." Ha! Ha! Lioba. Gayly Pierre went to his waiting herd, And freely they passed at the Curé's word. Ha! Ha! Lioba. The soft terminations of the romanized French are never more musical than in this famous song which, during their foreign campaigns, reduced the Swiss soldiers to such weeping longing for home that it was forbidden by their generals. Melancholy as is the repeated refrain, the couplets reveal a ravishing picture of the customs and the observing satirical spirit of the Gruyèrien. Is not the quip of the Curé worthy of any son of the Emerald Isle? [Illustration: JOUSTING COURT] In truth this "_verte Gruyère_" shut away from the world by its mountains as Ireland is by the sea, is like a lost island, fabled, remote, its speech Provençal, its soul purely Celt. Laughter loving, warlike and brave in the idyllic years of their prime, the Gruyèriens of to-day are still gay, caustic of wit as they are kindly at heart; and, in a changed world, as tenacious of their new republican rights as they were erstwhile valiant vassals to their pastoral kings. The source of innumerable songs and legends in the rich and melodious Gruyère speech, still pastoral, this country has been celebrated in its exquisite, unchanging beauty by many poets; its romances and its national song have been the themes of dramatic and musical inspirations. Not yet has the cruel light of modern day chased the fairies, the may-maidens, the "servans" and the evil spirits from the forests and the caves. The place where the devil, joining in a coraule, drew the dancing people over a precipice is still shunned by young and old; with pride also will they point out the slope of the Gruyère hill where when the men were fighting at the _Pré de Chênes_ the women drove their goats, each bearing a lighted candle, through the darkness upon an invading horde of Bernois, who, thinking they were devils, fled in affright. For the refreshment of the good spirits who guard the herds, basins of fresh milk are still set in every mountain chalet. The origin of the Gruyère customs, like the coraules and the still observed habit of hanging wreaths on their door posts or in the oak groves, have a derivation of the most distant antiquity, in the Chaldean cradle of the race, in the myths of India and the Orient. The personified forces of Nature, the cloud wraiths of the mountains, the lisping voices of the streams, for many centuries haunting the imaginations of the people, still live in their legends, as they do in Celtic Ireland. The idyllic loveliness of the country is deliciously completed by the vines which are trained over the houses, by the flowers which grow in their windows, so that from spring to November Gruyère is a garden, ringed by blue mountains under a sky of pure blue. In the Romand country are many exquisite towns such as Romont and Rue, Estavayer, Oron and Morat--happily preserved in their unaltered mediæval perfection. But the heart of this country is Gruyère, impregnated with the romance of the departed days of chivalry, its people affectionately faithful to the memory of their noble and beloved rulers. As for the Celtic wit, ever present in their sayings and legends, it is characteristically shown in the following little story of the "Fountain of Lessoc." THE FOUNTAIN OF LESSOC It happened one day that good father Colin went to the fair at château d'Oex, where he successfully transacted his business, particularly at the tavern. On his return journey he stopped at the inn at Montbovon, not so much for the pleasure of drinking as to chat with his old cronies, with the result that it was midnight before he was on his way to Lessoc. A cold welcome awaited him at home. "Thou art a selfish and a drunken wight, and the donkey is dying of thirst," said Fanchon with many reproaches for his evil conduct. Greatly ashamed was Colin, and to quickly repair his error untied la Cocotte and led her to the fountain. The night was superb, and in the water was reflected the shining disk of the moon. Precisely in this silver spot, the poor Cocotte began to ease her thirst when, "Behold," said her master, "she is drinking the moon." Then suddenly the moon went under a cloud, and at the same moment Cocotte, quite satisfied, lifted her head, "Heavens!" cried Colin, "the moon has gone and my donkey has drunk her." Not a word did he say to his wife, but all night watched over Cocotte in the stable. In the morning, up and down the village street, he drove her to help her digestion. "It matters little to me," he said to himself, "what becomes of the moon, for there is a new one each month, but I intend to take care of my good donkey." And soon all Lessoc marveled to see Colin and Cocotte, Cocotte and Colin, passing and repassing continually over the same road, one apparently frightened, the other sadly bored by the exercise. "Is your donkey ill?" asked the good mayor at last. "Woe is me, she is ruined," replied Colin, "for she has swallowed the moon and will not give her up." Whereupon the mayor, after grave reflection remarked, "If la Cocotte has not yet gotten rid of the moon, poor Colin already is rid of his senses." At the communal council, the mayor presented at length the strange case. "If a new moon appears," he declared, "we may be reassured, but to avoid the possibility of further accident, we will place a spacious roof over the fountain." This wise decision was adopted to the general satisfaction, and such was the authentic origin of the elegant fountain of Lessoc. In ancient chronicles and modern publications many similar stories are repeated, while a multitude of ballads, of legends taken from the lips of the old peasants, constitute a precious and abounding document of the ancient Gruyère customs. But uniquely characteristic as are these Gruyère people, the history of their country is still more extraordinary. Almost negligible in wealth or population, the little mountain province, lying midway between France, Austria, and Savoy, held in the days of its prosperity an almost unexplainably important position beside the great monarchies of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Midway also between the Berne and Fribourg republics, the Gruyère counts held something very nearly approaching a balance of power between Savoy and the Confederates. Feudal by race and by the independence of their little principality, they were so trusted by the Confederates and so powerful with Savoy, that they repeatedly acted as arbitrators in their mutual quarrels, and by this high influence were sharers and at times framers of the treaties with the neighboring kingdoms, and admitted to the diplomatic councils of Europe. They were not only valorous in the defence of their country but by the Latin charm of their race were adored by their subjects, and held in great favor by the dukes of Savoy, themselves allied by many inter-marriages with all the crowns of Europe. So important was the little Gruyère to the French kings and the emperors of Germany that, as has been related, they occupied themselves with its internal affairs, attempting to intervene in such matters as runaway marriages and the rival claims for succession. But the attitude of its rulers towards royal and imperial mandates was so independent, their maintenance of their feudal sovereignty was so tenacious that they preserved the high and happy ideals of their house, and were the last of the Swiss nobles to yield to the march of democracy. Their long rule, extending through six centuries of internal wars, during times when oppression was the prerogative of their order, was stained by no single act of cruelty. In the peculiar charm of their race, in the unique influence of their position in Europe, as in the unbroken length of their rule, the counts of Gruyère were the most important of all the noble Swiss families. Titles and aristocratic privileges have long since vanished from republican Switzerland, where liberty triumphant, the age-wrought jewel of a thousand years, shines clearly among the tumults of the warring nations. But remote among its mountains, a cherished place of pilgrimage and refreshment, the little feudal city still crowns its green hill, and in the Gruyère people the Celtic soul, undying fresh and free, still sings in their love songs and war songs, still speaks in their legends and tales of its birth in the morning of time. APPENDIX The traditions of Romand Helvetia have preserved the memory of the establishment of Vandal or Burgundian hordes in that part of Gaul. Thus has arisen the belief that the once wild region traversed by the river Sarine came into the possession of some chief of these tribes who there settled with his followers. The unavowed author (Bonsetten) of a history of the Counts of Gruyère is of the opinion that it is possible that, in accordance with the customs of the Germanic tribes, that Gruerius, the hero of the popular legend, or his warriors, might have carried a Grue (crane) as a symbol of a migratory race on their helmets or shields, and that the leader himself might have adopted the name Gruerius from the emblem. The theory, however, disagrees entirely with the tradition that the Burgundians were so fond of liberty that they bore the figure of a cat upon their banners. It is well known that the arms of Gruyère are a Grue on a scarlet field, and this circumstance alone has evidently given rise to the anonymous author's conjecture. His opinion not only has no positive proof to support it, but has no color of probability in its favor. J. J. Hisely, author of "Le Comté de Gruyère." BIBLIOGRAPHY _Histoire du Comté de Gruyère._ J.-J. Hisely. 1851, Lausanne. _Monuments de l'Histoire du Comté de Gruyère._ Abbé Gremaud. _Mémoires et Documents_ publiés par la Société d'Histoire de la Suisse Romande. Vol I à VII, IX, X, XI. 1838 à ce jour. _Die Gräfin von Gruyère_, de Rodt. (Der Schweizerische Geschicht Forster. Berne, 1847.) _Die Schweiz in Ihren Ritterbürgen._ Berne, 1828. _Tableaux Historiques de la Suisse._ Vol. I, abbé Girard. Premier tableau, Gruyère. Carouge (Léman), 1802. _Le Conservateur Suisse._ Lausanne, 1857. _Courses dans la Gruyère._ Hubert Charles. Paris, 1826. _Souvenirs de la Gruyère._ Auguste Majeux, Fribourg. _Notice Historique sur Gruyère._ J.-H. Thorin, Fribourg, 1882. _La Contrée d'Oron._ Ch. Pache. Lausanne, 1895. _Histoire de Charlemagne_, suivie de l'Histoire de Bourgogne. 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45560	----	[Illustration: THE DENTS D'OCHE, SAVOY ALPS.] _Beautiful Europe_ _The Lake of Geneva_ _By Joseph E Morris_ [Illustration] _A. & C. Black, Limited. Soho Square London W 1919_ LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 1. THE DENTS D'OCHE, SAVOY ALPS _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE 2. THE JURA RANGE FROM THONON, HAUTE SAVOIE 9 3. GENEVA FROM THE ARVE 16 4. SUNSET ON MONT BLANC FROM ABOVE GENEVA 25 5. THE DENTS DU MIDI FROM GRYON, ABOVE BEX 32 6. THE SAVOY ALPS IN WINTER, FROM THE ROAD TO CAUX 35 7. EVIAN-LES-BAINS, HAUTE SAVOIE 38 8. NYON CASTLE, LOOKING ACROSS THE LAKE TO MONT BLANC 43 9. THE SAVOY ALPS IN SUMMER, FROM VILLENEUVE 46 10. LAUSANNE CATHEDRAL FROM MONTBENON 49 11. MONTREUX FROM THE LAKE: AUTUMN 56 12. CHILLON AND RHONE VALLEY FROM VEYTAUX _On the cover_ THE LAKE OF GENEVA I. Whether you feel sympathy, or not, with Calvin, the theologian, who gave us, at not more than twenty-eight years of age, the epoch-making Christian Institutes, or with Calvin, the inflexible governor, who helped to put to death poor Michael Servetus outside the city wall of Geneva, on the garden slopes of Champel, you can hardly fail to realize at least some transient flicker of interest when you contemplate, beneath its solitary fir-tree, and hard by a clump of box, the small, white, oblong stone--it is less than a foot long, and marked simply with the initials J. C.--that is supposed to mark the grave, in the old crowded cemetery near the Plaine du Plainpalais, of Jean Calvin, the politician and man. The cemetery itself is a little hard to find, for it lies hidden away in a commonplace back-quarter of the city, in a part that is far removed from all that is brightest, and most cosmopolitan, and therefore most familiar, in Geneva. Nor, even when you find it, is this grave of Calvin obvious, lost, as it is, amongst a thousand other tombs which rise in some disorder from amidst an inextricable tangle of daisies and long rank grass, of lady's-smock and dandelions. As happens almost always in old burial-grounds in Scotland, there is here an eloquent lack of Christian symbols: Catholics are buried here as well as Protestants, but the spirit of iconoclasm is none the less supreme--plenty of broken columns, of import purely Pagan, but never, I think, the Cross, lest it savour of superstition. This, too, was Wordsworth's experience in the burial-ground at Dumfries: "'Mid crowded obelisks and urns I sought the untimely grave of Burns." Yet here, in this half-forgotten old graveyard, where Calvin was laid to rest when not quite fifty-five years of age, at least there is none of that nightmare horror that broods over Knox's cenotaph in the Necropolis at Glasgow. Calvin and Knox! We group the two in fancy when we stand here in this silent spot, on the edge of that same Geneva--how transfigured to-day in outward aspect not less than in mental outlook!--where Knox once ministered for more than a year in the little church of the Auditoire, and where Calvin once ruled with a rod of iron. At any rate this sombre old burial-ground, when so much else in the Geneva of to-day is almost aggressively gay and modern, is surely not unfitted for the last repose of a spirit so austere, and of logic so relentless. And this is what is written above the entrance: "Heureux ceux qui meurent au Seigneur. Ils reposent de leurs travaux et leurs oeuvres les suivent." Calvin, indeed, is inseparably connected with the greatest moment in Geneva's history. His rule for nearly a quarter of a century of this little city state is chosen by Lord Morley in his Romanes lecture at Oxford in 1897 as an outstanding illustration of what can be accomplished by moral forces in the absence of giant armies and big guns. It is impossible, in fact, to think of historical Geneva without thinking of Calvin, though Calvin himself was by birth a Frenchman, and hailed from the sleepy little city of Noyon (the German guns have spared it), in the department of the Aisne. Rousseau, on the other hand, though Genevese by birth, seems to belong more properly to the French Revolution, and to France. The tall, white tenement where the future author of the "Contrât Social" lived as a child may still be seen in the St. Gervais quarter, on the right bank of the river, at the junction, if I recollect rightly, of the present Rue Rousseau with the Place de Chevelu, in close proximity to a modiste's establishment and to a shop for the sale of fishing-tackle, and virtually, if not wholly, within sight and hearing of the music and blue swiftness of the Rhone. Actually, however, he was born in his maternal grandfather's house, which has since been pulled down, in the Grande Rue, towards the summit of the hill that is crowned by the Cathedral, in the high-town of Geneva. The old workman's quarter of St. Gervais is perhaps seldom visited by Englishmen, though everybody skirts it, perhaps half-a-dozen times a day, as they traverse the very modern Rue du Mont Blanc on their way to the main railway station, or to the splendid new Hôtel-des-Postes. Yet its eighteenth-century streets--this is possibly their date--are at least as full of interest, and are certainly far more typical, than the Parisian-like blocks of new houses that front the modern quays. If you want to realize the aspect of old Geneva properly, before the advent of the railway and the hordes of modern trippers, you should study the curious model now preserved in the splendid new Musée d'Art et d'Histoire, in the Rue des Casemates. Then it had no front, in the ordinary sense, towards the lake; and the islands in the Rhone were laden with quaint old tenements. Moreover, the whole city was then surrounded by a ring of many-angled fortifications in the familiar manner of Vauban. [Illustration: THE JURA RANGE FROM THONON, HTE. SAVOIE.] If the actual birth-place of Jean Jacques Rousseau in the Grande Rue has perished, no better piece of luck has befallen the house, at No. 11, Rue des Chanoines (now relabelled Rue Calvin), in which Calvin, as recorded by an existing tablet, resided from 1543 to his death in 1564. To find authentic associations with Calvin we must pass into the former Cathedral, now the Protestant Church of St. Pierre, where is still preserved a chair on which he is said to have sat to preach. The Cathedral itself, however, is his truest monument, for in this he constantly preached, and in this he delivered judgment. This last is a grand old Romanesque pile, with transeptal towers like those at Exeter; but sadly disfigured externally by an atrocious, Classical, eighteenth-century west front. This, with its Corinthian pillars, might be well enough elsewhere, but is quite out of keeping, like the west front at Fécamp, in Normandy, with the older work behind. It must also be acknowledged that here, as at Lausanne, the austere Calvinistic furniture is wholly out of keeping with an interior that was obviously intended for elaborate Catholic ritual. In a very odd position, at the south-west corner of the nave, is the striking fifteenth-century Chapel of the Maccabées that was built in 1406 by Cardinal Jean de Brogny, who was Bishop of Geneva between 1423 and 1426. The curious name is met with again as far away as Amiens, and may possibly derive from "macabre," the Chapel of the Dead: Brogny, indeed, is said to have built this chapel with a view to his own future interment. In the body of the church there are really several points to notice, though at first its general aspect is repellently cold and bare. In the chancel and south nave aisle remain a number of old stalls with misericordes, one of the last of which is unexpectedly carved with a frog. Other stalls have canopies, apparently much restored, the backs of which are sculptured with figures of Prophets and Apostles, greatly recalling those in the not far distant French cathedral of St. Claude. Included among the rest are David and the Sybil, who was credited with prescience of the coming birth of Christ: "Teste David cum Sybilla." In a chapel on the east of the south transept is the tomb, with a modern statue, of Duke Henri de Rohan, the Protestant leader, who was slain at the battle of Rheinfelden in 1638. The church has, of course, been stripped of its ancient coloured glass, for we can hardly suppose that Calvinistic Geneva of the sixteenth century lacked its local "Blue Dick" or its incorrigible William Dowsing; but luckily two splendid windows have somehow escaped, and are now in safe possession in the Musée d'Art et d'Histoire. One is a large figure of St. John the Evangelist, and another of St. Julian or St. James-the-Less. Preserved in the same collection are two fifteenth-century bench-ends, and a fragment of broken stall canopy, that come also from the Cathedral. Everyone should climb to the top gallery of the great south tower, for there, on a fine day, we are best in a position--it is the highest spot in the whole city save the adjoining leaden flèche--to study the topography of Geneva and the surrounding country. Geneva, we then see, though different from towns, such as Luxembourg, Richmond, or Le Puy, whose actual site and immediate environs in themselves are striking and beautiful, is none the less set in the heart of a general landscape which for varied splendour and loveliness is hardly to be rivalled by any other great city--and not at all in my experience--in the western half of Europe. Immediately to the east spread the waters of the lake, intensely and uniquely blue, and dotted perhaps with the graceful lateen sails that are only found here, on Lac Leman, and again on the Mediterranean. Owing to the direction at this point of the axis of the lake (more or less to the north-east), which points directly at the heart of the great central plain of Switzerland, between the Jura and the Alps, the distance is closed along the water by no lofty chain of hills, but merely dies away into flat and fruitful vale. To the left of the lake, however, appears the noble limestone escarpment that constitutes the eastern boundary of the Jura, stretching for nearly half-a-hundred miles, like a vast blue wall, from its commencement on the Rhone, below the city, in the neighbourhood of Bellegarde, far away to the north-east, in the direction of Neuchâtel. The position of Bellegarde itself is roughly fixed by the great fort at Ecluse, seen clearly on its hill above the narrow glen of the Rhone; for at Ecluse (well named, like Cluses, on the Avre, for the word means strait, or narrows) Jura and Alp come close together, and confront one another menacingly across the contracted gorge of the Rhone. The spot is almost exactly paralleled in England by the deep valley between Tebay and Lowgill, which is also threaded by a great trunk railway, though it happily needs no fort; and where the Lake mountains and Howgill Fells, which are out-liers of the so-called Pennine chain, similarly confront one another across the shallow stream of the Lune. Commencing then at Ecluse, where Jura challenges Alp, the line of the lower Alps may itself be slowly traced, as we slowly turn our faces, past the Grand and Petit Salève, which tower so immediately above Geneva itself, and so grandly, with their long, parallel belts of gleaming white limestone precipice, as we approach it from the lake; past the broad, rich valley of the lower Avre, which at this point opens deeply into the mountain bosom of Savoy; to the spot where the richly wooded Voirons sinks gently to the azure waters of the Lake. This, if the day be dull, or the distance indistinct, is roughly the view that the eye commands from the Cathedral tower across the old brown roofs, immediately below us, of the upper city of Geneva, and across the battalion of bright, white villas that gleam from suburban woods. Contrariwise, if the day be clear--and the number of such days in this sunny climate is astonishingly great--the whole landscape, at any time so beautiful, is embellished and transfigured by the presence of one grand object, that hangs so high in heaven, though forty miles distant in a bee-line, and that gleams so white and ætherial, that one almost hesitates for a moment whether to address it as cloud or mountain. For there, almost due south-east from Calvin's city, though one doubts whether Calvin's inward-brooding eye ever brightened at its prospect, or ever heeded it more than carelessly; there, in distant magnificence more supreme, and in majesty of height more completely realized than is experienced to my knowledge in the case of any other great hill in Europe (save only by Monte Rosa possibly, as seen between Milan and Pavia); there, with its glorious central dome enshrouded in deep masses of overwhelming snow, and even from this distance those snows are palpably deep and overwhelming, and not to be confounded for a moment with mere thin and transient sprinkling; there, towering above its immediate satellites with a complete and unquestioned supremacy that is never felt when we see it fore-shortened, as most people come to see it, in the naked valley of Chamonix; there, giving unity and perspective to the whole vast and varied panorama, is the dominating presence of Mont Blanc himself, even at this great distance still patently a king. There is a passage in _Præterita_, recalling one in Wordsworth, in which Ruskin describes his pure delight as a boy in the presence of the hills, without seeking further to read their lesson, as Wordsworth learnt to read it, and afterwards Ruskin himself, in the light of "the still sad music of humanity." "St. Bernard of La Fontaine," he tells us in the chapter headed "Schaffhausen and Milan," "looking out to Mont Blanc with his child's eyes, sees above Mont Blanc the Madonna; St. Bernard of Talloires, not the Lake of Annecy, but the dead between Martigny and Aosta. But for me the Alps and their people were alike beautiful in their snow and their humanity; and I wanted, neither for them nor myself, sight of any thrones in heaven but the rocks, or of any spirits in heaven but the clouds." Immediately round the Cathedral, on the crest of the old acropolis, clusters most of what is still left in Geneva of the ancient city state. City state, in truth, it was, rather than capital, like Sion or Berne, of a canton: the territory, in fact, of Geneva was always insignificant, and merely a civic adjunct--a hundred odd square miles, or so, of suburban orchard, or garden. The Canton of Geneva, in short, was subordinate to the city, and never the city to the canton. "Quand je secoue ma perruque," said Voltaire, "je poudre toute la République." [Illustration: GENEVA FROM THE ARVE] Of ancient municipal buildings, perhaps the most interesting is the Hôtel-de-Ville, which exhibits a picturesque Renaissance staircase or inclined plane. Opposite is the old Arsenal, with its outside paintings--a feature that is typically Swiss. We have noticed already the sites of the old houses that were associated respectively with Rousseau and Calvin in the Grande Rue and the former Rue des Chanoines. At the foot of the latter thoroughfare, in the Rue de la Pélisserie, and also marked by a tablet, is the house in which George Eliot resided between October, 1849, and March, 1850. From near the apse of the Cathedral we may descend steeply to the low town along the shore of the lake, either directly, by the Rue de la Fontaine, or, more indirectly, by a network of little streets that cluster round the mediæval church of the Madelaine. The Rue de la Fontaine in itself is worth a visit, with its tall, old, shabby tenements, like those in the old town at Edinburgh. I forget from what fountain it gets its name; but Geneva, like other towns in Switzerland--like every village in fact--is full of them. None, that I know, has the character, or quaintness, of some of those at Berne; but the pretty Swiss custom of decorating them in summer with growing flowers may be noted here with gratitude and pleasure. The modern splendour of Geneva, to which we descend almost reluctantly from the old, grey, upper city on the heights, if certainly very modern, is also certainly very splendid; and leaves us with the impression that the front towards the quays, with its gardens, and palatial hotels, and gigantic cafés, is one of the brightest, and gayest, and most animated scenes anywhere to be met with on the Continent. Moreover, it offers at least one point, where the Rhone, like an arrow from the string, suddenly discharges itself from the blue placidity of the lake, and storms in triumphant volume through the openings of the bridges to swirl past the little tree-shaded Ile-de-Rousseau and the other islands that lie behind it, where even the quiet lover of Nature, to whom gay throngs of all sorts are abhorrent, may feed his soul as completely with splendid, natural spectacle as anywhere among the torrents and glaciers of the remotest and most secluded valleys in which this magnificent stream has origin, and from which it descends in thunder, but never in purity like this, to traverse the whole Canton of the Valais from end to end, and to repose at length in quiet in the lake. To lean across the west parapet of the Pont-du-Mont Blanc at Geneva, and to gaze down into this deep volume of absolutely transparent and deep ultramarine water that shoots forward with Alpine strength and lightning-like rapidity, and is only broken into sheets of seething, delicately sky-blue foam at the point where its majestic impetuosity is arrested by the dams of the electric works, is to come face to face with just such a combination of natural force and loveliness as is nowhere, I think, to be found in Britain, and perhaps at few spots in the Alps. The extraordinarily deep-blue colour of the Lake of Geneva, and of the Rhone where it first emerges, and before it is polluted (alas! in half-a-mile or so) by the influx of the grey and glacier-stained Avre--till the last state of the Rhone, below Geneva, is no better than its first, above Villeneuve--has been the subject of comment and learned inquiry, but has never, unless I mistake, been satisfactorily explained. Most other Alpine lakes, whether in Switzerland or Italy, are deep, or emerald, green: and emerald, or deep green, are the strong rivers that discharge from them--the Linth from Zurich, or the Reuss at Lucerne, or the noble Aar that lends grace to Thun. Tennyson tells us how Guinevere and Lancelot rode together in the may-time woods "Over sheets of hyacinth That seem'd the heavens upbreaking thro' the earth;" but to sail on a sunny day on the waters of Lake Leman is to sail on the perfect blue of heaven itself. This exquisite phenomenon then, which has been compared with the tender, suffused blue that is seen when looking down into the depths of a crevasse, has never been accounted for, though theories are not lacking in profusion. And not only is this nascent river the most beautifully coloured and transparent thing on earth--every pebble at the bottom is visible through I dare not guess how many feet of depth--but its surface is also the most lustrous in the world. Even at night, when the moonlight glances on its water, or at least the electric lights on the promenade and bridges, this quality of lustre, and to some extent of colour, still remains proudly visible, when other rivers, if still lustrous, would be black. In daylight, too, this bridge is a pleasant spot to linger on, not merely for joy of the crystal depths below, but for joy of the scene above. Nowhere, I think, is Geneva seen to better purpose than hence: to the left the towers of its ancient Cathedral, high on their crowded hill above the stream; in the centre, the Ile-de-Rousseau, with its picturesque clump of trees; and to the right, above more old houses, the long blue wall of Jura, lofty enough and abrupt enough wholly to hold the eye, till, turning with an effort, we cease to sigh for Jura, because there, though at greater distance, are the altogether more dazzling splendours of the Alps. Next to the ex-Cathedral the best object of artificial attraction in Geneva is undoubtedly the new Museum of Art and History. Few provincial collections exceed, or even rival, it in the interest of their specimens or their excellence of arrangement. Here, in addition to the remains of glass and wood-work, already mentioned, from St. Pierre, are several relics--ladders, helmets, a banner, etc.--of that famous Escalade by which the Duke of Savoy--always an uneasy neighbour to Geneva--attempted to take the city by stealth, and did in fact nearly succeed in taking it, during the night of December 11-12, 1602. Calvin had been already nearly forty years dead (in 1564), but his old friend and disciple, Theodore Beza, in whose arms he had expired, and who, like Calvin himself, was by birth a Frenchman, was still living in Geneva, though then eighty-three years old; and it was Beza who gave out the next day, in public thanksgiving in church, the one-hundred-and-twenty-fourth Psalm ("If the Lord Himself had not been on our side") that is said ever afterwards to have been sung on the anniversary of the Escalade. Stored with these relics in the basement are some important specimens of thirteenth-century glass, or even earlier. But perhaps the chief value of the museum is to be found in the cases upstairs, with examples, bronze and iron, of the pre-historic ages. Here, in addition to the usual celts, daggers, spear-heads, etc., that one finds in all collections of the sort, is a really wonderful assemblage of bronze bracelets, pins, knives, and razors from lake villages; whilst the Iron Age is represented by tridents, shears, safety-pins with spiral springs, choppers with hooked points, and reaping-hooks, many of which exactly resemble those still in use at the present day: the persistence of shape is really marvellous. Here too are long, deadly pins, with big bead heads, precisely like those that women still stick through their hats to-day, though the world is more than two thousand years older. Here too are human tibia bones, each with its four bronze anklets still _in situ_, and here is one end of a "dug-out" canoe that was found in the lake, at Morges, in 1878. Some museums of this sort are distinctly dismal; but this at Geneva is so rich in this particular direction, and so admirably marshalled, that even those who are little interested in origins will not regret an hour's loss of sunshine on lake and hill. [Illustration: SUNSET ON MONT BLANC, FROM ABOVE GENEVA.] II. I suppose one is justified, or even compelled, in writing even a short sketch, such as this, of Geneva and its lake, to say something of the valleys that penetrate southward from its basin into the mountain highlands of Savoy. The man is to be pitied who can gaze at the distant snows of Mont Blanc, or the Aiguille-du-Midi, from the quays at Geneva, yet is stirred by no violent passion to view them at closer quarters: who can linger by the junction of blue Rhone and turbid Avre, where the streams for a space flow parallel, but do not consent to mix, yet experiences no impulse to track up the Avre itself to its majestic source, where it issues in volume and thunder ("magno cum murmure montis") from the foot of the Mer-de-Glace. Few writers, in short, on Geneva fail to conduct their readers to the bleak upland vale of Chamonix; where they may worship "at the temple's inner shrine" what they have worshipped so long at a distance, in the Galilee, or vestibule. I do not, however, propose to expend a deal of space in dealing with the usual line of approach to Chamonix by way of Bonneville and the Baths of St. Gervais, or even on Chamonix itself. Nearly thirty years ago, when I first travelled between the two towns, but in the reverse direction, it was necessary to drive by diligence the whole distance between Geneva and Chamonix: now the journey that took formerly a whole long summer day is easily effected in a few short hours, and the old, leisurely, unrestricted view from the coupé of the diligence is bartered away for a series of flying glimpses--and hardly that, if the compartment is full--framed for half a minute, and lost before fairly realized; seen, like the film of a cinematograph, amid surroundings equally stifling and dull. From St. Gervais, it is true, where the ordinary railway terminates and the electric line begins, you may stand, if you like, on the open platform at the end of the little carriage, and marvel thence, as you mount steeply, at the depth of the wooded gorge below you, and at the fierce waters of the Avre, and look back at the bare, brown, limestone precipices of the colossal Tête-à-l'Ane, or forward to the more colossal snow-peaks that tower and still tower above you in ever-increasing splendour, till you climb at last to the bare strath of the cold, upland valley that was once the monastic _Campus Munitus_, and are shocked perhaps by the vulgarity and hopeless anti-climax of modern Chamonix itself. Chamonix, indeed, though emphatically no longer a mountain village, is picturesque enough inside in the picturesque French fashion, regarded, as it ought to be, as a mountain "ville-de-plaisir"--as Luchon, for instance, is picturesque in the Pyrenees, or as Mont Dore, among the highlands of Auvergne. Visit the place in spring, when winter-sports are over, and the tide of summer tourists has not yet commenced to flow, or visit it in autumn, when the tide has fairly ebbed, and you may still catch something of the solemn inspiration that filled the soul of Coleridge when he wrote his great "Hymn to Mont Blanc." At other times, I confess, the swarms of well-dressed idlers--they infest the paths to the Flegère, or Montanvert, like droves of human ants, and overflow in aimless wandering the unfenced, communal fields--are hardly less an annoyance than Wordsworth found the ragged children who tried to sell him pebbles when he landed on Iona. The Baths of St. Gervais, moreover, at the bottom of the hill--not the picturesque old village on the slopes above the Bon Nant--have been spoilt of recent years by one of those vast electric "usines" that form so vile a menace to the beauty of the Alps. The strath of this lower valley, from the gorge of Cluses, past Sallanches, to Chedde, can never have been distinguished for its charm. It is one of those lower Alpine valleys that are absolutely flat-bottomed--they look like dried-up marsh--and that are dusty and coarse in all their features, whether natural or due to man: dusty and coarse in their long, straight, unfenced roads; dusty and coarse in their wastes of tumbled boulders; dusty and coarse in their jungle of stunted scrub; in their straggling cottages, and untidy saw-mills; in the very flowers, parched and sun-dried, that survive by the side of their dull, dry roads. They are bordered, of course, by noble hills; but even these look monotonous and garish when seen across a foreground so ragged and entirely flat. Compared with the green valleys of the higher Alps, where the emerald pastures fall in soft curves to the exact level of the stream, and where every scrap of detail is fresh with moss or flower, these hot and arid vales are like the blazing hours of noon, with its pitiless lack of shade, in contrast with the long soft shadows of evening, or the dewy freshness of early morn. Now for all these reasons--the presence of the railway, the electric works at Chedde and St. Gervais, and the dullness of the actual bottom of the valley between St. Gervais and the "gate of the hills" at Cluses--one would scarcely choose to travel by this orthodox route from Geneva up to Chamonix--though fine enough in places, and almost everywhere full of interest--provided one were offered a prettier alternative, and one not otherwise too heavily handicapped in point of greater distance or fatigue. Such a route, in fact, there is, though for pedestrian, or horseman, only, which, beautiful throughout, attains supreme and final excellence in the section that lies beyond Sixt. Probably very few tourists of the annual thousands who visit Chamonix are ever sufficiently adventurous to shoulder pack, or _rucksack_, and thus desert the broad valley of the Avre, with its rather obvious graces, for the shy and retiring loveliness of the valley of the Giffre. The steam-tramway along the road may, I think, legitimately be taken as far as Samoëns, where it ends; for it is at Samoëns that the interest of the walk begins. Sixt, beyond Samoëns, is a charming old village, at the junction of two wild Alpine streams that descend respectively from the Buet (10,201 feet) and the Pointe de Tanneverge (9,784 feet). Here in the Middle Ages was a small Augustinian abbey, the domestic buildings of which are now utilized for a simple, but clean, hotel, and the chapel of which is now the parish church. The dining-room is the old refectory; and painted round the wall-plate of its wooden ceiling may still be read its history: "... hoc opus fecit fieri Hubit' de Mon XI Abbas de Six Ano. Dni. MDCXXII. Deus converset. I.H.S. Maria." From Sixt we ascend through forest by the side of the rushing stream, through a landscape that is enlivened with as many splashing waterfalls as greeted Ulysses and his companions with their music when they came to the afternoon land of the Lotos Eaters. A little below the Eagle's Nest, the pleasant summer home of the late Mr. Justice Wills, the forest virtually ceases, and the road ends altogether; and thenceforward on to Chamonix we have only a mountain track, or mule-path, which mounts at first abruptly by a series of sudden zig-zags, but afterwards for an interval keeps a leveller upland route across wild and desolate pastures that lie round the big mountain tarn known as the Lac d'Anterne, beyond which rise in superlative grandeur, for more than two thousand feet, the giddy, sheer rock precipices of the strangely named Tête-à-l'Ane. All this is very splendid, and every inch of going pleasant; but I have brought you all this distance for a single point of view that bursts suddenly into vision, without warning or preparation. Suddenly, as perhaps you are getting a little tired, or finding the landscape a trifle monotonous, literally almost a single step brings you to a little break in the ridge of the opposite hill, whence the whole majestic chain of Mont Blanc--not only the monarch himself, but his whole range of attendant satellites and regally shattered aiguilles, from the Aiguille du Tour, on the left, to the Aiguille du Gouter, on the right--leaps splendidly into view--such a vision of splintered crags, and snows of dazzling, unsullied purity, and dark hollows of sullen glacier, and plinth of green pasture and forest, as certainly you will not find anywhere else in the Alps, nor, for ought I know, though the scale may be bigger, among Andes or Himalayas. Nor does all this magnificence here rise, as it rises when seen from closer and more familiar quarters, from the Flegère or the Brévent, directly from the foreground of the rather shabby Vale of Chamonix, with its electric railways to Argentière and the Montanvert, and with its unspeakable vulgarity of an aerial flight, or whatever they call their piece of villainy, up the pinnacles of the Aiguille du Midi, and with Chamonix itself in the centre, a mass of obtrusive roofs; but here it springs heavenward from above, and beyond, the long, dark ridge of the sombre Brévent itself, which serves in its comparative humility at once for measure and foil; whilst immediately below us are the dark, unpeopled depths (save for a small, solitary inn) of the upland valleys of the Diosaz and its tributary streams. Around is utter solitude, and wherever the eye can penetrate; and in front this unspeakably splendid chain, revealed in a single second, and viewed in its total length. A man would perhaps do well, who wishes to appreciate to perfection this sovereign of Alpine hills, never to approach it more closely than this crest of the Col d'Anterne. [Illustration: THE DENTS DU MIDI FROM GRYON, ABOVE BEX.] III. In America, I suppose, if you stand in the centre of the Michigan shore of Lake Superior, you can no more make out Canada across the water than a man can make out Normandy though he strain his eyes for ever from Selsey or Beachy Head. A lake, in fact, may be so big that it ceases, for all landscape effect, to be a lake at all, and becomes merely an inland sea. Perhaps the most beautiful lakes of all are those of such modest dimension--yet more than mere ponds or tarns--that you can comprehend their total shore-line from some eminence on their bank, as Buttermere, for example, is comprehended from the slopes of Red Pike, or Loch Lomond, very nearly, from the summit of Ben Voirlich. The Lake of Geneva, from this point of view, is much nearer Buttermere than Lake Superior; but still, in a sense, not whimsical, but real, must be reckoned as much too big. And not only this, but its basin also is a hotch-pot of different kinds of scenery, and of different ranges of hills. It is encradled, as a whole, neither in Alp nor Jura, but lies rather in a plain between the two. It's head, indeed, penetrates superficially into the lower Alps of Vaud; whilst the greater Alps of the Valais, and in particular the noble Dent-de-Morcles, and the yet nobler Dent-du-Midi, guard its upper waters at such a distance that, though really far removed, they appear as we approach to rise almost from its margin, and form an immediate and splendid setting for its reaches above Evian and Vevey. Its southern shore, again, is bordered fairly closely, for almost its whole length, by rugged Alps of Savoy that open behind Thonon to admit glimpses even of the far-away snows of Mont Blanc himself, revealed in crowning majesty beyond the valley of the Dranse. So far, indeed, Lac Leman may be fairly claimed for Alpine; but turn to the opposite shore, and we must tell another tale. From Geneva towards Lausanne the background is formed, though at considerable distance, by the south-east escarpment of the Jura, whose long, level-crested wall of limestone rock--exactly like the long limestone wall of the Pennine hills above the Vale of Eden, or of Mendip above the marshes of mid-Somerset--affords the strongest contrast in the world to the abruptly pointed, opposite, Savoyard summits of the Dent d'Oche or Pointe de Grange, though not without analogy, near the city of Geneva, in the hog-backed ridge of the Grand Salève, which might almost belong to Jura itself. Moreover, this ridge of Jura, which at Geneva itself is not more than some ten miles or so away from the lake, gradually, after Rolle, or Aubonne, in its straight course towards the north-east, trends farther and farther from the lake, which here begins to curve towards the south, so that part of the north shore of the lake, between Rolle and Lausanne, actually abuts on neither Alp nor Jura, but terminates, rather tamely, on the great central plain of Switzerland. Geneva, however, though thus diverse in setting and scenery--for the hill forms of the Alps, to go back again for a moment to our familiar home comparison, are as widely different from the hill forms of the Jura as are those of English Lakeland from those of the opposite Pennine chain--is superbly simple in shape. It is, in fact, an almost perfect crescent, or half moon (save that the south-east horn at Chillon is unduly blunted and truncated), the convexity of which is turned towards the north, whilst its concave face embraces the hills of Chablais, or Savoy. It follows that, in order to appreciate Geneva as a whole, so far as this can ever be achieved in the case of so big a sheet of water, it is necessary to view it from the high ground, and from the vineyards, above Aubonne or Lausanne, which command, more or less imperfectly, both curves of the bending lake. It follows again that Geneva, with this form of extreme simplicity, exhibits none of the mystery and surprises of such highly complex lakes as Lugano or Lucerne: everything here is exceedingly straightforward, and depends for its effect, not on continually new grouping of interlocking ranges of hill, but on the gradual majestic unfolding of a short series of dignified scenes. [Illustration: THE SAVOY ALPS IN WINTER, FROM THE ROAD TO CAUX.] It will be gathered from what has already been said that, for the greater part of its length, the finest shore views of Geneva are commanded from its north, or convex, margin, looking south across splendidly broad stretches of water--opposite Thonon, where it is nearly at its broadest, almost exactly eight miles--to the grandly marshalled Alps of Chablais that tower above the opposite shore. To look northward from this opposite shore, across the water to the Jura and Central Plain, is to contemplate quite a different lake, and one of less superlative degree. It so happens, again, that the north shore is the more interesting of the two, by reason of the succession of ancient and picturesque towns, such as Nyon, Rolle, Morges, and Aubonne--to say nothing of partially modernized Vevey, and of almost wholly modernized Lausanne (which has yet in its Cathedral a jewel of priceless worth), or of castles like Vufflens and Chillon--that stud its immediate shore, or lie barely a trifle inland. The best way, no doubt, to appreciate Geneva is to sail again and again up its gracious sheet of blue; yet no one who has leisure will repent a quiet pilgrimage, best made I think on bicycle, to the villages and towns along its north bank. This pilgrimage we hope to make presently; but for the moment it will be as well to turn our attention to the two gay watering-places of Evian and Thonon (promoted of recent years to be Evian- and Thonon-les-Bains, though an old Murray in my possession, published in 1872, knows them as Evian and Thonon only), and to penetrate a little deeper up the valley of the Dranse to the roots of the rocky mountains that form so grand a background to the lake as viewed from the castle terrace at Nyon, or from the cathedral porch at Lausanne. Neither Thonon nor Evian need detain us long; for, though each has a nucleus of ancient town, each is now rather overwhelmed by its vast and fashionable modern hotels. Respectively they lie to the west and east of the Dranse, which, descending in three separate streams from the highlands of Savoy--the Dranse proper, the Dranse d'Abondance, and the Dranse de Morzine--here pushes out in united delta into the lake. Thonon is the capital of the old Savoyard province of Chablais, and has actually, in excuse of its modern pretensions, a set of chalybeate springs. Evian, however, with water containing bicarbonate of soda, is much the quainter and pleasanter, in its ancient parts, of the two; has also the great advantage, in comparison with Thonon, of being situated farther to the east, and thus commanding nobler views of the mountains above Vevey, and towards the head of the lake; and lastly is distinguished for its pleasant, tree-shadowed promenades by the actual water-side (whereas Thonon is on the cliff above the lake), whence you see across the blue expanse the white houses of Lausanne, clustered in profusion on the sunny slopes of the opposite shore, or twinkling in the twilight with a million electric lamps. No one should quit either Evian or Thonon without making first an "inland voyage" up the valley of the Dranse to visit the quaint little mountain villages of Abondance and St. Jean d'Aulph (_de Alpibus_). At Abondance is a small monastic church, with a picturesque cloister, that dates in its inception from as early as the sixth century; whilst at St. Jean (on the whole less charming) are the very pretty ruins of a little Cistercian abbey that is remarkable in more than one direction--its possession of a triforium and some foliated capitals--for its unusually early departure from the usual architectural severity of the early Cistercian rule. The valley of the Dranse d'Abondance is refreshingly green and pastoral, and is bounded in places by magnificently rocky hills; but it is only towards its head, beyond the Chapel of Abondance, and before reaching the low pass that leads to Morgins in Switzerland, that the sudden apparition of the splendid Dent-du-Midi--pre-eminently entitled, notwithstanding its comparatively low height (only 10,695 feet), to rank in point of form and truly Alpine aspect amidst the giants of the Alps--lifts the whole landscape in a moment to the level of Alpine sublimity. Abondance, though much frequented by French families in summer, has absolutely nothing of the modern fashionable spirit that is rather too apparent at Thonon or Evian-les-Bains. Its inns, though comfortable enough for those who are not unduly fastidious, are still genuine mountain hostelries; and the type of French family life, though possibly wholly bourgeois, that may be studied here in August is amusing and piquant indeed, in contrast with the rather dull banalities of much more fashionable watering-places, such as Vichy or Aix-les-Bains. IV. We come at length to that north shore of the lake which already we have noted with critical preference. We shall penetrate no longer amidst royally wooded hills, nor linger on mossy banks by the side of impetuous mountain streams. Our immediate natural environment, on the contrary, will now be comparatively dull; but by way of compensation we shall have always across the water, provided the day be clear, the massed and tumultuous grouping of those stern and shapely mountains of Savoy, which hitherto we have inspected, in the three secluded valleys of the Dranse, by sample and parcel only (as one cannot see the wood for the number of the trees). Moreover, instead of fashionable Thonon, and perhaps still more fashionable Evian, we have now in rapid succession a series of villages and small towns, along the actual margin of the lake, that are mostly of very old-world aspect, and often of some historical regard. We shall begin, however, by deserting the actual littoral for a short digression inland over the frontier into France, to visit one of those two or three great literary shrines that are connected with Lac Leman, and are not without interest to the student of the French Revolution and of modern thought. [Illustration: EVIAN LES BAINS, HTE. SAVOIE.] From Geneva to Ferney Voltaire is a pleasant jaunt of about five miles. There is a steam-tramway along the road, but this hardly detracts from its agreeable rurality, which is remarkable, as we first quit Geneva, for its number of good and old-fashioned residences, and especially for the abundance and luxuriant growth of the timber along its borders, which is more English-like in character than one usually finds in France. Ferney consists of a single long street of white houses, backed, as we approach it, by the long blue wall of the Jura, towards whose foot we have been steadily advancing ever since Calvin's Geneva was left behind. From Calvin's Geneva to Voltaire's Ferney is a journey, long indeed in the history of human thought, but quickly enough effected on bicycle or foot. The château where Voltaire lived from 1759 to 1777 lies towards the head of the village, and was built, like most of the village, by the philosopher himself. Unhappily, it is shown only in summer, and then only on a single afternoon in the week; but as it is said to have been greatly altered since Voltaire's residence--though his bedroom still remains--little, perhaps, is missed, especially as the front of the house is well seen through the iron gates at the end of the public drive, as well as the little chapel to the left that he raised to the honour of God: "Deo Erexit Voltaire." Whatever view may be formed of Voltaire's religious and ethical opinions, undoubtedly there are aspects of his life to be praised. It was at Ferney that he caused to be educated, under his superintendence, the grandniece of the dramatist Corneille, whom he had "rescued from extreme want," and whom he endowed with the proceeds of an edition of her ancestor's works that he himself was at pains to edit. It was at Ferney, again, that he interested himself so passionately in denouncing the breaking on the wheel of poor Jean Calas by the Parliament and priests of Toulouse. English poets, no doubt, have conspired to present his character in a very unfavourable light. His contemporary, Cowper, writes of him: "The Scripture was his jest book, whence he drew _Bon-mots_ to gall the Christian and the Jew;" whilst Wordsworth styles his "Optimist," or makes his "Wanderer" style it: "this dull product of a scoffer's pen, Impure conceits discharging from a heart Hardened by impious pride." It is fair after this to recall what is said by Mr. Lecky: "The spirit of intolerance sank blasted beneath his genius. Wherever his influence passed, the arm of the Inquisitor was palsied, the chain of the captive riven, the prison door flung open. Beneath his withering irony persecution appeared not only criminal but loathsome, and since his time it has ever shrunk from observation, and masked its features under other names. He died leaving a reputation that is indeed far from spotless, but having done more to destroy the greatest of human curses than any other of the sons of men." [Illustration: NYON CASTLE, LOOKING ACROSS THE LAKE TO MONT BLANC.] From Ferney we return to Switzerland, and the shores of the lake, at Versoix, which impresses one disagreeably as dusty and untidy, though the Duc de Choiseul in the eighteenth century destined it as a rival to Geneva. "A pier was built," says Murray, "a Grand' Place laid down, streets running at right angles were marked out; but beyond this the plan was never carried into execution. Hence the verses of Voltaire: "'A Versoix nous avons des rues, Et nous n'avons point de maisons.'" Probably the streets have been long since grassed up; certainly one does not note them in merely passing through as one notes the streets of Winchelsea (where the town, however, was built, though it since has largely perished). At Coppet, which comes next in succession, but before reaching which the Canton of Geneva is exchanged for Canton Vaud, the village, in pleasant contrast, is entirely delightful, with a little church that faces directly on the street, and that has a picturesque flamboyant west front and a delightful little bell-turret. This sleepy little village is the second literary shrine that we encounter on our pilgrimage along the northern shore of Lac Leman; for here, in the ancient château on the slope above the lake, was the home for many years (between 1790 and 1804) of the famous Monsieur Necker, Minister of Finance to Louis XVI., and the occasional home, both then and later, of his still more famous daughter, the Baroness de Staël. Necker, of course, was Genevois by birth, though German by descent, and even Anglo-Irish. According to Carlyle, he was a man of boundless vanity: "Her father is Minister, and one of the gala personages; to his own eyes the chief one ... 'as Malebranche saw all things in God, so M. Necker sees all things in Necker'--a theorem that will not hold." Madame de Staël is perhaps now best remembered for her letters; but it is worth recalling at this moment, when the German genius has again been weighed in the balance and found wanting, that it was her book of German eulogy ("De l'Allemagne," published in London in 1813) that did for the German genius in France something of the same sort of friendly office that Carlyle himself performed for it in England. She is remarkable, too, indirectly, as the subject of an epigram, as neat in its way, and as cutting, as that which we have cited of her father. Napoleon, when he banished her, summed up her talents in a line (it may well have been unjust): "la manie qu'elle a d'écrire sur tout et à propos de rien." She died at Paris in 1817, and is buried here at Coppet; but I have not sought her grave. The château, at any rate, may be easily found, for it stands high above the town, a picturesque old pile, with the delightful mellow colouring--white walls, with gay green blinds, and vast slopes of soft brown roof--that for some odd reason unexplored is never found in England, but obtrudes itself at every turn in Switzerland, or Italy, or France. It is built round a courtyard, the entrance to which is framed outside with masses of wistaria. From Coppet on to Nyon the way is well enough, with the azure levels of the lake for companion on the right, and with Jura, of a darker blue, like a rampart on the left. Nyon, placed pleasantly just short of the point where the lake broadens suddenly from about three to about seven miles by a huge expansion to the south, and thus at the termination of the so-called Petit Lac, whose littoral we have hitherto followed from Versoix, and less closely from Geneva, is one of those delightful old towns--Rolle and Morges belong to the same category--that lend such grace and character to the Swiss shore of the lake, and have such delightful inland parallels at Aubonne, Morat, and Moudon. Morat, I suppose, though it lacks the glorious lake, and the majestic distant snows, here still visible, of Mont Blanc, must carry away the palm as a triumph of pure mediævalism; but, Morat put aside, there is hardly another small town in Switzerland so wholly delightful as this (the Roman _Noviodunum_) in its charm of situation, or so rich in varied combination of artificial and natural grace. High above the quays rises the old sixteenth-century castle, the residence of the Bernese bailiffs at a time when Canton Vaud was a mere appanage of Berne, though Geneva still succeeded in maintaining her independence. You may reach it from the shore by a multiplicity of ways--directly, by one of the narrow lanes that climb steeply from the lake; or, less painfully, by the broad terrace walk that rises gradually westward below the old town wall, through avenues of tortured plane-trees of the familiar foreign type, to the pleasant Promenade des Maronniers, with its growth of vigorous chestnuts, and its splendid prospect of lake and mountain. From here, or from the sister terrace that lies to the south of the château, the opposite hills of Chablais are now become noble objects: not merely Mont Blanc himself, always and insistently a king, but lesser rocky heights that lack only summer snow--the Dent d'Oche beyond Evian, the Pointe de Grange and the Cornette de Bise (curiously enough, according to some maps--and anyhow there is only a difference of a mètre--both exactly of the same height, and each of them, still more curiously, just exactly 8,000 feet high) on either side of Abondance, and the pinnacled Roc d'Enfer--to justify as attendant squires to their great and peerless king. On the way between the two terraces is passed the parish church, in part, I think, of the fifteenth century, but with traces of Romanesque. The castle itself, on its sovereign brow, is picturesque enough, with its round towers at the corners (but one is octagonal), and its extinguisher, or pepper-pot, turrets--which are found again in Scotland, who borrowed so industriously from France, but never, I think, in England--and with its curious wooden galleries in an additional courtyard to the east. Inside is the town museum, with some lake village antiquities of the Bronze Age, in addition to the usual banalities of stuffed animals and birds: it is perhaps just worth visiting when the door is open, but hardly when you have to get the key. [Illustration: THE SAVOY ALPS IN SUMMER. FROM VILLENEUVE.] From Nyon on to Rolle we still keep closely to the lake, though never on its margin, past unfenced woods at intervals that invite us to step aside to hunt for lily-of-the-valley and Solomon's seal in their "green of the forests' night." Always across the water are the solemn, splendid summits of Savoy: always on our left the level line of Jura, which after Rolle, however, retires from the lake to give place to the central plain of Switzerland, which here debouches on the waters till we meet the Alps beyond Lausanne. Rolle is another quaint old town, consisting chiefly of one long, old-fashioned street, with another typical castle placed at its farther end; but in this case both town and castle are built wholly on the level, on the margin of the lake. The Dent-du-Midi is now visible to the right of the Pointe de Grange, but has not yet assumed the isolated supremacy that it wears presently in the landscape, being partly merged for the moment in the company of hills. A little beyond Rolle a turning to the left mounts slowly up the hill past a lonely little burial-ground, and through the rich vineyards of La Côte, to the upland town of Aubonne. I took this road myself on a mild evening towards the close of April, chiefly because I was drawn to Aubonne by what Byron wrote of it in his Journal under date September 29, 1816. "In the evening reached Aubonne (the entrance and bridge something like that of Durham), which commands by far the finest view of the Lake of Geneva; twilight; the moon on the lake; a grove on the height, and of very noble trees. Here Tavernier (the Eastern traveller) bought (or built) the château, because the site resembled and equalled that of _Erivan_, a frontier city of Persia; here he finished his voyages, and I this little excursion,--for I am within a few hours of Diodati, and have little more to see, and no more to say." I am not sorry that I took this road, for, ever mounting higher, it commands ever wider and wider views of the crescent lake, whose centre we now approach, in both directions, with the glorious Chablais mountains embraced in its noble curve. Aubonne, however, is no more like Durham--I speak, of course, of my own impressions: Byron saw it with different eyes--than any other old town that is perched on the edge of a winding ravine, with a river and bridge at the bottom. Certainly any resemblance it has--I do not admit any--is due to natural situation, and not at all to artificial charm. The parish church, which contains, however, the grave of the great Admiral Duquesne, who is commemorated by a statue in the market square of his native town of Dieppe, is apparently of little architectural interest (I did not get inside), and the castle is of no account at all. Durham to my ignorance has only one real rival, where the great red-brick cathedral and castle of Albi are piled above the Tarn like Durham above the Wear. It is worth your while, however, to make this digression to Aubonne (quite a pretty little town) for the sake of the long ascent from Rolle, through miles of purple vineyard, and for the sake of the journey back to Morges, where we regain the margin of the lake and the main highroad from Geneva to Lausanne. The descent, by way of contrast, is through continuous apple-orchard and meadow, the pink and white blossom floating freely round your shoulders as you pursue the unfenced road in middle spring. [Illustration: LAUSANNE CATHEDRAL FROM MONTBENON.] Morges is another quaint old town, with yet another quaint old castle, and with a glorious view of Mont Blanc, seen in this case in long perspective up the valley of the Dranse, which opens deeply through the heart of the Savoyard mountains on the opposite shore of the lake. It is worth while landing here for a few hours, if only to mount the slopes behind the town, deep with wood and orchard, to the noble old castle of Vufflens, which is perhaps the best of its class in Switzerland. Seen from the surface of the lake--and it is seen thence conspicuously--this has a very modern look, and suggests that the whole building has been grossly over-restored. You never doubt, in fact, that the place is still inhabited, and most likely furbished up to the point of loss of interest. You approach with heavy heart, but are pleasantly surprised to find only part of the pile still occupied, apparently as a farm, whilst the whole is quite unspoilt. The plan is widely different from that of Nyon or Chillon (themselves not really similar), and absolutely unparalleled by anything in Britain. Tower-houses were still built in England as late as the fifteenth century--Tattershall in Lincolnshire is a prominent example--but these were not really keeps; and they were primarily meant, not for places of refuge in the last resort, but principally for residence and comfort. The great fourteenth-century donjon at Vufflens, on the contrary, is plainly intended for defence not less than the Tower of London in the eleventh century, or than Rochester keep in the twelfth. Moreover, this enormous tower--it is one hundred and sixty feet high, and thus again without equal or rival in England, though formerly surpassed by the great cylinder at Coucy-le-Château in France, which was actually about two hundred feet--is girt about its base with four lower towers, or satellites, as though for extra strength: the whole is very grim and menacing. It is built of yellow brick, and everywhere heavily machicolated. The vaulted kitchen, towards the basement, has a very striking fireplace, with a vine pattern running round in a deeply hollowed moulding. A vice, or spiral stair, ascends in the thickness of the south wall, which is thickened out to hold it in the form of a circular turret. Most of the roof is modern; but the visitor should notice the heavy wooden shutters that close the big, segmental-headed openings for hurling stones or shooting arrows, and that run on wheels in wooden troughs, so that a man might discharge his missile and immediately close the aperture ere the enemy could reply. The view, of course, is magnificent, and would alone repay the climb, unless the visitor happens to be giddy-headed. To the south of this great tower lies an open courtyard, and to the south of this, again, is the dwelling-house, or palace. This planning, in my experience, is unique; but there seems to be something like it (I speak only from distant view) at the great country castle of the Bishops of Lausanne at Lucens, which forms so conspicuous and delightful a feature on the hill on the west side of the valley of the Broye between Moudon and Payerne, in that delightful central vale of Switzerland that is perhaps so seldom visited, yet combines such unexpected charm of pleasantly pastoral landscape with such wealth of old-world interest as we find at Avenches (the Roman _Aventicum_), Morat, and Estavayer. I mention these places with less reluctance, though certainly not on the shores of Lac Leman, because they may all be easily visited from Lausanne, and to some degree may even be thought connected with it--Lucens, because the Bishop-Princes of Lausanne (who, like the Bishop-Princes of Coire, were also Electors of the Holy Roman Empire) had here a noble hunting-seat; Moudon, because its lovely thirteenth-century church is supposed to exhibit close analogies to Lausanne Cathedral; and Avenches, because this was actually the seat of the Bishop's stool before this was translated to Lausanne by Bishop Marius in 590. Lausanne itself is now a city of very modern aspect, stretching with its villas in the usual straggling Helvetic fashion--in contrast with the neat compactness of France: Neuchâtel and Bienne are other bad examples--for a distance of nearly eight miles along the gentle slopes of Mont Jorat that impend above the lake, and presenting, as seen from the water, a long line of clustered white houses (not unpicturesque in distant view), crowned by the lofty tower of its beautiful cathedral of Notre Dame. This is a purely residential city, and gives one the same impression as Milan of superabundant prosperity and wealth. These factors, indeed, have proved its ruin--I mean, of course, æsthetically--for the Swiss (they are great iconoclasts) have of recent years remodelled it so drastically that soon, one is afraid, there will be nothing ancient left save here and there a church, preserved like flies in amber. In every direction are fine new streets, with splendid new houses and blocks of tenements. The result, no doubt, will be very magnificent; but Morat is more to my taste, or Payerne. Certain old quarters of Bâle have thus recently been levelled, and Neuchâtel is now almost wholly of modern aspect. A city, no doubt, belongs primarily to the people who inhabit it; they have to live their lives in it, and consult their own convenience; but at least one may be permitted to hope that this sort of civic madness will not hastily lay criminal hands on Geneva, or Berne, or Fribourg. Lausanne itself is built at some little height above the lake, and visitors land from the steamer at Ouchy, which at once is port and suburb. Here, "at a small inn" (then the Ancre, but now the Hôtel d'Angleterre: everything at Lausanne expands to over-maturity), Byron wrote his "Prisoner of Chillon," perhaps the best of his poems in irregular metre, in the short space of two days, whilst detained "by stress of weather," "thereby adding one more deathless association to the already immortalized localities of the Lake." From Ouchy ascend at once by cable tramway, unless you have a particular fancy for perambulating miles of new streets, to the old "cité" on the height; and climb at once to the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Here, standing at the entrance to the great south porch, with its noble Romanesque statuary, and with its glorious views across the water to the splendidly rocky summits of Savoy, you can easily forget the gay swarms of pacing idlers, and even a great bun-shop that for vastness and magnificence (and Lausanne has less than fifty thousand souls!) would strike you with astonishment in Piccadilly or Regent Street. This Cathedral of Notre Dame is of about the same length as Beverley Minster, or King's College Chapel at Cambridge; and is not only a splendid example of thirteenth-century architecture (the classic moment of Gothic), but far and away the finest monument of ecclesiastical art in Switzerland. Protestant since 1536, when its Bishop was deposed--he has now his throne at Fribourg--the interior suffers, of course, from the usual cold and bare austerity that characterizes a Calvinistic place of worship hardly less in Switzerland than Holland. Of recent years, however, it has been lovingly restored, and the lack of Catholic furniture and ritual--I write always from the æsthetic point of view, and never from that of divinity--is perhaps felt no worse at Lausanne, or, for the matter of that, at Geneva, than it is felt in Dunblane or Glasgow Cathedral. Remarkable externally is the north-west tower, with its curious open-work buttresses like those at Bamberg and Laon: remarkable inside are the early sixteenth-century stalls, now misplaced in the south nave aisle; the extravagant complication of the vaulting system in the nave (it is different in almost every bay); the exquisite beauty of the south end of the south transept; and the four or five recumbent effigies, or monuments, of mediæval Bishops that are still allowed on sufferance in this abode of rigid presbyterianism. One of these is said in Murray (but Baedeker ignores it) to be that of Pope Felix V., previously Duke of Savoy and Bishop of Geneva, who retired from the Papal throne to end his days as a mere monk at Ripaille, near Thonon, and died there in the monastery in 1451. [Illustration: MONTREUX FROM THE LAKE--AUTUMN.] Eastward from Lausanne, the hills, now foot-stools of the Alps, drop more immediately to the actual margin of the lake than any yet encountered from Geneva to Lausanne. From top to bottom they are richly dotted with vineyards, with hardly a green field in between; and everywhere among these vineyards, on the slope of the hillside, are innumerable little white villages, with their mellow red-brown roofs, clustered at frequent intervals round a central parish church. Opposite, as we advance, the prospect of distant Alps grows more and more magnificent, as the view opens deeper and deeper, beyond the head of the lake, into the great valley of the Rhone. So we come at last to Vevey, the second town of Vaud, from whose pleasant quay, with its lines of young chestnuts and planes, in the neighbourhood of the Marché pier, is got what is perhaps the last good littoral view, as we journey in this direction, of the glorious head of the lake, without base suburban admixture to disguise and disfigure the foreground. The Marché itself is open to the lake, but enclosed on its other three sides by old-fashioned brown-roofed houses, among which stand out prominent the picturesque open arcades of the Market House, and above which, on the hill, though backed itself by charmingly wooded lines of higher hill, rises the tower of the old town church. To the left, as we look eastward, is the prettily timbered promontory of the Tour de Peilz (the tower itself is visible), which luckily shuts out the long line of villas past Clarens and Montreux; and beyond this, again, the gaping valley of the Rhone opens in unrivalled magnificence deep into the bosom of now considerable Alps, guarded on the left by the sharp, horn-like precipices of the noble Dent-de-Morcles (9,775 feet), and on the right by the still nobler, boldly cut, square summit of the Dent-du-Midi (10,695 feet). The view is one of simple magnificence, not of such involved and complicated hill forms as we contemplate with a different kind of pleasure from the quays at Lucerne, but compounded only of a few grand elements. The lights are always changing on this stupendous mountain range; now the distant hills are intensely blue, now purple, or red, in the sunset; now their summits stand up sharply in an unbroken summer sky, now their edges are blurred by fleecy white clouds, or obscured by golden mists, "curling with unconfirm'd intent," but never static for a moment, or less than unearthly and beautiful. I have spoken deliberately of this grand view from the quays at Vevey as the last good littoral view (and I put the stress on "littoral") that one gets of the lake as one continues on one's journey eastward from Lausanne, or Ouchy, to Chillon. The littoral, in fact, from Vevey as far as Chillon is now virtually a continuous line of huge, flaunting hotels, restaurants, villas, and tea-rooms: not even the French Riviera between Cannes and Mentone, which I take to be the second vulgarest spot in Europe, has forfeited so entirely its original character, or, from the scenic point of view, been so utterly ruined. The line of devastation, it is true, is luckily very thin; and though the hills above Montreux and Territet are themselves loaded at frequent intervals with monster hotels, and laced in every direction with a perplexing network of lifts and mountain railways, it must frankly be confessed that to look at this five-mile-long string of pleasure towns from a distance--as, for instance, from those windows of Chillon Castle that project farthest into the lake--is a much less trying test of temper than to contemplate the glories of the head of the lake with Territet or Montreux for foreground. The destruction of these odd five miles of natural loveliness--and such natural loveliness--forms part of a fierce denunciation by the late Mr. Ruskin, which those who hardly think at all will probably think extravagant, but which seems to others entirely just: "You have destroyed the Clarens shore of the Lake of Geneva." Clarens, indeed, was formerly a place of such exquisite loveliness that Rousseau chose it as the ideal dwelling-place for the heroine of his "Nouvelle Héloïse." "Allez à Vevey," he says in the fourth book of his "Confessions," "visitez le pays, examinez les sites, promenez-vous sur le lac, et dites si la Nature n'a pas fait ce beau pays pour une Julie, pour une Claire, et pour un St. Preux; mais ne les y cherchez pas." Nor was Byron, coming here in 1816, any less enthusiastic. "I have traversed," he writes in a letter of June 27 of that year to Mr. Murray--"I have traversed all Rousseau's ground with the 'Héloïse' before me, and am struck to a degree that I cannot express with the force and accuracy of his descriptions and the beauty of their reality. Meillerie, Clarens, and Vevey, and the Château de Chillon, are places of which I shall say little, because all I could say must fall short of the impressions they stamp." And Byron himself, with the "Héloïse" in recollection, addresses Clarens in the third canto of "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage," in the stanzas beginning-- "Clarens! sweet Clarens, birthplace of deep Love!" which Sir Edward Bridges pronounces "exquisite." Yet not the natural beauty of Clarens itself-- "'tis lone, And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound, And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have reared a throne" --nor the associations with Rousseau and Byron, could save this "little nook of mountain ground" from being sacrificed to the dictates of a thoughtless and idle fashion. "You have destroyed the Clarens shore of the Lake of Geneva." One is glad indeed that the famous Castle of Chillon, with which we must now conclude our perambulation of the north shore of the lake, and the little walled town of Villeneuve, which now, however, notwithstanding its name, seems ancient and venerable indeed in comparison with this gay modernity that pulsates at its doors, should lie just beyond the limit of this land of ruined Edens, and should thus restore us to the right mood in which to take farewell of the Lake of Geneva. Chillon is far from the finest castle, considered merely as a building, in Switzerland (an honour due to Vufflens), nor, in fact, is it even the most beautifully situated (an honour surely due to the crag-perched residence of the old Bishop-Princes of the Valais on the towering rock of Sion). Its chief curiosity of site is the immense depth of water that lies immediately below its walls, which is sometimes said (I cannot vouch for so astonishing a statement) to have been "fathomed to the depth of 800 feet, French measure"-- "Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls: A thousand feet in depth below Its massy waters meet and flow; Thus much the fathom-line was sent From Chillon's snow-white battlement;" but it is due neither to its value as a specimen of military architecture, nor to its charm of situation, nor to this marvel of subterraneous precipice, that Chillon maintains the extended reputation that renders it perhaps the most visited and best known of all the many famous castles of the world. Its cult is rather due to its association with Byron's "Prisoner of Chillon," which was written, as we have seen, in the old Ancre Inn at Ouchy in the short course of a couple of days in 1816. Byron himself has entitled this a "fable," and it has certainly little or nothing to do with the historical Bonnivard, who was certainly imprisoned here for six years, between 1530 and 1536, but was released in the latter year, and subsequently became a Protestant, and married four wives in succession! Byron, however, in the last six lines of another poem--the "Sonnet on Chillon"--has paid a stately tribute to the actual Bonnivard, which will be recalled with interest in the striking, half-subterranean dungeon in which he was confined for more than four years of his captivity: "Chillon! thy prison is a holy place, And thy sad floor an altar--for 'twas trod, Until his very steps have left a trace Worn, as if the cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface! For they appeal from tyranny to God." I do not know whether these footmarks are still visible, or, indeed, were ever visible; but if we choose to imagine them--Bonnivard was chained to the fifth pillar from the entrance--we shall not do much amiss. At least it would be better thus to err on the side of imagination than to imitate the English lady of whom Byron complained when he visited Chillon, not for the first time, on September 18, 1816, that he met her on his return fast asleep in her carriage--"fast asleep in the most anti-narcotic spot in the world." INDEX Abondance, 37 Chapel of, 37 Aiguille du Gouter, 29 du Midi, 23, 30 du Tour, 29 Anterne, Col d', 30 Lac d', 29 Argentière, 30 Aubonne, 48 Avenches, 53 Avre, River, 13, 24, 27 Bellegarde, 13 Beza, Theodore, 21 Bon Nant, River, 26 Bonneville, 24 Bonnivard, 62 Brévent, the, 30 Brogny, Cardinal Jean de, 10 Buet, the, 28 Byron, Lord, 48, 54, 60, 62, 63 Calvin, Jean, 7, 21 grave of, 5 house of, 9 Chablais, Alps of, 33, 34, 46, 48 Chamonix, 15, 25, 30 Vale of, 23, 30 Champel, 5 Chedde, 26, 27 Chillon, Castle of, 61 Choiseul, Duc de, 42 Clarens, 60 Cluses, 13, 27 Coppet, 42 Cornette de Bise, 46 Dent de Morcles, 32, 58 d'Oche, 32, 46 du Midi, 32, 37, 47, 58 Diosaz, River, 30 Dranse, River, 32, 36, 50 Duquesne, Admiral, grave of, 49 Ecluse, 13 Eliot, George, 17 Enfer, Roc d', 46 Evian, 35, 36 Felix V., Pope, 56 Ferney Voltaire, 39 Flegère, the, 25, 30 Geneva, canton of, 16 City, 5-23 arsenal, 16 Auditoire, Church of, 7 Cathedral, 9 glass, ancient, 11, 22 Maccabées, chapel of, 10 stalls, 10, 11 tower of, view from, 12 Escalade, relics of, 21 fountains, 17 Hôtel-de-Ville, 16 Ile-de-Rousseau, 18, 20 Madelaine, Church of the, 17 Musée d'Art et d'Histoire, 9, 21-23 Plaine du Plainpalais, cemetery of, 5 Pont-du-Mont Blanc, 18 pre-historic relics, 22 Saint Gervais, quarter of, 8 Lake of, 31 colour of, 19 Petit Lac, 44 model of old, 9 Giffre, valley of, 27 Grange, Pointe de, 32, 47 Jura, the, 12, 20, 31, 32, 33, 34, 39 Knox, John, 7 "La Nouvelle Héloïse," 60 Lausanne, 36, 53 Cathedral, 55 Marius, Bishop, 53 Montanvert, the, 25, 30 Mont Blanc, 14, 23, 29, 32, 46 Mont Jorat, 53 Montreux, 59 Morat, 45 Morges, 50 Morgins, 37 Moudon, 53 Necker, 43 Nyon, 44 Ouchy, 54, 62 Peilz, la Tour de, 57 "Prisoner of Chillon," 54, 62 Rhone, River, 18 valley of, 57 Ripaille, 56 Rohan, Duke Henri de, tomb of, 11 Rolle, 47 Rousseau, J. J., 60 birth-place of, 8 house of, 8 Sails, lateen, 12 Saint Gervais, 26 baths of, 24, 26 Saint Jean d'Aulph, 37 Salève, Grand, 13, 33 Petit, 13 Sallanches, 26 Samoëns, 28 Savoy, Alps of, 32, 33, 38, 47, 50 Servetus, Michael, 5 Sion, 62 Sixt, 27, 28 Staël, Madame de, 43 Switzerland, central plain of, 12, 33, 34, 47, 52 Tanneverge, Pointe de, 28 Tavernier, 48 Territet, 59 Tête-à-l'Ane, 24, 29 Thonon, 35, 36 "Usines électriques," 26, 27 Vaud, canton, 42 Versoix, 42 Vevey, 32, 57 Villeneuve, 61 Voirons, the, 14 Voltaire, 40 Vufflens, Castle of, 50 BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD, ENGLAND Transcribers' Notes: Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed. Simple typographical errors were corrected; occasional unbalanced quotation marks retained. Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained. This book does not have a Table of Contents. Index not checked for proper alphabetization or correct page references. Text uses both "Genevese" and "Genevois". Page 28: "Ano" and "Dni" originally were printed with overscores above the lower-case letters. Page 42: "a Grand' Place" was printed with the apostrophe. 
45642	----	[Illustration: FLÜELEN AND THE ST. GOTHARD VALLEY.] _Beautiful Europe_ _The Lake of Lucerne_ _By Joseph E Morris_ [Illustration] _A. & C. Black, Limited, Soho Square London W 1919_ LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS FLÜELEN AND ST. GOTHARD VALLEY _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE PILATUS ABOVE A SEA OF CLOUDS, FROM THE BASE OF THE RIGI 9 THE OLD BRIDGE, WITH SHRINE, LUCERNE 16 THE GUTSCH FROM LUCERNE 19 OLD HOUSES AND BRIDGE AT LUCERNE 22 THE SEVEN TOWERS LOOKING OVER LUCERNE FROM THE GUTSCH 25 LOOKING ACROSS THE LAKE 32 PILATUS FROM STANSTAD 43 LOOKING UP THE LAKE FROM BECKENRIED 46 BECKENRIED 51 LAKE URI FROM BRUNNEN 54 WILLIAM TELL'S CHAPEL (FROM A SKETCH IN 1895) _On the cover_ THE LAKE OF LUCERNE I If Lucerne is the most widely advertised lake in the world--if its name, in recent years, has come to be associated, less with ancient gallant exploits of half-legendary William Tells than with cheap Polytechnic Tours and hordes of personally conducted trippers, it has luckily forfeited singularly little of its ancient charm and character, and remains, if you visit it at the right moment--or at any moment, if you are not too fastidious in your claims for solitude and æsthetic exclusiveness--possibly the most beautiful and unquestionably the most dramatic and striking of all the half-dozen or so greater lakes, Swiss or Italian, that cluster round the outskirts of the great central knot of Alps. "Cluster round the outskirts," for it is characteristic of all these lakes, just as it is characteristic of most of our greater English meres at home--of Windermere, for example, or Bassenthwaite, or Ullswater--that, though their upper ends penetrate more or less deeply (and Lucerne and Ullswater more deeply than any) among the bases of the hills, yet their lower reaches, whence discharge the mighty rivers, invariably trail away into open plain, or terminate among mere gentle undulations. Of all this class of lake, then--lakes of the transition--Lucerne is at once the most complex in shape, the least comprehensible in bulk, and the most immediately mountainous in character. The most complex in shape, because, though it is usual to describe this as a cross, yet the cross is so distorted in its lower and major member as practically to lose all really cross-like character, and to remind one rather of a wriggling viper. The least comprehensible in bulk, because there is actually no point on its surface, or on its immediate margin, or perhaps indeed anywhere, whence it is possible to grasp its basin as a whole, as it is possible, for example, in a rough kind of way, to grasp the shape and dimension of such a much larger lake as Geneva from the vineyards in the neighbourhood of Aubonne. The most immediately mountainous in character, because no other big Swiss lake, as already intimated, extends itself so deeply into the heart of giant hills, or is bordered so immediately by steep and rugged mountains. Thus Lucerne gains in surprise and mystery what it loses in simple graciousness; is dramatic and startling where other lakes are tranquil and merely soothing; and is certainly, to sum up, the most splendid and magnificent lake in the Alps, if not the most dignified and beautiful. II Those who approach Lucerne directly by the railway fitly approach the most dramatic of lakes by the most dramatic of vestibules. For those who use their eyes, indeed, there are abundant distant hints of the coming splendour; the Alps are first visible, in tolerably clear weather, as we descend the long wall of Jura on to the Aar at Aarberg; and further on, beyond the peaty flats round the Mauensee, and as we quit the lake of Sempach, Pilatus and Rigi, like two tall sentinels-- "Mountains that like giants stand To sentinel enchanted land"-- come suddenly into view as the railway describes a giant curve, whilst between them, at greater distance, is glimpsed the enchanted land itself, made substantial in the Alps of Unterwalden. Such, too, or something similar, was the young Ruskin's first view of the distant Alps on the Sunday afternoon from the city promenade at Schaffhausen. "Infinitely beyond all that we had ever thought or dreamed--the seen walls of lost Eden could not have been more beautiful to us; not more awful, round heaven, the walls of sacred Death." Yet in spite of these reiterated hints, previsions, and premonitions, when we step finally from the noise, and bustle, and subdued light of the railway-station at Lucerne into the brilliant morning light of the river quays outside, the great vision that then breaks upon us for the first time in its entirety--levels of shining lake, and long, horizontal precipices of wooded Rigi, and beyond, in splendid background, white confusion of shattered Alps, "A thousand shadowy pencilled valleys, And snowy dells in a golden air"-- startles and almost shocks us with the same sense of unearthly wonder as when for the first time in childhood the green baize curtain rolls up suddenly, and we gaze, with child's eyes, straight into the green mysteries of fairyland. [Illustration: PILATUS ABOVE A SEA OF CLOUDS.] This first view, then, of the Vierwaldstättersee from the quays at Lucerne--far more than the first view of Lake Leman from the bridges of Geneva, or of Zurich from the quays of Zurich city--is dramatic in its complete and abrupt transformation, in its turning upside-down, and twisting inside-out, of all our previous conceptions of our commonplace, workaday world! The thing in a way is sensational, but sensational within the modesty of nature, and certainly to be enjoyed at least once in a lifetime, and especially if one happen to be young. If one happen to be older, or has seen the thing before, there is reason good enough to quit the train at Sursee, fifteen miles short of Lucerne, and approach Lucerne thence gradually, on bicycle or foot, by a zig-zag route of gradual introduction that is pursued, I suppose, by hardly anyone, and certainly not by Cook's tourist or Polytechnic student, each of whom has borrowed Atalanta's heels. Sursee itself, though entered by a medieval gateway, has little else to show in the way of particular antiquities. Yet the town itself, in every lane and corner of it, is antiquity itself, and altogether delightful in possession of local colour. This is German Switzerland, and proclaims its Teutonic stamp at every turn: the very gate by which we enter still bears above its arch the double-headed eagle of the Holy Roman Empire. From Sursee inquire your way by the long ascent to the little upland town of Beromünster, where a college for secular canons was founded in the eleventh century. In Murray's invaluable handbook, worth half a dozen Baedekers, it is stated that "the church is eleventh to twelfth century, though much altered in the eighteenth century." The description is misleading, for, though the core may be really old, it is overlaid with later classical work till most traces of medievalism are entirely obscured--the very piers of the nave arcades are monolithic shafts of pink marble. None the less it is well worth visiting, for the sake of its grand Renaissance choir stalls and sunny, silent cloister. Hence to Sempach you may find a pleasant, unfenced lane, through the open pastures and apple-orchards, that falls by easy gradients along the north shore of the placid lake. Sempach is one of the sacred political sites of Switzerland--like Morat, like Morgarten--for here was fought, in 1386, one of those great battles that vindicated her freedom, and linked her name for ever with England's as a synonym for liberty: "Two Voices are there; one is of the sea, One of the mountains." The legend of Arnold von Winkelried, like that of Tell, has been questioned of recent years; it first appears, more than half a century after the supposed event, "in an interpolated notice in a Zurich chronicle (1438 or later), and a popular song of the latter half of the same century." True or false it will bear retelling, and indicates correctly enough the national spirit, even though it err in narration of historical fact. After all, most children know it by heart: how Arnold von Winkelried, finding it impossible by any other means to break the serried Austrian ranks, "For victory shaped an open space, By gath'ring, with a wide embrace, Into his single heart, a sheaf Of fatal Austrian spears." Arnold is said to have come from Stans, where his statue still stands in the market-place; where his armour is still preserved in the Rathhaus; and where it is certain at least that a family of the same name was resident in the neighbourhood at the time of the great fight. His house is also shown on the skirts of the little town--or, more correctly, may be found by those who seek it with much diligence; for though the victory itself is not forgotten in Switzerland, and was, indeed, celebrated with much pomp at its quincentenary in 1886, it is hard to get lucid instructions in Stans itself as to the whereabouts of the national hero's birthplace, or even to authenticate its continued existence. I found it at last--a little old farm in the suburb, "of which one portion, including a low archway with groined entrance and low pillars, may be as old as the time of Winkelried." Sempach itself, like Sursee, is a picturesque old town, with another quaint old gateway. The lake, though five miles long, is quite outside the mountains, though the splintered crags of Pilatus give a distant hint of Alpine splendour. The remaining nine miles or so to Lucerne are perhaps a trifle dull, and the entrance to the city is through the usual straggling suburb--out of all reasonable proportion to the place itself--that conducts us too frequently to a town in Switzerland. III In France I always reckon that a town of less than fifty thousand people is likely to retain untouched its medieval character, or at any rate its atmosphere of the sixteenth or seventeenth century. Exceptions of course occur--I make one in the case of Aix-en-Provence, which seems to have been mostly rebuilt, though in very delightful fashion, as late as the eighteenth century. Mere modern watering-place growths, again, like Biarritz or Vichy, must also be eliminated--they had obviously no character to lose. But apart from towns like these, my general proposition will be acceptable, I think, to anyone who dwells, on the one hand, on places like Beauvais, or Cambrai, or Chartres, or, on the other, on bigger cities, such as Angers, or Orleans, or Tours. In Switzerland, which appears to me, much more than France, to be bursting with prosperity and redundant population, it seems on the whole harder to suggest a general rule. Neuchâtel, for example, with twenty-five thousand people, is virtually a handsome modern town. Berne, on the contrary, with a population of over ninety thousand, preserves its ancient aspect in remarkable degree. Luckily Lucerne, in a middle position, with a population of forty-one-odd thousand souls, leans more to the example of Berne than to that of Neuchâtel or Lausanne. The immediate front to the lake, of course, just as at Geneva, is blatantly new of mode--it is largely, in fact, a conglomerate of palatial modern hotels. But immediately behind--immediately you quit the broad sweep of quays and promenades, and plunge almost anywhere at random into the network of ancient streets--you are able to forget at once, whether you linger in the shadow of the fifteenth-century church of the Bare-foot Friars (the Barfüsserkirche, or Church of the Franciscans); or bask in open sunlight on the narrow quay, at the back of the sixteenth-century Rathhaus, by the side of the green and rushing Reuss; or climb the steep pitch of hill behind the town to the line of ancient walls, with their long line of stately watch-towers (like those at Fribourg and Morat) that stretches with so much picturesque dignity across the base of the blunt angle--so blunt as scarcely to be an angle at all--between the river and the lake; or seek shelter from the glare in the long galleries of the two old wooden bridges, with their mellow red-tiled roofs, that manage to survive across the river--plunge, I repeat, where you will into this labyrinth of old thoroughfares, with their plastered and painted house-fronts, and gaily splashing fountains in courts and corners, and broad eaves that project far across the street, and you are reminded at every step, not of the modern tourist resort of world-wide reputation that is visited by hundreds of thousands of tourists every year, but of that old Lucerne that grew up gradually round the Benedictine monastery that was founded here in the year 750, or thereabouts, by the abbots of Murbach in Alsace, and that gets its name from that St. Leodegar, or Leger, who was patron of the monastery. The monks gave way to a college of secular canons in 1455. Unhappily, of the old collegiate church there are virtually no remains. The twin west spires, indeed, date from the beginning of the sixteenth century, and are good Flamboyant Gothic; but the body of the existing building was erected after a fire in 1633--the date is on the west doorway--and is purely Classical, though quite a good example of its particular style and date. Correspondingly late is the woodwork inside, including the fine stalls in the choir. Other points of interest will be found by those who seek for them: the panels of old glass (one is dated 1650); the ironwork and carving of the great west door; and the two richly sculptured reredoses at the ends of the two aisles, one of which has a Pietà, and one a Death of the Virgin. Even more remarkable is the stately, classical cloister that encompasses the whole church like an Italian Santo Campo. All is very splendid, yet all would be gladly surrendered in exchange for what the relentless flames devoured in 1633. The one is a work of the completed Renaissance--learned, correct, and conscious, but perhaps a trifle cold. The other, we may be certain, though it may have presented to the critic a thousand faults of detail, whispered at least from its dim aisles and chapels "the last enchantments of the Middle Age." The one is the laborious product of the textbook and the studio; the other the inevitable offspring of a vigorous and vital art. The one is the clever expression of an individual talent; the other the collective offering of a people's enthusiasm and faith. [Illustration: THE OLD BRIDGE WITH SHRINE, LUCERNE.] The Hofkirche, then, may be entered casually, examined superficially, and quitted without regret. Time will be better spent in lingering on the old wooden foot-bridges that still span the green and insurgent Reuss at some little distance below its exit from the lake. Formerly there were three; but the longest--the old Hof-brücke--was sacrificed in 1852 to the passion for spurious improvement. Of the two that survive, the Kapell-Brücke is by far the most important, and apparently gets its name from the old St. Peter's Chapel on the north shore of the river, to which it leads diagonally across the clear and voluminous stream. In actual touch with this, but nearer the southern shore, rises the picturesque old Wasserturm, which is said once to have served as a lighthouse (_lucerna_), and to have given Lucerne its name. The Premonstratensian Abbey of La Lucerne, near Avranches, in Normandy, is stated in Joanne's handbook to have got its title from the same source; but the Swiss Lucerne is perhaps better derived (I do not profess to understand by what strange process of corruption) from the name of its patron, Leodegar. Anyhow, this old Water-Tower is a decidedly striking object, and conspicuous in most photographs and pictures of Lucerne, with its typical octagonal cap. Both the two old wooden bridges, as is common in Switzerland, are protected from the weather by open timber roofs; and inserted in the framing of these last is a series of eighteenth-century paintings, representing, in the case of the Kapell-Brücke, scenes from the history of the city, and from the lives of its patronal saints, St. Mauritius and St. Leodegar; and in the case of the lesser Spreuer, or Mühlen, Brücke a late, post-medieval representation of the grim, medieval humours of the ghastly Dance of Death. This strange _memento mori_ was a favourite morality of the Middle Time; Death in the form of a skeleton (Wordsworth's "Death the Skeleton") presents himself in turn to all kinds and conditions of men--in the great series at the old abbey church of La Chaise-Dieu (Haute-Loire) in France to actually not less than thirty-five, now setting his foot with timid determination on the trailing robe of a sacrosanct Pope; now greeting with mocking glance a Cardinal, who averts his head with hasty terror; now dancing with insolent familiarity in front of an aged man; now laying his bony grasp on a troubadour, who lets his mandoline clatter to the ground in access of sudden fear. These are subjects depicted at La Chaise-Dieu; but just the same spirit of gruesome raillery inspires the _danse macabre_ wherever found: "Le pauvre en sa chaumière où le chaume le courve Est sujet à ses lois; Et la garde qui veille aux barrières du Louvre N'en défend pas nos rois." At Hexham there are still four paintings on panel, representing Death with a Pope, an Emperor, a King, and a Cardinal. Browning tells us in connection with the old revellers of Venice how "Death stepp'd tacitly and took them Where men never see the sun"; but the Death of the _danse macabre_ at Hexham, as perhaps always, so far from stepping tacitly, is a grinning and grisly contortionist, writhing his repulsive anatomy into a dozen different shapes of derision. The victims alone have dignity, whilst Death is merely the jester or buffoon. Different, indeed, is the shadowy Death of the Apocrypha--"And I saw, and behold, a pale horse, and he that sat upon him, his name was Death"; or the mysterious, shrouded, blood-sprinkled figure (to couple small images with great) of the Masque of the Red Death. These particular paintings at Lucerne are necessarily small in scale, and perhaps not very legible in the dim recesses of the roof. I have never had the patience to decipher them, nor do they perhaps conform, since so unusually late in date, to the stereotyped convention of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. [Illustration: THE GUTSCH, FROM LUCERNE.] There is just one other spot in Lucerne which ought not to be neglected, and this, though sufficiently far removed from Death in his merely antic aspect--from the Death of "graves, of worms, and epitaphs"--has also to do with Death in his nobler guise, for it is the monument of the twenty-six Swiss officers, and seven hundred and sixty Swiss Guards, who fell in defending the Tuileries and their King on August 10, 1792. "Honour to you, brave men," writes Carlyle, "honourable pity, through long times! Not martyrs were ye; and yet almost more. He was no King of yours, this Louis; and he forsook you like a King of shreds and patches; ye were but sold to him for some poor sixpence a day; yet would ye work for your wages, keep your plighted word. The work now was to die; and ye did it." The monument is fitly a lion, and was hewn out by Lukas Ahorn of Constance, after the model of Thorwaldsen, from a face of living rock; he is pierced by a broken lance and already at point of death, one paw hangs forward limp and helpless, but the other, with claws outstretched, still clutches and guards the Bourbon lilies--a monument of faithfulness to death. The attitude and face of the great lion, "having the most touching expression of broken strength, subdued pain, and courageous self-surrender," are both very grandly conceived. It is sad indeed that the rock itself, though the sculpture is boarded up to protect it from winter frosts, is badly cracked in more than one direction. Closely adjacent to this fine monument, and certainly worth a visit, is the very curious Gletscher Garten, with its wonderful "pot-holes," or "glacier-mills," some of which retain their "mill-stones" still in situ. IV Looking eastward from the quays or the lake at Lucerne across the shining expanses of water to the great background of snow-clad Alps--visualizing those Alps in memory as we sit later on at home, by the side of a winter fire--most of us have probably an impression only of a very lovely, and very magnificent, but also very vague and inchoate, huddle of confused and indefinite hills. The highest peak seen at Lucerne from the Schweizerhof Quay is apparently the Tödi (11,887 feet), supreme at the point, or very nearly at the point, where Uri, Glarus, and the Grisons meet, and next to this in actual dignity is perhaps the snowy Titlis (10,627 feet), which rises above Engelberg, and also belongs, like the Tödi, to a bunch of three converging cantons--in this case Uri, Unterwalden, and Berne. Yet these two giants, with their groups of attendant satellites, are so remote from the margin of the lake itself, and so lost amidst the company of their hardly less magnificent peers, that they strike one on the whole with less impress of overwhelming individuality--associate themselves on the whole less easily with our necessarily blurred and imperfect recollections of the Vierwaldstättersee when the lake itself is no longer seen--than two other striking hills of far less elevation, and in one case of far less noble outline, that yet rear themselves more immediately from the exact levels of the lake, and that stand more or less aloof, in conspicuous isolation, not merely from one another, but from the general confraternity of hills. Wordsworth reminds us in an admirable sonnet how "Pelion and Ossa flourished side by side, Together in immortal books enrolled"-- yet surely not Pelion and Ossa (I have never seen them) dominate Thessaly more insistently, or confront one another with more marked and divergent character across the intervening valley, than Swiss Rigi and Pilatus confront one another across the blue spaces of the Lake of the Four Forest Cantons, or dominate its waters from the exact margin of its shores! [Illustration: OLD HOUSES AND BRIDGE AT LUCERNE] Of these mountain twins of central Switzerland, Pilatus is by far the more imposing, not merely in point of elevation--the Rigi is less by a thousand feet--and immeasurably in grace of peaked and rocky outline, but also in wealth of legendary lore, and even of actual historical significance. Of legend, because Pontius Pilate, according to one account, smitten with remorse after the crucifixion of Our Saviour, ascended these lonely summits in the course of his miserable wanderings, and drowned himself here in the little pool (which is now dried up) on the Bründlen Alp, which lies on the less well-known slopes of the hill descending from the highest peak, or Tomlishorn (6,995 feet), in the direction of the Rumligbach. According, however, to another version, which first appears in the pages of Eusebius, Pontius Pilate committed suicide at Rome; and it was only after a series of strange vicissitudes and wanderings, recalling, though less hallowed than, those of the body of St. Cuthbert, that his corpse was flung at last, like so much carrion, into this little mountain tarn. First it was thrown into the Tiber, but the evil spirit could not rest, and storms and floods that fell upon Rome necessitated its removal to Vienne, near Lyons, where again it found watery burial in the Rhone. Vienne, however, was now visited in turn by commotions like those at Rome; the Lake of Geneva, the next place of interment, proved equally infelicitous; and it was only finally in untrodden solitudes, beneath the grey limestone peaks of the Frackmünd (or _Fractus Mons_), that the hateful body, which earth refused to receive in peace, was suffered at last to hide itself in uneasy but permanent sepulchre. For "even here the wicked spirit could not rest from evil-doing. Storm and rain enveloped the mountain, the lake burst its banks, Alps were ruined, and herds swept away. At last a travelling scholar confronted the ghost, and by his magic forced him to accept a pact by which, on condition of one day's freedom, he was to remain at rest for the remainder of the year. The bargain was kept. The land was at peace, but yearly on Good Friday any shepherd who approached the haunted tarn saw, seated on a throne of rock above the water, a terrible figure clad in the red robes of magistracy." One would hasten to suppose that the story had been invented in explanation of the name; but the name Pilatus (perhaps from _pileatus_, the capped mountain, from its well-known cloud-compelling qualities) is said to date only from the eighteenth century, whilst the story is at least as old as the fourteenth. [Illustration: THE SEVEN TOWERS, LOOKING OVER LUCERNE FROM THE GUTSCH.] So far the realm of legend. The realm of actual history is scarcely less astonishing, and attaches itself to legend by imperceptible ties. It is history that the city of Lucerne in the Middle Ages did actually prohibit the ascent of the mysterious hill: it is history that six priests in 1307 were condemned to several months of imprisonment for daring to visit the forbidden lake. The legend of the pact with the travelling scholar had at least one important variant, for it was believed that by throwing a stone into the pool the spirit could be at any time provoked, and his evil influence set free to work havoc on lake and fell. It was to avert this constant menace at the hands of audacity, or scepticism, that the city fathers promulgated the law by which access to the hill was prohibited. It was only with the Renaissance, and with the birth of the new spirit of rationalism, that the old beliefs became untenable, and that the old terrors were rendered empty--as Gareth cleaves the helm of the silent terror that "Names himself the Night and oftener Death," and reveals inside "the bright face of a blooming boy." The terrors were already grown more than a little threadbare when Conrad Gesner, the naturalist, ascended the mountain in 1555; they must nearly have vanished altogether in another thirty years, when the Curé of Lucerne, "before a crowd of witnesses, flung stones and rubbish into the lake without raising anything more than a ripple." At the bottom, however, of all these wild stories there is a substratum of truth, for Pilatus is really a great brewer of storms, and the peasants of the neighbourhood still prognosticate the weather from the disposition of the clouds upon its summit. Thus Roseberry Topping, in Cleveland, or what greedy iron-masters have left of it, was supposed as long ago as the time of Camden to foretell the coming storm: "If Roseberry Topping wears a cap Let Cleveland then beware of a clap." Roseberry and Pilatus are in other respects curiously analogous; each is of a typically peaked appearance; and each is situated on the extreme edge of the hill group to which it belongs. Pilatus, it may be noted, is now ascended by a railway, and thus heaps of "unappreciative trippers" are now lightly conveyed every fine summer day to the once weirdly mysterious summit, to which the medieval climber won only surreptitiously, and perhaps in awe and terror. It is surely the anti-climax of unromantic common sense. The Rigi, which confronts Pilatus across the lake in such startling dissimilarity, is perhaps the most popular hill in Europe, and is certainly in a sense the most vulgar. It is bad enough that a hill should be desecrated by a single mountain railway: it is intolerable that it should be degraded by three! How many people ascend to the Rigi Kulm on a day of tolerable weather in August from either Vitznau or Arth-Goldau one would hardly dare to guess; how many are housed at night in one or other of the monster hotels--at Rigi Kulm, at Rigi Kaltbad, at Rigi Staffel, at Rigi Scheidegg--that oppress and burden its weary summits is a matter not to be dwelt on. This is not the place to attempt a dissertation on the _quæstio vexata_ of mountain railways. To the writer (who is prejudiced) the thing seems axiomatic: all that goes to make up mountain grandeur, all that is of the spirit, "Of eye and ear--both what they half create, And what perceive"-- all that renders a mountain a mountain, as opposed to a mere elevated mass of matter-- "Of stratified rock Inclined at an angle of xty degrees"-- is gone in a moment when you thus strip a hill of its proper attributes--of its mystery, of its remoteness, of its difficulty of access; and there remains nothing save bulk, which you get in the Great Pyramid; and prospect, which you get from the Eiffel Tower; and a clever bit of engineering (diabolically clever), which is just as well got in the Great Wheel at Kensington. Yet frankly it must be confessed that if something had to be sacrificed to gratify the sensation-mongers, and the lazy, and the impotent, the Rigi might best be immolated. Just this one hill, perhaps, might be spared: but was it necessary to bind to the horns of the altar every other hill of medium size in Switzerland--the Niesen, and the Brienzer, Rothhorn, and the Schynige Platte, and the Beatenberg; to say nothing, on the shores of Lake Lucerne itself, in addition to the Rigi, of the Burgenstock, and Pilatus, and the Stanserhorn; and elsewhere in Switzerland of the deeper crime of the Jungfrau, and in Savoy of the crowning infamy of Mont Blanc? The Rigi, in fact, owing to its peculiar configuration and structure, is less hurt by this eruption of mountain railways than any other mountain in the Alps. The hill is really a whole agglomeration of hills--of which the Rigi Kulm (5,905 feet) is merely the culminating summit--which occupy very roughly the rectangular area that lies between the lakes of Lucerne, Zug, and Lowerz, and are formed largely of horizontal layers of red conglomerate, or pudding-stone, rock. The hill is thus distinctly of the lumpy type of mountain, as opposed to its rival, Pilatus, which belongs to the vertical, or peaked; and owes what beauty it possesses to its long bands of ruddy precipice, down which dangle short spouts of more or less exiguous cascade, and to the solemn masses of dark wood that gird its middle flanks. The towering crags of Pilatus, like tongues of shivering flame, have here no rival in these long, parallel belts of forest, rock, and open lawn, that rise above the lake in stately tier above tier, and are hardly wilder at their summits than along the margin of the lake: "And as the ranks ascend Shade above shade, a woody theatre Of stateliest view." It is not difficult among glades like these for a mountain railway to worm its way obscurely, and to hide its ugly presence beneath the garment of thick woods. [Illustration: LOOKING ACROSS THE LAKE.] It is the fashion to spend the night on the Rigi, and to witness the sunrise next day. The writer has done it once, but the experience was disappointing: it was already broad daylight, and the whole landscape was already coldly visible, when the little group of shivering penitents was marshalled on the summit to watch the up-burst of a sun that itself seemed cold and grey. It may be better worth the trouble if one rises for actual daybreak, or when the sun issues forth more royally from his chamber in the east. On the whole, perhaps, it is better to avoid the Rigi in its stereotyped sensational aspects, and to investigate its secret--for secret to yield it assuredly has--unconventionally, and out of the season. I have crossed its saddle from Goldau to Weggis, between the Rigi Rotstock and the Schild, during the later days of March, when the track by which I climbed was still white with virgin snow. This was, in fact, the old pilgrim path by which devotees once ascended--may possibly still ascend--to worship at the little upland chapel (rebuilt in 1715-21) of Our Lady of the Snow ("Maria zum Schnee"). This shrine is the centre of a little colony, the oldest and quaintest of all that have developed on the Rigi; and just because it lies in a hollow of the summit peaks, and commands no distant views, has escaped the bitter ravages of modern exploitation. The spot is called Rigi Klösterli, because inhabited all the year round by a little group of Capuchin friars from the community at Arth, who dwell in the little hospice and serve the little chapel. This was an old centre for goat-whey cure, and the inns are delightfully old-fashioned of aspect; the whole appearance of the spot, indeed, is full of local character, whereas most other settlements on the Rigi are cosmopolitan and commonplace. The salvation of the place is its utter lack of view: you must scramble up steep grass slopes, towards the south, to the summit of the saddle, to enlarge your horizon in a few steps from a barrier of green hill-side to a prospect so vast that you seem suddenly to have before you all the kingdoms of the earth and the glory thereof. I do not know, indeed, that the actual range of view is greater than that commanded in France from the top of the Puy-de Dôme-- "Si Dôme était sur Dôme On verra les portes de Rome"-- and certainly it is not so majestic as many more restricted views of particular groups of Alps, seen--as mountain views are almost always seen to best advantage--from the slopes, or from the summits, of lesser hills. But except from the marble roofs of Milan Cathedral there is perhaps no other generally recognized and easily accessible point of view from which it is possible, merely by turning the head, to command so long a line of crowding Alpine summits, extending from the Sentis, in the extreme east, to Pilatus in the west, for a distance of roughly one hundred and twenty miles-- "Hill peers o'er hill, and Alps o'er Alps arise." Yet here, when we stand on the crest in unaccustomed solitude in the first stirrings of the spring, when the giant hotels are still mostly shut and empty, and when the high-level railway between the Kaltbad and the Scheidegg is happily obscured beneath icicle and snowdrift, there is yet no intimate revelation of the true inward spirit of Alpine scenery: "The difficult air of the iced mountain's top, Where the birds dare not build nor insect's wing Flit o'er the herbless granite." The Land of Promise lies fair before us; but here, on the saddle of the Rigi, we still linger on the threshold, though the biting morning breeze come, pine-scented, through the forest, and though the musical cow-bells tinkle for ever on the "high mountain pastures, where day first appears." V Of the five great primary divisions of the Vierwaldstättersee--and one is driven, however anxious to preserve the configuration of the cross, to recognize a fifth, and separate, division in the Bay, or Lake, of Uri--of the five great divisions of the Lake of Lucerne, that which extends to the quays of Lucerne itself is the most placid and domestic in respect of actual shore-line. True, there is always a background of lofty mountain, sufficiently magnificent and sufficiently near at hand to impress itself on the landscape as a component, and even dominant, feature; but the actual littoral in this compartment of the lake--and Lucerne, unlike Zurich or Geneva, but to some extent like Como, is literally partitioned into compartments--is softly arcadian in character, with low, gently swelling hills of slight, inconclusive contour, knee-deep with hay and flowers, and shoulder-deep with apple-blossom and orchard. Next, I think, in ascending scale is the Bay of Küsnacht, so called from the big village at its head. The north-west shore of this is again of mildly pastoral character; but directly from its south-east margin rise the deep, dark woods of the Rigi, supplying that hint of real Alpine sublimity--it is still merely a hint--that is wholly absent from the immediate shores of the little Lucernersee strictly so-called. The road from Lucerne to Küsnacht, where it skirts this bay beyond the big, scrambling village of Meggen, is one of the pleasantest view-points within easy touch of Lucerne whence to enjoy across the water the noble mountain background that screens the south shore of the main lake. On a mild spring evening, when this splendid landscape is an ætherialized study in black and white; when the snowflakes and cowslips are pushing up in thousands through the quickly growing grass; when the host of margent rushes scarcely quivers in the stillness; and when the opposite mountains are reflected without a ripple in the calm and silent lake, it is hard to believe that all this exquisite beauty, which seems so unearthly and unexplored, is really the much boasted, much advertised, much visited "Lovely Lucerne"--it is difficult to realize that the paddle of a steamer ever churns this unruffled mirror, or that the harsh whistle of the ascending locomotive ever wakes the echoes on steadfast Rigi. Those who visit Lucerne only in the deadly oppression of the high season, when every lake-side quay swarms like an ant-hill, and every village rings like Babel, are apt to carry away wrong impressions of this still absolutely unimpaired lake. The playground at seasons is densely packed, but the place has received no permanent wrong; those who can reconcile Nature and a crowd will be happy here even in August, when "All Bedlam or Parnassus is let out;" those, on the other hand, who seek the mountains, not exactly perhaps in the spirit of Manfred, but at any rate in Manfred's happier mood-- "No eyes But mine now drink this sight of loveliness; I should be sole in this sweet solitude"-- will easily find solace here in early spring, or late autumn, when the place is like a desert. No one has done the place a permanent wrong. Who can claim as much for the holly steeps of Windermere--for the distorted Clarens shore of Lake Geneva? Küssnacht itself is a large, typically Swiss, village, at the foot of the low pass--yet altogether too low to be dignified by the name of pass--that at this point intervenes between the basins of Zug and Lucerne. The place has this significance, that here for the first time, as we perambulate the lake, we encounter spots associated with the legend of William Tell. I suppose one must call it legend, and concede so much to the "higher critics," though Ruskin's clarion anger rings loud and clear. "A sort of triumphant shriek, like all the railway whistles going off at once at Clapham Junction, has gone up from the Fooldom of Europe at the destruction of the myth of William Tell. To us, every word of it was true--but mythically luminous with more than mortal truth.... The myth of William Tell is destroyed forsooth? and you have tunnelled Gothard and filled, maybe, the Bay of Uri--and it was all for you and your sake that the grapes dropped blood from the press of St. Jacob, and the pine-club struck down horse and helm in Morgarten glen?" If the history of William Tell itself is unauthentic, we must not demand authenticity for its visible memorials and sites. Gesler's Castle above Küssnacht--or the fragments that remain of it--certainly never belonged to Gesler; whilst the chapel at the head of the Hohle Gasse, or Hollow Way, was certainly rebuilt in 1644, and did not exist at all at the end of the fifteenth century. This is the traditional spot where Tell, after escaping from the boat at the Tellsplatte, and running by way of Schwyz and the back of the Rigi, waited for Gesler on his return from Altdorf, and shot him dead with his terrible cross-bow before he could reach his castle-gate at Küssnacht. It is worth the traveller's while to press on a mile or two further in the direction of Arth, though this is to exchange the basin of the lake of Lucerne for that of the lake of Zug. The Zugersee lies almost at once beneath us, at a slightly lower level (roughly sixty feet) than the Vierwaldstättersee, and altogether of more placid and softer character--a pleasant thing to look at in the tender evening light, with its shore line embowered amidst orchards and deep rich meadows, and dotted in every direction with peaceful farms, but destitute of mountain grandeur, save immediately towards its head, where the dark forests of the Rigi, towards the west, and of the Rossberg, towards the east, open a gloomy "Gate of the hills," beyond which, though really above Schwyz and the little lake of Lowerz, the tall, bare rock pyramids of the Great and Little Mitre (Gross and Kleine Mythen) tower up in cleft magnificence above the cradle of Swiss freedom. As to the story of William Tell, this, alas! has gone the way of our own tales of Robin Hood (whom Mr. Sydney Lee dismisses as a "mythical forest elf") and his Merry Men of Sherwood Forest. The legend first appears in the manuscript "Weisses Buch," so-called from its white binding, that is still preserved at Sarnen, and which was written between 1467 and 1476; and in the poem called the "Tellenlied," which dates from about 1474. Tell, however, is supposed to have lived at about the commencement of the fourteenth century. There are certainly some scraps of evidence that suggest in combination that the later Tell myth (as, for that matter, are presumably most myths) is based on some substratum of solid historical fact. Thus, there is said to be evidence that a religious observance of some kind was instituted in connection with Tell in the place where he lived in 1387; and it is stated, though not earlier than 1504, that a chapel was erected on the Tellsplatte, as the country people believed in commemoration of the landing there of William Tell, in 1388. The story as now commonly reported--that Tell refused to do obeisance to the Austrian Arch-duke's cap at Altdorf; that he shot the apple off his son's head at the brutal bidding of Gesler in the market-place of the same town; that he afterwards escaped from Austrian custody by springing from the boat to the shore at the Tellsplatte during the onset of a sudden squall; and that he shot the tyrant through the heart as the latter neared his castle hall at Küssnacht--first assumed its present form, in which it has been dramatized by Schiller, at the hands of Tschudi of Glarus, in the first half of the sixteenth century. Even as early, however, as the close of this same century the very existence of William Tell had been questioned by Guilmann in his _De Rebus Helveticis_. Voltaire was duly sceptical as to the story of the boy and the apple ("l'histoire de la pomme est bien suspecte"); but the patriotic faith of Canton Uri was still sufficiently strong at the close of the eighteenth century to consign to the flames at the hand of the public hangman the sceptical "Guillaume Tell; fable danoise." The result, however, as expressed curtly in Murray's handbook, is that Tell has been banished from authentic history. Exactly similar legends or sagas of the tenth century are found in Norway, Denmark, Iceland, Holstein, and on the Rhine; and our Clym of the Clough shoots at an apple on his son's head-- "But Cloudesle cleft the apple in two, His son he did not nee'." Thus William Tell, like Arnold von Winkelried, recedes into the dim borderland of legend and history. After all, it is no irreparable loss. The individual Arnold, the individual Tell, were units merely of the great company of authentic, unnamed heroes who smote the Austrian tyrant at Sempach and Morgarten, who triumphed against the Burgundian at Grandson, Morat, and Nancy. The third division, in still ascending scale of mountain grandeur, of the Lake of the Four Forest Cantons is that which extends south-westward from the intersection of the cross, and is known--certainly towards its extremity, and perhaps throughout its length--from the little village at its head as the Lake of Alpnach. Here the general effect is more definitely mountainous than that which has awaited us in sailing the two previous compartments: Rigi is now exchanged for Pilatus as the presiding genius and dominant monarch of the scene; whilst the Alps of Unterwalden, and, beyond the low pass of the Brünig, the greater Alps of the Berner Oberland--the triple Maiden, Monk, and Giant--the Peak of Storms, and the Peak of Shrieking--at last supply that mountain background which everyone must have missed when looking up the water towards Küssnacht or Lucerne. The Oberland giants, it is true, are set at too great distance to impress the eye, however much they may affect the imagination, with the same sense of impending mountain majesty as we find in the Bay of Uri; but Pilatus and the Stanserhorn are both immediate and splendid objects; whilst even the dark, pine-clad crags of the little Bürgenstock, which is literally, like Catullus' Sermio, "all-but-island"--for it needs but the raising of the lake a very few feet, and the consequent flooding of the low isthmus between Stans and Buochs, to complete its insulation--push out into the lake with an assertive individuality that is wholly out of keeping with their relatively insignificant height (actually less than four thousand feet). Roughly half-way up, at a point where the lake is narrowed to the dimensions of a river by the sudden, sharp intrusion of the tall black cliffs of the Lopperberg (a footstool of Pilatus), the strait thus strangely created is spanned across to Stanstad by an ugly iron bridge. The crass utilitarianism, in fact, that mars, though it cannot wholly disfigure, so much that is beautiful in Switzerland, and that contributes so little to the honour of the modern Switzer (however well it may fill his purse), is altogether painfully too evident along the shores of this division of the Lake of Lucerne. The hideous lines of electric wires along the margin of the lake are only less detestable than those that degrade the Pass of Llanberis; this bridge across the narrows is as ugly as may be; whilst Baedeker (with his usual businesslike lack of romanticism) duly chronicles in a single breath the presence of "water-falls and Portland cement factories" in the neighbouring glen of the Rotzloch. [Illustration: PILATUS FROM STANSTAD.] The visitor is now fairly landed in the state of Unterwalden, the second most mountainous and romantic of the Four Forest Cantons. The Swiss have solved to perfection the problem of Home Rule: here is a little territory of less than two hundred square miles, and with a population in 1900 of less than thirty thousand people (less than that of Peterborough), which is yet, for all domestic intents and purposes, an independent sovereign state. Nay, not content with this, since these thirty thousand odd people, on their odd two hundred miles of mountain-land, were ill-content to dwell together in amity, the state is actually sub-divided, like Bâle and Appenzell, into two independent halves. Each of these is confined mostly to a single big valley, with its tributaries; and each has a capital that would hardly pass muster in the mill districts of Lancashire and Yorkshire for a fair-sized village. The half-canton of Obwalden is thus roughly conterminous with the valley of the Obwalden Aa, and has Sarnen, on the great highroad from Lucerne to Meiringen across the Brünig, for its rustic metropolis, whilst Nidwalden comprises most of the valley of the Nidwalden Aa, and finds its seat of government at Stans. Both these valleys, though largely sub-Alpine (the head of the Nidwalden Aa alone pierces deep into the heart of the greater hills, in the neighbourhood of Engelberg), are full of lovely scenery, though perhaps apt to be neglected by the too impatient tourist in his eagerness for the greater glories of Uri and the Bernese Highlands. It is pleasant, again, after so much destructive historical criticism, to encounter traces in these valleys of a less widely recognized Swiss hero, whose services to his country, if less dramatic than those of Tell and von Winkelried, are at any rate more authentic, and perhaps of wider import. Nicolas von der Flüe has found no niche in popular school histories, has evoked no "Battle of the Books," and has inspired no great national drama. None the less his mild personality appears with high significance at a tremulously critical period in the evolution of Swiss unity and Swiss independence. Whether or not we accept the story of the famous meeting on the Rütli, it is certain that the foundations of free Switzerland were laid in August, 1291, by the perpetual alliance, for the maintenance of their ancient rights and liberties, of the three Cantons of Uri, Unterwalden, and Schwyz. [Illustration: LOOKING UP THE LAKE, FROM BECKENRIED.] This is the stock whence has sprung the present Confederation of twenty-two free states; but the stock nearly perished at the root from a little worm of discord in 1481, when the Confederates quarrelled at Stans over the admission to the Union (which then already numbered eight members) of the towns of Fribourg and Neuchâtel, and perhaps also over the division of the spoil that they had lately wrung from Charles the Bold. The Diet had already debated for three days, and had broken up on the evening of the third with what seemed little chance of peace: the morrow threatened secession, and most likely civil war. Nicolas von der Flüe (often called affectionately Bruder Klaus; his real name was Löwenbrugger) was born at Flühli, where the Melch Thal joins the Aa valley, in 1417; and after many years of active life, including some experience of war, retired, in about his fiftieth year, to a hermitage in the gorge of the river a few minutes' walk distant from his native village, where he is said to have subsisted solely on the Sacramental Wafer, of which he partook once a month. He died in 1487, and was afterwards beatified, and in the course of last century, sainted. It so happened that his Confessor in 1481 was the head parish priest of Stans, a certain Heini Ingrund; who, early in the morning of the day succeeding the break-up of the Diet, sought out Nicolas in his hermitage, and obtained from him a message to the deputies urging reconciliation and peace. Armed with this exhortation he then hastened back to Stans, where he arrived, as we are told, all wet with perspiration, and hurriedly made the round of the inns where the deputies were still lodged, and prevailed on them, by his tears and entreaties, to meet yet once again in consultation to hear the secret message of Brother Klaus. The words of this are not reported, but its effect was immediate and startling; in less than an hour the irreconcilables were reconciled; and the morning, which rose so gloomily with presage of disaster and dissolution, finally resulted in greater strength and union, as ratified in the Convention of Stans. A picture was painted by command of the government of Nidwalden, and may still be seen in a passage in the Rathhaus at Stans. It is curiously unhistorical in character, for Nicolas is here represented as appearing before the Diet in person, whereas nothing is better attested than that he merely sent a messenger of peace. Stans itself has other points of interest; the house of Arnold von Winkelried has been already alluded to; and there is a statue of the hero in the middle of the market-place, and another, with a fountain, near the church. Like most little towns in this part of Switzerland--like Sarnen, Arth, and Altdorf--the place is delightfully quaint and old-fashioned, with its often painted houses, and its wide-projecting eaves. Above it towers the Stanserhorn, with perhaps more bulk than shape; whilst a mile or two down the valley, on the opposite shore of the lake, the graceful peaks of Pilatus give a welcome note of contrast. The church has a Romanesque tower; but the body, like most of those in the Alps, is Classical rebuilding. In the graveyard, however, stands the medieval bone-house, which, like others in the neighbourhood, is a separate and complete little church. The bones have been removed, and perhaps decently interred; but a tablet on the exterior still testifies to the appalling slaughter here of the people of Nidwalden--women and children, as well as men--to the number of more than four hundred, by the savage French Republicans in 1798. This frightful massacre at the hands of a brutal soldiery, infuriated by long resistance, lacked no circumstance of horror-- "Wasting fire and dying groan, And priests slain on the altar-stone"-- that, after the lapse of another century, may rival the German triumphs in Belgium. The visitor will find himself repaid by prolonging his adventure up the valley of the Nidwalden Aa to the upland vale of Engelberg, where still stands the famous Benedictine monastery that was founded circa 1120, and that received its present name ("Mons Angelorum," or Hill of Angels) at the hands of Pope Calixtus II., from the tradition, celebrated by Wordsworth in some feeble lines in 1820, that the site was pointed out by angel songs. Roughly half-way up the valley is the village of Wolfenschiessen, hard by whose parish church is the little wooden house, or hermitage, that was inhabited by the hermit, Conrad Scheuber (1480-1559), a grandson of Nicolas von der Flüe. This was built on the mountain pastures of the Bettelirüt, high above Wolfenschiessen, in 1547; and was transplanted to its present site in 1867. On the hermitage, or church--I foolishly seem to have made no note on the spot, and my recollection is misty--is a series of naïve paintings, representing scenes from the life of the hermit, and showing him engaged (unless I mistake) in the congenial medieval hermit-task of outwitting, or otherwise discomforting, a very material devil, or devils. [Illustration: BECKENRIED.] Sarnen, the capital of Obwalden, is situated at the north end of its lake of the same name, and is as interesting in its way as its rival Stans; but the green pastoral valley of the Obwalden Aa, though everywhere bordered by lofty hills, is altogether more open and less rugged than its Nidwalden namesake, and terminates, unlike the latter, in the gentle pass of the Brünig, instead of the lofty, snow-clad summits of the Spannörter and Titlis. High above the little mountain town, on a green pedestal of hill, is the stately, Classical parish church, commanding sweeping views across the wide sub-Alpine vale. Here, in the crowded burial-ground, I searched in vain in the early months of 1914 for memorials of any age--almost every cross or stone had been erected since I had last passed along this valley, in driving in the diligence from Meiringen to Lucerne, not quite a quarter of a century earlier. The old bone-houses stand nowadays mostly empty; but the Swiss dead, I suspect, are still frequently deposited in graves that hold them only in temporary tenancy. Here, as elsewhere in Switzerland, you will note the local custom of often letting a photograph of the deceased into his head-stone, beneath a protecting sheet of glass. A mile or two to the south-west of Sarnen, by the shore of the placid lake, is the little village of Sachseln, the church of which (Classical again) is lucky in its possession of the bones of Bruder Klaus. I remember in 1887, on the occasion of the drive already mentioned, passing somewhere in this neighbourhood a long procession of pilgrims, who were doubtless making their way to the shrine of the patriot-saint. "His bones," says Murray, "lie in a glass case above the high altar, the shutters of which are opened for travellers, and are also withdrawn at stated seasons, in order to exhibit the relics to crowds of pilgrims.... There is a wooden figure in the transept, clothed with the saint's veritable robes." I could not, however, discover this aerial place of sepulchre when I explored this church in 1914, nor do I remember the wooden figure, though I found statues of the saint, and of his grandson, Conrad Scheuber, in the parish church of Stans. The same two statements appear substantially in an old edition in my possession of 1872, and have perhaps escaped revision; or perhaps my own memory and observation are at fault. I turn with little hope to the last edition of the egregious Baedeker (1913), and find that the burial of the saint at Sachseln is there entirely ignored. I find, however, as I expected, the number of bedrooms, and the rate of pension, at the Kreuz, the Engel, the Löwe, and the Rössli--at none of which doubtless excellent hotels I have ever stopped, or am ever likely to want to stay! VI The big central division of the Lake of Lucerne, extending from the intersection of the cross to the great right angle (it is practically a right angle) at Brunnen that marks the commencement of the Urner See, or Bay of Uri, is considerably the largest, and probably in some respects the most beautiful, but otherwise perhaps the least interesting, of all five reaches of the lake. It lacks, indeed, the superlative grandeur of the Bay of Uri, which corresponds, in English Lakeland, to the head of Ullswater, or Wastwater--curiously so, since in all three cases we have, not merely a climax of severe and even savage sterility, but in all the vista up the water is closed chiefly by a single, great, pyramidal hill: at Wastwater by Great Gable, at Ullswater by Caudale Moor, and here, at the Bay of Uri, by the dark outline of the Bristenstock. The Urner See, then, is the grandest and most imposing, and in some lights gloomiest, lake in Switzerland, though the Walenstadtsee, in Glarus and Gallen, will in these respects by some be thought a rival; but the mid-reaches of Lucerne, to the south of the red cliffs and dark woods of Rigi, and contained towards the west by Pilatus, and towards the east by the twin Mythen--the last three nobly peaked--excel, I think, in open sunny beauty. Contrariwise, these reaches have but small historical interest, with the single exception of Gersau, as compared with the other four members: the Tell traditions, as we have seen, or shall see presently, are confined to the Bay of Küssnacht and to the lake of Uri; Arnold von Winkelried and Nicolas von der Flüe belong to Stans, and Stans, though actually set back a couple of miles or so from the margin of the lake, essentially belongs to the Bay of Alpnach; whilst even the little Lucernersee, though so humble in scenic splendour, leads at any rate to the quays of Lucerne itself, with its girdle of towers and ancient bridges, and with the banners in its Rathhaus that were wrested from the Austrian on the field of Sempach, and the armour there stripped from the dead body of Duke Leopold. Of most of the villages on this central reach, or reaches (for the division is sub-divided by the narrow strait between the Nasen)--whether Weggis, Vitznau, Buochs, or Beckenried--there is little to be said, save that all are quaint and characteristic, and that all are delightfully situated on the margin of the lake. Each, of course, is not without its page in history--Buochs, for example, was burnt by the French in 1798; whilst Weggis was only finally incorporated into the Canton of Lucerne, after years of struggling independence, in 1535. Gersau, however, of all this group of littoral settlements, is in some respects by far the most significant. This is a mere village, at the foot of the wooded Hochfluh--the last big point to the cast of the strangely isolated Rigi massif, and apparently the loftiest (5,574 feet), with the exception of Rigi Kulm. Hardly bigger than Küssnacht, and decidedly smaller than Brunnen, this town--if town it may be called--of less than fifteen hundred souls, with its neighbouring strip of lake-side territory, maintained for more than four long centuries its status as the smallest independent sovereign state in Europe. The place once belonged to the Dukes of Hapsburgh, who "levied duties on lambs, goatskins, fish, and grey cloth," and by them it was mortgaged to the barons of Ramstein, who parted with its possession to the house of Von Moos, of Lucerne. From the latter Gersau bought its freedom in 1390 for the sum of 690 pfennigs, which it had painfully "scraped together after ten years of hard toil." "They had already, thirty-one years before, concluded a league with the Four Forest Cantons, and had even rendered assistance to the Confederates in the battle of Sempach; where a native of the town captured the banner of Hohenzollern and brought it home and placed it in the church of Gersau, which even in its present form bears witness to the pride of the little territory." Thus Gersau freed herself in the Middle Ages from the house of Hapsburgh, and triumphed against the house of Hohenzollern, just as civilized Europe, more than five hundred years later, agonised and struggled only yesterday: "Haud aliter puppesque tuæ pubesque tuorum Aut portum tenet aut pleno subit ostia velo, Perge modo, et, qua te ducit via, dirige gressum." [Illustration: LAKE URI FROM BRUNNEN.] This central compartment of the lake is closed towards the east, as already stated, by the bare rock peaks of the Great and Little Mythen. These have been compared, unless I mistake, to the twin Langdale Pikes, in Westmoreland, as seen from the head of Windermere; and probably the comparison has just as much validity as comparisons of the sort are ever capable of asserting. Nature, who is studious never to reproduce herself with complete and meticulous accuracy, is fond enough of teasing us with suggestion and reminiscence, and often enough finds pleasure in moulding "two lovely berries" on a single stem. The Mythen are removed, again like Wordsworth's "lusty twins," to a quite appreciable distance from the margin of the lake; but here, whereas in Westmoreland the intervening country is the sweetest confusion imaginable of undulating pasture and coppice along the broken course of the Brathay, the broad plinth that rises up in slow but persistent gradient from Brunnen to the foot of the Mythen is, to the writer's way of thinking (and he knows of no support from the judgment of other critics), the weakest bit of composition along the whole basin of Lucerne, and a tract of country--it is luckily very small--as dull and profitless as any to be found among the Alps. Yet this, in fact, as part and parcel of the Canton of Schwyz, is in a sense the very heart and core of Switzerland, and the veritable holy cradle of Swiss freedom. It has given its name to the whole Confederation, and the little town of Schwyz itself, which is visible rather too obviously as the land slopes up in the distance, though with less than eight thousand inhabitants, might very justly complain of Berne that the latter has usurped its proper dignity in attracting to itself the Swiss seat of federal government. Brunnen, which is called the port of Schwyz, and from which it is distant about three miles, is singularly crushed and over-weighted by the great hotels on the Seelisberg and the Axenfels, and has suffered perhaps more severely by the exploitation of its neighbourhood than any other single station on the lake. The attraction here, of course, is the majestic Bay of Uri, which comes into view with startling suddenness, in a few revolutions of the paddles, as the steamer approaches the quay at Brunnen; and whose splendour, luckily, neither monster hotel, nor monster crowd, nor the presence of the great St. Gothard railway (here first insistently apparent on the margin of the lake), "nor Man nor Boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy." One would have preferred, no doubt, to have approached this inner shrine of the hills--which is also the inner shrine of the great traditions of Swiss liberty--with somewhat less obtrusive parade of the engineering triumphs of the nineteenth century. One remembers for the moment how William and Dorothy Wordsworth came hither, and on foot, in 1820. "We descended," writes Dorothy in one of her journals, "by a long flight of steps, into the Vale, and, after about half a mile's walking, we arrived at _Brunnen_. Espied Wm. and M. [her brother, William, and his wife] upon a crag above the village, and they directed us to the Eagle Inn, where I instantly seated myself before a window, with a long reach of the Lake of Uri before me, the magnificent commencement to our regular approach to the St. Gothard Pass of the Alps. [Hitherto their approach from Calais had been devious, by way of the Rhine and the Oberland.] My first feeling was of extreme delight in the excessive _beauty_ of the scene--I had expected something of a more awful impression from the Lake of Uri; but nothing so _beautiful_." There was then no St. Gothard railway; no over-weening hotels; not even, perhaps, a steamboat on the lake! It is singular, perhaps, that neither this superlative Bay of Uri, nor all its varied traditions of the Tellsplatte or the Rütli, should have succeeded in evoking a single verse from the poet whose inspiration had been kindled to such splendid effort in Scotland, less than twenty years previously, by the vision of a sweet-voiced girl by the spray of a Highland waterfall, by the careless evening greeting of a woman by a lake. The magic period of plenary inspiration was passed, indeed, for Wordsworth at the time of this continental tour in 1820; and yet it was after his return to England that he composed the great sonnet on King's College Chapel. The Rütli lies across the lake scarcely half an hour's row from Brunnen, yet it does not appear from Dorothy's journal that her brother even visited it. Here, on a green shelf of meadow by the side of the greener lake, and over-topped towards the west by the dark woods and cliffs of the Sonnenberg, are the few square yards of sacred soil where the three founders of Swiss freedom met together and conspired, if fables do not lie, for the rooting out of the Austrian tyrant in 1307. Their actual names are given, and the very day of meeting--November 7, in "the dead vast and middle of the night"--yet the imp of modern criticism, which has spared neither Tell nor Arnold von Winkelried, is clamorous again to rob us of this famous drama of conjuration on the Rütli. On the opposite shore of the lake, but considerably further to the south--to the south, in fact, of the little village of Sisikon, which itself may be reckoned as roughly the centre of the Bay of Uri--on the immediate margin of the water, and below the great, vertical, twisted precipices of the dark and towering Axenberg, is the little ledge of the Tellsplatte, where Tell is said to have sprung ashore from the boat, and from the custody of his warders, during the onslaught of a sudden squall, when on his way as a prisoner from Altdorf to Küssnacht. The chapel was rebuilt towards the close of last century, and is visible as we pass from the steamer. Behind it runs the great St. Gothard railway, on its way from Bâle to Milan; and higher up the cliff is the famous highroad of the Axenstrasse, which was driven along the face of these sheer and impracticable precipices, in alternate cutting, embankment and tunnel, by the zeal of the Federal Government in 1863-64, in order to better the communication between Canton Ticino and the rest of Switzerland. Ticino, or Tessin, the fifth largest of the states in acreage but the seventh in population, lies to the south of Uri, across the wild pass of the St. Gothard, on the sunny Italian side of the Alps, and was only admitted to the Confederation in 1803, though earlier by a dozen years than units of such importance as Neuchâtel, Geneva, and the Valais. One is rather apt to forget that the Switzerland of the days before the French Revolution--the Switzerland whose name is a synonym for liberty; the Switzerland of Sempach, Morat, and Morgarten--consisted only of the thirteen German-speaking states that are clustered mostly to the north and west of the original mountain nucleus of Uri, Unterwalden, and Schwyz. With Flüelen, exactly at the head of the lake, we conclude our perambulation of the Vierwaldstättersee. I do not know that this little village has much of particular interest; but a couple of miles beyond it is the small mountain capital of Uri, where Tell is reported in the immortal legend to have shot the apple from off his boy's head, and where his statue still stands in the diminutive market-place. The vale of the Reuss at Altdorf, and indeed as far south as Amsteg, where it is blocked, as it were, by the huge pyramid of the Bristenstock, and where the floor of the valley first begins to rise in earnest towards the far-away _col_ of the St. Gothard, is merely a prolongation of the mountain basin of the Urnersee, with the substitution of flat green pasture for a pavement of crystal lake. Of the Bay of Uri itself I feel that I have said little, yet feel, with some sincerity, that there is little to be said. Its elements, though majestic, are exceedingly downright and simple, whereas those of the rest of the Lake of Lucerne are multiform, subtle, and complex. Whatever be the impression that it effects on the spectator, it is likely to accomplish this at once; it is no finer at the head than at the foot; and all that it has of grandeur (and nothing of the kind in the Alps is grander) is flashed upon us in a moment, in complete and final revelation, when first it comes into vision between the piers at Trieb and Brunnen. It varies, of course, in splendour as the day is bright or dull; but less, I imagine, than the lower reaches of the lake, which depend more for their effect on screens of mountain more remote, and are capable of assuming softer and lovelier colouring exactly because their atmospheric distances are greater. In gloom, or rain, or heat-haze, it is the one division of the lake that will fail to disappoint us, but perhaps it is also the one division that responds less readily to the vivifying influences of sunshine and blue sky. Nor is it really wild, if one may say so without paradox, in the sense in which Ennerdale is wild, or Wastdale Head, or Langstrath, among the familiar fells of Cumberland. The cliffs that drop directly to its eastern shore are indeed tremendous and unapproachable, but above them, as we know, are gentle Alpine pastures that are musical with cow-bells, and meadows that are fragrant with hay and flowers. The tops of distant snow-clad mountains, again, though visible from its waters, are really removed to immense distances, above it and beyond it, and though they ring it round in insuperable barrier, almost belong to another world. Land where you can, or will, and you find your immediate environment scarcely wilder, if wilder at all, than the lower slopes of Pilatus or Rigi. It is only, in fact, in the upland vales of Switzerland--at spots like the Grimsel Hospice, or towards the summits of passes like the Simplon or the Splügen--that the ordinary wanderer, who is not a climber, will realize that _abandon_ of wild and savage sterility that delights him in a hundred glens among the mountains of Scotland or Carnarvonshire, in Glen Sannox, or Glen Sligachan, in Llanberis, or Cwm Llydaw. The Bay of Uri is indeed majestic, and its framework of distant summits is indeed magnificently wild, yet not here, I think, shall we taste with Shelley the strange "Pleasure of believing what we see Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be." INDEX [The principal reference is given first.] Ahorn, Lukas, 21 Alpnach, Lake of, 41 Altdorf, 61, 40 Axenberg, the, 60 Axenfels, the, 57 Axenstrasse, the, 60 Beckenried, 53 Beromünster, 10 Bettelirüt, the, 49 Bone-houses, 48, 50 Bristenstock, the, 52, 61 Brünig Pass, 50 Brunnen, 57, 52 Bruder Klaus (see Flüe, Nicolas von der) Buochs, 53, 54 Bürgenstock, the, 42 Capuchin Friars, 32 Carlyle (quoted), 20 "Dance of Death," the, 18 Engelberg, 48, 44 Flüe, Nicolas von der, 46, 45, 49, 50 Flüelen, 61 Flühli, 46 Frackmünd, the, 24 Gersau, 54 Gesler, 37, 38, 40 Gesler's Castle, 37 Gesner, Conrad, 26 Goat-whey cure, 32 Hapsburgh, Dukes of, 54, 55 Hochfluh, the, 54 Hohenzollern, House of, 55 Hohle Gasse, the, 37 Ingrund, Heini, 46 Küsnacht, 36, 40 Küsnacht, Bay of, 34 Leopold, Duke, 53 Lopperberg, the, 42 Lowerz, Lake of, 38 Lucerne, 14-21, 53 Barfüsserkirche, 14 City Walls, 14 Gletscher Garten, 21 Hof-Brücke, 17 Hofkirche, 15, 16 Kapell-Brücke, 17, 18 Lion Monument, 20 Mühlen Brücke, 18 Quays, view from, 8, 21 Rathhaus, 14, 53 St. Peter's Kapel, 17 Spreuerbrücke, 18 Wasserturm, 17 Lucernersee, 53 Meggen, 35 Mountain railways, 33 Mythen, the, 55, 38, 53 Nasen, the, 53 Nidwalden, 44, 47 Nidwalden Aa, the, 44 Oberland, Berner, 42 Obwalden, 44 Obwalden Aa, the, 44 "Our Lady of the Snow," 31 Pilate, Pontius, 23 Pilatus, Mount, 23, 25, 30, 42, 53 Ramstein, Barons of, 54 Reuss, River, 17, 61 Rigi, 27, 23, 32, 38, 53 Rigi Klösterli, 31 Rigi, view from, 32 Rossberg, the, 38 Rotzloch, the, 43 Rumligbach, the, 24 Ruskin (quoted), 8, 37 Rütli, the, 59 Sachseln, 50 St. Gothard Pass, 60, 61 St. Gothard Railway, 57, 60 St. Leodegar, 15, 17, 18 Sarnen, 44, 49 Sarnen, Lake of, 50 Scheuber, Conrad, 49, 51 Schwyz, 38, 56 Schwyz, Canton, 56, 61 Sempach, 12, 10, 41, 53, 55 Sempach, Lake of, 7, 10 Seelisberg, the, 57 Sisikon, 60 Sonnenberg, the, 59 Spannörter, the, 50 Stans, 47, 11, 44, 45, 46, 51 Stans, Convention of, 47 Stanserhorn, the, 42, 47 Stanstad, 43 Sursee, 9 Tell, William, 37, 39, 53, 60 Tellsplatte, the, 60, 38, 39 Thorwaldsen, 21 Ticino, Canton, 60 Titlis, the, 22, 50 Tödi, the, 22 Tomlishorn, 24 Unterwalden, 43, 8, 41, 61 Uri, Bay of, 61, 34, 52, 57, 58 Uri, Canton, 61 Vierwaldstättersee, 5, 9, 34, 35 Vitznau, 53 Von Moos, House of, 54 Weggis, 53, 54 "Weisses Buch," the, 39 Winkelried, Arnold von, 11 Wolfenschiessen, 49 Wordsworth, William, 58 Wordsworth, Dorothy (quoted), 58 Zugersee, the, 38 PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY BILLING AND SONS, LTD., GUILDFORD Transcribers' Notes: Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed. Simple typographical errors were corrected; occasional unbalanced quotation marks retained. Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained. This book does not have a Table of Contents. Text uses both "Küsnacht" and "Küssnacht"; both retained. Index not checked for proper alphabetization or correct page references. Frontispiece: "FLÜELEN" was printed as "FLUELLEN" and "FLUELEN" but changed here for consistency with all other occurrences of the name. Page 9: "Vierwaldstättersee" was printed as "Vierwaldstattersee" but changed here for consistency with all other occurrences of the name. Page 19: "courve" probably is a misspelling for "couvre". Page 48: "Engelberg" was printed as "Engelburg" but changed here for consistency with all other occurrences of the name. Index: "Tellsplatte" was printed as "Tellplatte" but changed here for consistency with all other occurrences of that name. "Axenstrasse" was printed as "Axentrasse" but changed here to match the [correct] spelling on page 60. "Lopperberg" was printed as "Loffenberg" but changed here to match the spelling on page 42. "Spreuerbrücke" is printed as two words on page 18. 
46074	----	available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations in color. See 46074-h.htm or 46074-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/46074/46074-h/46074-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/46074/46074-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/lausanne00gribiala LAUSANNE * * * * * * _UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME_ MONTREUX PAINTED BY J. HARDWICKE LEWIS AND MAY HARDWICKE LEWIS DESCRIBED BY FRANCIS GRIBBLE Containing 20 full-page Illustrations in Colour and a Sketch-Map. Square Demy 8vo., cloth, gilt top Price 7/6 net (_Post free, price 7/11_) GENEVA PAINTED BY J. HARDWICKE LEWIS AND MAY HARDWICKE LEWIS DESCRIBED BY FRANCIS GRIBBLE Containing 20 full-page Illustrations and a Sketch-Map. Square Demy 8vo., cloth, gilt top Price 7/6 net (_Post free, price 7/11_) PUBLISHED BY A. AND C. BLACK, SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W. * * * * * * AGENTS AMERICA THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 64 & 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK AUSTRALASIA OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS 205 FLINDERS LANE, MELBOURNE CANADA THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF CANADA, LTD. 27 RICHMOND STREET WEST, TORONTO INDIA MACMILLAN & COMPANY, LTD. MACMILLAN BUILDING, BOMBAY 309 BOW BAZAAR STREET, CALCUTTA * * * * * * [Illustration: LAUSANNE CATHEDRAL FROM MONTBENON] LAUSANNE Painted by J. HARDWICKE LEWIS & MAY HARDWICKE LEWIS Described by FRANCIS GRIBBLE [Logo] London Adam and Charles Black 1909 Contents PAGE CHAPTER I THE RULE OF SAVOY AND BERNE 1 CHAPTER II EMIGRANTS AND IMMIGRANTS 11 CHAPTER III GIBBON 15 CHAPTER IV MADAME DE MONTOLIEU--DR. TISSOT 39 CHAPTER V BENJAMIN CONSTANT AND MADAME DE STAËL 45 CHAPTER VI THE REVOLUTION 61 CHAPTER VII THE ENGLISH COLONY--THE EDUCATIONAL ADVANTAGES 65 CHAPTER VIII VINET AND SAINTE-BEUVE--JUSTE OLIVIER 75 CHAPTER IX NYON 83 CHAPTER X THE FRENCH SHORE 89 CHAPTER XI HISTORY OF THE FRENCH SHORE--FELIX V 95 CHAPTER XII ST. FRANCIS DE SALES 99 CHAPTER XIII JOSEPH DE MAISTRE 105 INDEX 109 List of Illustrations 1. Lausanne Cathedral from Montbenon _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE 2. Mont Blanc from above Morges 4 3. Morges and the Lake from the Road to Vufflens 8 4. Château de Vufflens, above Lausanne 12 5. The Spires of St. François, Lausanne 16 6. Château de Prangins 20 7. Lausanne, looking East 26 8. The Market Place, Lausanne 32 9. La Tour de Haldimand--Ouchy--Lausanne 38 10. Lausanne from the Signal 44 11. In the Forest of Sauvabelin, above Lausanne 50 12. Château de Blonay 56 13. The Rhone Valley from Mont Pelerin 62 14. A Street in St. Saphorin 68 15. The Dents du Midi and La Tour from "Entre deux Villes" 74 16. Lutry 80 17. Cully from Epesse--Autumn 86 18. Grandvaux from Cully 92 19. The Rhone Valley from Chexbres 98 20. The Church of St. Martin, Vevey 104 CHAPTER I THE RULE OF SAVOY AND BERNE Though Lausanne is so near Geneva, its history, in historical times, has been widely different from that of the neighbouring town. Geneva enjoyed a modified independence from an early date, and became completely independent early in the sixteenth century. Lausanne, until nearly 300 years later, endured the domination, first of Savoy, and subsequently of Berne. The early history is obscure and full of vexed questions as well as unfamiliar names; but the central fact is that the Counts of Savoy--they were not promoted to be Dukes of Savoy until later--took possession of the Canton of Vaud, as well as of the Chablais and the lower Valais, after the death of the last of the Zaeringen, at the beginning of the thirteenth century. For the next 300 years they exercised overlordship, limited by the charters of the towns, and, in the case of Lausanne, by the jurisdiction of the Bishop--a complicated state of things which the Swiss historical societies may be left to unravel. It seems clear, however, that the Savoyards were no hard taskmasters. 'The country of Vaud,' says its historian, Louis Vulliemin, 'was happy and proud to belong to them. They exacted little from it, and accorded it their powerful protection. The various States used to assemble at Moudon, the central town, summoned by the Council of Moudon, or by the Governor of Vaud, acting as the representative of the Prince. There was no palace. They met in an inn, or in the house of one of the citizens of the neighbourhood. Often they assembled in such small numbers that, for lack of a quorum, no decision could be taken.... No burdensome or unduly progressive measures were adopted. As a rule, the good old customs were confirmed. When a departure from them was resolved upon, it became law by receiving the sanction of the Prince. The business of the herald was to see that it was proclaimed, in the proper places, in a loud and intelligible voice. The Prince had sworn an oath to impose no new legislation that was not in accordance with the will of the nation as expressed by the estates of the realm.' The most notable of the Governors was Peter of Savoy--the same Peter of Savoy whom we meet in English history, fighting in the civil wars of the days of Simon de Montfort. His headquarters were in the Castle of Chillon, where he not only dispensed justice, but also amended the criminal law. It was the barbarous rule of the time that an offender who had been fined for a misdemeanour should have his nose cut off if he were unable to pay; Peter compelled even the Bishops to abandon that cruel custom. For the rest, to quote Vulliemin: 'He received his vassals in the great hall of the Castle, where their coats of arms hung on the wall around that of the House of Savoy. The blowing of a horn announced that the meal was served. The ladies arrived in their emblazoned best. The chaplain read the grace from a volume bound in violet and gold--the precious depositary of Divine law and ecclesiastical ritual. After the feast came the hour of merry recreations. The Court fool and the minstrels took their seats by the side of the Prince, and the nobility thus passed their lives in junketing.' This is the same writer's picture of the lives of the burghers: 'At Lausanne the three estates met in the month of May. In 1398 they submitted to a fresh drafting of the "Plaid général," which defined the respective rights of bishop, canons, and burghers. Three days were devoted to the hearing of suits. On the fourth day the Plaid, accompanied by elders, went the round of the streets, and ordered the necessary repairs. All the citizens were required to follow, carrying axes or stakes, so as to be able to lend a hand when required. The Bishop regaled the artificers with bread, wine, and eggs. In return, the blacksmiths had to shoe his horses, the saddlers to provide him with spurs and bridles, and the coachbuilders to supply him with a carriage. Three times a year the Seneschal passed in front of the cobblers' shops, and touched with his rod the pair of boots which he selected for his lordship. In time of war the prelate's army had to serve the Prince for a day and a night without pay, and as much longer as they might be wanted for wages. The Bishop's business was to ransom prisoners, protect the citizens from all injustice, and go to war on their behalf if necessary. [Illustration: MONT BLANC FROM ABOVE MORGES] 'Each district of the town had its special privileges. The fine for assault and battery was sixty livres in the city where the Bishop resided, sixty sous in the lower town, and only three sous outside the walls. The Bishop could not arrest a citizen without informing the burghers, or hold an inquest on the body of a dead man. The citizens of the Rue de la Bourg sat in judgment on criminals without assessors. Whenever they heard the summons, though they might be at the dinner-table, glass in hand, or in their shops measuring their cloth, they had to run off and give their opinion on the case. In return, they were exempt from certain taxes, had the sole right of placing hucksters' barrows in front of their shops, of using signboards, and of keeping inns.' It was the Reformation that terminated this primitive state of affairs. A succession of weak Governors had allowed the hold of the Dukes of Savoy over the country to be relaxed. It was impossible for them to maintain their authority when the people were indoctrinated with the new ideas. The end came when the Duke of Savoy threatened Geneva, and the Bernese marched through Vaud to the rescue, captured Chillon, delivered Bonivard, and kept the Canton for their reward. From the capture of Chillon onwards, Lausanne, like the rest of Vaud, was a Bernese dependency. Bernese governors (or baillis) were established in all the strong places, and Protestantism became the national religion. The conversion of the inhabitants was chiefly effected by Viret, a tailor's son, from Orbe, an excellent man, and a persuasive rather than an eloquent speaker. In 1536, after the fashion of the times, he, Calvin, and Farel challenged the Catholic theologians to a great debate. The monks, recognizing him as a formidable antagonist, had previously tried to get rid of him by surreptitious means. One of them had assaulted him at Payerne, and another had attempted to poison him at Geneva. At Lausanne they were obliged to argue with him, and failed still more conspicuously. The argument lasted for a week, and, at the end of the week, the populace, considering that the Protestant case was proved, proceeded to the cathedral to desecrate the altars and smash the images, while the governors confiscated the Church property and offered it for sale. 'It was thus,' writes Vulliemin, 'that Jost de Diesbach bought the church and vicarage of St. Christophe in order to turn the one into a baking house and the other into a country seat, and that Michel Augsburger transformed the ancient church of Baulmes into a stable for his cattle.' At the same time a disciplinary tribunal, somewhat on the lines of Calvin's theocracy at Geneva, was instituted to supervise the morals of the citizens; and absence from church was made punishable by fine, imprisonment, or banishment. Viret, it is true, was driven to resign his pastorate and leave Lausanne, because he was not allowed to refuse the Holy Communion to notorious evil-livers, and fifty other pastors followed his example; but the pastors who remained drafted a new moral code of sufficient severity, consisting, in the main, of a gloss upon each of the Ten Commandments, giving a list of the offences which it must be understood, for the future, to prohibit. Under the heading of Seventh Commandment, for example, it was written: 'This forbids fornication, drunkenness, baptismal and burial banquets, pride, dancing, and the use of tobacco and snuff.' A number of Sumptuary Laws were also adopted, to check the spread of luxury; and here again we cannot do better than quote Vulliemin: 'The regulations prescribed the dress materials which each class of society might wear, and permitted none but the nobility to appear in gold-embroidered stuffs, brocades, collars of Paris point lace, and lace-embellished shoes. The women of the middle classes were forbidden to wear caps costing more than ten crowns, or any sort of false hair, or more than one petticoat at a time. One regulation settled the size of men's wigs, and another determined how low a lady's bodice might be cut. There was a continual battle between authority and fashion, and fashion was always contriving to evade the law. The purpose of the magistracy was not only to maintain the privileges of the upper classes, but also to fortify domestic morality against the imperious demands of vanity. A special government department was instituted to stop the use of tobacco. The baillis alone considered that the law did not apply to them; but one day, when one of these officials opened his snuff-box in church, the preacher interrupted him. "Here," he said, "one only snuffs the Word of God." Above all things, however, morality was the object of the jealous care of the magistrates of Vaud. So it was with an outburst of holy wrath that they heard that there was at Vevey "a dancing master, a Catholic, whose presence caused great scandals, at balls, in the evenings, between the two sexes." The stranger was banished, and the town was censured for its criminal toleration.' [Illustration: MORGES AND THE LAKE FROM THE ROAD TO VUFFLENS] Such was the régime, and though, in externals, it resembled the régime at Geneva, there was one very significant difference. The Genevan discipline was self-imposed, and at least expressed the will of a working majority of the people. The Lausanne discipline represented the will of a conqueror imposed upon a subject race, and the conqueror had a rough and heavy hand, and rigorously excluded the subject people from participation in public affairs. The consequences can be traced in their history, habits, and manners. There was one poor feeble attempt at revolt. A certain Major Davel, after whom one of the steamboats on the lake is called--a Pietist, and perhaps a religious maniac--a soldier of fortune, whose merits had attracted the attention of such good judges as the Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugène, mustered the militia of Cully and marched into Lausanne, declaring that he had come to set the Canton free. Asked for explanations, he replied that he had been guided by direct inspiration from on high. The defence did not save him, and he perished on the scaffold in 1723. The revolution at which he aimed was not to be accomplished for another eighty years, and the event constitutes almost the whole of the political history of Lausanne during the period under review. CHAPTER II EMIGRANTS AND IMMIGRANTS Forbidden to seek careers at home, most of the aristocracy of Vaud went abroad to pursue fortune in the service of some foreign Power. There was always a good opening for them, whether as mercenary soldiers or as instructors of the young, and many of them achieved distinction and rose to high positions. Haldimand of Yverdon became a Lieutenant-General in the British Army and Governor of Canada. Réverdil of Nyon was first tutor to Christian VII. of Denmark, and afterwards his secretary. Amédée de Laharpe was one of Napoleon's generals; the only General, it is said, in the Army of Italy, who was not guilty of rapacity and extortion. Frédéric César de Laharpe held high office under Alexander I. of Russia; Dupuget of Yverdon was the tutor of the Russian Grand Dukes Nicolas and Michael; J. J. Cart was with Admiral Hood in America; Glayre became Polish Minister at St. Petersburg; Pache became Mayor of Paris; the list could be almost indefinitely extended. Most of these emigrants, moreover, suffered from the nostalgia which is characteristic of the Swiss. It was not enough for them to come home to die; they liked to return in middle age, and spend at home the money which they had earned abroad. And when they did return, they had, of course, no longer the homely wits of the home-keeping youths. They were men of experience, men of the world, men of polished manners and cosmopolitan culture. Their presence gave a new and a broader tone to Lausanne society. They were not to be driven to church like a flock of sheep, or forbidden to go to the theatre like a pack of schoolboys, or stood in the pillory for playing cards, or told by the preachers what they should eat or wherewithal they should be clothed. So far as they were concerned the discipline of the Consistory broke down, and the Sumptuary Laws did not apply to them. Their example liberalized even the clergy. They insisted upon making Lausanne a pleasant place to live in. Strangers found out that it was pleasant, and came to settle there in large numbers. There was already a foreign colony in Lausanne from quite an early date in the eighteenth century. [Illustration: CHÂTEAU DE VUFFLENS, ABOVE LAUSANNE] Geneva had had its foreign colonists from a still earlier date, but they were exiles--Miles Coverdale, Bishop of Exeter, John Knox, John Bodley, William Whittingham, and others, who fled abroad to escape persecution by the Bloody Mary. With one accord they thanked their hosts for the hospitality bestowed upon them, and departed as soon as the accession of Elizabeth made it safe for them to do so. Some of the foreigners at Lausanne were also exiles, it is true, but hardly for conscience' sake, the opinions which had got them into trouble being more often political than religious. But they selected Lausanne as their place of residence because they liked it--not because it was a 'perfect school of Christ,' but because the site and the society were agreeable. Voltaire himself lived there for a little while before he settled down at Ferney, and encountered no theological objection to the theatrical performances which he organized. Gibbon, who was there at the time, living in the house of Pastor Pavilliard, declared that the entertainments, to which he was sometimes invited, 'refined in a visible degree the manners of Lausanne';[1] and the philosopher himself paid a tribute to those manners in a letter to D'Alembert, in which he wrote: 'All the amenities of society and sound philosophy have found their way into the part of Switzerland in which the climate is most agreeable and wealth abounds. The people here have succeeded in grafting the politeness of Athens upon the simplicity of Sparta.' FOOTNOTE: [1] Gibbon's acquaintance with Voltaire was only slight. _Vidi tantum_, he writes. CHAPTER III GIBBON Voltaire belongs to Geneva rather than to Lausanne. The most distinguished of the strangers upon whom Lausanne has an exclusive claim is Gibbon. He was sent there, in the first instance, as a punishment for having embraced the Roman Catholic faith, and was lodged in the house of M. Pavilliard, a Calvinistic minister, whose instructions were to educate his pupil if possible, but to convert him at all costs. The desired conversion was effected, though it was more thorough than had been intended. Gibbon was persuaded to receive the Sacrament from a Protestant pastor, but never troubled himself with religion afterwards except in the capacity of historian. But, though he was at first treated like a schoolboy, and consoled himself for the loss of his liberty by getting drunk, he soon fell in love with the town--'Fanny Lausanne,' as he called it in a letter--and also fell in love with Mademoiselle Suzanne Curchod. That is one of the most famous of all literary love-stories, and one may properly pause here to relate it at length. Mademoiselle Curchod was the daughter of a country clergyman--very well educated, very beautiful, and very generally admired. Her earliest admirers were, naturally, the rising young ministers of the Gospel.[2] It amused her to invite them to sign documents, composed in playful imitation of legal contracts, binding themselves 'to come and preach at Crassier as often as she required, without waiting to be solicited, pressed, or entreated, seeing that the greatest of their pleasures was to oblige her on every possible occasion.' Her female friends, hearing of this, wrote to her expressing their disapproval, and strongly advising her to turn the preachers out of the house as soon as they had finished their sermons; but there is no evidence that she acted on their advice. [Illustration: THE SPIRES OF ST. FRANÇOIS, LAUSANNE] Visiting Lausanne, she extended the circle of her admirers. Her bright intelligence enabled her to shine as a member of a certain Société du Printemps, and also of a certain Académie des Eaux--a debating club given to the discussion of such problems as 'Does an element of mystery really make love more agreeable?' or 'Can there be friendship between a man and a woman in the same sense as between two women or two men?' Her conduct in this connection was such that her friends warned her that her desire to make herself agreeable to young men was too clearly advertised; but it does not appear that the warning made any impression on her. At all events, she was very successful in making herself agreeable to Gibbon, then a lad about eighteen years of age. 'Saw Mademoiselle Curchod. Omnia vincit amor, et nos cedamus amori,' is one of the early entries in his diary; and we have a picture of Gibbon, at about the same date, from Mademoiselle Curchod's own pen. In middle age--as we can see from his portraits--he was an ugly, ungainly, podgy little man; but it is not thus that he appears in the portrait drawn by the woman who loved him. 'He has beautiful hair,' Mademoiselle Curchod writes, 'a pretty hand, and the air of a man of rank. His face is so intellectual and strange that I know no one like him. It has so much expression that one is always finding something new in it. His gestures are so appropriate that they add much to his speech. In a word, he has one of those extraordinary faces that one never tires of trying to depict. He knows the respect that is due to women. His courtesy is easy without verging on familiarity. He dances moderately well.' So these two naturally--and rightly and properly--fell in love; they must have seemed each other's ideal complements, if ever lovers were. But they were not to marry. The story of their attachment, their separation, and their subsequent Platonic friendship is one of the romances of literature. Gibbon himself has told the story in one of the most frequently quoted passages of his autobiography. His version of it is inexact and misleading; but it must be quoted, if only in order that it may be criticized: 'I need not blush,' he writes, 'at recollecting the object of my choice; and though my love was disappointed of success, I am rather proud that I was once capable of feeling such a pure and exalted sentiment. The personal attractions of Mademoiselle Susan Curchod were embellished by the virtues and talents of the mind. Her fortune was humble, but her family was respectable. Her mother, a native of France, had preferred her religion to her country. The profession of her father did not extinguish the moderation and philosophy of his temper, and he lived content with a small salary and laborious duty in the obscure lot of minister of Crassy, in the mountains that separate the Pays de Vaud from the county of Burgundy. In the solitude of a sequestered village he bestowed a liberal, and even learned, education on his only daughter. She surpassed his hopes by her proficiency in the sciences and languages; and in her short visits to some relations at Lausanne, the wit, the beauty, and erudition of Mademoiselle Curchod were the theme of universal applause. The report of such a prodigy awakened my curiosity; I saw and loved. I found her learned without pedantry, lively in conversation, pure in sentiment, and elegant in manners; and the first sudden emotion was fortified by the habits and knowledge of a more familiar acquaintance. She permitted me to make two or three visits at her father's house. I passed some happy days there, in the mountains of Burgundy, and her parents honourably encouraged the connection. In a calm retirement the gay vanity of youth no longer fluttered in her bosom, and I might presume to hope that I had made some impression on a virtuous heart. At Crassy and Lausanne I indulged my dream of felicity; but on my return to England I soon discovered that my father would not hear of this strange alliance, and that, without his consent, I was myself destitute and helpless. After a painful struggle I yielded to my fate; I sighed as a lover, I obeyed as a son; my wound was insensibly healed by time, absence, and the habits of a new life. My cure was accelerated by a faithful report of the tranquillity and cheerfulness of the lady herself, and my love subsided in friendship and esteem.' Such is Gibbon's story, which is also the accepted story. It is, perhaps, a palliation of its inaccuracies that, at the time when he wrote it down, he and Mademoiselle Curchod--then Madame Necker--were on such pleasant terms of friendship that neither of them cared to remember or be reminded that either had ever treated the other badly. We shall come to that matter presently; here it is proper that the inaccuracies should be noted. [Illustration: CHÂTEAU DE PRANGINS THE STEPS BY WHICH JOSEPH BUONAPARTE ESCAPED IN 1815] Gibbon's story, it will be observed, gives us the impression that, on getting home, he lost no time in opening his heart to his father, and, having done this, lost no further time in acquainting Mademoiselle Curchod with his father's views. M. d'Haussonville tells us that he left Lausanne in 1758, kept Mademoiselle Curchod waiting four years for a letter,[3] and then in 1762 sat down and wrote, breaking off the engagement. One shrinks from the attempt to picture the feelings of the poor girl who, after enduring suspense, and trying to frame excuses for silence, broke the seal of the long-expected missive, only to read: 'I do not know how to begin this letter. Yet begin it I must. I take up my pen, I drop it, I resume it. This commencement shows you what it is that I am about to say. Spare me the rest. Yes, Mademoiselle, I must renounce you for ever. The sentence is passed; my heart laments it; but, in the presence of my duty, every other consideration must be silent.... 'My father spoke of the cruelty of deserting him, and of sending him prematurely to his grave, of the cowardice of trampling underfoot my duty to my country. I withdrew to my room and remained there for two hours. I will not attempt to picture to you my state of mind. But I left my room to tell my father that I agreed to sacrifice to him the happiness of my life. 'Mademoiselle, may you be happier than I can ever hope to be! This will always be my prayer; this will even be my consolation.... Assure M. and Madame Curchod of my respect, my esteem, and my regrets. Good-bye. I shall always remember Mademoiselle Curchod as the most worthy, the most charming, of women. May she not entirely forget a man who does not deserve the despair to which he is a prey.' Even this, however, was not the end of the story, though one would think it was if one had only Gibbon's narrative to go by. In 1763 he revisited Lausanne, and his own story of his sojourn does not so much as mention Mademoiselle Curchod's name. One would gather from it either that he did not see her, or that love had already on both sides 'subsided in friendship and esteem.' But when the Vicomte d'Haussonville was given access to the archives of the Necker family, he found letters proving that this was not by any means the case. Mademoiselle Curchod's father was then dead, and she was living at Geneva, supporting her mother by teaching. Some of her friends--notably Pastor Moultou--tried to bring Gibbon to a sense of the obligations which they felt he owed to her. Rousseau was brought into the business, and expressed an opinion which led Gibbon to retort, 'That extraordinary man, whom I admire and pity, should have been less precipitate in condemning the moral character and conduct of a stranger.' It is useless, however, to try to piece the whole story together--the materials are inadequate. One can only take the letters which the Vicomte d'Haussonville has published, and which, as he points out, are by no means the whole of the correspondence, and see what sidelights they throw upon it. First we have one of Mademoiselle Curchod's letters. Whether she wrote it because she had met Gibbon and found his manner towards her changed, or was perplexed and troubled because he had not sought a meeting, we have no means of knowing. But it is quite clear that she wrote it under the sense of having been treated badly. 'For five years,' she writes, 'I have, by my unique and, indeed, inconceivable behaviour, done sacrifice to this chimera. At last my heart, romantic as it is, has been convinced of my mistake. I ask you, on my knees, to dissuade me from my madness in loving you. Subscribe the full confession of your indifference, and my soul will adapt itself to the changed conditions; certainty will bring me the tranquillity for which I sigh. You will be the most contemptible of men if you refuse to be frank with me. God will punish you, in spite of my prayers, if there is the least hypocrisy in your reply.' The reply is lost. Mademoiselle Curchod presumably destroyed it because it pained her. Apparently it contained a proposal of Platonic friendship as a substitute for love. At all events, Mademoiselle Curchod's answer seems to accept that situation, whether with ulterior designs or not, for it begins: 'What is fortune to me? Besides, it is not to you that I have sacrificed it, but to an imaginary being which will never exist elsewhere than in a silly, romantic head like mine. From the moment when your letter disillusioned me, you resumed your place, in my eyes, on the same footing as other men; and, after being the only man whom I could love, you have become one of those to whom I feel the least drawn, because you are the one that bears the least resemblance to my chimerical ideal.... Follow out the plan that you propose, place your attachment for me on the same footing as that of my other friends, and you will find me as confiding, as tender, and, at the same time, as indifferent as I am to them.' And the writer proceeds to take up the Platonic position at once, to criticize Gibbon's first essay in literature, to offer him useful introductions, and to ask him to advise her whether she would be likely to be well treated if she took a situation as 'lady companion' in England. Even in this Platonic correspondence, however, Gibbon, with a prudence beyond his years, seems to have scented danger. 'Mademoiselle,' he wrote, 'must you be for ever pressing upon me a happiness which sound reason compels me to decline? I have forfeited your love. Your friendship is left to me, and it bestows so much honour upon me that I cannot hesitate. I accept it, mademoiselle, as a precious offering in exchange for my own friendship, which is already yours, and as a blessing of which I know the value too well to be disposed to lose it. 'But this correspondence, mademoiselle, I am sensible of the pleasures which it brings me, but, at the same time, I am conscious of its dangers. I feel the dangers that it has for me; I fear the dangers that it may have for both of us. Permit me to avoid those dangers by my silence. Forgive my fears, mademoiselle; they have their origin in my esteem for you.' And he proceeded to answer her questions concerning the position and prospects of 'lady companions' in England, expecting, no doubt, that he would hear no more from her. Even then, however, the story was not ended. The most passionate of Mademoiselle Curchod's letters bears a later date. It is the letter of a woman who feels that she has been treated shamefully. If it were not that Mademoiselle Curchod made a happy marriage so very soon afterwards, one would also say that it was the letter of a woman whose heart was broken. One gathers from it that, while Mademoiselle Curchod appreciated Gibbon's difficulty in marrying her while he was dependent upon his father, she was willing to wait for him until his father's death should leave him free to follow the impulse of his heart. In the meantime she reproaches him for having caused her to reject other offers of marriage, and protests that it is not true, whatever calumnious gossips may have said, that, in Gibbon's absence, she has flirted with other men. Above all, she protests that she has not flirted with Gibbon's great friend, M. Deyverdun. Her last words are: 'I am treating you as an honest man of the world, who is incapable of breaking his promise, of seduction, or of treachery, but who has, instead of that, amused himself in racking my heart with tortures, well prepared, and well carried into effect. I will not threaten you, therefore, with the wrath of heaven--the expression that escaped from me in my first emotion. But I assure you, without laying any claim to the gift of prophecy, that you will one day regret the irreparable loss that you have incurred in alienating for ever the too frank and tender heart of 'S. C.' [Illustration: LAUSANNE, LOOKING EAST] The rest is silence; and the presumption is strong that these were actually the last words which sealed the estrangement. If it were not for Mademoiselle Curchod's subsequent attitude towards him, one would be bound to say that Gibbon behaved abominably. But, as we shall see presently, her resentment was not enduring. Perhaps she was aware of extenuating circumstances that we do not know of. Perhaps, in her heart of hearts, she was conscious of having spread her net to catch a husband who then seemed a very brilliant match to the daughter of the country clergyman. The letter of the friend who begged her not to advertise so clearly her desire to make herself agreeable to men would certainly lend some colour to the suggestion. At any rate, since she herself forgave Gibbon, it seems unfair for anyone else to press the case against him. It was nearly twenty years later--in 1783--that Gibbon decided to make Lausanne his home. A good deal of water had flowed under the bridge in the meantime. He had written, and published, half of his History; and that half had sufficed to make him famous. He had been an officer in the militia and a Member of Parliament. He had been a constant figure in fashionable society, and an occasional figure in literary society; a fellow-member with Charles James Fox of Boodle's, White's, and Brooks's; a fellow-member of the Literary Club with Johnson, Burke, Adam Smith, Oliver Goldsmith, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and Sir Joseph Banks. He had held office in the department of the Board of Trade, and lost it at the time of the coalition between Fox and North. His applications for employment in the Diplomatic Service--whether as Secretary to the Embassy at Paris or as Minister Plenipotentiary at Berne--had been politely rejected. And he had become a middle-aged bachelor whose income, unless supplemented by the emoluments of some public office, hardly sufficed for the demands of his social position. In these circumstances it occurred to him to propose to his friend, M. Deyverdun--the same M. Deyverdun with whom Mademoiselle Curchod vowed that she had never flirted--that they should keep house together at Lausanne. M. Deyverdun, who was like himself a confirmed bachelor of moderate means, and had a larger house than he wanted, was delighted with the proposal. All Gibbon's friends and relatives told him that he was making a fool of himself; but he knew better. He sold all his property, except his library, and 'bade a long farewell to the _fumum et opes strepitumque Romæ_.' His first winter, as he puts it in his delightful style, 'was given to a general embrace without nice discrimination of persons and characters.' The comprehensive embrace completed, he settled down to work. His life at Lausanne is faithfully mirrored in his letters, more particularly in his letters to Lord Sheffield. It was at once a luxurious and an industrious life. One fact which stands out clearly is that Gibbon took no exercise. He boasts that, in a period of five years, he never moved five miles from Lausanne; he apologizes for a corpulence which makes it absolutely impossible for him to cross the Great Saint Bernard; he admits that, when he entertained Mr. Fox, he did not go for walks with that statesman, but hired a guide to do so on his behalf. He also drank a great deal of Madeira and Malvoisie. His letters to Lord Sheffield are full of appeals for pipes of these exhilarating beverages. He declares that they are necessary for the preservation of his health, and appears to have persuaded himself that they were good for gout. The consequence was that he had several severe attacks of that distressing malady. Gout or no gout, however, he freely enjoyed the relaxation of social intercourse. He was never tired of pointing out to his correspondents that, whereas in London he was nobody in particular, in Lausanne he was a leader of society. His position there was, in fact, similar in many ways to that of Voltaire at Geneva; though he differed from Voltaire in always keeping on good terms with all his neighbours. To be invited to his parties was no less a mark of distinction than it had been, a generation earlier, to be invited to the philosopher's parties at Ferney. One of the letters tells us how he gave a ball, and stole away to bed at 2 a.m., leaving the young people, his guests, to keep it up till after sunrise. He also gave frequent dinners, and still more frequent card-parties. When the gout was very bad, he gave card-parties in his bedroom. Distinguished strangers often came to see him, and gave Lausanne the tone of a fashionable resort. 'You talk of Lausanne,' he writes, 'as a place of retirement, yet, from the situation and freedom of the Pays de Vaud, all nations, and all extraordinary characters are astonished to meet each other. The Abbé Raynal, the great Gibbon, and Mercier, author of the "Tableau de Paris," have been in the same room. The other day the Prince and Princesse de Ligne, the Duke and Duchess d'Ursel, etc., came from Brussels on purpose to act a comedy.' And again: 'A few weeks ago, as I was walking on our terrace with M. Tissot, the celebrated physician; M. Mercier, the author of the "Tableau de Paris"; the Abbé Raynal; Monsieur, Madame, and Mademoiselle Necker; the Abbé de Bourbon, a natural son of Lewis the Fifteenth; the Hereditary Prince of Brunswick, Prince Henry of Prussia, and a dozen Counts, Barons, and extraordinary persons,' etc. From time to time he faced the question whether it would be well to marry. Madame Necker dissuaded him from the adventure on the ground that in order to marry happily it is necessary to marry young. It is not certain that her advice was disinterested, but it was good advice to give to a man who, after expressing his readiness to adopt 'some expedient, even the most desperate, to secure the domestic society of a female companion,' summed up his sentiments upon the subject in this candid language: 'I am not in love with any of the hyænas of Lausanne, though there are some who keep their claws tolerably well pared. Sometimes, in a solitary mood, I have fancied myself married to one or another of those whose society and conversation are the most pleasing to me; but when I have painted in my fancy all the probable consequences of such a union, I have started from my dream, rejoiced in my escape, and ejaculated a thanksgiving that I was still in possession of my natural freedom.' [Illustration: THE MARKET-PLACE, LAUSANNE] This, however, was not written until after the History was finished. Gibbon never felt the need of a female companion so long as he had his work to occupy him. The fact that he began to feel it acutely as soon as ever the work was done gives an added pathos to this, the most famous and the most frequently quoted passage of his memoirs: 'I have presumed to mark the moment of conception: I shall now commemorate the hour of my final deliverance. It was on the day, or rather night, of the 27th of June, 1787, between the hours of eleven and twelve, that I wrote the last lines of the last page, in a summer-house in my garden. After laying down my pen, I took several turns in a _berceau_, or covered walk of acacias, which commands a prospect of the country, the lake, and the mountains. The air was temperate, the sky was serene, the silver orb of the moon was reflected from the waters, and all Nature was silent. I will not dissemble the first emotions on the recovery of my freedom, and, perhaps, the establishment of my fame. But my pride was soon humbled, and a sober melancholy was spread over my mind by the idea that I had taken an everlasting leave of an old and agreeable companion, and that whatsoever might be the future fate of my History, the life of the historian must be short and precarious.' The life of the historian was, in fact, destined to last only for another six years--years in which he sometimes was desperately anxious to relieve his loneliness, aggravated by the death of Deyverdun, by seeking 'the domestic society of a female companion,' but inclined, on the whole, to the opinion encouraged by Madame Necker, that the remedy would be worse than the disease. We probably shall not be wrong in conjecturing that the pleasure which he derived from Madame Necker's correspondence and society assisted him in coming to this decision. At any rate, we must admit that there are few literary romances more remarkable than this story, of the renewal of love some thirty years or so after a lovers' quarrel. The lovers parted, as we have seen, with high-strung feelings--at least upon the lady's side. They met again soon after Mademoiselle Curchod had accepted the heart and hand of Jacques Necker, the rich Parisian banker, destined to become Louis XVI.'s Minister of Finance. Gibbon, coming to Paris, called, and was well received. We have accounts of the visit from both of them. Madame Necker says that her vanity was flattered because Gibbon appeared to be dazzled by the contemplation of her wealth. Gibbon complains that he was not taken very seriously, that M. Necker invited him to supper every evening, and went to bed, leaving him alone with his wife. The philosopher Balzac would have called him a fool, and classed him with the _prédestinés_; but it does not appear that scandal, or occasion for scandal, or anything worse than the interchange of sentimental _persiflage_, resulted. A gap in the history of their friendship follows, but in 1776 we find the Neckers visiting Gibbon in Bentinck Street. Gibbon writes patronizingly of the husband as 'a sensible, good-natured creature,' and of the wife he says: 'I live with her just as I used to do twenty years ago, laugh at her Paris varnish, and oblige her to become a simple, reasonable Suissesse.' We need not interpret this statement _au pied de la lettre_, but the visit certainly marks a stage in the story of their intimacy. Gibbon went to see the Neckers in Paris in the following year, and after his return to London Madame du Deffand told him how she had talked to Madame Necker about him. 'We talked of M. Gibbon. Of what else? Of M. Gibbon--continually of M. Gibbon.' And Madame Necker herself wrote, at about the same time, with reference to the publication of the first volumes of 'The Decline and Fall': 'Wherever I go your books shall follow me, and give me pleasure and happiness. If you write, too, your letters will be welcome and appreciated. If you do not write ... but I refuse to contemplate this painful possibility.' Gibbon's migration to Lausanne and the Neckers' purchase of their famous country seat at Coppet united them by still closer ties, and one cannot help noticing that at this period of their lives--when they were both something over fifty years of age--Madame Necker's letters to Gibbon became at once more frequent and more affectionate. Some of those letters, indeed, can only be distinguished from love-letters by reading into them our knowledge of Madame Necker's reputation for propriety. We have seen her dissuading Gibbon from marriage on the ground that to marry late is to marry unhappily. Another reason which she gives is that 'without a miracle it would be impossible to find a woman worthy of you.' Of a contemplated visit to Lausanne she says: 'I am looking forward with a delightful sentiment to the day I am to pass with you.' And afterwards: 'Returning here, and finding only the tombs of those I loved so well, I found you, as it were, a solitary tree whose shade still covers the desert which separates me from the first years of my life.' And in another letter, more sentimental still, we read: 'Come back to us when you are free. The moment of your leisure ought always to belong to her who has been _your first love and your last_. I cannot make up my mind which of these titles is the sweeter and the dearer to my heart.' What are we to make of it all? Nothing, assuredly, that entitles us to cast a stone at Madame Necker, or to express for her husband a pity which he never felt for himself. Yet one imagines that after M. Necker, who kept such early hours, had retired to his well-earned repose, there must sometimes have been certain sentimental communings, in which the old note of _persiflage_ was no longer to be heard. One listens in fancy to the regrets of these two who never forgot that they had once been lovers--regrets, no doubt, not openly expressed, but only coyly hinted--for the things that might have been. The regrets, we may take it, were tempered by the lurking consciousness that things were really better as they were. The lovers must have known that, if they had married on nothing a year, the one would never have written his history and the other would never have had her salon, but they would have been two struggling nonentities whom the world would never have heard of. They must have felt, too, that the success in life which they had achieved separately, but could not possibly have achieved together, had meant much to them: that in winning it they had fulfilled their destinies; that their tempers would have soured if they had had to live without it. All this they must have admitted to themselves, and even in their most candid moments, to each other. And yet--and yet---- [Illustration: LA TOUR DE HALDIMAND, OUCHY, LAUSANNE] FOOTNOTES: [2] Poems addressed to her by these young theologians may be found in defunct magazines and annuals. [3] This is not quite accurate. The letter which M. d'Haussonville dates 1762 conveys a salutation to Pastor Curchod, who died in 1760. It must have been written, therefore, not in 1762, but in 1758 or 1759. CHAPTER IV MADAME DE MONTOLIEU--DR. TISSOT To us, as we look backwards, Gibbon in Lausanne society figures as a Triton among the minnows, but to his contemporaries he probably seemed less important. He certainly did to his contemporaries in London. Boswell, as we all know, considered him the intellectual inferior of Dr. Johnson; and there is the story of the Duke of St. Albans accepting a presentation copy of his 'Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire' with the genial remark, 'Hallo! Another two d----d thick volumes! Always scribble, scribble, scribble, eh, Mr. Gibbon!' No one in Lausanne took quite such a Philistine tone as that, but it is doubtful whether even Lausanne would have voted him a higher position than that of _Primus inter pares_. Lausanne, after all, had its native notables, and was too near to its celebrities to see them in their true perspective. It had, among others, Madame de Montolieu. She was a beauty as well as a woman of letters, and Gibbon himself admired her in both capacities. He wrote to Lord Sheffield that there was 'danger' for him, and he was in danger of making himself ridiculous if of nothing worse. The story is told that he fell upon his knees to make a declaration of love to Madame Montolieu, and being too fat to rise without assistance, had to be helped to his feet by a domestic servant summoned for the purpose. He bore no malice, however, but even persuaded the lady to publish a novel which she had written 'to amuse an aged relative,' offering, when she objected, to attest his belief in its merits by printing it under his own signature. The novel in question was 'Caroline de Lichtfield,' which has passed through many editions--the first in 1786 and the last in 1846--and been translated into English. Its enthusiastic reception launched its author upon a career. Her collected works, including a French translation of 'The Swiss Family Robinson,' fill 105 volumes; and a host of imitators arose. 'Well! are they still turning out novels at Lausanne?' was one of the questions that Napoleon asked the Council of the Helvetian Republic; and Louis Bridel, brother of the more famous Doyen Bridel, writing in 1787, drew a graphic picture of the Lausanne ladies, all with one accord engaged in literary toil: 'The romance of "Caroline," and the renown which it has brought its author, has caused such a ferment in our feminine heads that, jealous of the reputation of one of their number, they cover an incredible quantity of paper with ink. They pass their days in writing novels; their toilette tables are no longer covered with chiffons, but with sheets of notepaper; and, if one unfolds a curlpaper, one is sure to find that it is a fragment of a love-letter, or of a romantic description.' Madame de Charrière, a rival craftswoman of whom we shall have to speak, the author of 'Lettres de Lausanne,' did not like Madame de Montolieu. She called her a 'provincial coquette,' and ridiculed her 'pretentions,' maintaining that, though her countrymen were attracted by her charms, 'the English who boarded with her stepfather considered her a disgustingly dirty and untidy person.' But Gibbon, who was not only English but a man of taste, thought otherwise, as we have seen; and his judgment may be accepted as the less prejudiced of the two. And Madame de Montolieu's literary success, at any rate, is not to be disputed. She lived to be an octogenarian, and retained her popularity until the last.[4] She and her only child, dying simultaneously, were buried in the same grave, on which may be read the inscription, 'Here I am, O Lord, with the son whom Thou hast given me!' Dr. Tissot, whom we have already met on the Terrace at Lausanne, is another celebrity of the period who merits further mention. He and Gibbon once danced a minuet together at an evening party--a penalty imposed upon them in a game of 'forfeits.' They thus, says Tissot's German biographer, Eynard, 'revived the innocent pleasures of Arcadia of old'; but the great physician, is less famous for the way in which he took his pleasures than for the way in which he did his work. Tronchin of Geneva had been the medical attendant of the cosmopolitan aristocracy, had anticipated Rousseau in exhorting mothers to nurse their own children, and had ventured, with a rude hand, to open the windows of the Palace of Versailles. Tissot of Lausanne aspired to be the medical adviser of the common people. 'While,' he wrote, 'we are attending the most brilliant portion of humanity in the cities, the most useful members of society are perishing miserably in the country villages.' Obviously, he could not do much personally to cure the ailments of a scattered rural population; but he did what he might to help them by writing popular manuals of hygiene. Some of his advice is not even now out of date. He denounced the vice of overfeeding the delicate: 'The more one loves an invalid, the more one tries to make him eat; and that is to kill him with kindness.' He also spoke vigorous words against excessive tea-drinking: 'These teapots full of hot water which I find on people's tables remind me of the box of Pandora from which all evils issued--but with this difference, that they do not even leave hope behind, but, being a cause of hypochondria, disseminate melancholy and despair.' These excellent pamphlets brought Tissot fame and the friendship of the great. Joseph II. offered him a medical chair at the University of Padua, which he occupied for two years. He was offered, but did not accept, the posts of physician at the Courts of Hanover and Poland. The Prince of Wurtemberg--he whom Rousseau addressed in the famous letter beginning 'If I had had the misfortune to be born a Prince'--settled at Lausanne in order to be near him; and many interesting people sought his advice by correspondence. In particular a certain young gunner wrote from Ajaccio to ask what his uncle, an Archdeacon, had better take for the gout. The orthography is curious: 'S'il asseie de remuer les genoux, des douleurs égus lui font cesser son accion.' The signature is 'BUONAPARTE, _Officier au régiment de la Fère_.' [Illustration: LAUSANNE FROM THE SIGNAL] FOOTNOTE: [4] She sheltered Madame de Genlis in her flight from the Revolution. CHAPTER V BENJAMIN CONSTANT AND MADAME DE STAËL Next, though they do not become interesting until a somewhat later date, we may mention the Constants: Rosalie de Constant, the witty little hunchback whose sentimental correspondence with Bernardin de Saint-Pierre has recently been published, and her more famous cousin, Benjamin Constant de Rebecque, the story of whose love for Madame de Staël has recently been revived.[5] That is another story which will be here in its proper place. Benjamin was a man of many love-affairs; 'Constant the inconstant' was the name that women called him by. He was the son of a Swiss soldier of fortune, and had a cosmopolitan education at Oxford and Edinburgh, in Belgium and in Germany. In his youth he held the post of Chamberlain at the Court of Brunswick, where he acquired distingished manners. He was brilliant, though shallow, and there was something Wertheresque about him. Born in 1767, he was married, in 1789, to the ugliest of the Duchess of Brunswick's maids of honour. He said afterwards that he had married her for no particular reason that he could remember, but that his reasons for divorcing her were clear enough. After his separation from her, he consoled himself by an intrigue with Madame de Charrière--a Dutch lady, married to a Switzer, residing at Colombier, near Neuchâtel, and known as the authoress of several sentimental novels. It was an affair that could hardly have lasted long in any case, seeing that the lady was twenty-seven years older than her lover. As a matter of fact it came to a quick end when the lover met Madame de Staël. The details of that meeting are curious. Being at Lausanne, Benjamin Constant set out to call on Madame de Staël at Coppet. His relatives already knew, and he was interested to make her acquaintance. It happened that he met Madame de Staël on the road, driving from Coppet to Lausanne. He stopped the carriage and introduced himself. She invited him to get in, and drove him back. Finding his company agreeable, she pressed him to stay to supper with her. He did so, and was farther rewarded by an invitation to breakfast with his hostess on the following morning. It was to Madame de Charrière herself that Benjamin Constant first confided the impression that Madame de Staël had made upon him. 'It is the most interesting acquaintance that I have ever made,' he wrote. 'Seldom have I seen such a combination of alluring and dazzling qualities, such brilliance, and such good sense, a friendliness so expansive and so cultivated, such generosity of sentiment, and such gentle courtesy. She is the second woman I have met for whom I could have counted the world well lost--you know who was the first. She is, in fact, a being apart--a superior being, such as one meets but once in a century.' Having read that, Madame de Charrière knew that she had passed for ever out of Benjamin Constant's life. His own writings give us a glimpse of the early days of the new intimacy. Two passages from his diary, the second supplementing the first, supply the picture. Thus we read, on one day: 'I had agreed with Madame de Staël that, in order to avoid compromising her, I should never stay with her later than midnight. Whatever the charm of her conversation, and however passionate my desire for something more than her conversation, I had to submit to this rule. But this evening, the time having passed more quickly than usual, I pulled out my watch to demonstrate that it was not yet time for me to go. But the inexorable minute-hand having deceived me, in a moment of childish anger I flung the instrument of my condemnation on the floor and broke it. "How silly you are!" Madame de Staël exclaimed. But what a smile I perceived shining through her reproaches! Decidedly my broken watch will do me a good turn.' And the next day we find the entry: 'I have not bought myself a new watch. I do not need one any more.' For a time the affair proceeded satisfactorily, no serious cloud appearing on the horizon until the death of M. de Staël. Then, of course, Madame de Staël was free to marry her lover, and Benjamin Constant proposed that she should do so. But she would not. One reason was that she did not wish to change a name that her writings had made famous; another, and perhaps a weightier one, that, though she loved Benjamin, she had no confidence in him--'Constant the inconstant' was inconstant still. Though he loved Madame de Staël, he loved other women too. His intimacy with Madame Talma, the actor's wife, was notorious, and was not the only intimacy of the kind with which rumour credited him. Altogether, he was not the sort of man whom any woman could marry with any certainty that he would make her happy. So Madame de Staël refused to marry Benjamin Constant, and with her refusal their relations entered upon a fresh and interesting phase. Henceforward the story is one of subsiding passion on his part, and very desperate efforts on hers to fan the dying embers of his desire. Again and again he tried to break with her; again and again she overwhelmed him with her reproaches, and brought him back, a penitent slave, suing for the renewal of her favour. The time when these things happened was the time when her salon at Coppet was at the zenith of its renown. The story is told for us by Benjamin Constant himself, in his 'Journal Intime,' a diary not written for publication, but published, long after his death, in the _Revue Internationale_,[6] in 1887. The tone, at first, is that of a man whom lassitude has overtaken after elegant debauchery. Benjamin Constant is only thirty-seven, yet he already feels himself an old man, whose powers are failing, who is no longer capable of strong emotion, or even of taking an intelligent interest in life. He writes, in fact, as if he were very tired. When something happens to remind him of his old attachment to Madame de Charrière, he writes thus: 'It is seven years since I saw her--ten since our intimacy ended. How easily I then used to break every tie that bored me! How confident I was that I could always form others when I pleased! How clearly I felt that my life was mine to do what I liked with, and what a difference ten years have made! Now everything seems precarious, and ready to fly away from me. Even the privileges that I have do not make me happy. But I have passed the age of giving up anything, because I feel that I am powerless to replace anything.' [Illustration: IN THE FOREST OF SAUVABELIN, ABOVE LAUSANNE] He describes--sometimes with a languid resignation, and sometimes with a peevish resentment--Madame de Staël's repeated endeavours to drag him, a more or less reluctant victim, at her chariot wheels. This is a very typical entry: 'A lively supper with the Prince de Belmonte. Left alone with Madame de Staël. The storm gradually rises. A fearful scene, lasting till three o'clock in the morning--on my lack of sensibility, my untrustworthiness, the failure of my actions to correspond with my sentiments. Alas! I would be glad to escape from monotonous lamentations, not over real calamities, but upon the universal laws of nature, and upon the advent of old age. I should be glad if she would not ask me for love after a _liaison_ of ten years' standing, at a time when we are both nearly forty years old, and after I have declared, times out of number, that I have no longer any love to give her. It is a declaration which I have never withdrawn, except for the purpose of calming storms of passion which frightened me.' So is this: 'A letter from Madame de Staël, who finds my letters melancholy, and asks what it is that I require to make me happy. Alas! what I require is my liberty, and that is precisely what I am not allowed to have. I am reminded of the story of the hussar who took an interest in the prisoner whom he had to put to death, and said to him: "Ask me any favour you like, except to spare your life."' And this: 'A fearful scene this evening with Madame de Staël. I announce my intention of leaving her definitely. A second scene follows. Frenzy: reconciliation impossible; departure difficult. I must go away and get married.' And this: 'Madame de Staël has won me back to her again.' Until, finally, their relations gradually going from bad to worse, we reach this striking piece of eloquence: 'Yes, certainly I am more anxious than ever to break it off. She is the most egoistical, the most excitable, the most ungrateful, the most vain, and the most vindictive of women. Why didn't I break it off long ago? She is odious and intolerable to me. I must have done with her or die. She is more volcanic than all the volcanoes in the world put together. She is like an old _procureur_, with serpents in her hair, demanding the fulfilment of a contract in Alexandrine verse.' It was in marriage that Benjamin Constant gradually decided to seek a haven of refuge from these tempestuous passions. But, though he is continually touching on the subject in his diary, he generally refers to it without enthusiasm. Marriage is 'necessary' for him, but there are objections to every particular marriage that suggests itself. Sometimes the objections are expressed in general terms: 'Went to a party, where I met several agreeable women. But I am very unfortunate. In the women whom I might be able and willing to marry there is always a something that does not suit me. Meanwhile my life advances.' Sometimes the objections are particularized: 'Trip to Geneva; called on the Mesdemoiselles de Sellon; saw Amélie Fabry again. She is as dark as ever, as lively as ever, as wide awake as ever. How I should have hated her, if they had succeeded in making me marry her! Yet she is really a very amiable girl. But I am always unfortunate in finding some insuperable objection in every woman whom I think of marrying. Madame de Hardenberg was tiresome and romantic; Mrs. Lindsay was forty, and had two illegitimate children. Madame de Staël, who understands me better than anyone else does, will not be satisfied with my friendship when I can no longer give her my love. This poor Amélie, who would like me to marry her, is thirty-two, and portionless, and has ridiculous mannerisms, which become more accentuated as she grows older. Antoinette, who is twenty, well off, and not particularly ridiculous, is such a common little thing to look at.' But Benjamin Constant finally decided to marry Madame Dutertre.[7] He bought her from her husband, who, for a sum of money, was willing to divorce her; but it was not without a violent struggle that he tore himself away from Madame de Staël. Let us trace the story of the struggle in his diary. Madame Dutertre was an old friend: 'Called on Madame Dutertre, who has improved wonderfully in appearance. I made advances which she did not repel. The citadel is to fall to-night. Two years' resistance is quite long enough. 'Off to the country with Charlotte. She is an angel. I love her better every day. She is so sweet, so amiable. What a fool I was to refuse to have anything to do with her twelve years ago! What mad passion for independence drove me to put my neck under the foot of the most imperious woman in the world! 'We are back in Paris. Joyous days; delights of love. What the devil is the meaning of it? It is twelve years since I last felt a similar emotion. This woman, whom I have refused a hundred times, who has always loved me, whom I have sent away, whom I left eighteen months ago--this woman now turns my head. Evidently the contrast with Madame de Staël is the cause of it all. The contrast of her impetuosity, her egoism, and her continual preoccupation with herself, with the gentleness, the calm, the humble and modest bearing of Charlotte, makes the latter a thousand times more dear to me. I am tired of the _man-woman_ whose iron hand has for ten years held me fast, when I have a really womanly woman to intoxicate and enchant me. If I can marry her, I shall not hesitate. Everything depends on the line M. Dutertre takes.' M. Dutertre, as has been stated, took the line of offering to consent to a divorce provided it were made worth his while to do so. Madame de Staël was more difficult to deal with. The first entry which gives us a glimpse of her feelings is as follows: 'Madame de Staël is back; she will not hear of our relations being broken off. The best way will be not to see her again, but to wait at Lausanne for orders from Charlotte--my good angel whom I bless for saving me. Schlegel writes that Madame de Staël declares that, if I leave her, she will kill herself. I don't believe a word of it.' Followed by: 'Unhappy fool that I am; weakness overcomes me; I start for Coppet. Tenderness, despair, and then the trump card, "I shall kill myself."' He fled to Lausanne, but-- 'What was the good of coming here? Madame de Staël has come after me, and all my plans are upset. In the evening there was a fearful scene, lasting till five o'clock in the morning. I am violent, and put myself in the wrong. But, my poor Charlotte, I will not forsake you.' Yet he had hardly written these lines when he was false to them. Madame de Staël came a second time to Lausanne to fetch him, and we read: 'She came; she threw herself at my feet; she raised frightful cries of pain and desolation. A heart of iron would not have resisted. I am back at Coppet with her. I have promised to stay six weeks, and Charlotte is expecting me at the end of the month. My God! what am I to do? I am trampling my future happiness under my feet.... 'I receive a letter from Charlotte, who is more loving and more sure of me than ever. Would she forgive me if she knew where I am and what I am doing? How slowly the time passes! Into what an abysm have I not hurled myself! Last night we had a dreadful scene. Shall I ever get out of it all alive? I have to pass my time in falsehood and deceptions in order to avoid the furious outbreaks which so terrify me. If it were not for the hopes which I build upon Madame de Staël's approaching departure to Vienna, this life would be unbearable. To console myself I spend my time in picturing how things will go if they go well. This is my Castle in Spain. Charlotte finishes her arrangements, and makes her preparations secretly. Madame de Staël, suspecting nothing, sets out for Vienna. I marry Charlotte, and we pass the winter pleasantly at Lausanne.' [Illustration: CHÂTEAU DE BLONAY] Though this was not exactly how things happened, the marriage was nevertheless speedily and safely celebrated. But alas! poor Benjamin! It was now his turn, in the midst of his domestic bliss, to feel the pangs of unrequited love. Having fled from Madame de Staël, he sighed for her. His diary is full of his regrets. It is: 'Charlotte is good and sweet. I build myself foolish ideals, and throw the blame of my own folly upon others. At bottom Charlotte is what women always are. I have blamed individuals where I ought to have blamed the species. But for my work, and for the good advice that I need, I regret Madame de Staël more than ever.' Or it is: 'A letter from Madame de Staël, from which I gather that, this time, all is really over between us. So be it. It is my own doing. I must steer my course alone, but I must take care not to fetter myself with other ties which would be infinitely less agreeable.' Or again: 'I have lost Madame de Staël, and I shall never recover from the blow.' And the truth was, indeed, that Madame de Staël had ceased to care, and that another had succeeded to Benjamin Constant's place in her heart. His name was Albert de Rocca, and he was a young French officer who had been wounded in the Spanish wars. His personal beauty was such that a Spanish woman, finding him left for dead upon a battle-field, had taken him home with her, and nursed him back to health, saying that it was a pity that such a beautiful young man should die. His age was twenty-three, and Madame de Staël's was forty-five. But the affection that sprang up between them was deep and genuine. 'I will love her,' he said, 'so dearly that she will end by marrying me.' And when she protested that she was old enough to be his mother, he answered that the mention of that word only gave him a further reason for loving her. 'He is fascinated,' Baron de Voght wrote, 'by his relations with Madame de Staël, and the tears of his father cannot induce him to abandon it.' So she married him, though, for reasons of her own, she insisted that the marriage should be kept a secret. It seemed to her that a young husband would make her ridiculous, but that a young lover would not; very possibly she was right according to the moral standard of the age. At any rate her husband posed as her lover, and in that capacity quarrelled with Constant, with whom he nearly fought a duel, and travelled with her to Russia, to Sweden, and to England, and lived with her in Paris and at Coppet. But it was at this period, when her fame was at its zenith, that Madame de Staël wrote: 'Fame is for women only a splendid mourning for happiness.' But the end was drawing near. Madame de Staël had lived all her life at high pressure, and her health was undermined. A lingering illness, of which the fatal issue was foreseen, overtook her. She struggled against it, declaring that she would live for Rocca's sake. But all in vain. She died in Paris in 1817. Rocca himself, who only survived her a few months, was too ill to be with her. Benjamin Constant spent a night of mourning in her death-chamber. They buried her at Coppet amid general lamentations. FOOTNOTES: [5] By the present author in 'Madame de Staël and her Lovers.' [6] It has since been republished separately. [7] Madame de Hardenberg, divorced and remarried. CHAPTER VI THE REVOLUTION At Lausanne, as at Geneva, the thunders of the French Revolution echoed. Gibbon heard them, and was alarmed, as if at the approach of the end of the world. The patriots of Vaud heard them, and rejoiced at the hope of a new era about to be begun. Their Excellencies of Berne felt the edifice of their dominion crumbling about their ears. The burghers of Morges began the trouble by disinterring from their archives an old charter, on the strength of which they refused to pay for the mending of the roads, while a pastor named Martin exhorted his congregation to withhold the tithe that was levied on potatoes. Then a fête was held at Rolle to celebrate the anniversary of the fall of the Bastille, and 6,000 Bernese invaded the country, arrested the ringleaders, and compelled the magistrates to swear allegiance at the point of the bayonet. César Laharpe and J. J. Cart appealed to the French to intervene. At first the French hesitated. Robespierre was not ambitious of foreign conquests, having his hands full enough at home, but the Directorate took larger views. Switzerland was reputed to be rich--and _was für plunder_! A division of the army of Italy crossed the lake on January 28, 1798, and took possession of Lausanne. For a space there was civil war. Vaudois volunteers fought under their green flag, while a certain Loyal Legion, under Colonel de Rovéreaz, distinguished itself at Fraubrunnen, in defence of Berne. The French, however, were so much stronger than the Bernese that the issue could not long remain in doubt. It was the Swiss money that the French wanted, and the gold found in the vaults of the Treasury of Berne was carried off to Paris, while the Canton of Vaud was accorded a new and independent constitution. [Illustration: THE RHONE VALLEY FROM MONT PELERIN] There were other revolutions, and revisions, and reconstructions to follow. When the Holy Alliance remodelled the map of Europe in 1815, the fate of Vaud, like that of so many other minor nationalities, hung in the balance. The Bernese fully expected to be allowed to re-establish their dominion; but Alexander I., prompted by Laharpe, prevented them. 'You have done a great deal for me,' the Emperor is reported to have said to the Liberator. 'What can I do for you?' And the Liberator's answer was: 'Sire, all that I ask is permission to speak to your Majesty of my country whenever I wish.' He spoke in 1815, and the Emperor listened; and the claims of Berne were rejected; and Laharpe took a house at Lausanne, and looked down on the scene of his triumphs, and fought his battles over again, and frequented Madame de Staël, whom in more stormy days he had written of as 'une infernale gueuse,' and was reverenced by all as the 'Grand Old Man' of the Canton. There were further political changes in 1830, in 1845, and in 1861; but of these we need not speak. Their interest is no more than local. What the English traveller chiefly sees in the Lausanne of the nineteenth century is an increasing English colony, and the loudly vaunted educational facilities. CHAPTER VII THE ENGLISH COLONY--THE EDUCATIONAL ADVANTAGES Of the English colony there is not perhaps a great deal to be said, except that it fills two churches on Sundays, and at all times monopolizes the Ouchy road. It has never consisted of distinguished persons like the English colony at Florence; on the other hand, it has never included so large a proportion of disreputable persons as the English colonies at Brussels and Boulogne. Gibbon cannot be said to have belonged to it, since, in his day, it did not yet exist; and it can hardly claim Dickens, since his sojourn there was of comparatively brief duration. In the main it is composed of very young and rather elderly members of the respectable middle classes. There is an English club, and there are opportunities of playing bridge. The life is inexpensive, not because commodities are specially cheap, but because there are no wealthy residents to set extravagant standards. A small income goes a long way there; and the climate is salubrious for all those whose bronchial tubes are in a condition to resist the _bise_. These are conditions which please a great many people--notably the wandering spinsters who 'live in their boxes,' and the retired officers and civil servants who have to subsist upon their pensions. At Lausanne they can economize without feeling the pinch of poverty, and without feeling envious--or perceiving that their wives feel envious--of more prosperous neighbours. The sunshine costs nothing, and the amusements cost very little; they can go about in knickerbockers and wear out their old clothes without fearing that their solvency will be suspected. There is no need for them to learn a foreign tongue, since they form their own society, and mix very little with the Swiss who accept them, but do not pretend to like them. They live lazily, but healthily, and, on the whole, contentedly. Of course, there is another side to the medal, and a price to be paid for the advantages. The colonists are exiles who have severed old ties, and have a difficulty in forming new ones. Their existence is rather animal than human, and rather vegetable than animal. They lose their energy and their intelligence; they are like plants no longer growing in a garden, but uprooted and flung upon the grass. A stranger finds it difficult to converse with them, and fancies that they must be terribly bored. Perhaps they are; but perhaps, too, it is better to be bored in the sunshine than busy in a London fog. So they linger on, persuading themselves that they do so for their children's sake rather than their own, and referring the stranger, if he happens to question them, to the wonderful educational advantages of the town. But what is the sober truth about those educational advantages? That is another branch of the subject which seems to be worth a passing word. Assuredly the Swiss have a great reputation as educators, and that reputation stands nowhere higher than in the Canton of Vaud. Yverdon is in the Canton of Vaud, and it was there that Pestalozzi kept his school. Moreover, just as it has been said that every citizen of Ticino is by nature a hotel-keeper, so it has been said that every citizen of Vaud is by nature a professor. Professors, as we have already seen, were among the Canton's chief 'articles of export' during the Bernese domination, and kings preferred the Vaudois professors to any others. Yet a sufficient number of professors--and perhaps the best of them--have always remained behind, so that teaching and learning have continued to be great native industries. The question which is left is, How do the Swiss systems of education compare with ours? The answer is commonplace, and sounds platitudinous: they are better than ours in some respects, and inferior in others. Let us elaborate and particularize. Scholarship, in the accepted English sense of the word, hardly exists in Switzerland. A Swiss Jebb is almost unthinkable, and if anyone proposes to find a Swiss Bentley in Casaubon, the answer must be that Casaubon was not really Swiss, though he was, for a time, a professor at Geneva. In the matter of the classics the German scholars have always been more learned than the Swiss, and the English scholars have always been both more learned and more graceful; indeed, in the sort of scholarship which enables a man to speak and write his own language properly the Swiss have always been sadly to seek. Swiss French is atrocious, and the French of Lausanne, though a shade better than that of Fribourg, is worse than that of Geneva or Neuchâtel. When the French themselves wish to say that a man's style is clumsy, they liken it to 'a Swiss translation from the Belgian.' [Illustration: A STREET IN ST. SAPHORIN] Nor have the Swiss ever made any notable contribution to original philosophic thought. Their principal metaphysicians, like Charles Bonnet, have been merely theologians in disguise, who have started by assuming the points which they undertook to prove, and have been unable to keep their metaphysics and their theology apart, as did, for example, Bishop Berkeley and Dean Mansell. The great names in the history of speculative thought--such names as those of Spinoza, Locke, Hume, Kant, Hegel, Comte, Herbert Spencer, and T. H. Green--have been English, or German, or French, or Dutch. One does not find a single Swiss name among them. The great Swiss names, when we get away from theology, all stand for something scientific, practical, concrete. Lavater, Gesner, Saussure, Jomini--such are a few of the instances that may be cited to point our moral and lead us up to our generalization, which is as follows: Elementary education is excellent in Switzerland; but the higher education is too technical and utilitarian to satisfy those who consider that the function of education is to cultivate the mind. The elementary schools of the Canton of Vaud are probably better than those of the County of London; but the Universities of Geneva and Lausanne are a poor substitute for those of Oxford and Cambridge. Let us by all means give praise where praise is due. The Medical Faculties of Berne and Lausanne have a European reputation; and it is said that engineering is nowhere taught better than at the Zurich Polytechnic. The practical side of the Swiss character is also well exemplified in the various schools for waiters, for watch-makers, and for bee-keepers. But it is possible--or it seems so to an English University man--for education to be too practical; and the Swiss have surely committed that excess in devising that educational abomination, the School of Commerce. Nothing is ever taught in a School of Commerce that a man who has been properly educated elsewhere cannot pick up in six weeks; and the curriculum, though it may sharpen the wits, can only, at the best, produce a superior kind of bagman. Swiss education, therefore, has its drawbacks even for a Switzer; and, for a young Englishman of the better class, it has other drawbacks in addition. It is not merely that he learns less than he would in England because an unfamiliar language is the medium of instruction. He also acquires the wrong tone and the wrong manner, misses opportunities of making useful friends, and finds himself, when he grows up, a stranger in his own country--a stranger not only to the people, but to the ways and modes of thought. That is a disadvantage which was pointed out as long ago as the eighteenth century, by Dr. John Moore, when a nobleman who had thought of sending his son to the University of Geneva asked his advice on the subject. 'The boy would return,' said the doctor, 'a kind of a Frenchman, and would so be disqualified for success in English life.' The same criticism still applies. We are better cosmopolitans nowadays than were Dr. Moore's contemporaries, but the differences between the nations still subsist; and, just as each nation has the system of education which it deserves, so it has the system of education which best prepares a man to fight the battle of life in his own country. In England, more than in any other country, success depends comparatively little upon book-learning, and very much upon character and the possession of certain qualities which, in our insular pride, we vaunt as specially 'British.' These qualities are not to be acquired in the Swiss schools. The qualities that are to be acquired there may, in some respects, be better and more solid; but they are not so useful in Great Britain. An English boy educated in a Swiss school is, as a rule, when he leaves, rather a clumsy lout, with a smattering of bad French, emancipated from certain prejudices which might be useful to him, but steeped in other prejudices which are likely to stand in his way. One always has the feeling that more might have been made of him at home: not merely at Eton or Harrow, but at Clifton or Marlborough, or even at St. Paul's or the Bedford Grammar School. On the whole, therefore, the educational _raison d'être_ of the English colony at Lausanne disappears under investigation--at any rate, so far as the boys are concerned. The girls, from a certain point of view, may be better off there; for the Swiss girls' schools are good, and the snobbishness which is the vice of English girls' schools is discouraged in them. For the girls, difficulties only arise when they reach a marriageable age. There are no husbands for them at Lausanne, or anywhere in Switzerland, unless it be at Montreux, where Anglo-Indians sometimes come on leave, since all the men whom they meet--one is speaking only of their own countrymen--are either too young or too old--mere students, or else superannuated veterans. They know it, and lament their lot aloud; and the Swiss know it, too, and make remarks. The English colony at Lausanne, they say, is _une vraie pépinière de vieilles filles_. But this is an excursus. We must return to Lausanne, and take another look at its social and intellectual life. [Illustration: THE DENTS DU MIDI AND LA TOUR FROM "ENTRE DEUX VILLES"] CHAPTER VIII VINET AND SAINTE-BEUVE--JUSTE OLIVIER The centre of the intellectual life was always the University. It could not be otherwise in a country in which every man is born a pedagogue. In England the view has come to prevail that literature only begins to be vital when it ceases to be academic. In the Canton of Vaud the literature is academic or nothing, and even the poets are professors, unbending in their hours of sentimental ease; while the literature of revolt is the bitter cry of professors who have forfeited their chairs on account of their religious or political opinions. As the result of each revolution in turn we see a company of professors put to flight. The casualties of that sort are at least as numerous as the broken heads. The detailed relation of such professorial vicissitudes belongs, however, to the native antiquary. Here it will suffice to recall a few more notable names. A Swiss historian would doubtless say that the greatest of the names is that of Alexandre Vinet. In his hot youth he wrote riotous poetry: 'O mes amis, vidons bouteille Et laissons faire le destin. Le Dieu qui préside à la treille Est notre unique souverain.' Afterwards he became austere, and played a great part in theological controversy. He hated the Revivalists, whom he described as 'lunatics at large'; but he insisted that religious liberty should be the heritage of all, and, while opposing established churches, exercised a profound spiritual influence. He was a great Broad Churchman, and we may class him as the F. W. Robertson or F. D. Maurice of the Canton of Vaud. Sainte-Beuve blew his trumpet, and he, on his part, almost persuaded Sainte-Beuve to become a Protestant. Sainte-Beuve, it is hardly too much to say, came to Lausanne in search of a religion. St. Simonism had disappointed him, and so had the Liberal Catholicism of Lamennais. Lamennais, in fact, had gone too fast and too far for him--had, as it were, he said, taken him for a drive, and spilt him in a ditch, and left him there and driven on. None the less, he earnestly desired to be spiritually-minded and a devout believer, feeling, in particular, an inclination towards mysticism, though unable to profess himself a mystic. 'I have,' he wrote to a friend, 'the sense of these things, but not the things themselves.' It seemed to him that he might find 'the things themselves' at Lausanne, if he went there in the proper spirit and sat at Vinet's feet. His Swiss friend, Juste Olivier, a professor who was also a poet, procured him an engagement to deliver a course of lectures at the Lausanne Academy,[8] and he embarked upon his errand with as much humility as was compatible with professorship. Left free to choose his own subject, he decided to treat of Port Royal and the Jansenists--the most spiritually-minded of the Catholics, and those who had the closest affinity with the Protestants. By means of his lectures he thought to build himself a bridge by which to pass from the one camp to the other. His elocution was defective, and his lectures were not quite such a success as he could have wished. The students used to meet in the cafés to parody them in the evenings. On the other hand, however, serious people eagerly watched the developments of the spiritual drama. Not only did it seem to them that the fate of a soul was in the balance--they were also hoping to see Protestantism score the sort of triumph that would make a noise in Paris. So they asked daily for news of Sainte-Beuve, as of a sick man lying at death's door, and asked Vinet, whom they regarded as his spiritual physician, to issue a bulletin. And Vinet's bulletin was to this effect: 'I think he is convinced, but not yet converted.' But Vinet, as he was soon to discover, was only partly right. That Sainte-Beuve was not converted was, indeed, obvious enough, seeing that he was making violent love to his neighbour's wife at the time--between him and 'conversion' stood the obstructive charms of Madame Olivier. But it is equally true that he was not convinced; and, by a crowning irony, he found his faith evaporating as he got to close quarters with the subject, through the study of which he had expected to achieve conviction. The great history of Port Royal, begun by a believer, was finished by a sceptic. 'Moral bankruptcy,' is M. Michaut's description of his condition, and there is a sense in which it might be applied even by those who desire to dissociate morality from creeds. It was the end--at any rate, for Sainte-Beuve--of all emotion which was not either purely sensual or purely intellectual. He could not be a mystic, as he could not be a poet, because he lacked the necessary genius; and forms of religion which depended, not on intuition, but on authority, were repugnant to his sane intelligence. So he said a sad farewell to Christianity, and sought no substitute. 'I am mournfully looking on at the death of my heart,' he wrote to Vinet; and he went away and resigned himself to become a materialist, a voluptuary, and a critic. And now a word about that Juste Olivier to whom Sainte-Beuve owed his appointment, and to whose wife Sainte-Beuve made love. The poet and the critic had met at Paris, where Olivier had gone to prepare himself for the Chair of Literature at Neuchâtel. He was promoted, three years later, to the Chair of History at Lausanne, which he occupied for twelve years, acting also, during part of the time, as editor of the _Revue Suisse_, to which Sainte-Beuve contributed. The Revolution of 1845 unseated him. He went to Paris, where he achieved no great success, and was homesick there for five-and-twenty years. The Swiss forgot him, and the Parisians did not understand him. But, in 1870, when there was no longer a living to be made in Paris, he came home again. One may quote the pathetic picture of his home-coming, drawn by M. Philippe Godet: 'He had to live. For three winters the poet travelled through French Switzerland, lecturing, reading his verses, relating his reminiscences, with that melancholy humour which gave his speech its charm. The public--I speak of what I saw--was polite, respectful, and nothing more. Olivier felt almost a stranger in his own country. But he consoled himself, in the summer, at Gryon, "the high village facing the Alps of Vaud," which he has so often celebrated. He was to sing, at the mid-August fête, his song to the Shepherds of Anzeindaz. And there they understood him and applauded. He had his day of happiness and glory among these simple mountaineers. He was, for an hour, what it had been the dream of his life to be, the national singer of the Vaudois country.' But the end is melancholy. He died in a chalet at Gryon in January, 1876, a broken and disappointed man, reluctant even to speak of his work or hear it spoken of. There is a deep pathos in one of his last letters which M. Godet quotes: 'It is a melancholy history--that of our country. It did nothing for Viret or Vinet; and, though I do not rank myself with them, I too know what neglect means. "Come and have a drink"--that is their last word here. I had hoped for better things. What a beautiful dream it was! At least I have been loyal to it, even if I have not, as I fancy, done all that it was in me to do. Since the day when, in one of my first printed poems, I wrote, "Un génie est caché dans tous les lieux que j'aime," I have obstinately sought out that genius, and tried to make it speak. It has answered me, I think more often than its voice has been heard.' [Illustration: LUTRY] FOOTNOTE: [8] It was not made a University until later. CHAPTER IX NYON Lausanne, for the purposes of this volume, must be taken to include such neighbouring lake-side towns as Morges, and Rolle, and Nyon. Morges we have already seen distinguishing itself by refusing, on principle, to pay for the mending of the roads, and so paving the way for the subsequent insurrection. Nowadays it is the seat of an arsenal, and is said to have an aristocratic population, interested in literature. Rolle was the home of the Laharpes, and boasts a statue of César de Laharpe by Pradier. A colony of French and Genevan political exiles once flourished there, and Madame de Staël was a frequent visitor. Voltaire once proposed to buy an estate in the neighbourhood--the Château des Menthon--but the Bernese would not let him do so, alleging the curious reason that the philosopher was a Roman Catholic. Nyon is the dirtiest town on the Lake--or would be if Villeneuve were not dirtier. But it is also one of the most picturesque--the castle being nobly situated and in a fine state of preservation--and it has its interesting memories. One of its interesting associations is with the Waldenses. These persecuted Protestants had fled, or been driven out, from their mountain home above Turin. Switzerland received them hospitably, but they were homesick. They resolved to go back; not to slink back in twos and threes, but to march back, with their flags flying, like courageous Christian soldiers. They mustered at Nyon, and thence crossed the lake under the leadership of the fighting pastor, Henri Arnaud, and marched across the mountains to effect their 'glorious re-entry.' It was a great military feat, and no less a judge than Napoleon has paid his tribute to the military genius of the commander. The returning exiles defeated the soldiers of Savoy in more than one pitched battle. One thinks of them generally as the 'slaughtered saints, whose bones' inspired one of the finest of Milton's sonnets, but theirs were not the only bones that whitened the valleys during that notable expedition. Nyon again recalls the memory of Bonstetten, who governed it for a season on behalf of Berne. If all the Bernese Governors had been like him, Vaud would have been a contented country, though he is chiefly remembered as a wit and a man of culture, who lived to be eighty-seven without ever seeming to grow old. In his youth he travelled in England, and was the friend of Gray; in his old age he lived at Geneva, and was the friend of Byron. In the meantime he had been the friend of Madame de Staël, and a pillar of the cosmopolitan society at Coppet. He wrote some books, but they are dead and buried. What lives is the recollection of the genial old gentleman whom everybody liked, and who proved--what needed a great deal of proving--that it was possible for a Bernese to be gracious and frivolous, and to have a sense of humour. He detested the society of his native city, and wrote a delightfully sarcastic description of its daily life in a letter to one of the Hallers: 'We are living here, as we always do. We sleep, we breakfast, we yawn, we drag through the morning, and we digest our food. And then we dine, and then we dress, and then we swagger in the Arcades, and say to ourselves: "I am charming and clever, for the spelling of my name makes me capable of governing and illuminating two hundred thousand souls." And then we accost a lady with a pretty figure decently enveloped in a mantle, and then we go to a party and circle round a dozen turtle-doves, and deliver ourselves of platitudes with the air of saying something clever. Then we have something to eat, and, finding our intellectual resources exhausted, amuse ourselves with paper games; and then we go to bed, feeling satisfied with ourselves--for we have been delightful.' Out of sympathy with Berne, Bonstetten had a good deal more sympathy than Berne liked with the revolutionary party. It is said that his sympathies lost him his post; but before that happened he had time to render a useful service to one of the most eminent of the revolutionists. He was at supper one day with a considerable number of guests when his servant whispered in his ear that a mysterious stranger was without, asking to speak with him. He stepped into the garden, where a man, miserably dressed, was waiting for him in the summer-house. He inquired his errand, and the answer was: 'I am Carnot, and I am perishing from hunger. I implore you to give me shelter for the night.' Bonstetten not only gave him shelter for the night, but, on the following morning, gave him a passport under an assumed name. One can understand that his superiors at Berne did not regard him as a model functionary, but Carnot never forgot his kindness. When he became Napoleon's War Minister, he invited him to Paris, introduced him to the Emperor, and heaped proofs of his gratitude upon him. [Illustration: CULLY FROM EPESSE: AUTUMN] Perhaps it is also worth noting that, in the days before the railways, Nyon was on the highroad from France to Switzerland. The track descended there from Saint-Cergues, where it crossed the Jura; and by it travelled Madame de Staël, and Benjamin Constant, and Voltaire, and many another whom we have met in the course of this rambling narrative. There is a new road now, with wide, sweeping curves, and a gentle gradient; but enough of the old road remains to show us how shamefully bad it was--a narrow road, of uneven surface, plunging headlong through the pine-forest. The lumbering old coaches, with their six horses, must have had a very bad time there, and it is no wonder that Napoleon ordered a road to be made over the Col de la Faucille to supersede it. But enough of Nyon and the Canton de Vaud! We must cross the lake to the French shore; and, as first impressions are always the most graphic, permission has been obtained to print here the writer's own first impressions, contributed a few years since, to the columns of the _Pall Mall Gazette_. CHAPTER X THE FRENCH SHORE What strikes the holiday traveller about the French shore is that it is so much better managed than the Swiss shore. Its natural advantages are fewer--they are, in fact, very few indeed. Evian--and when one speaks of the French shore one is principally thinking of Evian--stands with its back to the high mountains instead of facing them. Consequently it has no views to compare with the views from Lausanne, Geneva, and Vevey. Its hinterland is commonplace, except for those who make a great effort and go up the Dent d'Oche. The mouth of the Dranse, hard by, is a dreary collection of detritus. There are hardly any literary landmarks, except the few that recall the memory of St. Francis de Sales. Whence English travellers have, almost with one accord, drawn the inference that it is not worth while to go to Evian. But they are wrong. The French think otherwise, and the French are right. They do not go there, as some suppose, because they are crippled with diseases and need the waters to wash poisons out of their blood and their organs: the Evian water is the sort of water that the whole, as well as the sick, can drink by the bucketful without feeling a penny the worse for it. Their purpose in going to Evian is to live a life of luxury and leisure. No doubt they pay through the nose for the privilege. Inquiry at one hotel elicited the statement that the worst rooms were let at eight and the best at eighty francs a day--with service _à la carte_ on the same scale. But other hotels are cheaper, and it is also possible to hire a villa, a flat, a lodging; and, in any case, it is right that Evian should be introduced to the English tourist as the one place on the Lake of Geneva in which the life of leisure and luxury is possible. There is no real luxury at Geneva itself, though there are high prices and immense hotels. Instead of having good music at fixed hours, they have indifferent music all day long. The whole air is full of a continual tinkle-tinkle; louder than the tinkle-tinkle rises the hooting of the steamers and the trams; louder still are the voices of the trippers, mostly Americans, inquiring the prices of things, or complaining that they have lost their luggage. The society at the boasted Kursaal is an unpolished horde, mainly composed of the Geneva clerks and shop-assistants losing their salaries at _petits chevaux_. Nor are things much better elsewhere on the Swiss shore. Nyon, for instance, is by nature an earthly paradise, and they have formed a society for developing it. What they really want is a society for cleaning it, since it is the present practice of the inhabitants to empty their dustbins over their garden walls into the lake, with results appalling to the nostrils of the stranger. At Lausanne, or Vevey, or Montreux--other earthly paradises--you escape this nuisance; but even there, in the season, you have the feeling that the place is one vast hotel, and that everybody is waiting with packed boxes for the omnibus. But cross to Evian. The town is a little smaller than Montreux, but just as full. Yet it never seems to be crowded. There is no hurrying or bustling. You are in nobody's way, and nobody is in your way; which means that Evian is properly managed. They do not encourage you to come to Evian in the capacity of tripper. On the contrary, they try to arrange things so that you must sacrifice your lunch in order to get there, and your dinner in order to get home. But this is a part of the secret of good management, as you will appreciate if you stay there. No knickerbockered army, headed by a polyglot guide in a straw hat with a label on it, will invade your peace, but you will be free to live your lotus-eating life in your own way. You will probably live most of it in the casino, which is a proper casino, differing from the Geneva Kursaal as cheese from chalk. There is so much shade that it is always cool there, even on the hottest day. You will lunch there on a shaded terrace, assisted by a sympathetic waiter, who understands that a good lunch is an end in itself, and not merely a device for keeping body and soul together until the evening. You will linger long and agreeably over the coffee and liqueurs, without feeling that someone else wants your seat. Nor will you be bothered, as in Geneva, by the squeaking of a futile fiddle, or by hawkers offering picture postcards. But, at the appointed hour, there will be a proper concert with a programme, and a well-behaved and well-dressed audience: beautiful French ladies looking as if they had stepped out of fashion plates; beautiful French children looking as if they had been cut out of Aunt Louisa's picture-book; fantastic Frenchmen, looking as if they were dressed for amateur theatricals. Then, when the evening comes, and you have dined as well as you have lunched, there will be a performance in the little theatre, given by artistes from Paris, who come on to Evian from Aix-les-Bains: Réjane, Jeanne Granier, Charlotte Wiehe, or others. Or there will be a ball in the grand style--not in the least like the balls in the Hall-by-the-Sea at Margate--given in as good a ballroom as the heart of a dancer could wish for. But no hurrying, or hustling, or excitement. At Evian, if nowhere else on Lake Leman, life is a leisurely pageant. [Illustration: GRANDVAUX FROM CULLY] For the rest, there is little enough for you to do--nothing, in fact, except to stroll up and down the long avenue of linked plane-trees by the lake-side, observe how clean they keep the water, and gaze across its calm surface to the Swiss shore where the trippers make a noise. But this has always been a favourite occupation of the dwellers on the French shore, whether in fact or works of fiction. From Meillerie St. Preux gazed across at the _bosquet_ of Clarens. From Thonon St. Francis de Sales gazed across, pondering plans for working the Counter-Reformation in the Canton de Vaud. From Evian itself, Madame de Warens gazed across, regretting the home of her youth to which she could never return, because, when she left it, she had abandoned her religion, and taken with her certain goods and chattels which her creditors were about to seize. CHAPTER XI HISTORY OF THE FRENCH SHORE--FELIX V The history of the French shore, which has only recently belonged to France, may be told in briefest outline. In the earliest times of which we need take cognizance it belonged to the Dukes of Savoy, whose domains continued for a considerable distance up the valley of the Rhone. Then came the war of 1536, of which we have spoken more than once, in which the Bernese took the territory away from them. Part of it was recovered by Duke Emanuel Philibert in 1564, and the whole was reassigned by treaty in 1593. The inhabitants had, in the meantime, been converted to Protestantism, and the first task of Savoy was to reconvert them. A mission for that purpose was led by St. Francis de Sales, and the principles of the Counter-Reformation quickly triumphed. The French Revolution brought a French army to Savoy, but the expelled rulers came to their own again when the Holy Alliance resettled the map of Europe. Nothing further happened until the war which resulted in the consolidation of a United Italy. Savoy (together with Nice) was then Napoleon III.'s reward for ejecting the Austrian garrison from Italian territory. The country had long been French in its language and its sympathies, and the people were quite willing, if not actively anxious, to change their allegiance; and the history of Savoy has, since that date, belonged to the history of France. Its extreme Catholicism, like that of Brittany, gave trouble at the time of the expulsion of the Religious Orders, but that is a question of modern politics into which it is unnecessary to enter here. We will search instead for the historical and literary landmarks. Our first interesting name is that of Duke Amadeus VIII. The death of his eldest son caused him profound grief, and 'in 1431,' says Bishop Creighton, 'he retired from active life, and built himself a luxurious retreat at Ripaille, whither he withdrew with seven companions to lead a life of religious seclusion. His abode was called the Temple of St. Maurice; he and his followers wore grey cloaks, like hermits, with gold crosses round their necks and long staffs in their hands.' But though Duke Amadeus dressed as a hermit, he hardly lived as one; and as for religious seclusion, he interpreted it after a fashion of his own. 'Vitam magis voluptuosam quam penitentialem degebat,' is the statement of his biographer, Æneas Sylvius; and his jovial proceedings added to the French language the new expression 'faire Ripaille.' Those were the days, however, when the Council of Basle accused Pope Eugenius IV. of heresy and schism. An Opposition Pope was wanted, and the Council decided to offer the dignity to the ducal hermit, who was living a voluptuous rather than a penitential life. A deputation was sent to wait upon him at Ripaille. Amadeus, with his hermit companions, advanced to meet the visitors, with a cross borne before him, and discussed the proposal in a thoroughly business-like spirit. 'What,' he asked, 'do you expect the Pope to live on? I cannot consume my patrimony and disinherit my sons.' He was promised a grant of first-fruits of vacant benefices, and that satisfied him, though he made the further stipulation that he should not be required to shave. As a matter of fact, however, he was presently shamed into shaving by the respectful amazement of the devout; and he took the name of Felix V. and entered Basle attended by his two sons--'an unusual escort for a Pope,' as Creighton justly remarks--and was crowned by the Cardinal of Aries, the only Cardinal present, on July 24, 1440. The question then arose, Which Pope would be recognized by the other European Principalities and Powers? By degrees it was found that the balance of opinion was against Felix V., and in favour of Eugenius IV. and his successor Nicolas V.; and Felix V. then discovered that he did not greatly care about his somewhat shadowy honours. He had had much anxiety, and only a small and irregular stipend. So, on April 7, 1449, he was persuaded to resign the Papal office, and less than two years afterwards he died. 'He was more useful to the Church by his death than by his life,' says Æneas Sylvius. But that is as it may be. He was, at all events, an interesting figure and a better man than Æneas himself, seeing that Æneas, afterwards Pius II., candidly confessed that he was 'neither holier than David nor wiser than Solomon,' and actually wrote love-letters to help Sigismund, Count of Tyrol, 'to overcome the resistance of a girl who shrank from his dishonourable proposals.' [Illustration: THE RHONE VALLEY FROM CHEXBRES] CHAPTER XII ST. FRANCIS DE SALES A greater figure--perhaps the greatest of all figures in the history of Savoy--is that of St. Francis de Sales. It is a little difficult to speak of him without appearing to stir the embers of theological disputation. But the effort must be made, since he is much too notable a man to be passed over; and the task may be made easier by the fact that he is a Catholic of whom Protestants speak well, even though they have to recognize in him one of the most damaging of their opponents. They respect his character even in the act of examining his propositions; they perceive that it was just because his character was so admirable that he was able to do the cause of the Reformation so much harm. He combined qualities which, in that age, were rarely found conjoined, being at once a gentleman and a scholar, a man of saintly humility, and yet of energy and courage. Such men were scarce in both religious camps. The Reformers had their share of virile vigour, and the best of them were among the most learned men of their time; but, on the whole, they lacked good manners and 'sweet reasonableness.' Their methods were often violent, and their speech was often coarse. They upset altars and smashed stained-glass windows, and threw sacred images into the rivers, and, as we have seen, 'crowned Roman Catholic priests with cow-dung.' Their vocabulary, too, was scurrilous, as was natural, seeing that many of them had risen to eminence in their church from some very humble rank in life. They lacked the grand style in theology, and one could find excuses for calling them vulgarians. No doubt there was more of the grand style among their Catholic opponents, but they also fell short in many ways of the Christian ideal. Many of them were dissolute debauchees. The case of Æneas Sylvius, already cited, shows that the most cynical immorality was not incompatible with the highest ecclesiastical advancement, and, indeed, it is notorious that the loose lives of ecclesiastical dignitaries did more than their unscriptural doctrines to discredit the Church of Rome and make the Reformation possible. There were prelates of whom it could truly be said that they spared neither men in their anger nor women in their lust; and even among those whose reputation was sweeter, there were a good many who would have passed a very bad quarter of an hour if haled before Calvin's Consistory and cross-examined. Even if they had passed the moral standards, they would have been found guilty of luxury and arrogance. They were unduly addicted to purple and fine linen, and made no pretence to live a simple life. On each side, however, there were exceptions, exempt from the characteristic faults of their parties, and these, even in that age of vehement polemics, were able to recognize and appreciate one another. On the Protestant side there was M. de Bèze--the 'gentleman reformer,' as he has been called--who, drawing a useful inspiration from the memories of his unregenerate days, was able to speak affably with his enemies in the gate. On the Catholic side there was St. Francis de Sales, whom the study of the Humane Letters had indeed humanized, who was transparently sincere, and who, by the charm of his character, disarmed antagonism. In an age in which men of all religious opinions (and of none) lived in daily peril of torture and the stake, each of these two men believed that the other was honestly mistaken, and would have liked to be his friend. Judged by the historical results of his principal achievement, St. Francis can hardly escape condemnation as a maker of mischief and a stirrer-up of strife. To him, and to him alone, was due the triumph of the Counter-Reformation in Chablais. If he had declined that missionary enterprise, or failed in it, the Duke of Savoy would not have been encouraged to make the treacherous attempt upon Genevan independence known as the Escalade. That plot was actually laid at Thonon, at a meeting held to celebrate and rejoice over St. Francis de Sales' apostolic achievements. He must have known of it; he was in a position to protest against it; he does not appear to have done anything of the kind. It went forward, and Spanish soldiers were hired to cut Genevan throats in the name of the Church of St. Peter. There we have cause and effect--a saintly man interfering with freedom of thought, and so bringing, not peace, but a sword. That is the summing-up of the matter which impartial logic compels; but, somehow or other, it does not much interfere with the friendliness of one's feelings towards St. Francis de Sales. The rude logic of events did not correspond to any syllogism in his mind. The narrowness of his outlook was that of his country and his age; the sweetness of his temper was his own. He loved his erring brothers, as he considered them, and his concern was for the salvation of their souls. He did disinterestedly, and at great personal sacrifice, the duty which he conceived to lie nearest to him; he did it like a soldier, who must not reason why, and with a serene and lofty courage. The courage of missionaries has often, it is true, been the subject of exaggerated eulogy. Courage is no uncommon human quality; and it is doubtful whether good men are, on an average, any braver than bad men. It is not only the soldier who, as a matter of course, takes risks quite equal to those of the missionary. The brigand, the highwayman, and the beach-comber, to say nothing of the terrorist, who is generally an atheist, also do so; and, these things being so, much of the talk about the heroism of Christian heroes is almost indecently vainglorious. Yet, even when all the necessary deductions have been made, there remains something singularly fascinating in the courage of St. Francis de Sales. He was not by nature pugnacious, as was, for example, Farel, who took an Irishman's delight in a row, and considered that it was all in the day's work when he was fustigated by women, or dragged up and down the floor of a church by the beard. His tastes, on the contrary, were refined, and his inclinations were for the life of the cloister or the study. He went into the wilds of Chablais--and it was really a wild country in those days--because he had been called and chosen, and because there was work to be done there which he was considered specially capable of doing. Men with guns took pot-shots at him in the dark places of the forests; and he once spent a whole winter's night in a tree-top, while a pack of hungry wolves howled at him from below. Such adventures were repugnant to his gentle and sensitive nature; but he faced them and persevered, year after year, until at last his pertinacity was rewarded. More as a tribute to his unique personality than to his arguments--which, of course, were only the commonplaces of Catholic apologetics--Chablais surrendered to the Church. Even though one wishes that Chablais had held out, one cannot help regarding its evangelist as a sympathetic figure. Pope Alexander VII. canonized him in 1665. [Illustration: THE CHURCH OF ST. MARTIN, VEVEY] CHAPTER XIII JOSEPH DE MAISTRE St. Francis de Sales, was not only a missionary, but also a man of letters, and--especially--a patron of letters. Thirty years before Richelieu founded the French Academy, he founded the Florimontane Academy--with the motto _Flores fructusque perennes_--in Savoy, and thus forged one of the links between the literature of Savoy and that of France. More than one great writer, whom we carelessly class as French, was really of Savoyard origin. Vaugelas, described by Sainte-Beuve 'as the first of our correct and polished grammarians,' was the son of the Vaugelas who helped St. Francis de Sales in the formation of his literary society at Annecy. St. Réal, the forerunner of Montesquieu, was also a Savoyard; and so were Count Xavier de Maistre, author of the widely-read 'Voyage Autour de ma Chambre,' and Count Joseph de Maistre, his more distinguished brother. Joseph de Maistre, indeed, is the greatest of the literary sons of Savoy, and a worthy inheritor of the traditions of the saint, his predecessor. An aristocrat, and a senator, he was a man of forty when the revolutionary storm burst upon his country. For a season he took refuge in Lausanne, where he often met, and argued with, Madame de Staël, whom he regarded as a woman with a good heart but a perverted head. His discussions with her, he said, 'nearly made the Swiss die with laughing, though we conducted them without quarrelling.' Afterwards he was sent to represent his sovereign at the Court of St. Petersburg, where, he complains, he had to get on as best he could, 'without a salary, without a secretary, and without a fur-lined overcoat.' Both there and at Lausanne he wrote. His date and his circumstances class him with the literary _émigrés_--with Madame de Staël, Châteaubriand, and Sénancour; but he lacks their melancholy and their sentimentalism. He and Châteaubriand, indeed, resemble one another as two champions of the Catholic religion; but they support that religion from widely different points of view. Châteaubriand is before all things the religious æsthete. He deduces the truth of a creed from its beauty, and is very little concerned with its bearing upon moral conduct. Joseph de Maistre, on the contrary, seems to believe in the authority of the Church because he believes in authority generally. He is an Absolutist who hates all Radicals, and regards the schismatic as the worst kind of Radical. He makes a religion of the principle of 'keeping people in their place,' and he supports his religion with epigrams. The epigrams are very good, though the religion is very bad. The French, like the sound critics that they are, have proved themselves capable of enjoying the one while refusing to have very much to do with the other. INDEX Alexander I., 62 Amadeus VIII., Duke, 96 Arnaud, Henri, 84 Bèze, M. de, 101 Bonivard, 5 Bonnet, Charles, 69 Bonstetten, 84, 86 Bridel, Doyen, 40 Bridel, Louis, 40 'Buonaparte,' 44 Byron, 85 Calvin, 6 Carnot, 86 Cart, C. C., 61 Casaubon, 68 Charrière, Madame de, 41, 46, 47, 50 Châteaubriand, 106 Constant de Rebecque, Benjamin, 45, 47, 48, 49, 54, 58, 59, 60, 86 Constant, Rosalie de, 45 Coppet, 49, 56, 59, 60, 85 Curchod, Mademoiselle Suzanne, 16, 17, 18, 20, 22, 23, 24, 26, 27 D'Alembert, 13 Davel, Major, 9 Deffand, Madame du, 35 Dent d'Oche, 89 Deyverdun, 26, 29 Dickens, 65 Dutertre, Madame, 54, 55, 56, 57 English Colony, 65, 73 Eugenius IV., Pope, 97, 98 Evian, 89, 91, 93 Farel, 6, 104 Felix V., 97, 98 Florimontane Academy, 105 Fox, Charles James, 28, 30 Fraubrunnen, 62 Gesner, 69 Gibbon, 13, 17, 18, 20, 22, 23, 25, 26, 27, 29, 30, 34, 35, 36, 39, 40, 41, 42, 61, 65 Godet, M. Philippe, 80 Hardenberg, Madame de, 53 d'Haussonville, Monsieur, 20, 21, 22, 23 Jomini, 69 Knox, John, 13 Laharpe, César, 61, 62, 83 Lavater, 69 'Lettres de Lausanne,' 41 Ligne, Prince and Princesse de, 31 Lindsay, Mrs., 53 Maistre, Count Joseph de, 105, 106, 107 Maistre, Count Xavier de, 105 Meillerie, 93 Mercier, 31 Michaut, M., 78 Montolieu, Madame de, 39, 40, 41 Moore, Dr. John, 71 Morges, 61, 83 Moudon, 2 Moultou, Pastor, 22 Necker, Jacques, 31, 34, 37 Necker, Madame, 20, 31, 32, 34, 35, 36, 37 Necker, M., Madame, and Mademoiselle, 31 Nyon, 83, 84, 86 Olivier, Juste, 77, 79 Olivier, Madame, 78 Pavilliard, Pastor, 13 Peter of Savoy, 3 Pestalozzi, 67 Philibert, Duke Emanuel, 95 Raynal, Abbé, 31 _Revue Suisse_, 79 Ripaille, 96, 97 Robespierre, 62 Rocca, Albert de, 58, 60 Rolle, 61, 83 Rousseau, 23 Rovéreaz, Colonel de, 62 Sainte-Beuve, 76, 77, 79 Saint-Cergues, 87 St. Francis de Sales, 89, 93, 95, 98, 101, 102, 103, 105 Saint-Pierre, Bernardin de, 45 Saussure, 69 Schlegel, 55 Sénancour, 106 Sheffield, Lord, 29, 40 Staël, Madame de, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 63, 85, 86, 106 Staël, M. de, 48 Sylvius, Æneas, 97, 98, 100 Talma, Madame, 49 Thonon, 93, 102 Tissot, Dr., 31, 42, 43 Vinet, Alexandre, 76, 77, 79, 80 Viret, 6, 7, 80 Voght, Baron de, 59 Voltaire, 13, 30, 83, 86 Vulliemin, Louis, 2, 3, 6, 7 Waldenses, 84 Warens, Madame de, 93 Wurtemberg, Prince of, 43 Zaeringen, 1 BILLING AND SONS, LIMITED, PRINTERS, GUILFORD 
39651	----	SWITZERLAND _In the same series_ AUSTRIA-HUNGARY ENGLAND FRANCE ITALY AT LES PLANS IN APRIL. SWITZERLAND BY FRANK FOX AUTHOR OF "RAMPARTS OF EMPIRE" "PEEPS AT THE BRITISH EMPIRE," "AUSTRALIA," AND "OCEANIA" WITH 32 FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR LONDON ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK 1914 PREFACE In Switzerland, above all other lands of Europe, is the greatness of Nature manifest. But not even the Alps can overshadow the story of her gallant people. The Swiss are more interesting even than Switzerland. In this volume therefore--a volume intended to give the reader who cannot hope to see Switzerland some idea of its character, as well as to guide those who hope or intend to undertake a Swiss tour--an attempt has been made to give a brief sketch of the origins and achievements of the Swiss people, as well as to describe the natural beauties of the country. To a very remarkable extent the history of Switzerland has affected the general current of European history, partly through the courage of the mercenary soldiers that the Alpine communities sent abroad in olden times, partly because always Switzerland has provided a house of refuge for political exiles from other countries. The deeds of her people cannot but be interesting in every land where European civilisation rules. They have the interest not only of their essential heroism but of their near relation to the development of other countries. No exhaustive record has been attempted. This volume cannot, for the serious student, serve either as a history of Switzerland, as a description of the Swiss Alps, or as a record of those interesting literary and scientific coteries which grew up beside the Swiss lakes. Its purpose rather is to give to the reader who cannot devote a special interest to the country some fairly adequate idea of its history, its character, and institutions. The illustrations have been selected to give as comprehensive an impression as possible of the various beauties of Swiss scenery. FRANK FOX. CONTENTS CHAPTER I THE SPIRIT OF THE MOUNTAINS CHAPTER II THE EARLIEST SWISS: THE LAKE-DWELLERS: CHARLEMAGNE CHAPTER III THE SWISS IN THE MIDDLE AGES CHAPTER IV MODERN SWITZERLAND CHAPTER V SOME LITERARY ASSOCIATIONS CHAPTER VI THE SWISS AND HUMAN THOUGHT CHAPTER VII THE SWISS PEOPLE TO-DAY CHAPTER VIII ALPINE CLIMBING CHAPTER IX NATURAL BEAUTIES OF SWITZERLAND CHAPTER X AVALANCHES AND GLACIERS CHAPTER XI THE ALPINE CLUBS CHAPTER XII THE FLOWERS OF THE ALPS CHAPTER XIII SWISS SPORTS CHAPTER XIV SWISS SCHOOLS CHAPTER XV SOME STATISTICAL FACTS INDEX LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR 1. At Les Plans in April 2. The Matterhorn from the Riffelberg 3. Looking down the Rhone Valley from Mt. Palerin at the Eastern end of the Lake of Geneva 4. A distant view of the Jura Range from the south side of the Lake of Geneva 5. Fluelen at the end of Uri Lake 6. Altdorf 7. A Village on the St. Gothard Railway 8. The Statue of Jean-Jacques Rousseau on the Island in the Rhone, Geneva 9. Château de Prangins 10. Geneva from the Arve 11. L'Église de la Madeleine, Geneva 12. An Alpine Village, Grindelwald 13. Alpine Herdsmen 14. Hay Hauling on the Alpine Snow 15. Sunset on Mont Blanc from Geneva 16. The Palu Glacier 17. Winter Sunrise in the Engadine--Cresta, Celerina, and Samaden 18. The Schiahorn. "The Châlets are like fairy houses or toys" 19. A Mountain Path, Grindelwald 20. Castle of Chillon 21. Davos in Winter--The Home of John Addington Symonds 22. Märjelen See and Great Aletsch Glacier 23. Looking up Valley towards Zermatt from near Randa 24. The Dents du Midi from Gryon above Bex 25. The Schwartzhorn from the Fluela Hospice 26. An Alpine Meadow in Bloom 27. Hepatica in the Woods at Bex 28. Alpine Garden (La Linnea) at Bourg St. Pierre on the road to the Great St. Bernard, beginning of August 29. Hunting the Chamois 30. A Corner of Aigle Skating Rink 31. Berne 32. Lausanne _Sketch Map at end of Volume_ SWITZERLAND CHAPTER I THE SPIRIT OF THE MOUNTAINS The Swiss as a people often suffer in the judgment of the tourist by failure to live up to their reputation as a "mountain people"--to a glorious "Alpine" character. The dweller by the shores of the sea or by the riverine plains, setting his feet along a mountain path towards the peaks which go up to meet the sky, ordinarily feels a sense of joy and freedom as he climbs to the higher air. He seems to shake off shackles from his mind and to enter into an enjoyment of life which is less earthly and nearer to the spiritual. His imagination is impressed with the thought that truly he is mounting towards the stars. There is, to aid imagination, a definite corporal effect due to a slight change in the nature of the air. A quickening pulse seems to tell of the heart becoming more generous in response to the spirit of the mountains. From this feeling of exhilaration of the mind and the body, which comes when ascending, after a long stay on the plains, to a mountain height, arises an almost universal belief in human thought that there is some special spiritual and ennobling influence in the mountains of the earth. Poets have sung of it again and again: philosophers have admitted to it with a more discreet but with a no less certain rapture. Many scientists have explained it with as ingenious explanations as were offered by those learned men who were set by a waggish French king to explain to him why it was that: given two dishes, each full to the brim of water, and two fish of equal size, but one dead and the other alive: and allowed that the live fish is put in the one full dish and the dead fish in the other full dish with equal care: then, whilst the water of the dish in which the dead fish is placed will overflow at once, the water of the dish in which the live fish is placed will not overflow. That king's merry jest on his men of learning who set out to find a reason for a "fact" before finding out whether it was a fact, was neatly countered, if my memory of the story be correct, by one courtier-scientist who ingeniously pleaded that what His Majesty said on any matter must, by all loyal subjects, be accepted as a fact, and in truth did, to the loyal mind, become a fact, no unworthy suspicions being harboured that a king of France could not make, change, or annul a natural law just as well as any other law. In truth, though, the idea that dwelling on a mountain-top has a strengthening effect on the human frame and an ennobling influence on the human character is mostly fallacious. It may be "explained" but not proved. Those who hold it, if questioned in the Socratic manner to give proofs in the first place of the existence of the ennobling influence they believe in, could well plead a general human consent on the point--a universal belief. But they would, I think, be hard put to it, to offer any more real proof than the statements of some poet, or of some philosopher, or the explanation of some scientist who had explained a circumstance without first proving it. Let there be imagined a cross-examination on the point by some modern follower of Socrates' methods: _S._ You say that the Swiss people are a noble race because they are a mountain race. Will you, if you have time, explain to me why that is so? I am very anxious to know the true reason why the fact of living on a mountain should have this fine effect on the human character. _T._ On that point, surely, there is no difference of opinion at all? Every one knows that the mountain races are the most brave, the most eager for liberty, the most virtuous of the earth. _S._ But it happens that I am not so wise as those people. I do not know, and I am very anxious to learn. Can you show me that it is a fact that mountain races are as you say? And afterwards, since you evidently have knowledge on this point and I am anxious to be your pupil, perhaps you will tell me why it is so. _T._ You ask a rather difficult question. It is like, almost, raising the question as to whether the earth is round. Are you not satisfied to know that nearly all the poets and philosophers who have written about the mountains seem to be agreed on this point when they refer to it at all; and that few have written about mountains without making some reference to the noble nature of mountain peoples? _S._ To tell you the truth, I am not quite satisfied. It is even possible that the poets have been mistaken. Probably you have heard of a German wise man named Schopenhauer and have read his writings. _T._ (Interrupting.) Yes. But if he writes against mountain people I would not accept him as an authority on this point about which we are talking, since there are many men on the other side of so much greater authority. _S._ No. I do not wish you to accept him as an authority on the character of mountain peoples. Indeed I do not know whether he has ever written at all on that subject. But he has written on the subject of female and male beauty. He does not think that women are more beautiful than men, but less beautiful. And when they would argue against him the words of the great poets, who are all quite agreed that women are more beautiful than men, he retorts that all these poets have been men, and that they have been blinded by their passions for women, and have not been able therefore to come to a sound and cool judgment. He argues that if the greatest poets had been women the beauty of men and not of women would have been sung. Does that not seem to you a rational argument? _T._ Yes. Certainly it is not absurd. There may be some truth in what he says. _S._ So the words of the poets may not always be accepted as proof of the truth, especially if it can be shown that they may be prejudiced regarding the matters of which they speak. _T._ I agree with you there. But I do not see that there is any necessary application to the point about which we were arguing--the noble character of mountain peoples. _S._ I wish to come to that now. I accept what you say that very many poets and wise men have exalted the character of mountain peoples. But now, can you tell me were those poets and wise men themselves generally of mountain peoples? _T._ No, certainly not. You cannot argue that they were prejudiced in that way. Indeed in my recollection I can recall no very great poet or philosopher who was of a mountain people and was brought up and educated in his own country. _S._ Now that seems to me to be a very pertinent fact. It is the case, then, that though mountain peoples are superior to other peoples, they do not produce and rear poets and philosophers to any extent; that these praises of the better qualities of mountain peoples come from the great men whom the peoples of the plains produce? Yet surely the peoples who produce most plentifully great men, poets and philosophers, are the greatest peoples? The dialogue need not be pursued further until T., like Euthyphron, finds that he is in a hurry and it is time to be off. Its purpose is to suggest that it is not at all necessary to endorse without question the very generally accepted idea that there is some specially beneficent effect on the human character in mountain life. The exhilaration that one feels in going on a journey from the plains to the mountains is real, and on it apparently has been built all the fabric of mountain worship. That exhilaration is in all probability far more the effect of a change of living conditions than of a passing to better conditions. Human life primitively flowed fluid, here and there, in nomadic movements. When it began to congeal in cities and communities it departed from natural conditions, and Nature often exacts as a penalty some atrophy of the life impulse. But a change of environment and of air--any change--brings usually a stimulus. Nature thinks we are off to be nomad children playing at her skirts again, and gives back to us as a reward a hint of the old savage energy. I have felt a keen renewal of energy going up from the plains to the mountains: and after a year on the tableland a far keener renewal on going back to the plains. It is in like case with most people, I think, if they would take the trouble to examine into the matter. But most of us live on the plains and go for our holidays to the hills (or the sea) and associate the exhilaration arising from change of air or surroundings to some special quality of mountain conditions. Those who live on the mountains and might in turn proclaim the exhilaration of going down on to the plains are few and not markedly vocal for securing a public hearing. There is an early poem of Tennyson, which expresses no more than the orthodox view of the influence of mountains on our human nature: Of old sat Freedom on the heights, The thunders breaking at her feet: Above her shook the starry lights: She heard the torrents meet. There in her place she did rejoice, Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind, But fragments of her mighty voice Came rolling on the wind. Then stept she down thro' town and field To mingle with the human race, And part by part to men reveal'd The fullness of her face. [Illustration: THE MATTERHORN FROM THE RIFFELBERG.] Our Swiss friends are expected by the traveller to carry themselves in all things with the pride and dignity of people who are born in the original home of European liberty. But Tennyson's idea, whilst pretty, is exactly false. Civilisations and traditions of human freedom have always begun on the plains--by sea-shore and river-bank. There have been born the ideas of Freedom and Human Right, and these ideas have at a later stage made their way to the mountain ranges by various paths. In one set of cases the course of race history has run that the people of the plain have become softened by civilisation and luxury, and hairy savages from the hills have learned to steal first their cattle and then the riches of their cities, and finally their ideas. Sometimes in these cases the people of the plain have been aroused to an old vigour by the robbers of the hills, have beaten them back after having imposed upon them some ideas of law and order, and have thus set the foundations for civilised mountain communities. Sometimes, again, the people of the hills have succeeded in establishing themselves on the plain, mingling with the civilised people whom they conquered, and in time learning their culture. In another set of cases a nation as it perfected its civilisation on a plain has found it necessary to shed off some of its rougher elements, and these have taken to robber nests in the hills and carried with them some better ideas than those of the hill-tribes. Or yet again, one nation of the plain has been invaded and conquered by another nation of the plain, and its remnants have sought refuge in the hills, so forming the best historical type of mountain communities (thus the Celts did in the Highlands of Scotland and Wales when the Saxon invasion drove them from the plains of Britain). But never has any notable civilisation sat first upon the heights and marched from there down to the plains. Always, on the contrary, human progress has progressed from the plain to the mountain; and found the path sometimes very difficult, and very treacherously defended. Where a mountain range has affected favourably the progress of human thought it has been because it gave a rampart and a refuge to the remnants of some civilisation of the plains threatened with submergence by calamity. To get a fair impression of Switzerland and the Swiss at the outset, then, it seems to be advisable to clear away this common misconception of mountain ranges as being the nurses inevitably of heroic human natures. The Swiss have been absurdly over-praised by some, largely because of this root fallacy that a mountain people must have all the virtues. They have been unfairly over-blamed by others, who seem to have started with a preconceived idea of an impossibly heroic people and to have been soured when they found unreasonable illusions shattered. "The Swiss are stubborn, devoid of all generous sentiment, not generous nor humane," said Ruskin. There spoke the disappointed sentimentalist. Obviously he approached the Swiss from the fallacious "Alpine character" point of view, and vainly expected them to live up to the super-heroic idea he had formed of the sort of people who ought to inhabit the slopes of such magnificent mountains. Voltaire, de Staël, Hugo, Dumas, all abuse the Swiss. They demanded of them--carried away by that idea of the mountains enduing people with virtues--an impossible standard, and kicked at them for not living up to it, as a Chinaman kicks his joss when it does not bring rain under impossible wind conditions. To inhabit a mountain country is, if all the facts are taken into account, a handicap rather than an advantage to a race. In the earlier stages of civilisation the mountains have imposed upon them the duty of sheltering alike fleeing patriots and fleeing criminals: and the criminals are usually the more numerous. In later stages mountains interfere greatly with the development of the machinery of civilisation. Always, too, mountain air sharpens the appetite rather than the wits, and there are some diseases attacking particularly the brain which are almost peculiar to mountain districts. The Swiss, then, have to be considered justly rather in the light of a handicapped than of a favoured people. Their one favouring national circumstance is that their central position in regard to the great plains of Europe has put them in the track of all the chief currents of civilisation. What they have managed to effect in spite of the handicap of their mountains is one of the marvellous stories of the human race; and to the mountains they owe in the main their sense of national unity. They served as the bond of a common misfortune. CHAPTER II THE EARLIEST SWISS: THE LAKE-DWELLERS: CHARLEMAGNE To her lakes rather than to her mountains Switzerland owed the beginnings of civilisation. Nowadays, as the curtains of mist are rolled away from the past by geologist and anthropologist, we are coming to a clearer idea of the origins of this wonderful civilisation of ours, which makes the common routine of a plain citizen to-day more full of wonders than any legend told of an ancient god. Science, fossicking in the tunnels of the excavators and scanning closely what they bring up to the surface light, is inclined now to tell us that the beginnings of organised community life were on the lake shores of some ancient age. The idea would be reasonable in theory even if it had no facts to support it. A lake means shelter, water, fish: it suggests--in this unlike a river--settling down. In a lake the fish teem thick and become big and fat and slothful. (Note how the little fighting trout of the rapid streams grow to the big, stupid, inert things of the New Zealand lakes, fish that come and ask to be caught, fish that a family can feed upon.) It was natural that a lake should stimulate into activity those microbes of civilisation which had infected the primitive nomads. In the Antipodes you may see to-day, in an anthropological record which is contemporary with us in time but with the Neolithic Age in development, the working of what one may call the lake forces, towards civilisation. The Australian aborigines--poor nomads almost without law, architecture, or clothing--when they won to a good steady fishing-ground managed to advance a little towards a higher civilisation. When a coast lagoon gave good supply of crustaceans and other fish, you may note at the old aboriginal camping-grounds timid ventures towards art, certain rock drawings, effective if crude. Stomachs being regularly filled, the minds of these primitives began to work. A step higher in the ascent of man--the Papuans have their most advanced communities in villages built on piles over the beaches of the sea or of the coral lagoons. The surrounding water gives some protection against prowling marauders. Draw up the bridge which makes a way to the hut, and the water at once serves it in the office of a wall. Further, the water is a source of food supply and an easier means of communication than the jungle to other sources of food supply. Finally, the water gives the little community a good drainage system without trouble: rubbish can just be cast down and it is carried away. The early European, feeling a call to settle down and form a village, thus found in a lake the best of prompting to community life. It offered some security and so appealed to his dawning sense of property. It offered some steadiness of food supply and so appealed to his dawning sense of stability. It appealed also to the new sense of cleanliness which we must credit him with, a very primitive sense truly and many thousands of years behind ideas of modern sanitation, but still a beginning. Recent discoveries of the remains of lake dwellings in England have established the fact that in many parts of Europe, and perhaps indeed all over the Continent, man in the Neolithic time formed the habit of living in villages built on piles over the shores of lakes, and that he kept this habit during the Bronze Age, and had not wholly abandoned it at the dawn of the Iron Age. But it was probably in Switzerland, the area richest in suitable lakes of all Europe, that the primitive lake-dwellers flourished most strongly. A whole chain of lake settlements have been discovered around Lake Zurich, and recently, when Mr. Ritter, famous for the gigantic scheme to supply Paris with water from the Swiss lakes, "corrected" the meanderings of the river Thiele which conducts the waters of Lake Neuchâtel to Bienne, his engineering feat, besides gaining huge tracts of fertile land, lowered the level of Lake Neuchâtel and led to some further valuable discoveries regarding the lake-dwellers. It seems clear that every Swiss lake was a centre for a thick population in the later Stone Age and the Bronze Age. [Illustration: LOOKING DOWN THE RHONE VALLEY FROM MONT PELERIN, AT THE EASTERN END OF THE LAKE OF GENEVA.] The first important discoveries regarding these Swiss lake-dwellers were made in 1853, when the waters of Zurich lake sank so low that a stretch of land was laid bare along the shores. The people of Meilen, twelve miles from Zurich, took advantage of this to carry out some public works, and during the operations the workmen encountered obstacles, which proved to be wooden piles. These piles, the tops of which were but a few inches below the surface of the mud, were found to be planted in rows and squares, in great number. There were picked out of the mud bones, antlers, weapons and implements of various kinds. Dr. Ferdinand Keller was sent from Zurich to examine the workings, and he pronounced them to be the site of a lake settlement, probably of some very ancient Celtic tribe. Many marks of a prehistoric occupation had been found before 1853, but no traces of dwellings. The discovery caused a sensation, and gave a great impulse to archæological studies. Dr. Keller called these early settlers _Pfahl-bauer_, or pile-builders. Since then over two hundred of these villages have been discovered--on the shores of the lakes of Constance, Leman, Zurich, Neuchâtel, Bienne, Morat, and other smaller lakes, and on rivers and swampy spots which had once been lakes. The strictly Alpine lakes, however, with their steep inaccessible banks, show no trace of these settlements. The early lake dwellings were built on piles driven into the bed of the lake, and as many as thirty or forty thousand of these piles have been found in a single village. The houses were made of hurdlework, and thatched with straw or rushes. Layers of wattle and daub alternating formed the floors, and the walls had a covering of clay, or else of bulrushes or straw. A fence of wickerwork ran round each hut. Light bridges, easily moved, connected the huts with each other and with the shore. Each house contained two rooms at least, and some of the dwellings measured as much as 27 feet by 22 feet. Hearthstones blackened by fire in some huts remain to show where the kitchens had been. Mats of straw and reeds were found, and proofs of an organised worship of some gods. The lake-dwellers hunted with weapons of bronze. They tilled the ground and had flocks of horses, cattle, and sheep. They wove the wool of animals, and also a fibre of flax, and made a coarse pottery. Men and women wore ornaments of metal, of glass, of leather, of carved stones. Probably the later generations of lake-dwellers were contemporary with the Homeric period in Greece, though their state of culture was inferior to that of the people of the Grecian peninsula. Some idea, then, we may form of the people of Switzerland in prehistoric times, those times when the fair-haired Achæans were settling in the Hellenic peninsula the issue between themselves and an earlier Canaanitish race, and giving prompting to the stories of the Homeric legends. Celtic migrants, making their way along the great watercourses of Europe, had come to these Swiss lakes resting at the feet of the Alps, and had found there prompting to settle and to begin to cultivate a community life. Seemingly there were three different epochs in the age of the lake-dwellers, of which two were of the later Stone Age and one of the Bronze Age. Switzerland had then, probably, as thick a population as most parts of Europe, and at the earliest stage of the lake-dwellings that population was almost as advanced in culture as were the forefathers of the Grecian and Roman civilisations. But later it was not so. Those nomadic peoples who found places in the Mediterranean sun; and who there came into contact with the civilisations which had grown up on the shores of the Levant, in the valley of the Nile, and on the north coast of Africa; after mingling their blood with the Mediterranean peoples and acquiring their culture, were capable of creating great communities which unmeasurably outstripped the little primitive states of their cousins who had settled at the base of the Alps. It is probable that, fairly close on the heels of the lake-dwellers, there came other Celtic immigrants to Switzerland, dispossessing the aboriginal peoples of the mountains, fighting with the lake-dwellers, and coming in time to as high a standard of civilisation as they. With the Iron Age the lake-dwellings seem to have been abandoned and the lake-dwellers merged into the general body of the Helvetians. What we know as Switzerland to-day was then occupied by Celts, Rhætians, and Alamanni. Helvetia, as it was known to the Romans, took its name from the Helvetians, a tribe of Celts who had been pushed out of their own territories by the advancing tide of the Teutonic invasion and had colonised lower Switzerland. Just as the lake-dwellers had set up a higher standard of civilisation than the mountain-dwellers in their age, so the Helvetians, occupying the lower ground of Switzerland, showed much more culture than any of their neighbours. They had adopted the Greek alphabet and kept written records of their doings. Their weapons and armour were good; their cultivation of the soil was skilful, and they had a knowledge of architecture, their fortifications in particular being praised by Roman writers as excellent. Local traditions said that Hercules had once visited Helvetia and taught the Helvetians arts and laws. That was the picturesque way of stating that their ideas of civilisation had come from Greece. These Helvetians were the easily traceable ancestors of the present Swiss, and many Swiss cities of to-day occupy the sites and keep close to the names of the old Helvetian centres--Geneva, Lausanne, Soleure, and Zurich, for examples. But the Helvetians were not strictly an Alpine race. They left the great mountains to wilder people and settled on the foothills and around the lakes. The method of government of the Helvetians was closely modelled on the aristocratic republicanism of the Greek states. Wealthy nobles owned the land, and the rest of the population was made up of their vassals and slaves. But no one could aspire to be king. The chief Orcitrix, it is told, aspiring to kingly power, was burned to death. The Swiss do not seem to have copied the Grecian religious system, adhering to their ancient Druidical worship. Perhaps the gloomy and savage form which Protestantism was to take in after years among the Swiss, was in part due to the fact that their ancient form of worship seems to have been a particularly fierce kind of Druidism, and was very little subjected to the moderating influence of the pagan culture. The mountain barriers kept the Helvetii for a long time from hostile encounters with the Roman power. But there is evidence that they got in touch with the Etruscans for purposes of trade through the Alpine passes from a very early age. Their chief warlike trouble came from the north, where the German population was constantly pressing down seeking fresh outlets. The first conflict between the Helvetii and the Romans was when the Tigurini tribe of Switzerland joined with the Cimbri in an attack upon Roman Gaul and defeated a Roman army under Cassius and Piso. That was 107 B.C. The Romans did not make any serious attempt to avenge that humiliation. The next meeting of the Helvetii with the Romans was not until the days of Cæsar (58 B.C.). Then the Helvetii, hemmed in on one side by Roman Gaul and on the other by the swelling floods of the German migration, resolved on a mass move, abandoning their own country completely and seizing some of the rich lands of Gaul. It was a strange design and was carried out with strange persistency. Two years were devoted to the organisation of the great move, and on the appointed day practically all the Helvetii, men, women, and children, with all their beasts and their property assembled at Geneva. Their old homes were given to the torch, burned so that there would be no temptation for the people to turn back. Julius Cæsar (who followed Thucydides in the ranks of great war correspondents) tells the story: and it was Cæsar who set himself to the breaking up of this great plan. At Geneva the Helvetii found the bridge over the Rhone broken up by Cæsar's order. After useless attempts to cross the river, they turned towards the Jura Mountains, and whilst they were toiling over the steep and rugged Pas de l'Ecluse, Cæsar returned to Italy to gather his legions. Returning to Gaul, he arrived in time to see the Helvetians cross the Arar (Saône). The Tigurini were the last to cross. On them Cæsar fell and almost exterminated them, thus wiping out the old stain on the Roman arms. The Roman legions had crossed the Saône in twenty-four hours, and this feat so excited the admiration of the Helvetians, who had themselves taken twenty days to cross, that they sent legates to treat with Cæsar for a free passage. They promised him that they would do no harm to any one if he would comply with their request, but threatened the full rage of their arms if he should intercept them. Cæsar asked them to give hostages to confirm their promise. "The Helvetians are not accustomed to give hostages; they have been taught by their fathers to receive hostages, and this the Romans must well remember," was the reply. [Illustration: A DISTANT VIEW OF THE JURA RANGE FROM THE SOUTH SIDE OF THE LAKE OF GENEVA.] The Helvetians continued their march, Cæsar watching for an opportunity of attacking them. At Bibracte, west of Autun in Burgundy, Cæsar seized a hill, posted his troops there, and charged the enemy with his cavalry. The Helvetians fiercely repulsed the attack, and poured on the Roman front, but were quite unable to stand against the steady discipline of the legions. They lost the battle but won the respect of Cæsar, and the remnant of this "nation on trek" were helped by him to return to their homes and were allowed to become allies of Rome, with the task assigned to them of guarding the Rhine frontier against the Germans. But the Helvetii found this vassalage irksome, rebelled, were punished, and their country subjugated by the Roman roads as well as the Roman legions. The Helvetia thus brought under Roman sway was not all of the Switzerland of to-day. Some of the Swiss cantons were comprised in the old province of Rhætia, which was not subdued by the Roman arms until the days of the first Augustus. Then, however, the Rhætians, who were kindred with the Italian Etruscans, came so completely under Roman influence that to this day in the valleys of the Engadine a corrupted Latin tongue is spoken, somewhat similar to that of the Roumanians of the Balkan Peninsula. Under Augustus western Switzerland was incorporated with the Roman province of Gaul, having its capital at Lyons; eastern Switzerland was joined with Rhætia, having its capital at Augsburg. Thus early in history the difference between Gallic Switzerland and Teutonic Switzerland begins to show itself. Helvetia was much favoured by the Romans and became in effect the frontier province for the defence of the empire against the Germans. After a time the Helvetians were but little distinguishable from the Romans, adopting their manners and their faith. Wealthy Romans loved to make their summer resorts along the lake of Geneva, and Aventicum, the Helvetian capital, became a great Roman city. At Avenches (which was the Roman Aventicum) there are to-day but 2000 people, but there can be seen remains of a Roman wall four miles long and in some places 15 feet high. In the day of Vespasian the city was as big as Canterbury is to-day, and with its walls, theatre, and aqueduct could look down upon the miserable contemporary village of Londinium. Helvetia, under the Romans, followed, in fine, very much the same course as Britain under the Romans. With the decay of the Roman power Helvetia, like Britain, was made to feel at the hands of the barbarians a harsh punishment for its acceptance of the Italian civilisation. In the third century of the Christian era the Alamanni swept over the country, looting and devastating and retiring. In the fourth century they came again and took possession of all the east. The Burgundians followed, and, to a greater degree than most of the civilised world, Switzerland had to face the horrors that followed the disruption of the Roman Empire. Gradually there emerged from the welter the beginnings of the Switzerland of to-day, in part representing the old Gallic Helvetians and Etruscan Rhætians, in part the Alamanni (Germans) and the Burgundians. With the coming of the northern invaders Christianity, which had supplanted Paganism in Helvetia as it had in Rome, was almost stamped out. But as the power of the Burgundians grew over that of the Alamanni the country began to turn again towards Christianity. In the sixth century missionaries from Ireland did much to spread the Christian faith in Switzerland. The most famous of these was St. Columban, who established a monastery at Luxeuil, of which he soon made a storm centre, involving himself in constant troubles with the Gallic clergy and with the Italian Pope. There is extant a famous letter of his to Pope Boniface IV. It is addressed by him to "the most beautiful head of all the churches of entire Europe. The most sweet Pope, the most high President, the most reverent investigator." After that flood of "blarney" St. Columban goes on to complain of the _infamia_ in which the Papal Seat is steeped. Out of that remonstrance nothing seems to have come, but when St. Columban joined issue with the masterful Queen Brunhilde of Burgundy he met a spirit as imperious as his own. To guard her own power in the Court of Burgundy the famous Brunhilde encouraged her grandson, the reigning king, to keep mistresses rather than to marry a queen. St. Columban referred to the children of these mistresses as a "brothel brood." Shortly after he was exiled by force from Luxeuil, and is next heard of at Nantes, ready, it seemed, to embark for Ireland, his native land. But he changed his mind, turned back on his tracks, and established himself on the lake of Constance, where he preached successfully to the heathen and threw their idols into the lake. Next St. Columban went over to Northern Italy, abusing his disciple St. Gall who was too sick to accompany him. St. Gall remained in Switzerland and founded the famous monastery of St. Gall, visited by Charlemagne in 883. Charlemagne was particularly fond of Switzerland and the Swiss, and founded many monasteries and schools in the country. Often he resided in Switzerland, and it is from Switzerland that comes the story which tells that his justice and mercy were so well renowned as to be known even to the animals. There was, the story runs, near his palace at Zurich a chapel on the river-side where he had placed a bell for people to ring if they wished to appeal for justice. One day as he was at dinner this bell began to ring. None could inform him what was the matter. The bell rang a second time, and then a third. On this the emperor rose from the table, saying, "I am sure there is some poor man you do not wish me to see." He walked down the hill to the chapel, where, hanging to the bell rope, he found a snake. The snake led Charlemagne to a tuft of nettles, and examining the spot he found a large toad sitting on the eggs in the serpent's nest. At once, grasping the meaning of the appeal, Charlemagne passed sentence that the toad should be killed. The next day the snake entered the dining-hall of the emperor, climbed on the table, and, beckoning the emperor to remove the lid of his golden goblet, dropped into it a beautiful jewel. With the death of Charlemagne his empire was broken up and Switzerland was doomed to centuries of struggle in the vindication of her independence. The story of that struggle is one of the most fascinating of the national records of the Middle Ages. CHAPTER III THE SWISS IN THE MIDDLE AGES Throughout the Middle Ages Switzerland and the Swiss were always in the eye of Europe. Sometimes the spectacle they presented was that of a patriot people pushing back the tyrant and the invader with an unearthly courage, and luck more unearthly still. Sometimes it was that of a martial clan, safe in a great mountain fastness, offering venal swords to the highest bidder, and giving in return for their mercenary pay as high a courage and as stubborn a fidelity as was ever inspired by love of country. No court but knew the Swiss in some capacity. A great London palace, part of which survives to-day as the Royal Chapel of the Savoy, was built by Peter of Savoy, Prince of West Switzerland, who built also the Castle of Chillon sung by Byron, and kept great affairs going in both those far-apart countries. There is on record a prediction of Machiavelli of Florence that the Swiss were destined to be "masters of all Italy"--a prediction which time has not justified, but which was reasonable enough then in the light of the wonderful military virtue and the unscrupulousness of the Swiss. Almost every European nation felt their prowess as enemies or allies. A very curious and contradictory-seeming picture--this Swiss character in the Middle Ages, so stubborn in defence of its own poor little home-patch, so cynical in its readiness to do a patriot's service for the pay of a mercenary. The stubborn defence of an essentially poor country was not in itself strange. It is human nature that the man who has little defends it more savagely than the owner of vast possessions. There is false reasoning in that story of the four robbers who attacked a Boeotian in order to rob him, and having subdued him after a very fierce fight in which they were almost vanquished, and having found that he had but ten coppers, said in astonishment, "If he had had silver money he would have killed us all." The Swiss followed the ordinary course of human character in their fierce defence of a small and poor country. [Illustration: FLUELEN, AT THE END OF URI LAKE.] But they followed it in an heroic degree. How can one, however, reconcile with that noble patriotism the readiness--suggesting an inherited survival of the desperate migratory spirit of the Helvetii of Cæsar's time--to go abroad and bear arms for any country rich enough to offer good pay? It is easier to record than to explain the facts. But they are of a piece with the Swiss spirit of to-day, which mingles with a high patriotism and a sturdy pride a willingness to take servile occupation in exile abroad for the sake of gain, and finds in that no sacrifice of dignity. In a previous chapter a very slight sketch of the history of Switzerland was given to the time of Charlemagne. In the confusion which followed his death Switzerland was divided up, the Treaty of Verdun (843) assigning West Switzerland and East Switzerland to different kingdoms. West Switzerland was part of the Burgundian Kingdom, and after Charlemagne their national pride centred chiefly in Bertha, "the spinning Queen," who fortified the country against the Saracens and the Hungarians. By the eleventh century Switzerland was united again, but when the dispute between Pope Gregory VII. and the Emperor Henry IV. (it was the time when the Popes claimed, and to an extent enforced, a temporal and spiritual overlordship over Europe) plunged the whole continent into a series of wars, Switzerland suffered with the rest of Europe. The twelfth century saw an important development for the Swiss national character when Berne and other "Free Cities" were founded by Bertold V. of the House of Zaeringer. These "Free Cities" acted as a counterpoise to the growing power of the Swiss feudal nobles of the country districts, and helped much to shape the country towards its future of a Federal Republic. This was the time of the Crusades and, needless to say, the Swiss did not miss that opportunity for martial service. With the thirteenth century comes the first beginning of the Swiss Republic, the story of which is bound up with the rise of the House of Habsburg, a house from which was to spring one of the proudest monarchies of Europe, but which kept no foothold in Switzerland, the land which was the first seat of its power. Habsburg Castle still dominates the canton Aargau, but it is a monument of Swiss independence rather than of Austrian Empire. It is not certain whether the Habsburgs were of Swiss or of Swabian birth, but certainly their early history is most intimately bound up with the Swiss canton. It is the story that one of their ancestors, Radbot, hunting in the Aargau, lost his favourite hawk, and found it sitting on the ridge of the Wülpelsberg. Delighted with the view, Radbot built a castle there, and called it _Hawk Castle_, Habichtsburg, which became "Habsburg." In a book which is designed to give only so much of the history of Switzerland as will make interesting its monuments and its people, it would be tedious to attempt to detail all the circumstances which led up to the birth of the Swiss Republic. But the leading facts are these. During the reign of King Albrecht (1298-1308), son of the famous Habsburger Rudolf, the Eastern Cantons of Switzerland, which were under the Habsburg House but had certain liberties which they closely cherished, were ill-governed. Albrecht had set governors over the cantons, who were oppressive in their taxation and cruel in their methods of enforcing payment. So much was their oppression and cruelty resented in the Forest Cantons--Unterwalden, Schwyz, and Uri--that there was formed by three patriots, Attinghausen, Stauffacher, and Melchthal, a conspiracy of protest. These patriots, explaining their plans to their friends, arranged nightly meetings on the Rütli, a secluded Alpine meadow above the Mytenstein, on Uri lake. This became the Runnymede of Swiss freedom. Records, more or less trustworthy, tell that in 1307 the Swiss patriots decided on definite action. Then at a meeting attended by thirty-three men on the Rütli rebellion was agreed upon. How far one may accept the story of William Tell as giving a correct account of the final incident leading to the revolt of the Forest Cantons I cannot say. There certainly was a Hapsburg governor, Gessler, in charge of the canton Uri about this time (1307). Certainly, too, he was of a cruel and tyrannical disposition. But the story of Tell is thought by later historians to have been of much earlier origin as regards its main details.[1] Muller, however, accepts it. Kopp, who has subjected historical legends to a very searching analysis, rejects it on grounds which appear clear. But, very wisely, the Swiss keep to a story which conveys so valuable a lesson of patriotism. In the national history of Switzerland Tell's defiance of the tyrant is the first paragraph. [1] It is difficult to decide whether it is superfluous to tell once again the story of Tell. On the principle that a good story cannot be told too often, here are the main "facts" as given in Swiss histories: "One day the Austrian Governor of Uri, Gessler, set up a pole in the market-place of Altdorf. Upon this pole he set his hat, and gave orders that every Swiss who passed should bow down before it, in homage to his Austrian masters. Tell came by and did not bow. Gessler ordered him to be seized. Tell was a very famous archer. So the Governor bade his soldiers seize Tell's son and set the boy against a tree. An apple was placed on the child's head, and Tell was bidden to shoot at that mark. Tell took two arrows, placed one on his bow-string, and made careful aim. He shot his arrow, and it cleft the apple in two. Gessler demanded then why he had taken two arrows. Tell said: 'If the first arrow had injured my son, the second would soon have pierced thy heart.' Tell was then bound and placed in the Governor's barge, and the boat was rowed across the lake. When the barge was far from the shore, a sudden storm came. Tell was the most expert boatman of them all, and Gessler ordered that Tell should be unbound, and the hero took the tiller and steered the boat through the storm to safety. But then he killed Gessler with an arrow and took to the forest and there gave the first call to active revolt." To come back to the region of ascertained fact, it seems clear that the first union for liberty of the Forest Cantons was formed in 1291. The battle of Morgarten, which set the seal of success on their revolt, was fought in 1315. There a great Hapsburg force under Duke Leopold was defeated by a far inferior band of Swiss peasants. The story of the battle illustrated once again the triumph of novelty in military strategy and tactics. The Swiss had prepared on a hill-side a great artificial avalanche of stones and trees. This was let loose on the Austrians as they passed by, killed many, filled the rest with dread and confusion, and made the finish of the battle a mere slaughter. Morgarten made the name of Switzerland respected all over Europe and set the foundations of the liberty of the Swiss people. After the battle the allied Forest Cantons went to Brunnen, to renew by oath and enlarge the league of 1291. This for nearly five hundred years remained the fundamental law of union between the three States. The Forest Cantons, as three independent republics, claimed autonomy in their local affairs. Only for national purposes was there to be a central authority. Thus was the "Federal" idea, which had been much favoured by the Greek States, revived in Europe. It was the first of the modern Federations. The Swiss Federal plan was followed later, to a greater or less extent, in the constitutions of the United States, Germany, Canada, Australia, and South Africa. It is suggested to-day by some optimists as the basis of a possible far-off European combination to end the wars of the world. Around the nucleus of the three Forest Cantons other Swiss States gathered. After a while the three States had become eight, Lucerne (1332) and Zurich (1352) being the first of the recruits. There was during this time a state of almost constant war with Austria, in which sometimes the Swiss cantons were strong enough to take the offensive. The year 1386 saw the great battle of Sempach, of which Arnold Winkelried was the hero. Campbell, among many others, has sung of his fame: Inspiring and romantic Switzers' land, Though mark'd with majesty by Nature's hand, What charm ennobles most thy landscape's face? Th' heroic memory of thy native race, Who forced tyrannic hosts to bleed or flee, And made their rocks the ramparts of the free! Their fastnesses roll'd back th' invading tide Of conquest, and their mountains taught them pride. Hence they have patriot names,--in fancy's eye-- Bright as their glaciers glittering in the sky: Patriots who make the pageantries of Kings Like shadows seem, and unsubstantial things. Their guiltless glory mocks oblivion's rust-- Imperishable, for their cause was just. Heroes of old! to whom the Nine have strung Their lyres, and spirit-stirring anthems sung: Heroes of chivalry! whose banners grace The aisles of many a consecrated place,-- Confess how few of you can match in fame The martyr Winkelried's immortal name! Duke Leopold III. marching towards Lucerne with a great army for those days (some say 12,000, others 24,000 men) encountered at Sempach the Swiss force (said to have been only 1500 men). The Austrian force formed a phalanx bristling on every side with lances. In the first stages the fight went badly for the brave mountaineers; sixty of them were slain before a single Austrian fell. They could not pass the hedge of lances. Then said Arnold of Winkelried, "I'll make a way for you, comrades; take care of my wife and children!" He sprang upon the enemy with arms widely outspread, and gathered into his body the points of all the lances within his reach. Thus a gap was formed in the line, and into this gap leapt the Swiss, and came to close quarters with their enemy, who fell into confusion. Victory for the Swiss, a dreadful carnage of the Austrians followed. All Europe was astounded. The name of Swiss came to be associated with heroic courage and invincible might in battle. That the result was no mere "fluke" was proved a little later at Naefels, when an Austrian army suffered another disastrous defeat at the hands of the Swiss patriots. On the first Thursday of April each year Naefels celebrates that victory, and in 1888 all the people of Switzerland assembled there, in person or in spirit, to commemorate the 500th anniversary of the victory. [Illustration: ALTDORF. The traditional scene of William Tell's exploits.] The battle of Naefels, establishing as it did on an unquestioned pre-eminence the military virtues of the Swiss, inaugurated, too, that strange system of foreign service on the part of Swiss soldiers which would be shameful if it were not lighted up by so many deeds of high chivalry and noble fidelity. The Swiss Republic was now safe in its own house against aggression. The terrible prowess of its peasantry had been announced to every possible foe. But it felt the need of a foreign policy to secure an extension of territory, and it was this need which brought it into the orbit of general European diplomacy and into the temptation of mercenary service. By the next century, when the Swiss prowess had won new laurels at the battles of Grandson, Morat, and Nancy, the little patch of mountain and valley which is Switzerland had become a great diplomatic centre for Europe, its Republican leaders courted by France, the Italian States, Hungary, Germany, and England. Internecine trouble between the Swiss themselves was not uncommon, but throughout, despite differences of language, and later differences of religion, a Swiss idea of nationality lived constantly. In 1499 the Swiss League separated definitely from all vassalage to the German Empire. In 1513 the "League of the Thirteen Cantons," which represented the Swiss nationality until the days of Napoleon, was constituted. A severe defeat of the Swiss forces in 1515 by France left the French with the highest opinion of Swiss courage, and eager to take under their patronage the little Republic. An alliance in 1516 between France and Switzerland began a close friendship between the two countries, which continued with but little interruption until the French Revolution, when modern Switzerland may be said to have come into the arena of history. CHAPTER IV MODERN SWITZERLAND There is carved in the face of a great rock at Lucerne a lion, wounded to death, resting upon a broken spear. It is the monument of the Swiss Guard massacred in the defence of the Tuileries at Paris in 1792. The close connection between France and Switzerland in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries made it natural that the despotic French kings should employ the faithful and courageous Swiss mercenaries as guardians of their palaces. Louis XIV. in the dark hours of his fate had no reason to regret the trust he had placed in these Swiss mercenaries as the nearest defenders of his person. The mob coming to the Tuileries demanded of the Swiss Guards that they should give up their arms. Sergeant Blaser replied in the mood with which the Helvetii had spoken to Cæsar, and with eighteen centuries of records of great bravery to justify the vaunt: "We are Swiss, and the Swiss never surrender their arms but with their lives." The reply cowed the rioters for the time and the king was safe for that day. When the king had left the Tuileries the Swiss Guards were withdrawn. As they went away from the palace they were attacked by the mob and, disdaining to fly, were slaughtered almost to a man. Of 800 officers and men only a handful survived. The incident--showing French patriots furious, cruel, and treacherous, Swiss mercenaries steadfast, brave, and true--gives a good standpoint from which to glance at the evolution of the Switzerland which had grown up in the Middle Ages to the modern Switzerland with its intensely democratic and socialistic Republic. The brewing of the storm which broke over Paris in August 1792 had been observable in Switzerland as well as in France. Accepting its traditional position as a hostel of refuge for political exiles, Switzerland had sheltered many of the men who had given the first impulse to the Revolution. And there had been a domestic movement in Switzerland working on parallel lines to that of the French reformers. As far back as 1762 the Helvetic Society was formed by young men aspiring to a political regeneration of Switzerland. By 1792 there had been several peasant risings among the Alpine communities in protest against oligarchic oppression. The cry for Liberty, Fraternity, Equality, found its echo in the mountains as it came in a hoarse roar from the French cities. The exiles from aristocratic France to slightly more liberal Switzerland were in time matched by discontented exiles from Switzerland to Paris. The "Helvetic Club" formed at Paris of Swiss refugees had for its purpose the application of the principles of the French Revolution to Switzerland. In 1797 Peter Ochs of Basel was given by Napoleon the task of drafting a constitution for Switzerland which would follow the system of government of the French Directory. In 1798 "the Lemanic Republic" was proclaimed at the instance of France, and, being resisted by some of the Swiss, a French invasion followed. The victorious French abolished the Swiss Confederation and proclaimed "the Helvetic Republic," with a constitution framed on the lines laid down by Peter Ochs. The new constitution was not in itself altogether suitable to the political circumstances of the country. And no constitution, however perfect, could have pleased the Swiss if it came to them from the hands of a conquering foreigner. But to make quite sure of antagonising the Swiss the greedy and impoverished Directory of France set to work to rob the national treasuries of the Helvetic Republic in the cause of Republicanism. The Forest Cantons, always to the fore in the cause of independence, entered upon a hopeless campaign of defence in which Reding was the chief hero. Brilliant victories were won. Tragic defeats were sustained, culminating in the capture of Stanz. Then, prostrate, Switzerland accepted the French command to be free, and "the one and undivided Helvetic Republic" came into more or less peaceful existence. Later a Franco-Helvetic Alliance was signed, and almost immediately afterwards the little land suffered for its alliance by being invaded by Russia and Austria, then making war upon France. For the first time in history an Austrian invader was welcomed by a part of the Swiss nation. The story of the campaign need not be told in detail; but it had one vivid incident of which any visitor to Switzerland interested in military prowess should seek out the memorials. General Suwarow, commanding a Russian army, marched from Italy to junction with General Korsakow at Zurich. Suwarow forced the Pass of St. Gothard in the face of a French force and passed down the valley of the Reuss to Lake Uri. Here he found his path to Zurich blocked, as no boats for the conveyance of his troops could be found on the lake. Turning up towards the mountains, Suwarow led his army along the Kinzig Pass to Muotta, and there learned that Korsakow had been defeated and driven out of Switzerland by the French. Suwarow led his army then along the Pragel Pass, hoping to find in the Canton of Glarus a friendly Austrian force. The hope was vain, and the path to Naefels was blocked by the French army. The old Russian general, indomitable, turned back to the mountains and crossed the Alps again by the Panixer Pass. This was in October. After terrible hardships the Russian army reached Cranbunden and made its way to Austrian territory and safety. It would be an interesting Alpine holiday for a stout walker to follow in the track of Suwarow's marches. Switzerland had an evil time under the French Directory, despite its "free and undivided Republic." But when Napoleon felt himself safe in the saddle and could put the curb on the fiery spirits of the Revolution, better days dawned for Switzerland as well as for France. The great soldier and statesman, being a man of imagination, could not help having a real sympathy with the heroic Swiss. They were people after his own heart. In 1803 he took thought for the vexed condition of the Swiss people and summoned to Paris the "Helvetic Consulta" of sixty-three Swiss representatives to draw up a new system of government. He presided personally at the meetings of this body, and the constitution agreed upon bears the impress of the grand political sagacity which was associated with Napoleon's military genius. Switzerland, under the Napoleonic constitution, became a Federal Republic of nineteen cantons, each of which preserved its local autonomy but yielded full control of national matters to the Federal Diet. This new constitution conferred upon Switzerland internal peace and a reasonable instrument of government, under which the material and moral advancement of the nation was greater than at any previous period of history. [Illustration: A VILLAGE ON THE ST. GOTHARD RAILWAY.] The fall of Napoleon in 1813 brought a fresh crop of troubles to the Swiss. The constitution he had granted to them was put aside by the European Powers, not because it was bad but because it was Napoleon's. A congress at Zurich drew up a new constitution, and this was submitted to the Vienna Congress in 1814, and with some changes approved. It was far inferior to the Napoleonic constitution, and plunged the country into another series of internal troubles. Yet it survived from 1815 to 1848, when, taking advantage of new troubles in Europe, the Swiss settled their system of government anew, and shaped a Federal constitution which exists to this day. Switzerland now is divided into twenty-two cantons, self-governing as far as their local affairs are concerned, but united into a Federation for national purposes. The system of government is purely democratic and marked by a Republican austerity. All citizens are equal. Most offices are elective. The emoluments of office are scanty. There is no standing army, but every male citizen is trained to the use of arms in his youth. Thus the whole nation can take up arms in defence of the country. The good quality of the citizen troops has been vouched for by many competent judges. Australia has imitated the Swiss system in her military organisation, and it is practically the same system which a powerful party in Great Britain urges as a measure of military reform in this country. The Federal Government has, of course, the control of the army; it has also the management of the railways, posts and telegraphs, universities and schools, and the regulation of the conditions of labour. Full religious liberty is allowed, but the Jesuits are not allowed to come into the country. No spiritual courts are allowed. The Judges of the Supreme Court are elected from amongst the legislators. Neither capital punishment nor arrest for debt is legal (a defaulting tourist's baggage may, however, be put under arrest). Laws passed by the Federal legislature must be submitted to the people by direct vote before they become effective. If this Referendum does not give them approval they lapse. There is machinery by which the people can directly initiate legislation, _i.e._ propose measures without the intervention of the legislature. So wide-world an interest is taken in the Swiss military system (it has its enthusiastic admirers in America as well as in Great Britain), and so great a part does it take in the general life of the Swiss people, that a brief summary of its salient features is worthy of space here. The system dates from 1874, the Franco-Prussian War on their borders having warned the Swiss of the possibility of their land being invaded. From his earliest days the Swiss citizen is prepared for his country's service. In the public (Cantonal and Communal) schools instruction in gymnastic exercise is regularly given (60 hours yearly), and almost all the boys participate in this instruction, which is mainly given by the schoolmasters. Between the ages of 16 and 20, when military service begins, there is preparatory military instruction, comprising physical training, gymnastic exercises, marching, obstacle racing, simple drill, the use of the rifle, and preliminary musketry. In the year before he attains 20 the youth is enrolled by the Cantonal authorities (in his commune or place of domicile) as a recruit--the canton being subdivided into recruiting districts--and is fitted out with uniform and equipment, and in the year in which he attains 20 (the year, too, in which he becomes entitled to vote at elections) the recruit becomes liable to military service and presents himself for instruction at recruit schools, beginning either about March 15, May 1, or July 1, as directed. All soldiers, whatever the rank they are destined for, pass through the recruit schools, and the periods of duration of these schools (including musketry) are: for infantry, etc., 60-70 days; cavalry, 80 days. The soldier on completion of recruit school is considered as having entered the Army. As a soldier of the Army he has to attend an annual training camp. The demands made on a citizen's time by this system are not very great, say 70 days as a recruit, 80 days as a member of the Active Army, and a few days afterwards as a member of the Landwehr or Landsturm. In all the citizen is forced to give about 160 days during his lifetime to the service of his country, an exaction which is very slight in the total compared with the demands of countries where conscription rules, and is almost negligible when allowance is made for the fact that it is so well distributed over the term of the citizen's life. In ordinary times of peace there is no Commander-in-chief. The Army Corps and Divisional Commanders are the highest appointments. There is a Committee of National Defence, composed of the Minister of War (president), four General Officers (militia), four "Chefs de service" (staff officers), appointed for three years. This Committee stands at the head of the Army in time of peace, but, when war is imminent and a General is appointed by the Federal Assembly, the Committee drops out of existence, the General taking all its powers. Under this system the Active Swiss Army on a peace footing numbers about 150,000 men. The trained army that could be called out for service represents practically the total of the male population. Training for military service is looked upon not as a burden but as a pleasure by the citizens, and many of their voluntary sports are designed so as to assist the work of military education. Happy Switzerland that has thought out a system of military service which imposes little burden on the national exchequer and no burden at all on the national content, and which is yet withal highly efficient if the experts are to be believed! I quote from one of them (Lieut.-Col. G. F. Ellison): Of the Swiss Army, as a war machine, it is impossible to write in terms other than those which, to anyone who has never witnessed its performance, must, I fear, appear somewhat too laudatory. That it is perfect in all its details, or that it is the same highly finished instrument that the French or the German army is, I do not pretend to assert, but I do unhesitatingly affirm, and in this opinion I am supported by more competent judges than myself, that taken as a whole it is, for war purposes, not unworthy, so far as it goes, to court comparison with the most scientifically organised and most highly trained armies of the Continent. In some respects it even surpasses all other armies in its readiness for war, for of no other military force in Europe can it be stated that the establishment in personnel is the same both for peace and war, and there is certainly no other country, that I am aware of, a fourth of whose army is annually mobilised for manoeuvres on exactly the same scale of equipment and transport as it would be for actual warfare. For the Englishman there is certainly no army in the world which can afford more food for serious reflection than that of Switzerland. He will learn, too, to appreciate what, for a sum that appears insignificant when compared with the military expenditure of other States, can be done towards producing for Home defence a really well-trained force under a militia system, provided that the system is based on universal liability to military service, and that all ranks alike bring goodwill and intelligence to bear on their allotted task. While he watches this army there need be no grave misgivings in his mind such as, perhaps, he may experience elsewhere, lest, in spite of all the pomp and splendour, the burden that such military display means to a nation may be crushing it beyond endurance. And that was written before the revised law of April 12, 1907, which was the subject of a general Referendum. By its acceptance the Swiss people intimated their desire to have the army maintained at such a degree of efficiency as would ensure their independence and neutrality, and agreed to several improvements in the system of training imposing further obligations on the citizen soldiers. In the present day the Swiss have no navy, and no need of one, and "Admiral of the Swiss Navy" is a title equal to that of the Seigneur de Château Rien. But once upon a time the "Swiss admiral" did exist. He was an Englishman named Colonel Williams, who in 1799 was in service with the Zurich government and commandeered a small fleet on Lake Zurich, having orders to oppose with it the French army. When the French, under Masséna, completely routed the allied armies of Austria and Russia, Colonel Williams calmly watched the battle from the lake. Then, enraged at his own inaction, he discharged his crews, scuttled his vessels, and took to flight. CHAPTER V SOME LITERARY ASSOCIATIONS Switzerland has not produced much native literary genius. The literary associations of the land are mostly concerned with strangers who went to it as a land of refuge or as visitors. True, in the thirteenth century Zurich was famous for its poets, for its share in the making of the Nibelungen and the Minnelieder, and for the "Codex Manesse"--the collection of the works of 150 German and Swiss poets of the day. Again in the days of Rousseau--perhaps the most famous of Swiss writers--there was quite a herd of sentimental novelists at Lausanne. But, on the whole, it cannot be said that the Swiss have shown themselves conspicuously a people of imagination. In war they have a magnificent record: in science and in philosophy a record above the average: in poetry and romance they have little to show. But if colonists and visitors who associated themselves strongly with Swiss life be taken into account, then Switzerland becomes one of the most interesting literary centres of Europe. [Illustration: THE STATUE OF JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU ON THE ISLAND IN THE RHONE, GENEVA.] From Madame de Staël and her _salon_ at Coppet (to cite one example) what invitations crowd to literary pilgrimages! Madame de Staël was destined by birth for that literary limelight which she loved so well. Her mother, Mademoiselle Curchod, afterwards Madame Necker, was the charming young Swiss who inspired a discreet passion in the stately bosom of Gibbon, the historian of _The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_. Gibbon had been sent to Switzerland by his father because he had shown leanings towards the Roman Catholic faith. The robust Protestantism of Lausanne was prescribed as a cure for a religious feeling which was not welcome to his family. The cure was complete, so complete that Gibbon was left with hardly any Christian faith at all. Whether because that left an empty place in his heart, or in the natural order of things, Gibbon took refuge in a love affair, a very discreet, cold-blooded affair on his part; but, judging by the correspondence which has survived, a more serious matter to the girl whose affections he engaged. Gibbon tells the story of his early love himself, in a letter which is full of unconscious humour, since he writes of it without a tremor and with all the decorous stateliness which he gave to the narrative of a Diocletian: I need not blush at recollecting the object of my choice; and though my love was disappointed of success, I am rather proud that I was once capable of feeling such a pure and exalted sentiment. The personal attractions of Mademoiselle Susan Curchod were embellished by the virtues and talents of the mind. Her fortune was humble, but her family was respectable. Her mother, a native of France, had preferred her religion to her country. The profession of her father did not extinguish the moderation and philosophy of his temper, and he lived content with a small salary and laborious duty in the obscure lot of minister of Crassy, in the mountains that separate the Pays de Vaud from the county of Burgundy. In the solitude of a sequestered village he bestowed a liberal, and even learned, education on his only daughter. She surpassed his hopes by her proficiency in the sciences and languages; and in her short visits to some relations at Lausanne, the wit, the beauty, and erudition of Mademoiselle Curchod were the theme of universal applause. The report of such a prodigy awakened my curiosity; I saw and loved. I found her learned without pedantry, lively in conversation, pure in sentiment, and elegant in manners; and the first sudden emotion was fortified by the habits and knowledge of a more familiar acquaintance. She permitted me to make two or three visits at her father's house. I passed some happy days there, in the mountains of Burgundy, and her parents honourably encouraged the connection. In a calm retirement the gay vanity of youth no longer fluttered in her bosom, and I might presume to hope that I had made some impression on a virtuous heart. At Crassy and Lausanne I indulged my dream of felicity; but on my return to England I soon discovered that my father would not hear of this strange alliance, and that without his consent I was myself destitute and helpless. After a painful struggle I yielded to my fate; I sighed as a lover, I obeyed as a son: my wound was insensibly healed by time, absence, and the habits of a new life. My cure was accelerated by a faithful report of the tranquillity and cheerfulness of the lady herself, and my love subsided in friendship and esteem. Gibbon was a very pompous gentleman, but a gentleman. He might otherwise, without departing from the truth, have shown that the little Swiss beauty was far more in love with him than he with her, and her tranquillity and cheerfulness in giving him up were of hard earning. She contrived in time to forget the lover who probably would have made her more famous than happy, and married a Mr. Necker, a rich banker of her own country. (Berne at that time was one of the chief financial centres of Europe.) To him she bore the girl who was to be Madame de Staël, as pompous in mind as Gibbon, but somewhat warmer in temperament. Many years after the romance had died, when Madame Necker was a happy matron, Gibbon, still a bachelor, decided to make Switzerland his permanent home. Motives of economy, not of romance, dictated this choice. In 1783 he moved to Lausanne, where he completed his history, established a literary _salon_, and enjoyed life in spite of somewhat serious attacks of gout. M., Mdme., and Mslle. Necker (the last to become Madame de Staël) were frequent visitors, and he attached himself to Madame Necker by the bonds of a close but strictly Platonic friendship. In 1787 Gibbon completed his famous history, and seems to have contemplated afterwards a marriage "for companionship sake." But he never fixed on a lady, and died a bachelor six years after. During Gibbon's life the Neckers had established their country-seat at Coppet, near Geneva, which was afterwards the seat of Madame de Staël's court. Though born Swiss, Madame de Staël was altogether French in sympathy, detested Switzerland, and was impatient at any talk of its natural beauties. "I would rather go miles to hear a clever man talk than open the windows of my rooms at Naples to see the beauties of the Gulf," she said once. Napoleon, as the greatest man of the age, of course, attracted her. I suspect that she would have been a most ardent Napoleonist if he had made love to her. "Tell me," she said to Napoleon once, "whom do you think is the greatest woman in France to-day?" And Napoleon answered, "The woman who bears most sons for the army." It was not an ingratiating reply. But Napoleon, who detested the idea of petticoat government and was never inclined to chain himself by any bonds to an interfering and ambitious woman, disliked Madame de Staël: and she in time learned to hate him, and intrigued against the man whom she could not intrigue with. The upshot was exile for her. She was turned out of Paris, much to her rage. On several occasions she sought to return. But Napoleon was inexorable. She replied to his enmity by industry as a conspirator. Fouché, who speaks of her as "the intriguing daughter of Necker," credits Madame de Staël with having been regarded by Napoleon as "an implacable enemy," of having been the focus of the Senate conspiracy against Napoleon in 1802, and of being "the life and soul" of the opposition to him in 1812. It was certainly a remarkable woman who could thus stand up against Napoleon. Madame de Staël's _salon_ at Coppet became a centre famous over all Europe. Her powers of intrigue supplemented her literary fame, and that was very great and well deserved. As an essayist she has a clear and warm style, and as a writer she could be betrayed into forgetting her personal rancours. There is, for example, no more true criticism of the literary style of Napoleon (who wrote newspaper "leaders" in his day) than that it was, as de Staël wrote, so vigorous that you could see that the writer "wished to put in blows instead of words." An American traveller who paid a pilgrimage to the shrine of Madame de Staël at Coppet gives this picture of the lady: Her features were good, but her complexion bad. She had a certain roundness and amplitude of form. She was never at a loss for the happiest expressions; but _deviated into anecdotes that might be an offence to American ears_! Baron de Voght, who seemingly had not an American Puritanism of ear, wrote more warmly about the famous lady to a mutual friend, Madame Récamier: It is to you that I owe my most amiable reception at Coppet. It is no doubt to the favourable expectations aroused by your friendship that I owe my intimate acquaintance with this remarkable woman. I might have met her without your assistance--some casual acquaintance would no doubt have introduced me--but I should never have penetrated to the intimacy of this sublime and beautiful soul, and should never have known how much better she is than her reputation. _She is an angel sent from heaven to reveal the divine goodness upon earth._ To make her irresistible, a pure ray of celestial light embellishes her spirit and makes her amiable from every point of view. At once profound and light, whether she is discovering a mysterious secret of the soul or grasping the lightest shadow of a sentiment, her genius shines without dazzling, and when the orb of light has disappeared, it leaves a pleasant twilight to follow it.... No doubt a few faults, a few weaknesses, occasionally veil this celestial apparition; even the initiated must sometimes be troubled by these eclipses, which the Genevan astronomers in vain endeavour to predict. Still another pen picture of the same lady, from Benjamin Constant, who was her lover for many years and found the burden of maintaining an affection to match hers too great: Yes, certainly I am more anxious than ever to break it off. She is the most egoistical, the most excitable, the most ungrateful, the most vain, and the most vindictive of women. Why didn't I break it off long ago? She is odious and intolerable to me. I must have done with her or die. She is more volcanic than all the volcanoes in the world put together. She is like an old _procureur_, with serpents in her hair, demanding the fulfilment of a contract in Alexandrine verse. Byron was one of the famous men who visited the _salon_ of Madame de Staël. He was drawn to Switzerland in the course of his "parade of the pageant of his bleeding heart," and found much prompting in Swiss scenery to proclaim his sorrows: Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, With the wild world I dwelt in is a thing Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. To Madame de Staël he presented a copy of _Glenarvon_, an English novel in which his "devilish" character had been exposed. It was an effective introduction; and was aided in its theatrical effect by the fact that an English lady fainted in Madame de Staël's drawing-room when Byron's name was announced as a visitor. But evidently Byron failed sadly to live up to his wicked reputation. Whether it was his famous hostess who was disappointed or some one else, he made no fame at Coppet. The de Staëls' son-in-law, Duke Victor de Broglie, writes with palpable sourness of the visit of this ineffectual Satan: [Illustration: CHÂTEAU DE PRANGINS.] Lord Byron, an exile of his own free will, having succeeded, not without difficulty, in persuading the world of fashion in his own country that he was, if not the Devil in person, at least a living copy of Manfred or Lara, had settled for the summer in a charming house on the east bank of the Lake of Geneva. He was living with an Italian physician named Polidori, who imitated him to the best of his ability. It was there that he composed a good many of his little poems, and that he tried his hardest to inspire the good Genevans with the same horror and terror that his fellow-countrymen felt for him; but this was pure affectation on his part, and he only half succeeded with it. "My nephew," Louis XIV. used to say of the Duc d'Orleans, "is, in the matter of crime, only a boastful pretender"; Lord Byron was only a boastful pretender in the matter of vice. As he flattered himself that he was a good swimmer and sailor, he was perpetually crossing the Lake in all directions, and used to come fairly often to Coppet. His appearance was agreeable, but not at all distinguished. His face was handsome, but without expression or originality; his figure was round and short; he did not manoeuvre his lame legs with the same ease and nonchalance as M. de Talleyrand. His talk was heavy and tiresome, thanks to his paradoxes, seasoned with profane pleasantries out of date in the language of Voltaire, and the commonplaces of a vulgar Liberalism. Madame de Staël, who helped all her friends to make the best of themselves, did what she could to make him cut a dignified figure without success; and when the first movement of curiosity had passed, his society ceased to attract, and no one was glad to see him. Omitting from this chapter Rousseau and Voltaire, as having closer kinship to political philosophy than to literature, a next famous name to be recalled of this epoch is the author of _Obermann_, Étienne Pivert de Senancour. Senancour was born in France in 1770. He was educated for the priesthood, and passed some time in the seminary of St. Sulpice; broke away from the Seminary and from France itself, and passed some years in Switzerland, where he married; returned to France in middle life, and followed thenceforward the career of a man of letters, but with hardly any fame or success. He died an old man in 1846, desiring that on his grave might be placed these words only: _Éternité, deviens mon asile!_ The influence of Rousseau, Chateaubriand, and Madame de Staël shows in Senancour. _Obermann_ is a collection of letters from Switzerland treating almost entirely of Nature and of the human soul. Senancour has been introduced to the English-speaking public by the lofty praise of Matthew Arnold, who apostrophises him in _Obermann_: How often, where the slopes are green On Jaman, hast thou sate By some high chalet-door, and seen The summer-day grow late; And darkness steal o'er the wet grass With the pale crocus starr'd, And reach that shimmering sheet of glass Beneath the piny sward, Lake Leman's waters, far below! And watch'd the rosy light Fade from the distant peaks of snow; And on the air of night Heard accents of the eternal tongue Through the pine branches play---- In a later time practically all the most famous writers of English had some relation to Switzerland. Trelawney (Shelley's friend) was led first to seek Shelley's acquaintance through his introduction to "Queen Mab" by a Lausanne bookseller. Before he retraced his way to Italy in the hope of meeting Shelley there, Trelawney records that he saw an Englishman breakfasting: "Evidently a denizen of the North, his accent harsh, his skin white, of an angular and bony build, and self-confident and dogmatic in his opinions. With him, two ladies, whom it would appear from the blisters and blotches on their cheeks, lips and noses, that they were pedestrian tourists, fresh from the snow-covered mountains. The party breakfasted well, while the man cursed the godless wretches who have removed Nature's landmarks by cutting roads through Alps and Apennines. 'They will be arraigned hereafter with the unjust,' he shouted." Trelawney asked Wordsworth (for it was he, with his wife and sister) what he thought of Shelley as a poet--to which he replied, "Nothing." A Scotch terrier followed the Wordsworths into their carriage; "This hairy fellow our flea-trap," the poet shouted out, as they went off. Byron, Shelley, Wordsworth, Ruskin, Arnold--all had close associations with Switzerland, and there still continues to flow there a constant stream of the world's genius. It is everybody's playground, and seems to have the power to tempt the man of imagination to longer stay. One effect is to give to Swiss people of the better educated classes a curiously international knowledge. Many of them seem to know all languages and to study all contemporary literature. CHAPTER VI THE SWISS AND HUMAN THOUGHT The Swiss have had always a natural bent towards the heterodox. They have the spirit of that exile from Erin who, landing in New York and being asked as to the state of his political soul, demanded: "Is there a government here? If so I am agin it." Some of the minor Swiss heterodoxies have been of great value in urging the world to think. Was it not a Swiss doctor (Tronchin) who first preached the gospel of fresh air, preached it so successfully that he managed to open the windows of the Palace of Versailles itself? And another Swiss doctor (Tissot) who dared to tell well-to-do people that their chief cause of ill-health was overfeeding? The open window and the sparing platter are part of the commonplaces of hygiene to-day. When first suggested in Switzerland they had an almost impious novelty. As far back as the fifteenth century the Council of Basel set up an opposition Pope, Duke Amadeus VIII. of Savoy (which cannot be separated in history from Switzerland in those days). He was crowned Pope at Basel in 1440. After nine years he gave up being an opposition Pope. His was a mild note of dissent to that which was to come later, when Switzerland provided the most startlingly new theological ideas of the Reformation and of the Revolution. Zwingli and Calvin: Rousseau and Voltaire--those are four names of men intimately associated with Switzerland who were destined to have a vast effect on the thought of the world, in regard both to moral and social ideas. Two of them were Swiss born, two Swiss by adoption. Ulrich Zwingli was born at Wildhaus in the Canton St. Gall, which had before sheltered that stormy saint, Columban, and his disciple Gall. Zwingli was educated at Basel and Vienna, and was, while at Basel, a friend of Erasmus. In 1506, having taken holy orders, he became pastor of Glarus and at once began to show a reforming spirit. His indignation was aroused first at the mercenary wars in which Swiss soldiers engaged--he had accompanied Swiss forces into Italy as chaplain on two occasions--and so sternly did he inveigh against participation in such wars that he had to give up his pastorate at Glarus and take refuge at Einsiedeln Abbey. There he turned his attention to the abuses of the Church, and his reforming sermons soon attracted wide attention. Rome seems to have viewed his outbreaks against her discipline more with sorrow than with anger, and he was frequently tempted with offers to accept high office in the Church in Italy. He refused, and in 1518 became pastor of Zurich and began definitely his career as a Church reformer. He was not a follower of Luther. Still less was he a follower of Calvin, who settled in Geneva in 1538. Zwingli was a moral and social as well as a religious reformer, and his system of thought was at once more advanced in idea than that of Luther and less narrow in method than that of Calvin. At Zurich he set up a theocratic Republic of austere simplicity, but not of the savage gloom of the later Calvinist regime at Geneva. Earnestness of religious opinion smothered national patriotism in the mind of Zwingli. He organised a "Christian League" of the Protestants of Switzerland and some of the German Protestant cities. The Roman Catholics then formed a defensive alliance with Ferdinand of Austria, an ally of the Vatican. Zurich declared war on the Catholic Forest Cantons. The Swiss were obviously reluctant, however, to engage in this fratricidal religious war. At Kappel, where the Roman Catholic and Protestant armies lay facing each other, a band of the Catholics got hold of a large bowl of milk, and, lacking bread, they placed it on the boundary line between Zug and Zurich. At once a group of Zurich Protestant men came up with some loaves, and both parties ate cheerily together the _Milchsuppe_, forgetting the duty to slaughter one another for the love of God urgently impressed upon them by their Christian pastors. At Solothurn, again, a religious war was breaking out, and indeed the first shot had actually been fired, when Schultheiss Nicolas von Wengi, a Roman Catholic, threw himself before the mouth of a cannon, and exclaimed, "If the blood of the burghers is to be spent, let mine be the first!" Wengi's party at once desisted, and matters were settled peacefully. At a later period, alas, religious fervour waxed stronger, and Swiss Protestant and Swiss Catholic killed one another with almost as much savagery as modern Balkan Peninsula Christians, wrangling as to whether the path to Heaven runs through an Exarchate or a Patriarchate Church. [Illustration: GENEVA FROM THE ARVE.] Zwingli attempted to reconcile the differences between the Lutheran Protestants and his own followers; and there was a famous Conference between the two reformers at Marburg at the invitation of the Landgrave Phillip of Hesse. The attempt was a vain one. But Zwingli went on with a plan he had formed to unite in diplomacy, if not in the exactness of religious belief, all the Protestant States of Europe. In the development of this plan civil war within Switzerland was fomented, and Zwingli was killed in 1531 fighting with the Protestant forces of Zurich against the Roman Catholics of the Forest Cantons. Zurich was badly defeated in the battle, and militant Protestantism received for a while a check. Bullinger, who succeeded Zwingli, did not concern himself with politics to any great extent, but perfected the Zwinglian system of religious thought. Bullinger will be best remembered to English-speaking people as the friend and correspondent of that Lady Jane Grey who was sacrificed on the scaffold by Queen Mary of England. Three letters from Lady Jane Grey to him are still treasured at Zurich. Of Bullinger's treatise on "Christian Marriage" dedicated to her, she translated a portion into Greek, and presented it as a Christmas present to her father. Bullinger's sermons and letters were to her, she wrote once, "as most precious flowers from a garden." She asked his advice as to the best method of learning Hebrew, and regarded him as "particularly favoured by the grace of God." At the block she took off her gloves and desired that they should be sent on to her Swiss friends. Calvin was not Swiss-born, but reached Basel in 1535 as an exile from France. He had been destined for the Roman Catholic priesthood, changed his plans and became a lawyer, and at Paris was drawn into the orbit of the French Reformation. Persecuted in France, he retired to Switzerland, and in 1535 published his _Christianae Religionis Institutio_, which set forth his gloomy system of religious faith with, as its most startling belief, the idea that God predestined certain people for eternal salvation and certain others for eternal damnation. In 1536, at the invitation of a local Reformer named Farel, Calvin settled in Geneva. It was at the time the head of "French" Switzerland, as Zurich was the head of "German" Switzerland, and was a gay pleasure-loving city. The attempt to impose upon the Genevan citizens the gloomy austerities of Calvinism led to frequent riots, and at last the civil government banished both the apostles of sadness, Calvin going to Strasburg. In 1541 he was back at Geneva with an understood commission to reframe the religious and social life of the city. He set to work with grim fanaticism, aiming at a "Kingdom of God on Earth" framed on the lines of the old Judaic theocracies, with himself as the prophet and autocrat. Very terrible was the tyranny of this gloomy presbyter, though the state he set up won the unqualified admiration of John Knox, that kindred soul who carried to Scotland the tenets of Calvinism and set up there a similar theocracy. "They liked a preacher who could weep and howl well in the pulpit," records Buckle, describing the reign of Calvinism in Scotland. In Geneva there was, according to John Knox, "the most perfect School of Christ that was ever in the earth since the days of the Apostles." The whole populace was expected to weep and howl in abasement before a terrible God. No human pleasure was too paltry to escape the ban of these ministers of gloom. Some of the statutes of Geneva at the time are humorous to read nowadays, mournful as was the spirit they showed at the time. A few examples of the prohibitions current in Calvin's time: That no Citizen, Burger, or Inhabitant of this City dareth be so hardy to go from henceforth to eat or drink in any Tavern. That none be so hardy to walk by night in the Town after nine of the clock, without candlelight and also a lawful cause. That no manner of person, of what estate, quality or condition soever they be, shall wear any chains of gold or silver, but those which have been accustomed to wear them shall put them off, and wear them no more upon pain of three score shillings for every time. That no women, of what quality or condition soever they be, shall wear any verdingales, gold upon her head, quoises of gold, billiments or such like, neither any manner of embroidery upon her sleeves. That no manner of person, whatsoever they be, making bride-ales, banquets, or feasts shall have above three courses or services to the said feasts, and to every course or service not above four dishes, and yet not excessive, upon pain of three score shillings for every time, fruit excepted. Theatres, the dressing of the hair, music, games, skating, dancing, were all forbidden; so were pictures and statues. A governing body called the _Consistoire_, with Calvin at its head, had the right to send its spies into every home to detect ungodliness. When the plague came to the city to match with a physical ill this moral blight, Geneva became a very hell upon earth. Torture was used to extort confessions from the accused. Whilst the plague was at its worst the sword, the gallows, the stake were always busy. The jailor asserted that his prisons were filled to excess, and the executioner complained that his arms were wearied. Within a period of three years there were passed fifty-eight sentences of death, seventy-six of banishment, and eight to nine thousand of imprisonment, on those whose crime was infringement of the Church statutes. Offences against himself personally Calvin treated as blasphemy, and blasphemy was punishable with death. Upon the death of Calvin the government of Geneva fell into the hands of Beza, a man of more human feeling, and Calvinism modified a little of its savage gloom. Later the influence of the Zwinglians exercised a further moderating influence, and the Swiss Reformed Church began to get a little of the spirit of the New Testament. After the fame of the Reformers had waned Switzerland drew the attention of all Europe to her cities again by the writings of Rousseau and Voltaire, the chief makers, I should say, of the French Revolution. Rousseau was the son of a watchmaker of Geneva and was born in 1712. He was a turbulent child and ran away from home to France at the age of sixteen. He returned to his native city a quarter of a century later. Rousseau was a revolutionary critic of society, and his _Origin of Inequality_, _Émile_, and _The Social Contract_ attacked all the foundations of the then existing society. The last named formed the basis of the Constitution of 1793. In _La Nouvelle Héloïse_, a romance the scenery of which is laid at Vevey and Montreux, Rousseau argued for a return to more natural methods of living. That romance gave the stimulus to the romantic works of Goethe and Schiller. Voltaire was a Swiss by adoption and not by birth. He did not settle down at Ferney near Geneva until he was sixty years of age (1751): but that left him twenty-four years of life to spend there. Fear of the French Court sent him out of France. He seemed to have carried no fear with him. He braved the Consistory of Geneva--then still upholding much of the Calvinist tradition--and actually established a theatre in the gloomy city. Apart from the crowds of distinguished visitors whom Voltaire's reputation brought to Geneva, he was a useful citizen. He was the sponsor of two important local industries. On his estate at Ferney he bred silkworms, and presently he had weavers from Geneva to weave stockings of silk. The first pair was sent to the Duchesse de Choiseul. His correspondence with the Duchesse would turn a modern advertiser green with envy. Voltaire also started a watch manufactory, and again he advertised his watches in cunning letters and circulars to such people as Catherine the Great. In a short time the Ferney watchmaker's export trade spread everywhere, even to China and to North Africa. Voltaire, Rousseau--these two names kept all eyes on Switzerland for a generation, and brought to Switzerland practically all the serious thinkers of the day. There was one notable exception. Boswell records a vain pilgrimage that he made to Ferney. His mission was to reconcile Voltaire and Johnson. Voltaire described Johnson as a "superstitious dog." Johnson, asked by Boswell if he thought Rousseau as bad a man as Voltaire, said, "Sir, it is difficult to settle the proportion of iniquity between them." Dr. Johnson never went to Geneva. He would have paid as little homage to Calvinism as to Voltairism. [Illustration: L'ÉGLISE DE LA MADELEINE, GENEVA.] CHAPTER VII THE SWISS PEOPLE TO-DAY The Swiss people to-day preserve that element of the paradoxical which in the Middle Ages produced an Arnold Winkelried, courageous to gather the spears of a foe into his bosom for the sake of his country, and thousands of other heroes willing to give almost as great service to any cause for the sake of steady pay. The Switzer of the twentieth century is intensely patriotic, and to keep his country secure makes cheerful joys of the tasks of universal training for military service. But he is a willing exile wherever there is money to be made. He cherishes a deep national pride: but he has no objection to servile occupation in a foreign land if it is profitable. Often he shows himself greedy and rapacious. Yet he is markedly hospitable and charitable. He is eager for liberty, but surrounds his life with a host of petty tyrannies of regulation, being more under the shadow of the official _verboten_ than even the German. He loves the wild natural beauty of his mountains, but will spoil any Alp with a staring hotel and a funicular railway for the sake of tourist gold. A nation of heroes and hotel-keepers, of patriots and mercenaries, a nation that produced the Swiss Guard which defended the Tuileries, and the _suisse_ who will carry anybody's bag anywhere in Europe for a tip--the Swiss mingle in a curious way the sublime and the paltry. Two characteristics the Swiss has clear-cut--thrift and industry. I have never heard of a prodigal Swiss. Their industry is almost as invariable. Very noticeable is it in the Swiss abroad. I can recall two typical Swiss colonists in Australia. The one arrived without other resources than a willing back for a burden and took a porter's post in a hotel. He soon had something better than that in view, and went hawking ingenious coat and trouser hangers which he twisted from fencing wire. Next I encountered him selling eggs and fruit: he had bought up a little farm out of the profits of his coat-hangers. His next step was a hotel of his own, and thenceforward he became steadily rich. The other Swiss was not of so much resource. He was a printer by trade and earned from £4:10s. to £5 a week by that calling. He had saved and saved and had bought three acres of land some five miles out of the city. This farm he and his wife cultivated, providing for themselves (and for sale to neighbours) fruit, milk, wine, butter, cheese, vegetables, poultry. He never spent a penny on a railway or tramway fare, walking always to and from his work. Nor did he ever enter a restaurant or a hotel. When he had paid for his land and his house out of his earnings, the weekly budget of the household never called for more than ten shillings for food, clothing, taxes, etc. In the Appenzeller district, true, one may encounter apparently lazy men. But in most cases it will be found that these men have put in a very hard-working youth abroad to save money for the little household; that they spend the summer laboriously as guides, and only idle around the porcelain stoves of their cottages in the winter (whilst their wives work at lace-making and the household tasks) because there is nothing in particular they can do with any direct profit. Certainly, they could help the women. But what the use, or the justice of it? That would only leave idle time on the women's hands, and if any one deserves a rest, they would argue, it is the man who has perhaps spent years of his early life in absolute slavery to save up enough for a home. Mr. John Addington Symonds in his _Life in the Swiss Highlands_ (A. & C. Black) has given a detailed and a very sympathetic picture of the life of the Swiss peasantry, the class from which stream out all over Europe big, hungry, slowwitted, sturdy hotel porters and waiters. In some cases it is a very harsh life these peasants have. He tells: Some families subsisted on almost nothing but potatoes and weak coffee. One poor fellow, who has now developed into a hearty man, told me that before he left home he hardly ever tasted bread or cheese or meat, and that he was a mere hungry skeleton with skin upon it. At school he had so little flesh and blood that when he cut his finger to the bone it did not bleed. This man also told me a strange tale, which I will relate. There was a family in the same village, as indigent as his own, but reckless and wild. The long, gaunt, lanky sons grew up like beasts of prey, stealing eggs, climbing into stables and sucking the cows' udders. One of them, more frantically famished than his brethren, confessed to having hacked with his knife a large slice out of the quarters of a richer neighbour's live pig. Whether the young brigand cooked this Abyssinian beefsteak or ate the delicious morsel raw, I forgot to ask. Another of the same brood used to supply himself with animal food by drinking the blood from slaughtered beasts, whenever he got permission to indulge his appetite that way. I was informed that this comparative vampire developed into the stoutest and comeliest fellow of the set; and indeed blood, drunk warm from the veins of a sheep or bullock, ought to be highly nutritious. That is, I suppose, the harshest side of a Swiss peasant's life--an example of the very poor folk. But in no case is it luxurious. From that sort of life the young Swiss, going to carry burdens in a French hotel of the lower class, or act as waiter and _factotum_ at a Bloomsbury boarding-house, finds hardly any degree of hardship unendurable. It is astonishing to note on how little food, how little sleep, how little human comfort the poor Swiss on the bottom rung of the ladder can keep soul and body together. Afterwards, when he gets on in the world, the Swiss sometimes takes his revenge. The rapacious Swiss hotel-keeper of a tourist resort whose exactions infuriate the traveller, is perhaps only paying back to the world the bitter lessons he was taught as the slave of some poor house of accommodation. Not, of course, that the Swiss hotel-keeper is always, or even generally a brigand. Indeed he is very rarely so in Switzerland. It is _verboten_. But they are always keen, and if dishonest are more keenly dishonest than any others. In their own country regulations safeguard the tourist fairly effectively. Hotel-keeping is the chief apparent occupation of the Switzerland known to the tourist. But there is apart from that in the towns a busy industrial life. Since the use of water-power for generating electricity has come to be understood Switzerland has progressed more and more as a manufacturing country. So great are the demands of the new factories that the emigration of the Swiss begins to dwindle and there is an immigration of artisans from abroad into the country. In the rural districts, away from the towns, among the Alpine villages, the chief industry is the rearing of sheep, goats, and cows. Swiss milk, in a preserved form, and Swiss cheese go all over the world. The life of the Alpine villages rarely comes under the notice of the tourist unless he is a pedestrian without the craze for rock or glacier climbing, and willing to use his legs for the exploring of rough hill paths. In these villages life is very quiet and peaceful. It is not uncommon to find in them very old men living in the houses in which their great-grandfathers had been born and died. They do not know who built these snuff-coloured huts, but only that their ancestors dwelt in them. In an Alpine village the two principal buildings are the inn and the white stone church. There is no street. A rough track leads past the dozen or so brown houses. They are two or three stories in height, low ceilinged, lined with pine and built of small pine or hemlock logs dressed smooth and square, laid close and dovetailed at the corners. Often the exteriors are carved. The shingle roof is kept in place with heavy stones, and projects 4 to 8 feet beyond the walls. Some houses have shingled roofs a dozen layers thick. The windows are many and very small. Around the village are sloping meadows, high mountains, steep waterfalls, perhaps a fair blue lake. The short summer is spent in growing a few potatoes, herding the goats, cows, or sheep, pressing the cheese, and cutting and carrying in the grass. Winter is spent in eating up the little that summer gave, and in a struggle to keep from freezing. In the high villages the flocks are usually of goats. To save the trouble of each villager herding his own goats, a single shepherd is employed who leads the village drove into the higher Alps each day. When the flock return at eve, each goat seeks its familiar home, enters, and bleats to be milked and stalled. In the better country of the valleys the herds are of cows, and it is the custom each summer to drive them to the higher Alps to follow the lush grasses of the spring as it climbs up the mountains with the waxing of the sun's power. This general and gradual movement of the cattle from the valleys to the Alp pastures is a picturesque business. The herds are assembled in procession, each preceded by its herdsman, and a flock of goats. The herdsmen wear white shirts, broad leather suspenders adorned with images of cows and goats in bright metal, scarlet waistcoats, knee breeches of bright yellow, white stockings, and low shoes. A round black hat bound with flowers, and one long brass ear-ring consisting of a chain carrying a tiny milk-pail, usually complete the costume. After the herdsman come three or more heifers, each wearing a huge bell from a brightly garlanded collar. Then come the cattle, with herd-boys to keep them in line. Each herd-file is closed by a waggon containing a great copper cheese-kettle and wooden utensils for milk and butter. [Illustration: AN ALPINE VILLAGE, GRINDELWALD.] Mr. Symonds pictures the joy of man and beast at these annual pilgrimages in the footsteps of the spring: The whole village is astir long before daybreak; and the animals, who know well what a good time is in store for them, are as impatient as their masters. The procession sets forth in a long train, cows lowing, bells tinkling, herdsmen shouting, old men and women giving the last directions about their favourite beasts to the herdsmen. Rude pictures of the _Zug auf die Alpen_, as it is called, may sometimes be seen pasted, like a frieze or bas-relief, along the low panelled walls of mountain cottages. These are the work, in many cases, of the peasants themselves, who write the names of the cattle over the head of each, attach preposterously huge bells to the proud leaders of the herd, and burden the hinds with vast loads of bread and household gear, and implements for making cheese. How many happy memories of summer holidays have been worked into those clumsy but symbolic forms by uncouth fingers in the silence of winter evenings, when possibly Phyllis sat by and wondered at her Damon's draughtsmanship! It takes two whole days and nights at least to get from Emsenau to the Panixer Alp. But when this journey is accomplished, the human part of the procession installs itself delightfully in little wooden huts, which allow the pure air from the glaciers to whistle through every cranny. The tired cows spread themselves over pastures which the snows have lately left, feeding ravenously on the delicious young grass, starred with gentians and primulas, and hosts of bright-eyed tiny flowers. And then begins a rare time for men and cattle. It is a pity that our British race has lost the habit of making festivals of the great events of the pastoral and agricultural year. I have seen in Australia the annual moving of the sheep from the Monaro tableland to the "snow leases" of the Australian Alps, when the hot sun had scorched away all the herbage of the plains. It gives just as much inspiration for joy and thankfulness. But there is no festival. The sheep huddle along, the dogs at their heels. Brown-tanned, eager-eyed men ride beside, with the gladness of the expectation of the mountain fastnesses in their hearts but hardly a word of it on their lips. In England--which was once "Merrie Englande" because of its cheery rustic life--harvest festivals and rural feasts have almost vanished. In many places the Alp-horn is still used to call the cows home at milking-time. It is a huge wooden trumpet, often six feet in length, and a Swiss can draw deep and powerful notes from its wide throat. Its compass consists of only a few notes, but when these ring and echo from height to height the effect is very striking and beautiful. [Illustration: ALPINE HERDSMAN. The Piz Kesch in the distance.] Most striking is it at the hour of sunset. On the loftier Alps, to which no sounds of evening bell can climb, the Alp-horn proclaims the vesper hour. As the sun drops behind the distant snowy summits, the herdsman takes his huge horn and sends pealing along the mountain-side the first few notes of the Psalm "Praise ye the Lord." From Alp to Alp he is answered by his brother herdsmen, and the deep, strong notes echo from crag to crag in solemn melody. It is the signal for the evening prayer and for repose. Around their dairying industry centres the best of the Swiss nation, and it is fitting that the "Ranz des Vaches" which calls the cattle home should be the national song of the Swiss. It is no single air, it is the "cow-call" developed by herdsmen through generations, and it varies in nearly every valley. Its common property is the shrill falsetto intonation of the chorus--the curious twist of the throat that results in the yodel. It is singularly sweet heard in Alpine air. There is a story that once a regiment of Swiss soldiers hired by France deserted, and made for their homes, when the band played the "Ranz des Vaches." The desertion was not a shameful one. The same men could have been driven away from their mercenary standards by no threat of death. The rural industries of Switzerland are fostered with great care. In particular the forests, which protect the soil from being swept away and are ramparts to the villages against avalanches, are jealously preserved. No one may cut down a tree, even his own tree, in Switzerland without the authority of a forestry official. The Department of Forestry supervises carefully the wooded lands and marks those trees which can be felled without harm to the wood. The organisation of the national services, posts, roads, railways, etc., is also shaped to secure the greatest degree of comfort possible for the small land-holders. It is a wise policy. These rustic people, living almost exclusively on their own resources, eating food which they have produced, wearing clothes which they have spun, demanding so little from the outside world, are the very backbone of the Swiss nation, and they are the rock-foundations of the national patriotism. The Swiss are not bound together by the ties of a common race, a common language, a common religion. Their nation is in a sense an artificial one. Its cementing bond is an hereditary instinct, nourished among the peasants of these mountain pastures, to keep the mountain slopes free. The town life of the Swiss, affected a good deal as it must be by the hotel life of the tourists, is not so admirable as the village life. It is in some aspects irritatingly petty-minded; in others invitingly well-educated. The Swiss are interested only in the Swiss, and (in a strictly commercial way) the strangers who come to visit and enrich Switzerland. A Swiss newspaper tells little or nothing of the doings of the outside world. Its columns are filled with long accounts of the doings of Swiss shooting clubs and gymnastic societies. Yet Swiss trading and professional people are, in the general rule, astonishingly well versed in foreign languages and foreign literature. Offering asylum as it does to political and social rebels of all countries, Switzerland is a kind of international clearing-house for thought. The Gallic, the Teutonic, the Slavonic new thought of the day--all are understood and discussed in Switzerland, and the Swiss book-shops are the most cosmopolitan and representative in the world. The use of national costume dwindles in Switzerland as it does in every other part of the world. The peasant women have, however, still a characteristic head-dress, the maidens wearing black caps, the matrons white ones. The caps are two slips of upright lace, which, coming from behind over the head, meet on the forehead, the whole having the air of a butterfly with wings half outspread. Between these, the girls' tresses are puffed and held back by a silver pin--called a _Rosenadel_, from its head resembling a rosebud. The matrons only vary this mode in covering their hair with an embroidered piece of silk. For the festivals attending the movement of the cattle to the hills, the hay-cutting, and the vintage, the peasants also don gay national costume. Traces of the old sumptuary laws of the Calvinist communities still linger in the habits of the people, and show, too, in the absence of pomp at public ceremonies or representative meetings. A Communal Assembly looks like a class-room. The universities carry on their work with a sober absence of pomp, and uniforms are rare. The great amusement of the people in many quarters is still religious disputation and invective. The most popular place in all Geneva for the Swiss inhabitants is the Victoria Hall, where "revivalist" preachers of the most damnatory forms of religion hold forth. [Illustration: HAY HAULING ON THE ALPINE SNOW.] CHAPTER VIII ALPINE CLIMBING Though Switzerland does not contain within its borders more than one-third of the Alps, and the greatest height of the Alpine range (Mount Blanc) is wholly within France, the Alps are always associated with Switzerland in the popular mind; and with good reason, for the country is particularly and almost wholly Alpine in its character, and its national existence has been largely shaped by the mountain ranges which have given people differing from one another in racial origin, in language, and in religion a bond of unity. The most famous mountain range of the world historically, the Alps are far from being the greatest in height, and they are by no means the oldest of the world's mountains, though they are older probably than the Himalayas, older certainly than the _parvenu_ peaks of the South Seas, some of which were born amid thunders and lightnings only yesterday, considering Time in geological periods. The form of a mountain range and its height give usually some surface indications of its age. New mountains, like those of the South Seas, are very sharp and jagged in their outlines. Old mountains have been usually smoothed down by erosion. The oldest mountains probably of the world, the Australian Alps, are near neighbours of the youngest, the fiery volcanoes of the Straits of Sunda. [Illustration: SUNSET ON MONT BLANC FROM GENEVA.] A mountain's first birthday is marked by a movement towards old age. As soon as it begins to live it begins to die. If it is of volcanic origin its term of life is usually short; it comes to being suddenly with a wild upheaval of the Earth, and at once the eating rain, and the splitting frost, and the destroying wind set to work to cut away its peak and pull it down to the level of the plain again. If the mountain is of more slow creation, the result of a gradual up-wrinkling of a crease of the Earth as she readjusts her surface to the cooling of her bulk, the mountain may go on growing whilst also it goes on dying. From below inward forces are pushing it higher towards the sky. From above the rains and snows and winds are chiselling away its rocks and bearing them to the plains. In time the process of pushing up ceases; the process of grinding down goes on remorselessly, never pausing for a moment. So the mountains are eternal only in the figurative sense. Actually their term of existence is strictly finite. Once the Australian Alps had their tremendous peaks, and hills of unmelting ice. To-day they have been ground down to below the line of perpetual snow, and along the gentle grades of the chief peak it is possible to drive a carriage to the very summit. The European Alps are being subjected to-day to the same process of softening of outline and lowering of height. But for many generations yet they will lift white peaks to the skies. This though it is clear that the ice area upon them is steadily dwindling. This is a result, however, not of erosion, but of a warming of the climate of Europe, indeed of the whole northern hemisphere. Some measurements in 1912 by the Swiss Alpine Club confirm the recession of the Swiss glaciers. The largest of the glaciers, "L'Aletsch," had retreated 10 feet, following on nearly 60 feet in 1911, and rather more than that in 1910. The Rhine Glacier had gone back 34 feet, in addition to the 70 feet lost in the previous two years. An exception to the general rule appeared at first to be furnished by the two glaciers of Grindelwald, which had increased since last year; but the advance did not compensate for the loss of the previous year, and since 1893 the two glaciers have lost nearly a quarter of a mile. Their temporary advance is attributable solely to the inclement weather during 1912. Nearly all the smaller glaciers, out of the fifty-two surveyed by the Alpine Club, show some retreat, and the largest loss appears to be that of the Palu Glacier, near Bernina, which is losing regularly 70 feet a year. This dwindling is not confined to Swiss glaciers. A survey of Canadian glaciers which was made five years ago shows that other glaciers in the northern hemisphere are retreating. The Victoria Glacier is doing so; and the only slight exception appeared at that time to be the Yoho Glacier, which was retreating, but not nearly so fast as it had been in previous years. M. Charles Rabot asserts that the glaciers in Argentina are also retreating, and surmises, from data perhaps not so well established, that there has been a general retreat of glaciers during the last half of the nineteenth century throughout Spitzbergen, Iceland, Central Asia, and Alaska. He suggests that the cause is a present tendency towards equalisation of the earth's temperature. Others more boldly affirm that the Swiss glaciers, as well as other great ice masses existing on the globe, are remnants of the last Ice Age, and are all doomed to disappear as the cycle works round for the full heat of the next Warm Age. But the disappearance, if it is to come, will not come quickly, and the doom of ice-climbing in Switzerland is too remote a threat to disturb the Alpinist. To the inexpert a glacier is a glacier all the world over, but the expert knows that the glaciers of different mountains have the same variations of character as the streams of different countries. Sir Martin Conway describes Swiss Alpine glaciers as of the medium type, lying as they do half-way between the Arctic and tropical extremes. They have not the rapid flow of the Arctic nor the dry rigidity of the tropical sort. Their walls are not silent as in the Central Andes, nor thundered over by continual avalanches like those of the upper Baltoro. They are of medium size also. In a single day almost any of them may be ascended from snout to snow-field, and descended again. To explore their remotest recesses no elaborately equipped expedition is required. Yet they are large enough to be imposing, and penetrate deep enough into the heart of the hills to isolate their votaries completely from the world of human habitation. It is to this medium quality that the Alps owe much of their charm. This, too, it is that makes them an almost perfect mountain playground. Were they but a little smaller, how much they would lose that is most precious! Were they larger, how many persons that now can afford the cost and the strength to explore them would have to linger at their gates wistfully looking in. In area, too, they are large enough for grandeur and yet small enough for easy access. No part of them is beyond the range of a summer holiday, yet a commanding view of them is as apparently limitless as is the view from the greatest Asiatic peaks which, thus far, have been climbed. They are the only range of snow-mountains in the world thus blessed with moderation. The Alps to-day attract geologists and meteorologists from all parts of the world, but their first earnest student was a Genevan, Horace de Saussure, whose writings about his native mountains have a charm from their style as well as from their record of exact observations. Born in 1740, he was appointed at the age of twenty-one Professor of Philosophy at Geneva University. He ascended Mount Blanc in 1760 at the age of forty-seven, and spent all his leisure before and after that date in geological exploration of the various peaks. "The one aim," he writes in his journals, "of most of the travellers who call themselves naturalists is the collection of curiosities. They walk, or rather they creep about, with their eyes fixed upon the earth, picking up a specimen here and a specimen there, without any eye to a generalization. They remind me of an antiquary scratching the ground at Rome, in the midst of the Pantheon or the Coliseum, looking for fragments of coloured glass, without ever turning to look at the architecture of these magnificent edifices." This pioneer of geology died in 1799. There had been before him some few Alpine climbers, and there were after him some few more; but the twentieth-century tourist to Switzerland--who is chiefly interested in the Alps as difficult mountains to climb, presenting great problems of ice and cliff traverses, seasoning the joy of difficult achievement with a pronounced spice of danger--follows a sport so modern that there are men now living who were born before the passion for Alpine climbing came to birth. Certainly the Alps were traversed of old. But strictly not for pleasure. The most accessible passes, not the most difficult peaks, were sought out; and the burdens and terrors of the passage, not the joys of it, were uppermost in the minds of travellers. There is not extant any expression of pleasure from Hannibal, Cæsar, Napoleon, Suwarow, or any other of those famous conquerors of this mountain barrier. If any references at all to the crossing of the Alps come down from past times they are of complaint. An English monk of the Middle Ages, for example, writes to his brethren of Canterbury: Pardon me for not writing. I have been on the Mount of Jove--on the one hand looking up at the heaven of the mountains, on the other shuddering at the hell of the valleys, feeling myself so much nearer heaven that I was more sure my prayer would be heard. Lord, I said, restore me to my brethren, that I may tell them, that they come not into this place of torment. Place of torment indeed, where the marble pavement of the stony ground is ice, and you cannot set your foot safely; where, strange to say, although it is so slippery that you cannot stand, the death (into which there is every facility to fall) is certain death. I put my hand in my scrip that I might scratch out a syllable or two to your sincerity--lo! I found my ink-bottle filled with a dry mass of ice; my fingers too refused to write, my beard was stiff with frost, and my breath congealed into a long icicle. I could not write the news I wished! In the days, nearer to our own time, of the _salons_ of Coppet and Ferney, no one of the distinguished writers and thinkers who visited Switzerland gave a thought to mountain-climbing as a pleasure. Indeed all seemed insensible that there was any particular charm in the mountains' grandeur. The first of the great company of hill-climbers for pleasure, so far as I can discover, was that very typical Englishman, Mr. Albert Smith, who in 1851 climbed Mount Blanc, and devoted six years of profitable life afterwards to describing how he did it, to audiences at the Egyptian Hall, London. A nation which had already invented Arctic exploration was quick to seize upon Alpine climbing as an outlet for superfluous energy and love of danger. Mr. Albert Smith was the forerunner of a great herd of climbers from this country and--the fashion spreading, as all English fashions do, to Europe--from many other countries: though truly I suspect that the Continental mind approves at heart more thoroughly the spirit of that amusing satire, _Tartarin de Tarascon sur les Alpes_, than the solemn records of the Alpine Club. Switzerland has not so far raised a national memorial to Mr. Albert Smith, nor do Swiss hotel-keepers make pilgrimages to his grave in Brompton Cemetery. But he has his monument surely in Mount Blanc, the mountain which he "invented," according to the sober pages of the _Dictionary of National Biography_. Sir Leslie Stephen, of whom it was said "He walked from Alp to Alp like a pair of one-inch compasses over a large map," systematised, though he had not invented, Alpine climbing. He was one of the leading spirits of the Alpine Club, which encourages, records, and organises the climbing of Alps. [Illustration: THE PALÜ GLACIER.] So firm a hold on the British imagination has this sport of creeping over slippery ice-masses and fly-crawling along the face of precipices in pursuit of peaks, that the Swiss Alps do not give sufficient scope for their energies. Ascents of the Andes and the Himalayas are attempted. Every year quite a number of travellers cross to Canada to encounter the dangers of the Rockies and the Selkirks there. To far-off New Zealand the Alpinists go; and I have encountered in Sydney an enthusiastic English lady who had climbed peaks in all corners of the earth and had come to Australia for the conquest of the Australian Alps. On learning of their contemptible height, and that it was possible to drive up to their very summit in a carriage, she took the first boat away, convinced that a country without dangerous mountain-climbing was utterly unworthy of any attention. What is the chief charm of this mountain-climbing? The joy of the scenery? The exaltation of the keen high air? These are factors no doubt, but not essential nor even the chief factors. The chief appeal it makes is to the joy of combat and the pride of achievement. Some of the peaks which once were difficult have now been made easy: funicular railways run to spots which were once inaccessible except to keen mountaineers. These spots the mountain-climber shuns. It is not the wish to see the dawn from this peak or the sunset from that point which spurs him on, but the sense of danger and difficulty to be overcome, the urging of his human pride to show that he can conquer the obstacles which Nature has put in his path. The motive of the mountain-climber is one that lends itself easily to ridicule. But _au fond_ it is the motive of human progress, the spirit which spurs man on to explore the sea, and the depths beneath the sea; the land, and the air above the land. And perhaps there comes to the climber a keener, finer sense of the beauties of the scenery which he has come to see with so much effort and danger. So Sir Martin Conway (_The Alps_, A. & C. Black) insists, describing dawn on the Alps as it comes to the "active mountaineer, keenly awake, with the blood alive within him and a day of hopes ahead." He writes: [Illustration: WINTER SUNRISE IN THE ENGADINE--CRESTA: CELERINA AND SAMADEN.] The night is dying. Her rich darks and whites grow pallid. Each moment a layer of darkness peels off. The sky turns blue before one knows it: the rocks grow brown: there is blue in the crevasses, and green upon the swards--all low-toned yet distinct. Faint puffs of warm air come, we know not whence, touch our faces, and are gone. The lantern has been extinguished; we stride out more freely; the day awakens within us also. Now is displayed in all its magnificence the daily drama of the dawn. While the mists yet lie cold and grey in the deep valleys, they glow against the eastern horizon, where all the spectrum is slowly uprolled, more and more fiery beneath, as it tends to red, and cut off below by the jagged outline of countless peaks, looking tiny, away off there on the margin of the world. Low floating cloudlets turn to molten gold. The horizon flames along all its fretted eastern edge, a narrow band of lambent light, a smokeless crimson fire. The belt of colour grows broader; it swamps and dyes the cloudlets crimson. Long pink streamers of soft light strike up from where the sun is presently to appear. The great moment is at hand. All eyes rove around the view. At last some near high peak salutes the day; its summit glowing like a live coal drawn from a furnace. Another catches the light and yet another. The glory spreads downwards, turning from pink to gold, and from gold to pure daylight, and then--lo! the sun himself upon the horizon! a point of blinding light, soon changing to the full round orb. The day has come, and the long shadows gather in their skirts and prepare to flee away. Before such enthusiasm who dares to urge that the Alpine dawn may be as well seen from a point to which the railway will take you? Or that the climber's penalty before the dawn is night in a hut which has but elementary ventilation to counteract the fumes of lamps, stoves, and steaming clothes? Going to the Alps, climb most certainly if you can climb. But supposing want of ability or inclination to climb, it is yet possible to enjoy most of their beauties. CHAPTER IX NATURAL BEAUTIES OF SWITZERLAND Yes, it is not necessary to join a climbing party to enjoy the scenery of Switzerland. No place in the world offers greater facilities to the sedentary tourist. There are railways and diligence routes almost everywhere; and in places, too, there are still retreats for the quiet pedestrian who wishes neither to undertake sensational climbs nor to be carried by railway, but loves quiet paths by hill and lake and forest, taking Longfellow's advice: I heard the distant waters dash, I saw the current whirl and flash, And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach, The woods were bending with a silent reach. Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell, The music of the village bell Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills.... If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, Go to the woods and hills! No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears. It has to be admitted sadly that these opportunities for quiet rambles become rarer with each year as mountain railways are multiplied, and roads supplant the old shepherd paths. But still they exist in some districts of Switzerland, and the conveniences offered to the walker by the public services of the country prove that the Swiss wisely appreciate the value of the patronage of this class of tourist. The roads and paths are wonderfully well sign-posted, and in places where there is a great tangle of paths the device has been adopted of putting vari-coloured marks to indicate different routes. Thus going out from a centre, one walk will be marked by black marks on trees, rocks, and fences, another by yellow, another by red, and so on. But best of all are the few districts still left where there are mountain paths with no trace at all of tourist traffic, along which you must find your way by diligent inquiry, by frequent reference to the map, and always with caution against being tangled up hopelessly in some wild valley. The Federal post office offers useful service to the walker. You may send on your personal luggage by parcel post very cheaply, and thus walk with very little impedimenta. The happy experience of one tourist was that he walked right across Switzerland, never carried more than seven pounds of luggage on his back, and never wanted a change of clothes in the evening, so reliable was the parcel post system. [Illustration: THE SCHIAHORN. "The chalets are like fairy houses or toys."] Mendelssohn has sung the beauty of Swiss paths: How beautiful are these paths! This Canton de Vaud is the most beautiful of the countries that I know. If God should grant me a long old age, this is where I should wish to spend it. What excellent people! What bright expressions on their faces! What charming views! When one returns from Italy one almost melts into tears at the sight of this corner of the world, in which so many good and honest people are still to be met. There are no beggars here, no surly functionaries--nothing but smiling countenances! I thank God for having let me see so many beautiful sights. He wrote of a time preceding the modern tourist rush to Switzerland. But such delights can still be had, away from the more popular resorts. In the Zermatt district the walking is particularly good, for it has not yet been "developed" at the call of the crowding hordes of tourists. The paths have not been broadened into roads and spoilt in the process, and old-fashioned inns have not been replaced by palace hotels. Summer, of course, is the chief walking season, but there are many paths in some of the lower districts possible in the winter. Certainly those who go to the winter resorts for the sports should make a point of breaking away now and again from skating rink and toboggan run for a quiet prowl along some solitary path, to enjoy in solitude, or in the company of a dear friend, the calm joy of an Alpine sunset such as Mr. Symonds describes: While the west grows momentarily more pale the eastern heavens flush with afterglow, suffuse their spaces with pink and violet. Daffodil and tenderest emerald intermingle: and these colours spread until the West again has rose and primrose and sapphire wonderfully blent, and from the burning skies a light is cast upon the valley--a phantom light, less real, more like the hues of molten gems that were the stationary flames of sunset. Venus and the moon, meanwhile, are silvery clear. Then the whole illumination fades like magic.... There is hardly any colour except the blue of sky and shadow. Everything is traced in vanishing tints, passing from the almost amber of the distant sunlight through glittering white into pale grey and brighter blues and deep ethereal azure. The pines stand in black platoons upon the hillsides, with a tinge of red or orange on their sable. Some carry masses of snow. Others have shaken their plumes free. The châlets are like fairy houses or toys; waist-deep in stores of winter fuel, with their mellow tones of madder and umber relieved against the white, with the fantastic icicles and folds of snow depending from their eaves, or curled like coverlids from roof and window-sill, they are far more picturesque than in the summer. Colour, wherever it is found, whether in these cottages or in a block of serpentine by the roadside, or in the golden bulrush-blades by the lake shore, takes more than double value. It is shed upon the pallid landscape like a spiritual and transparent veil. Most beautiful of all are the sweeping lines of pure untroubled snow, fold over fold of undulating softness, billowing along the skirts of the peaked hills. There is no conveying the charm of immaterial, aerial, lucid beauty, the feeling of purity and aloofness from sordid things, conveyed by the fine touch on all our senses of light, colour, form, and air, and motion, and rare tinkling sound. The enchantment is like a spirit mood of Shelley's lyric verse. [Illustration: A MOUNTAIN PATH, GRINDELWALD.] To the tourist who contemplates a first visit to Switzerland, and can give but little time to the country--making the visit, let us suppose, as part of a European tour,--perhaps the best centre of interest is Lucerne. There he may enjoy at the outset all the characteristic charms of Swiss scenery--the beautiful lakes, the meadows, and orchards stretching up from the blue waters to the hills, the great mountains of Rigi, Pilatus (said by an ancient myth to have been the refuge of the despairing Pontius Pilate), and the Stansenhorn. There, too, may be found the delight of the Alpine pine forests and of the Alpine flowers. There, too, are splendid survivals of the picturesque life of medieval Switzerland. And, as the Swiss gate of the St. Gothard Pass, Lucerne offers at once the opportunity to explore one of the most wonderful paths of the world, and to pass quickly through to the Italian lakes when the time that can be given to Switzerland has been exhausted. The St. Gothard Pass was a Middle Ages' track across the Alps. It was not known to the Romans, who used the passes of the Valais and the Rhaetian Alps. From the oldest document in which the Gothard is mentioned, it seems that in the middle of the thirteenth century the pass was already frequented by pilgrims. Following the pilgrims came merchants from Lucerne, Zurich, and Basel, to trade with the rich towns of fertile Lombardy. Originally the St. Gothard Pass was a narrow mountain-path gradually widening into a mule-track. It was not until the early part of the nineteenth century that the pass was made accessible to carriages, and the highway constructed which still is a fine example of a mountain road. Under the most favourable conditions four days was the time required to pass from Lucerne to Milan, and inclement weather would often force the traveller to take shelter for days. Now the pass is traversed in a few hours by the St. Gothard railway built jointly by Italy, Germany, and Switzerland. After tedious conferences, a treaty was signed by these three countries in 1871, providing that subsidies to the work should be granted by the contracting parties. The share of Germany and Switzerland was fixed at £800,000 each, and that of Italy at £1,800,000. During the process of construction, however, a material increase was necessary, so that Germany in the end contributed £1,200,000 to the cost, Switzerland £1,240,000, and Italy £2,320,000. In September 1872 work was begun, and on February 29, 1880, after nearly eight years of dangerous work, the piercing of the tunnel was accomplished. The courageous chief engineer, Louis Favre, eight months before the completion of the tunnel, fell a victim to its close, heavy air, and died of heart failure whilst in the workings. The line was opened in June 1882 and is still a great highway of railway traffic, though the Simplon railway and the new Loetschberg railway have come as rival trans-Alpine routes. The oldest pass of the Alps is that which is now called the Great St. Bernard, the _Summus Penninus_ of the Romans. Mr. Coolidge, in _Swiss Travel and Swiss Guide-Books_, states that the first known guide-book was written for the crowd of pilgrims crossing this pass, by the Abbot of Thingör in Iceland, about 1154. There was a shelter building on the pass before the year 812. A century later the Little St. Bernard was similarly provided. The Simplon was equipped with a shelter before 1235, the St. Gothard before 1331, and the Grimsel before 1479. But before leaving Lucerne by the St. Gothard Pass, the traveller with any claim to historic imagination will visit Schwyz, the cradle of Swiss independence and the various shrines of the heroes of the Forest Cantons. Zurich, too, is easily accessible from Lucerne; also the battlefield of St. Jacob on the Birse, where, in the year 1444, 1500 valiant Swiss held their ground against a force of French more than twenty times as great. When night fell, this band, defying death with the cry, "Our souls to God, our bodies to the Armagnacs," was almost annihilated. Along the St. Gothard Pass are the records of another great military exploit, Suwarow's passage of the Alps. At the Devil's Bridge, over the Reuss, a Russian cross records the desperate fight between the French and Suwarow's army in 1799. For the tourist who would mingle with his enjoyment of natural beauty visits to famous literary centres, Geneva of course will be the Swiss headquarters. From there stretch right and left the storied shores of Lake Leman. He may visit in turn Ferney, Coppet, and Lausanne, where the gloomy austerity of Genevan Calvinism seemed to take on something of a comic spirit. There the use of tobacco and snuff was forbidden under the Seventh Commandment! "Here," said a preacher, "we snuff only the Word of God." Montreux can be visited, or can be made the headquarters of a stay by the Lake of Leman if economy is a consideration, for it has the reputation of being the cheapest Swiss place to live in. Near Montreux is the Castle of Chillon, which Byron made famous in his "Prisoner of Chillon" with more regard for sentimentality than for truth. His Prisoner of Chillon was in truth no stainless patriot imprisoned by a tyrant's rage, but a rather rowdy layman prior, François Bonivard. He conspired against the Duke of Savoy, entered into a rather undignified kind of civil war, and was imprisoned in the Castle of Chillon. For some time he was treated fairly well, but afterwards thrust into a dungeon below the level of the lake where he was kept four years. In 1536 he was released, and was appointed Historian to the Genevan Republic. He did not get on well with Calvin and was frequently before the Genevan Consistory on various charges of moral wrongdoing. (That argues nothing serious against his character.) He seems to have been an average human man. But Byron's poem thrust him on to a pedestal which he did not deserve. The Castle of Chillon did not end its history as a prison with Bonivard's release. It was used as a jail in the days of the French Revolution, and its last notable prisoners were some members of the Salvation Army, accused of causing street disorders by their ministrations. It was a picturesque incident this "persecution" by Calvin's Lake of Leman of a new form of Protestantism. But the persecution was not savage. The Salvationists (English lasses chiefly) were very well treated in Chillon. To mingle a study of modern Swiss history with worship of the Alps, Berne would be the best centre for the tourist. Berne dates its foundation back to Berchtold V., who in the year 1191 erected a stronghold on a rocky promontory on the Aare, which was to serve as a rampart against the attacks of the Burgundian nobles. The town takes its name from a bear which was killed whilst the building was in course of construction. To safeguard the western part of the city, Agrippa d'Aubigné, the Huguenot leader, commenced the erection of a circle of ramparts, completed in 1646, parts of which still remain and are known as the "greater" and "lesser" ramparts. In 1218, after the Zaeringer dynasty had died out, Berne became independent, subject only to the German Emperor, and remained faithful to the House of Hohenstaufen. During the Interregnum, Berne was forced to place herself under the protection of the Duke of Savoy, in order to be able to resist her numerous enemies. In the Burgundian war of 1474-77, Berne was victorious at Grandson, Morat, and Nancy, and obtained a strong foothold in Vaud, which entered entirely into her possession in 1536, so that her dominion extended from the Lake of Geneva to the Reuss, and from the source of the Aare up to its juncture with the Rhine. The upheaval caused by the French Revolution brought about the fall of the Bernese Republic. In 1798, after the battles of Neuenegg and Grauholz, the French entered the town under General Schauenburg, and Berne lost her independence. Since the Constitution of 1848, Berne has been the capital of the new Confederation, the seat of the Federal Council and of Parliament. It is also the headquarters of many international organisations. Switzerland excites no jealousy among the European Powers and is usually chosen as the summoning nation for conferences in which international agreements are discussed. Berne has some fine old monuments; and its medieval fountains are particularly interesting. The bear-pit, which has been kept up for centuries in record of the city's ancient association with the bear, is worth a visit. From the Bernese public gardens and from the Gurten (2800 feet high--reached by a funicular railway) there are marvellous views of the Alps. There "soul of man has fronting him earth's utmost majesty." Lucerne, Geneva, Berne--these are the three centres I would recommend to the traveller with but a short time available for a Swiss tour and seeking to get a general impression of the country: and of the three Lucerne is the best centre. But with a month to spare all three may be visited and a very good idea of Switzerland obtained. The best time for such a sight-seeing trip is the late spring or the summer, preferably the spring, for with the summer often come dust and flies. [Illustration: CASTLE OF CHILLON.] CHAPTER X AVALANCHES AND GLACIERS The avalanche is chiefly associated in the mind of the visitor to Switzerland with thoughts of peril and destruction, the glacier with the idea of a permanent field of ice set decoratively to adorn a mountain-side. Neither impression represents all of the truth. Avalanches are destructive, and glaciers decorative. But the avalanche is normally, to the dweller in the Alps, the welcome harbinger of spring; the glacier the hard-working labourer which brings down soil from the mountain rocks for the enrichment of the plains. The first avalanche is the sign to the Swiss that _Solvitur acris hiems_, and though he will not "draw his fishing boats down by rollers to the sea," in all other respects he will share the song of joy in which Horace records for the Italian husbandman the welcome due to the spring. The avalanche may be sometimes terrible in its destruction, as in lower lands a flood may sometimes be; but on their record, year by year, they do not cause any appalling loss of life or of property. Some deaths, some destruction, can be set to their account, but Nature exacts a penalty from man everywhere, on plain, on mountain, and on sea. Inundations of plains, storms at sea, cause probably a much greater proportionate loss of life and property than avalanches. In Switzerland, spring is the great time for avalanches. They fall all the year round, chiefly from high levels, but it is in the spring that the greatest avalanches come adrift. Certain spring avalanches descend with remarkable regularity in particular places, one every year. An avalanche falls at a recognised spot in the neighbourhood of almost every village, which dates from its advent the opening of the spring. This spring avalanche is no sudden freak of Nature, but an inevitable affair, slowly engendered. The snow that piles up during the winter months, on what in summer are the grass slopes below the snow-line, gradually becomes unstable as spring melting advances. The mass loses its cohesion, ceases to bind firmly together, and tends to flow downwards. The trend of the ground decides the way of its fall. If the fields upon which it lies are of small area and slope conveniently, the avalanche will slide gently down to its appointed place. But if the disposition of the ground is such that a great mass of snow is collected in a basin which has a narrow outlet, from this a great avalanche will rush like a cataract down the mountain-side until it reaches a barrier sufficiently strong to put a stop to its current. It is this type of avalanche which is the most likely to do great mischief; but even this pours down rather than falls down the hill slope. Sir Martin Conway recalls his observations of avalanches in their actual progress along the Simplon Road one spring: Near Berisal I crossed one which had recently come to rest, traversing the road. By its rugged white surface, broken into great protuberances, its solidity, and its general form, it resembled a small glacier. To climb on to it one had to cut steps, so steep were the sides. Higher up I crossed several more such fallen masses, through which gangs of workmen were cutting out the road. Towards the top of the pass the snow was tumbling in smaller masses. Over a hundred little avalanches crossed the road within a couple of hours. Then they stopped. On the Italian side similar conditions obtained, but it was not till I reached Isella that the greatest fall took place, or rather was taking place, for it had begun before I arrived, and it continued after I had passed. There, a narrow gorge, with vertical cliff-sides facing one another, debouches on the main valley. It leads upwards to a great cirque in the hills, a cirque that is a grass-covered alpine pasture in the summer. The avalanche was pouring out through this gorge and piling itself up upon the main valley-floor. How the mass of it was being renewed from behind I could not see. Doubtless all the hillsides above were shedding their snow, and it was flowing down and crowding into and through the gorge with a continuous flow. As the pressure was relieved below by the outpouring of the avalanche on to the valley floor, more snow came down--snow mixed with slush, and semi-liquid under the great pressure that must have been developed.... It is not easy to suggest to the reader the grandeur of effect that was produced. The volume of noise was terrific--a noise more massive and continuous than thunder, and no less deep toned.... The avalanche, pouring through the massive gateway of the hills and polishing its sides, came forth with an aspect of weight and resistless force that was extraordinarily impressive. Yet Nature did not seem to be acting violently, though her might was plain to see. She appeared to act with deliberation: one looked for an end of the snow-stream to come, but it flowed on and on, pulsating but not failing. The pressures that must be developed were easily conceived; correspondingly evident became the strength of the hills that could sustain them as if they had been but the stroking of a hand. Later in the season the traveller often encounters, in deep-lying valleys, the black and shrunken remnants of these mighty avalanches, melted down by summer heats. Little idea can they give him of the splendour of their birth and the white curdled beauty of their surface when they first come to rest. In the nature of things they travel far and fall low, well into the tree-belt, and even down to the chestnut-level on the Italian side. It is a strange sight to see these vast, new-fallen masses lying in their accustomed beds, but surrounded by trees all freshly verdant with the gifts of spring. Yearly each one falls in the same place, falls harmlessly and duly expected. Its coming is welcomed. Its voice is the triumphant shout of the coming season of summer exuberance and fertility. Nature, newly awakened, cries aloud with a great and solemnly joyous cry, and the people dwelling around hear her and arise to their work upon the land. The avalanche, then, is one of the great natural forces of the mountains, which is not necessarily or even ordinarily destructive. But, like other natural forces--the fresh in the river or the gale at sea,--it can be very terrible, and, again like other natural forces, the wisdom and precaution of man can do much to minimise the danger of the avalanche and to avert any serious destruction by its agency. The Swiss people, so practical, so economical, so courageous, carry on a persistent scientific campaign against the unruly element in these torrents of ice, setting up lines of defence everywhere. The first and most important line of defence is the forest; and for this reason the forest laws of Switzerland are very severe. A man is not allowed to fell a tree in his own wood without the forester's consent. Everything is done to preserve the natural rampart afforded by a mass of pines. In the second place, where avalanches descend regularly every year, stone galleries are built, or tunnels are mined out of the solid rock to protect roads. There are many examples of these galleries and tunnels in the Züge, near Davos. Scientific engineers are eager to add to these plans of defence. They believe that the root of the mischief ought to be attacked. In places where avalanches are expected, they recommend the building of terraces and dwarf-walls, so as to arrest the earliest snow-slip. Lower down, in the forest zone, piles should be driven into the ground, and fenced with wattling. These precautions, and others on similar lines, are now being taken, and most of the well-known avalanche tracks are being surrounded by various defensive works designed to arrest any tendency to mischief that they show. Destruction from avalanches there will continue to be in exceptional cases, for Nature insists, now and again, on displaying some unwonted, abnormal display of her power which sets at nought all precautions of man. A _Titanic_ goes to the bottom of the sea to show that the shipbuilder can claim only a human and therefore limited surety against disaster. An avalanche may one day shock Europe by rushing unexpectedly down to overwhelm a whole Swiss village. But the danger from them has been diminished largely, and continues to be diminished. It is necessary to go back to the past to obtain the record of any great number of avalanche disasters. The Swiss classify avalanches into several sorts. The first of these, in order of maturity, is the _Staub-Lawine_ or Dust-Snow Avalanche. This is a collection of loose snow, freshly fallen, which has been caught up in one of those sectional tornadoes which spring up on the mountain slopes, and is driven down on the wings of the wind to the valley below. This form of avalanche is, because of its suddenness, the most dangerous to human life, and is also the most difficult to provide against. Measures to prevent the accumulation of drift snow in dangerous pockets or wind-swept slopes are in some degree efficacious. Mr. Symonds records the experience of a Swiss who was caught in a Dust-Avalanche: [Illustration: DAVOS IN WINTER. The home of John Addington Symonds.] A human victim of the dreadful thing, who was so lucky as to be saved from its clutch, once described to me the sensations he experienced. He was caught at the edge of the avalanche just when it was settling down to rest, carried off his feet, and rendered helpless by the swathing snow, which tied his legs, pinned his arms to his ribs, and crawled upward to his throat. There it stopped. His head emerged, and he could breathe; but as the mass set, he felt the impossibility of expanding his lungs, and knew that he must die of suffocation. At the point of losing consciousness, he became aware of comrades running to his rescue. They hacked the snow away around his thorax, and then rushed on to dig for another man who had been buried in the same disaster, leaving him able to breathe, but wholly powerless to stir hand or foot. The usual spring avalanche is called the _Schlag-Lawine_ or Stroke-Avalanche. These, as already described, push down a slope of the mountains like a swiftly flowing river. Danger from the _Schlag-Lawine_, which is just as usual and inevitable a process of Nature as the growing of the trees or the splitting of rocks by frost, has been very largely reduced. This form of avalanche can be traced to its sources and its course and flow regulated by channels and break-ices. It has a secondary form called the _Grund-Lawine_ or ground avalanche. This is the avalanche which aroused the poetic anger of Mr. Symonds: The peculiarity of a _Grund-Lawine_ consists in the amount of earth and rubbish carried down by it. This kind is filthy and disreputable. It is coloured brown or slaty-grey by the rock and soil with which it is involved. Blocks of stone emerge in horrid bareness from the dreary waste of dirty snow and slush of water which compose it; and the trees which have been so unlucky as to stand upon its path are splintered, bruised, rough-handled in a hideous fashion. The _Staub-Lawine_ is fury-laden like a fiend in its first swirling onset, flat and stiff like a corpse in its ultimate repose of death, containing men and beasts and trees entombed beneath its stern unwrinkled taciturnity of marble. The _Schlag-Lawine_ is picturesque, rising into romantic spires and turrets, with erratic pine-plumed firths protruding upon sleepy meadows. It may even lie pure and beautiful, heaving in pallid billows at the foot of majestic mountain slopes where it has injured nothing. But the _Grund-Lawine_ is ugly, spiteful like an asp, tatterdemalion like a street Arab; it is the worst, the most wicked of the sisterhood. To be killed by it would mean a ghastly death by scrunching and throttling, as in some grinding machine, with nothing of noble or impressive in the winding-sheet of foul snow and débris heaved above the mangled corpse. But the _Grund-Lawine_ is really the most beneficial avalanche of the Alps, doing quickly the work, which a glacier does slowly, of carrying down soil from the heights to the plains. It is rare in the Swiss Alps, more common in mountains of younger age going through earlier processes of disintegration. Perhaps, if one is to look at an avalanche chiefly as an instrument of death, the _Grund-Lawine_ has a greater objectionableness than the _Staub-Lawine_. But any form of death by avalanche is best avoided: and the difference between death by the _Grund-Lawine_ and death by the _Staub-Lawine_ is purely æsthetic. And the _Grund_ usually kills quickly whilst the _Staub_ may take a freakish turn and bury you alive in a cranny or cavern which the avalanche has sealed by passing over it. Men have slowly died of hunger in such circumstances. Yet, so long as life lasts, there is hope; no pains are spared in ransacking the snow after an avalanche; and cases of almost miraculous deliverance occasionally occur. One February (records Mr. Symonds) a young man called Domiziano Roberti, in the neighbourhood of Giornico, saw an avalanche descending on him. He crept under a great stone, above which there fell a large tree in such a position that it and the stone together roofed him from the snow, which soon swept over him and shut him up. There he remained 103 hours in a kind of semi-somnolence, and was eventually dug out, speechless and frightfully frost-bitten, but alive. The avalanche record of a single village (Fetan) of Switzerland--a village which is characterised as a very unlucky one--will give some idea of the real extent of the toll of the avalanche. In the year 1682 a great avalanche swept over it. Six persons were killed, but the rest of the villagers, expecting some such catastrophe, had abandoned their houses. In one dwelling nothing was left standing but the living-room and one bedroom. These, however, contained the mother of the family and all her children, who escaped unhurt. In 1720 an avalanche demolished fifteen houses. In one of them a party of twenty-six young men and women were assembled. They were all buried in the snow, and only three survived. Altogether thirty-six persons perished at that time. In 1812 a similar catastrophe occurred, destroying houses and stables. But on this occasion the inhabitants had been forewarned and left the village. A curious story is told about the avalanche of 1812. One of the folk of Fetan, after abandoning his home to its fate, remembered that he had forgotten to bring away his Bible. In the teeth of the impending danger, through the dark night, he waded back across the snowdrifts, and saved the book. In 1888 there was further destruction at this village by avalanche, but with no loss of life. That is a particularly unlucky village, evidently badly situated. But since 1720 the snow-falls have caused no loss of life there. The down-coming of an avalanche, if it be sudden and swift, is often accompanied by a great blast of wind, which gives it an additional danger. This wind may in some cases be partly caused by the displacement of the air from the fall; in most cases, it is probable, the wind was in chief part the original cause of the snow-fall. The blast of the avalanche is known as the _Lawinen-Dunst_, and many thrilling stories are told of hairbreadth escapes from its blast. A carter driving with a sledge and two horses across the Albula Pass was hurled--horses, sledge, and all--across a gully by the wind. A woman was lifted into the air and carried to the top of a lofty pine-tree, to which she clung and was saved. Of more tragic tone is the record of the man lifted by an avalanche blast and smashed to pieces against a stone, of a house lifted up in the air and dashed down, killing most of its inhabitants. The avalanche is snow in quick movement towards the valleys. The glacier is snow--pressed into ice--in slow movement. A river of ice, its flow to be measured by the records of months, not of moments--that is the glacier of Alps and Polar lands. Its mission in nature is the same as that of a river, to grind down mountain rocks and to carry the detritus for the enrichment of the plains below. The glaciers of the Polar lands, coming down as they do to the edge of the ocean, are responsible for the icebergs of those seas. Compared with Polar glaciers the Alpine ones are puny, no larger, as a rule, than a large iceberg--which represents just a fragment broken off an Arctic or Antarctic glacier. But the Alpine examples of glaciers, small though they be, are grandly impressive in their natural surroundings. Such a one as the Silvretta, for instance, stretching its length for nearly twenty miles across the mountains, looks magnificently vast. From a distance a glacier seems to be white, with bands of grey, or of black from the moraines (strips of earth and stones showing on the surface). Studied at close hand it is a pageant of varied colours due to the variations of light and shade on its surface, and to the manner in which the refraction of the light is affected by the partial melting of the topmost layer of the snow. From this melting come little trickles of water which combine to form streams and then torrents. The beds of these torrents are blue in colour and like transparent glass--a lovely contrast with the general surface of the glacier. For that is made white by the innumerable fissures that penetrate its surface, fissures which are caused by the heat of the sun, from which the beds of the streams are protected. Yet more beautiful than the streams are the pools occasionally found on the surface of a glacier, when they have clean floors unsoiled by a moraine. They, too, have blue basins with white edges. Looked down upon from a distance, they appear like great sapphires. Sometimes a lake may be found not on but beside a glacier, where the ice forms one bank and the mountain another. Such are the Märjelen See by the Great Aletsch, and the lake at the west foot of Monte Rosa. On these one may see floating masses of ice. Now and again will be found crevasses filled with water, whose depth gives a yet bluer tone. Sir Martin Conway (from whose expert study of glaciers I have freely quoted) gives the palm for glacier colouring to what is called the dry glacier. "Note," he writes, "the brilliance of its surface and the peculiarity of its texture. It consists of an infinite multitude of loosely compacted rounded fragments of ice with a little water soaking down between them. If you watch it closely you will see that the moving water makes a shimmering in the cracks between the ice fragments. You will also observe that the blue of the solid ice below the skin of fragments appears dimly through the white, and the least tap with an ice-axe to scrape away the surface reveals it clearly. Each little fragment of ice has a separate glitter of its own, so that the whole surface sparkles with a frosted radiance. It is not the same at dawn after a cold night, for then there is no water between the fragments, but all is hard and solid. No sooner, however, does the sun shine upon them, than the bonds are released and the ice-crystals begin to break up with a gentle tinkling sound and little flashes of light reflected from tiny wet mirror-surfaces. One can spend hours watching these small phenomena as happily as gazing upon the great mountains themselves. Size is a relative term. The biggest mountain in relation to the earth is no greater than is one of these small ice-fragments in relation to a glacier. Reduce the scale in imagination and the smallest object may be endowed with grandeur, for all such conceptions are subjective. The open crevasses that are never far away on the dry glacier are full of beauties. It is not easy to tire of peering down into them. Sometimes one may be found into which a man armed with an ice-axe may effect a descent. He will not stay there long, for the depths are cold. Once I was able not only to descend into a crevasse but to follow it beyond its open part into the very substance of the glacier. It was a weird place, good to see but not good to remain in, and I was glad to return to sunshine very soon." [Illustration: MÄRJELEN SEE AND GREAT ALETSCH GLACIER.] Ordinarily a glacier surface is not diversified by any large features. But sometimes peaks of rock rise as islands out of a sea of ice. Sometimes, too, inequalities in the bed of the glacier acting with the pressure of the ice mass cause great wrinklings on the surface (the Col du Géant is an instance), and from the ridges thus formed hang very beautiful ice-falls. For the proper study of glacier beauty it is recommended to Alpine travellers that they should arrange to camp for some days in the glacier region. But there are good examples of glaciers within walking distance of some of the higher hotels. CHAPTER XI THE ALPINE CLUBS Though the palm for Alp-climbing is not held by the Swiss themselves--one unkind critic has said that "in this as in all other things the Swiss show their invincible mediocrity"--and the Swiss Alpine Club was not the pioneer among climbing clubs, its work has been of very great value in safeguarding the Alps against desecration and Alpine climbers against accident. In the year 1913 it celebrated its jubilee year, and the occasion was marked by great festivities in Lucerne. Unlike the British Alpine Club, which is of a somewhat aristocratic constitution, the Swiss institution is of a very "democratic" character, not exacting high subscriptions and welcoming all to its ranks who can pay the very moderate subscription. The objects for which the Club was originally founded were "to explore the Swiss Alps, to study them more accurately from every point of view, to make them better known, and to facilitate access to them." This programme has been interpreted in a very liberal sense, for it has been made to include not merely the construction, furnishing, and maintenance of huts, but also the training and insurance of guides, the organisation of rescue parties, and the publication of guide-books, of accurate maps, of an annual, and of two periodicals, one in German and the other in French. The Swiss Alpine Club now numbers 13,496 members (the German and Austrian 100,023, the Italian 7500, the French about 6500, and the British about 730). A British section of the Swiss Alpine Club exists, and its members last year presented the parent club with funds to erect and furnish a new hut, the Britannia Hut, situated above Saas Fee, a district of Switzerland to which British climbers most frequently go. That section of the work of the Swiss Club which is worthy of the most praise is devoted to urging upon visitors a standard of good conduct and respect for the rights and convenience of others. Its recently issued "Mottoes for Mountaineers" are put up on the walls of railway stations, in mountain inns, or anywhere else where they are likely to attract the notice of those whom it is hoped to educate. They exhort, in particular, to the avoidance of all alcoholic drinks when in the mountains; to suitable equipment; to quiet behaviour and refraining from bawling and shouting; to the clearing up of all litter after a meal, leaving no soiled paper or tins about, and, above all, not throwing away or breaking any bottles. They likewise appeal for merciful treatment of Alpine wild flowers. We are all of us familiar with a "tourist resort" of some kind, so general is the habit of travel for curiosity's sake to scenes of beauty or of renown; and we are all of us aware, therefore, of the need there is for popular education to contend against the vulgar defacement of natural beauties and of historic monuments. No place is spared by a type of visitor eager to perpetuate a worthless name, and careless to stain a revered shrine with his untidy litter. An historic grove has its tree-trunks marked with knives; a famous meadow or a field of renowned beauty has its surface scarred with rubbish; a grand cathedral or hall of renown has its stones scratched, its floors littered. All praise to the Swiss Alpine Club for its work to protect Alpine meadows from bottles and tins, Alpine cliffs from scratched and painted inscriptions. And if, perhaps, it one day takes heart of grace and decides to make a stand against the undue extension of railways and palace hotels upon beautiful peaks, it will earn still warmer praise, and will act, too, in the best interests of Switzerland, which gains from tourists now £12,000,000 a year, and is in danger of driving some of the pilgrims of the picturesque away to the Carpathians or the Balkans by allowing the Swiss peaks to be spoiled with too much "modern improvement." Before the growth of the influence of the Swiss Alpine Club, the Swiss did not indulge in mountain-climbing as a sport on their own account to any very great extent. But the Club is working to arouse a national "amateur" (as opposed to mercenary) interest in the national mountains, and the quick growth of its membership seems to argue well for its success. Will a climbing knowledge of the mountains lead to a better appreciation of them on the part of the Swiss and a better determination to protect them against railway and hotel vandalism? It is a moot point. Sir Martin Conway, who has climbed mountains in three continents, seems to think that familiarity brings increased respect at first, but that afterwards the æsthetic interest begins to fade: Almost universal is the feeling aroused by a first sight of a great snowy range that it is unearthly. Mystery gathers over it. Its shining majesty in full sunlight, its rosy splendours at dawn and eve, its pallid glimmer under the clear moon, its wreathed and ever-changing drapery of cloud, its terrific experiences in storm, all these elements and aspects strike the imagination and appeal broadly to the æsthetic sense. Nor are they ever quite forgotten even by the most callous of professional mountaineers. But with increase of experience on the mountains themselves come knowledge and a whole group of new associations.... The mountain, judged by the scale of remembered toil, grows wonderfully in height. The eye thus trained begins to realise and even to exaggerate the vast scale on which peaks are built. But along with this gain in the truthful sense of scale comes the loss of mystery. The peak which was in heaven is brought down to earth. It was a mere thing of beauty to be adored and wondered at; it has become something to be climbed. Its details have grown intelligible and interesting. The mind regards it from a new aspect, begins to analyse its forms and features, and to consider them mainly in their relation to man as a climber. As knowledge grows this attitude of mind develops. Each fresh peak ascended teaches something.... The longer a climber gratifies his instincts and pursues his sport, the larger becomes his store of reminiscences and the greater his experience. If he confines his attention to a single range of mountains such as the Alps, he is almost always in sight of mountains he has climbed and glaciers he has traversed. Each view shows him some route he has once pursued, some glacier basin he has explored, some pass he has crossed. The labyrinth of valleys and the crests of successive ridges do not puzzle him. He knows how they are grouped and whither they lead. Beyond those mountains is the Zermatt valley; that peak looks down on Zinal; that col leads to Saas. Thus there grows in him the sense of the general shape and arrangement of the country. It is no longer a tangled chaos of heights and depths, but an ordered anatomy, formed by the action of definite and continuous forces. So far as his knowledge extends this orderliness is realised. He has developed a geographical sense.... As the seasons go by, it happens that the æsthetic interest, which was at first the climber's main delight, begins to fade. If he be a man of scientific interests it is liable to an even quicker evanescence than if he be not, for problems of geological structure, or of botanical distribution, or of glaciology and the like, are a keen source of intellectual enjoyment. At length, perhaps, the day comes when the loss is felt. There is a gorgeous range of snow mountains with every effect of cloud and sunshine that the eye can desire, displayed about and upon them, yet the climber finds with dismay that his heart is cold. The old glory has vanished from the scene and the old thrill is an unfelt emotion. What is the matter? Have his eyes grown dim? Has he lost the faculty of delight? Is he growing old? Whatever the cause, the effect is painful in the extreme. It is one that many of us have felt, especially towards the close of a long and successful climbing season, or extensive journey of exploration. There is but one remedy--to quit the mountains for a while and attend to the common business of life. When winter months have gone by and summer is again at hand, the old enthusiasm is liable to return. Sooner or later the true mountain-lover will begin to starve for sight of the snows. [Illustration: LOOKING UP VALLEY TOWARDS ZERMATT FROM NEAR RANDA.] From a tourist-attracting point of view, then, the encouragement of climbing would not seem to be altogether a good thing. But on the other side of the argument it has to be remembered that the population of Switzerland is fairly large for its area, that a generation is not eternal, and that there is no likelihood of a very large number ever getting so much Alpine climbing as to find the mountains an _ennui_. On the whole it would seem to be good policy on the part of the Swiss Alpine Club to seek to extend its membership and to encourage in other countries similar "democratic" climbing organisations, with the idea of spreading as widely as possible the sport of mountain-climbing in the Alps, not in its highest phase of very difficult and dangerous ascents, but in a moderate form available to people of moderate strength and moderate means. So far as the danger of climbing has to be taken into consideration, all the ascents have been so carefully mapped now that in good weather, with good guides, there is practically no risk to careful and strong climbers. Yet the present summer (1913) has been a very deadly one on the Alps, a fact due to over-much familiarity bringing to climbers some measure of contempt for the dangers of the peaks and inducing foolhardy attempts under unsuitable weather conditions. During September of 1913 there were eleven fatal accidents to climbers, and five other accidents causing grave injuries. The climbing season was a late one, as the weather had been consistently unfavourable in July and August. In September the weather still continued uncertain, but there was a general tendency among disappointed climbers and guides to take risks so as to get in some ascents before the season closed. To this willingness to take undue risks most of the accidents were due. A characteristic one was on the Zermatt Breithorn when a guide allowed himself to be persuaded against his better judgment to continue an ascent in the face of obvious danger. The details regarding this accident are worth recording as illustrating the actual most pressing peril of the Alps to-day, that of foolhardiness. Three German climbers, one a lady, set out with the guide Heinrich Julen to attempt to ascend the Zermatt Breithorn--usually easy. When they reached the Gandegg or Lower Theodule hut (10,000 feet), the weather being very threatening, they took with them a second guide, an Italian. The party ploughed through very deep fresh snow for about an hour and a half, after which one of the men and the lady said they would prefer to turn back. The other, however, Dr. Schrumm, of Kempten, Bavaria, insisted on continuing the ascent with the guide Julen, who, it is said, was very unwilling to proceed. Nevertheless he did so. Apparently the party did not leave the Gandegg Hut, owing to bad weather, until 8 A.M., and it was four in the afternoon when Dr. Schrumm and the guide Julen reached the summit. During the descent a violent snowstorm came on, the guide lost his bearings, and, not being provided with a compass, wandered about for a time without making any progress. He scooped out a hole in the snow for shelter. The doctor and guide remained there the night, and the next morning the doctor died of cold and exhaustion. Apparently he was not sufficiently warmly clad. [Illustration: THE DENTS DU MIDI FROM GRYON ABOVE BEX.] This accident caused a good deal of discussion among Alpine climbers, and it is possible that one outcome of it will be to protect guides by more stringent regulations against the urgency of climbers who wish to incur dangers of which they are ignorant. There are, however, to be enjoyed in Switzerland very many Alpine climbs which come within an ample margin of safety, requiring guides in some cases, but not taking any extravagant toll either on the purse or on the muscles. Thus from Adelboden one may go to the summit of the Gemmi Pass and back within a day: or over the Bunderchrinde to Kandersteg; or to the Bonderspitze (8343 feet), the Elsighorn (7697 feet), the Elsigfirst (8366 feet), the Albristhorn (8366 feet), the Gsür (8894 feet). Or from the same point of departure with a little more expense, but no more danger, the Wildstrubel (10,715 feet) may be climbed. There is a fine glacier (the Strubel) on this route. From another point of departure, Champery, the various peaks of the Dents du Midi are easily reached. In the Dents du Midi group the highest is the most accessible. To climb the Haute Cime one usually sleeps at Bonaveau, whence one starts off at early morning through the Pas d'Encel, the valley and the pass of Susanfe. With a guide these can easily be done and without difficulty in six hours. From the summit the panorama embraces all of the central and western Alps. From Les Plans (to mention another centre) there are no less than fifty good climbs, most of them suitable for the modest Alpinist. For an example of a "big" climb from this centre take the ascent of the Grand Muveran (10,040 feet). It is a steep and difficult ascent, not dangerous, but a guide is a necessity. The starting-point is Les Plans. From there to the summit takes at least five hours. The expedition is less fatiguing if the climber passes the night at the Rambert shelter. From this hut to the top of the mountain it is a climb of two hours. From the Muveran the view over the Valais is particularly good. The ascent of the Diablerets (10,663 feet), the summit of the Vaudois Alps, is more difficult, but in good weather not attended with any risk. In bad weather almost any climb can be dangerous, and one needs to be a particularly expert and keen Alpinist to attempt an ascent when storms are likely. But for that expert and keen Alpinist it seems that there is "a music in the thunder and the growling of the gale," and a joy in breasting and overcoming an Alpine storm. A stirring description of such a storm by a famous climber: The gathering squadrons of the sky grow dark, and seem to hold the just departed night in their bosoms. Their crests impend. They assume terrific shapes. They acquire an aspect of solidity. They do not so much seem to blot out as to destroy the mountains. Their motion suggests a great momentum. At first too they act in almost perfect silence. There is little movement in the oppressively warm air, and yet the clouds boil and surge as though violently agitated. They join together, neighbour to neighbour, and every moment they grow more dense and climb higher. To left and right, one sees them, behind also and before. The moments now are precious. We take a last view of our surroundings, note the direction we should follow, and try to fix details in our memories, for sight will soon be impossible. Then the clouds themselves are upon us--a puff of mist first, followed by the dense fog. A crepitating sound arises around us; it is the pattering of hard particles of snow on the ground. Presently the flakes grow bigger and fall more softly, feeling clammy on the face. And now probably the wind rises and the temperature is lowered. Each member of our party is whitened over; icicles form on hair and moustache, and the very aspect of men is changed to match the wild surroundings. Under such circumstances the high regions of snow are more impressive than under any other, but climbers must be well-nourished, in good hard condition, and not too fatigued, or they will not appreciate the scene. No one can really know the high Alps who has not been out in a storm at some great elevation. The experience may not be, in fact is not, physically pleasant, but it is morally stimulating in a high degree, and æsthetically grand. Now must a climber call up all his reserves of pluck and determination. He may have literally to fight his way down to a place of shelter. There can be no rest, neither can there be any undue haste. The right way must be found and followed. All that can be seen is close at hand and that small circle must serve for guidance. All must keep moving on with grim persistence, hour after hour. Stimulants are unavailing and food is probably inaccessible. All depends upon reserve stores of health and vigour, and upon moral courage. To give in is treason. Each determines that he for his part will not fail his companions. Mutual reliance must be preserved. It seems certainly a fine experience--to recall afterwards. But I confess that I never really enjoyed a mountain storm except in the case of one that I saw from above the clouds, fighting out its quarrel in the valleys below Mount Kosciusko. To see a storm from above--that is a spectacle of grandeur; and there is no threat of danger or of discomfort to the spectator. [Illustration: THE SCHWARTZHORN FROM THE FLUELA HOSPICE.] But the idea must not be gathered from the descriptions of the dangers of mountaineering that it is a sport suitable only for the exceptionally sturdy. Any one with fair physique who has not reached old age can join an Alpine Club and enjoy Alpine climbing, so long as actually dangerous and freak ascents are avoided. Mr. Symonds, who went to the Alps apparently a hopeless invalid, was able to enjoy Alpine climbing, and has given in prose and verse some fine pen-pictures of its joys; this in particular of an ascent of the Schwartzhorn: 'Neath an uncertain moon, in light malign, We trod those rifted granite crags, whereunder, Startling the midnight air with muffled thunder, Flowed infant founts of Danube and of Rhine. Our long-drawn file in slow deliberate line Scaled stair on stair, subdued to silent wonder; Wound among mouldering rocks that rolled asunder, Rattling with hollow roar down death's decline. Still as we rose, one white transcendent star Steered calmly heavenward through the empurpled gloom, Escaping from the dim reluctant bar Of morning, chill and ashen-pale as doom; Where the day's chargers, champing at his ear, Waited till Sol should quit night's banquet-room. Pure on the frozen snows, the glacier steep, Slept moonlight with the tense unearthly charm Of spells that have no power to bless or harm; But, when we touched the ridge which tempests sweep, Death o'er the murk vale, yawning wide and deep, Clung to frost-slippery shelves, and sharp alarm, Shuddering in eager air, drove life's blood warm Back to stout hearts and staunch will's fortress-keep. Upward we clomb; till now the emergent morn, Belting the horror of dim jagged eastern heights, Broadened from green to saffron, primrose-pale, Felt with faint finger-tips of rose each horn, Crept round the Alpine circuit, o'er each dale Dwelt with dumb broodings drearier even than night's. Thus dawn had come; not yet the day: night's queen And morning's star their state in azure kept: Still on the mountain world weird silence slept; Earth, air, and heaven held back their song serene. Then from the zenith, fiery-white between Moonshine and dayspring, with swift impulse swept A splendour of the skies that throbbing leapt Down to the core of passionate flame terrene-- A star that ruining from yon throne remote, Quenched her celestial yearnings in the pyre Of mortal pangs and pardons. At that sign The orient sun with day's broad arrow smote Black Linard's arrogant brow, while influent fire Slaked the world's thirst for light with joy divine. [Illustration: AN ALPINE MEADOW IN BLOOM.] CHAPTER XII THE FLOWERS OF THE ALPS The Swiss Alps have their chief worshippers in the summer for the climbing, in the winter for the sports. A few insist that the rich colouring of autumn is the best season of all. A larger and a growing number visit the Alps in the spring for the flowers. They are wise, for truly the sight of an Alpine meadow in bloom is the most joyous manifestation of Nature in a sunny mood that man can know. Whether it be that the flowers, fertilised by the detritus which the winter's snow has brought to their roots, are really more luxuriant and brighter in colour than the same flowers in a garden or a woodland dell of the plains; or that the clear air and the contrast with the white snow around make them seem more brilliant--Alpine flowers shine out with an exquisite and star-like grace that can be noted nowhere else; and the green of Alpine grass seems of a clear brightness that no other herbage can rival. The nearness to the snow has certainly an effect in enhancing the charm of these Alpine meadows. The flowers, wearing the colours of the sun, rush bravely to the very edge of the snow-fields as though they were jostling the winter aside. The white has barely disappeared before there is green and gold and red to give cheerful greeting to the spring sky, and declare another foot of territory won from the frost. Indeed, if you will look closely at the line of the retreating snow--not a straight line but a billowy one, here receding into a big bay, here stubbornly holding out a promontory of white--you will note that the crevellated edge of the vanishing snow mass is not joined to the earth at all, but forms a little overhanging cliff of ice. The melting warmth is coming up from the ground rather than from the sun in the last stage of the snow-field's flight, and underneath this tiny cliff the vegetation can be seen already pushing up to life. The lower Alps in April and May flaunt first the gay banners of the crocus, which "breaks like fire" over the ground as soon as the chains of the ice are broken. But other flowers are but little in the rear, and the snow has scarce gone before under the pine woods there is a carpet of the mauve-blue hepatica, in the gorges the yellow and white of the snowflakes and the red of the sticky primrose, over the meadows the white and purple of the soldanella and the celestial blue of the spring gentian, while the marshes flaunt their marigolds and the rose-red bird's-eye primrose. It is a blaze of rich colour, and yet (to quote Mr. G. Flemwell's work on Alpine flowers): The steel-blue of winter is still in the air--indeed, one feels it in the very flowers. Even though no snowy Alp be in sight, and nothing but floral gaiety around, there is yet a sense of austerity. The vegetation, though colourfull, is neither coarse nor rank, nor even luxurious, as judged by English standard. Nature is crisp and brisk; the air is thin and clear; everywhere is great refinement, quite other than that of spring in England. It were as though the severity of the struggle for existence could be read in the sweet face of things, just as we may often read it in the smiling face of some chastened human being--lines of sweetness running side by side with lines of acute capacity; a strong face beautiful; a face in which optimism reigns sovereign over an active pessimism. Nature in the Alps is instinct with the stern necessity for perpetual endeavour, whereas in England, where conditions are not so harsh, we have a sense of a certain indolence and ease of circumstance of Nature which we call homeliness and repose. Repose, in this sense, there certainly is not in the Alpine spring. Every suspicion of lassitude or _laissez-faire_ is unknown; all is keen and buoyant, quick with an earnest _joie de vivre_ which is as exquisite in its way as anything more voluptuously sentimental that England can produce. Following fast upon the earlier flowers come the anemones, the rhododendrons, the ranunculi, the forget-me-nots, the Alpine roses, the saxifrages, the violets, the pinks, the heaths, the orchids, St. Bruno's lily, the daffodils, and a score of other blossoms. The feast of colour is spread, day after day, in varying shades, but with unvarying richness, until there comes the time when with another riot of colour the herdsmen enter into the field with their cattle, or the scythes lay all prostrate for the winter hay. Whilst the best of the Alpine spring shows of flowers are in April and May on the lower and richer Alpine meadows, one may follow the banners of _primavera_ up the mountains, almost until August, encountering on the higher levels later seasons. Writing from Zermatt as late as the end of July, a correspondent to the _Morning Post_ chronicled: [Illustration: HEPATICA IN THE WOODS AT BEX.] The dog roses, the brilliantly pink sweet briar, the willow herb, also of a præternatural brilliance owing to the altitude, still make gay the Zermatt Valley, while the last of the martagon lilies are being mown ruthlessly down by the peasants in their hayfields. Everywhere on the rocks the red house leeks and other plants of the stonecrop, saxifrage, and sedum varieties are appearing; while the mountain pinks, arnica, and Alpine asters grow almost down into the village itself. For some reason the flower-plunderer has either stayed his hand in this valley or has passed it by, for here several of the rarer and choicer sorts of Alpine blossoms, almost extinct, or at least very rare in most parts of Switzerland, are still flourishing. Martagon lilies, for instance, are common, though how long they will remain so I cannot say. The paths are often literally bordered with the true Alpine rose, deepest crimson in hue. Many a meadow is purple and gold with the starry flowers of the Alpine aster, common here as a field daisy; many a rock slope is overgrown with mountain pinks; while as for the _arnica montana_, the rhododendrons, and the creeping gypsophila, I have never seen anything like them elsewhere. The arnica covers whole slopes and carpets woods until the ground is oranged completely over with its blossoms; the creeping gypsophila clothes the bare rocks and borders the paths with its tufts of white and pale pink flowers; and the rhododendrons make the semi-shaded slopes beneath the larches almost a sheet of rosy-red. Somewhere, too, the true Alpine columbine must be growing plentifully. I have not discovered it, but I have, I am sorry to say, seen great handfuls of this loveliest of Alpine flowers being brought down from the Zermatt slopes. At one altitude or another, indeed, there are few Alpine flowers which are not to be found somewhere in the Zermatt range during this month of July. Certain damp-loving species, such as campanulas and orchis and the whole primula family, are certainly less well represented here than in the rainier Bernese Oberland, yet still there are entire slopes pale blue with the bearded campanula, and more than one kind of primula is to be found still in bloom high up or in the crevices of rocks, while the slopes at the head of the Zermatt valley are even now covered with Alpine and sub-Alpine blossoms of a variety and brilliance which I have never seen excelled and seldom equalled. The short grass above eight thousand feet or thereabouts is blue with Alpine forget-me-nots or mauve with pansies, starred with the small gentian, or patched with the pink of the "marmot's bread" (_silene_); higher up, to 11,000 feet and more, _ranunculus glacialis_ and the hardiest and lowest-growing flowers are still blooming; while slightly lower down, especially where there is the moisture of streams and the shelter of rocks, grow fields of _arnica montana_, pinks, asters, geums, rock roses, sweet alyssum, sedums, _semper vivum_, arabis, Alpine toadflax, louseworts, wild thyme, edelweiss, rampions, Alpine clovers in great variety, gypsophila, even stray orchis and primulæ, the dominant tones being orange and pale yellow, thrown into relief by the many mauves and the bright pinks and creamy whites. The Alpine flowers, in addition to their spectacular beauty, have a very definite scientific botanical interest. It has been observed that the magnificence and profusion of flower, in comparison with the size, of the Alpine plants is a trait of beauty with a charming scientific explanation. To the Alpine flowers more urgently than to most races of mortal things, Nature whispers "Carpe Diem." Life for them must be very, very short. Its length is inexorably decreed by the snows of winter. The Alpine plant, feeling the renewing warmth of the spring, must rush at once into flower, as brilliant, as attractive, as irresistible flower as it may, so that fertilising bees and butterflies will come and ensure the next generation. On the same principle, at the opposite end of the pole, the desert plants store up their seeds in extraordinarily thick and strong capsules, so that they may rest safely through many seasons of fierce drought, awaiting the coming of water to fertilise them. In Australia the desert flowers, such as Sturt's Desert Pea, will come up after good rains in places where to the knowledge of man they have not grown for many years; and of some wild Australian plants the seeds need to be roasted before they will germinate. Accepting that the remarkable beauty and richness of flowering of Alpine plants is the response to Nature's stern conditions of existence, there seems to lurk in the flowers, as in the people of Switzerland, a moral for those gentle enthusiasts who would do away with the cruelty of the struggles between nations and between classes, and set up conditions of universal peace and of general Communism. Perhaps, alas, it will be found, if ever those ideals are carried far into practice, that without struggle the human race will deteriorate, and with too easy conditions of life will tend to decay. I would not push the case too far, but it is worth recording as a fact, if not an argument, that when the Alpine dweller fertilises artificially a meadow the flowers tend to disappear. Conditions of life have been made too easy, and sterility follows. Alpine flowers, again conforming themselves skilfully to the conditions of their existence, send roots down to astonishing depths. A little tuft or rosette of leaves, the size round of a five-shilling piece, will often have a system of roots extending a foot or more down into the soil or into the depths of some crevice in the rock. These roots are the plants' larders and storerooms. Buried often for some nine months in the year beneath the snow, the plants need must have well-stocked larders to draw upon. Sometimes, even, it may be years before they see the sun and breathe the mountain air again. It is not every summer that the sun has power to rid the sheltered little Alpine valleys of the winter snow; often must a plant wait in patience for at least two years before it can bring forth flowers, and take a new supply of life from the sun. [Illustration: ALPINE GARDEN (_LA LINNEA_) At Bourg St. Pierre, on the road to the Grand St. Bernard, at the beginning of August.] Apart from winning grateful hymns for their beauty, and interesting the botanist by their curiosities of structure, some of the flowers peculiar to the Alps (or to Alpine regions) have, because of their rarity, inspired a sport of flower-hunting, the more keenly appreciated when it is associated with danger. Since this flower-hunting leads to the destruction of rare species and to some loss of human life, it seems to have a strong hostile case to answer, especially as the rare Alpines are now cultivated by the florists, and you may have, for example, edelweiss grown by the gardeners around Paris. Yet deaths ascribable to "gathering edelweiss" continue to be recorded. The edelweiss is accepted as the typical Swiss Alpine flower, but it is not at all peculiar to the Swiss Alps, and is found in Siberia, Japan, the Himalayas, and the New Zealand Alps. It is fond of growing in the crevices of precipitous rock faces, but can be found in safer places, including the commercial florists' rockeries. The Swiss Alps are very rich in medicinal plants. There is the aconite plant, much favoured in homoeopathic doses for the cure of colds and fevers, very efficacious to put an end to "life's fitful fever" if used in a strong dose; the arnica plant, sovereign remedy for bruises, its leaves used by the peasants in place of tobacco for smoking; the gentian, which makes a famous tonic bitter, much employed by doctors for the _malade imaginaire_, since it has a most convincingly bitter taste, and may be trusted to do no harm if it does no good; the meadow-rue, used as a specific against jaundice and malarial fever; and the Carline thistle, which was said to have been used as a plague specific by Charlemagne. It is pleasant to note that the practical Swiss recognise the necessity of guarding the flower life as well as the forest life of their land. There is a Swiss "Association for the Protection of Plants," formed in 1883, which sets itself to two tasks, that of discouraging vandals who recklessly destroy plant life, and that of setting up shelter gardens where Alpine flowers may be collected and strictly preserved. Some of the Canton authorities help the work of the Society by enforcing close seasons for certain plants. The _jardins refuges_ set up by the Society are not the least valuable of the means adopted for preserving one of the great natural beauties of the country; and these gardens, where are collected as in a botanical park as many specimens as possible of Alpine _flora_, give interesting objectives for special expeditions. The chief of these Alpine botanical gardens are at the Pont de Nant near Bex, at Rochers de Naye above Montreux, and at Bourg St. Pierre on the Grand St. Bernard. These gardens are at widely differing altitudes, and each one is at its best at a different season of the year. But if one has no fever of botanical curiosity the best way after all to know the Alpine flowers is in the mass, with the crocus and the gentian in their vivid green settings flaunting the spring in the face of the snow-fields. CHAPTER XIII SWISS SPORTS There is a great distinction between the national sports of the Swiss and those of Switzerland. The games which attract so many thousands to the Alps in winter are in no cases peculiar to Switzerland, and are rarely indigenous. Tobogganing and ski-ing, like mountain-climbing (as a pleasure), have been introduced to Switzerland by visitors. Even skating does not seem to have been much favoured by the Swiss until there came the great modern incursion of tourists, seeking not an asylum from religious or political persecution, nor the pleasure of seeing Voltaire or Madame de Staël, but ice sports under a bright sun in mid-winter. The Swiss National Sports make a short and a dull list. They are rifle-shooting, gymnastic games, and rustic dancing to jödelling. They reflect the character of a little nation which, almost alone of the peoples of the world, finds it a matter of joy and not of labour to undertake military training, and carries the love of that training so far as to make rifle-shooting the chief national sport. The Swiss become very expert marksmen, and the government wisely encourages this fancy for so patriotic and useful a sport. The citizen is allowed to keep his government rifle at home, and to use it as much as he likes for his private pleasure. The gymnastic sports are organised on national lines like the old Greek games. They embrace almost every form of manly exercise from wrestling to weight-lifting. Mr. Symonds, whose pictures of Swiss village life are very intimate and revealing, makes frequent references to the Turnfests (sports gatherings) of the Turnvereins (gymnastic clubs) of the Cantons. He recalls once being invited to drink wine at an inn with a band of gymnastic victors: The gymnasts had thrown off their greatcoats, and stood displayed in a costume not very far removed from nudity. They had gained their crowns, they told me, that evening at an extraordinary meeting of the associated _Turnvereins_ of the Canton. It was the oddest thing in the world to sit smoking in a dimly-lighted, panelled tap-room with seven such companions. They were all of them strapping bachelors between twenty and twenty-five years of age; colossally broad in the chest and shoulders, tight in the reins, set massively upon huge thighs and swelling calves; wrestlers, boxers, stone-lifters, and quoit-throwers. Their short bull-throats supported small heads, closely clipped, with bruised ears and great big-featured faces, over which the wreaths of bright green artificial foliage bristled. I seemed to be sitting in a dream among vitalised statues of the later emperors, executed in the decadence of art, with no grasp on individual character, but with a certain reminiscence of the grand style of portraiture. Commodus, Caracalla, Alexander Severus, the three Gordians, and Pertinax might have been drinking there beside me in the pothouse. The attitudes assumed by these big fellows, stripped to their sleeveless jerseys and tight-fitting flannel breeches, strengthened the illusion. I felt as though we were waiting there for slaves, who should anoint their hair with unguents, gild their wreaths, enwrap them in the paludament, and attend them to receive the shouts of "Ave Imperator" from a band of gladiators or the legionaries of the Gallic army. Apart from the rifle-shooting (which is commonly practised on Sundays), the frequent gymnastic meetings (which mark every feast-day), and the dancing festivals of the various harvest celebrations, the Swiss have no strictly national sport, unless it be chamois hunting. That last has been almost wholly given up to the visitors, who are willing to pay large prices for guides and shooting rights. The chamois is rare in Switzerland now; though there are rumours that enterprising hotel-keepers are beginning to "stock up" the heights near their places with bred specimens. A wild chamois hunt offers the perfection of excitement and hunting risk. The animals are very nimble and very wary. As they browse they set an old doe as sentinel--a concession to femininity which seems to be dictated by wisdom--and it needs the greatest skill and daring to get past her watch and approach near enough for a shot. Lest there may be a doubt as to the scarcity of the true chamois in the mind of the reader, let me explain that the "chamois skin" of commerce, so plentifully used for gloves and for polishing cloths, is not, as a rule, chamois skin at all, but the dressed hide of rough-woolled sheep--the same hide which, after different methods of dressing, serves for all kinds of gloves--chamois, kid, "reindeer skin," dog-skin, doe-skin. All may come from the sheep. Mr. John Finnemore gives a picturesque description of a herd of chamois in flight alarmed by the hunter: The merry little kids forsake their gambols, and each runs to its mother and presses closely against her flank. The older ones leap upon boulders and rocks, and gaze eagerly on every hand to discover the whereabouts of the intruder. A few moments of watchful hesitation pass, and then, perhaps, a wandering breeze gives them a sniff of tainted air, and they fix upon the direction from which the foe is advancing. Now follows a marvellous scene--that of a band of chamois in full retreat. The speed and agility of their flight is wonderful. They are faced by a precipice. They skim up it one after the other like swallows. There is no path, no ridge, no ledge: but here and there little knobs of rock jut out from the face of the cliff, and they spring from projection to projection with incredible sureness and skill, their four feet sometimes bunched together on a patch of rock not much larger than a man's fist. They vanish with lightning rapidity, and the hunter must turn away in search of another band, for these will not halt till they are far beyond his reach in some sanctuary of the hills quite inaccessible to him. Very often a number of hunters go together, and close upon the chamois from every side. Then the swift creatures are in a ring, and, as they rush away down-wind, they are bound to come within shot of those posted on the side towards which they flee. Sometimes the chamois are turned back by long stretches of cord set upon sticks, and drawn across places where they could escape from the ring of hunters and drivers. From the cord flutter bright pieces of cotton cloth--red, blue, or yellow--and at sight of these the chamois face about and try another path. But when driven to the extremity of terror, chamois have been known to dash upon the line of flags, some clearing the obstacle with a flying leap, others bodily charging the rope, and bursting a way through. Very often the latter entangle their horns in the rope, and go whirling through the air in a double somersault. But they are on their legs again in a moment, and off at tremendous speed. [Illustration: HUNTING THE CHAMOIS.] Apart from the national sports of the Swiss, the national sports of Switzerland--in which, since they were acclimatised, the Swiss take part and frequently excel--are skating, hockey, tobogganing, bob-sleighing, curling, and ski-ing. Skating is, I suppose, common to all lands where there is much ice. Tobogganing was introduced to Switzerland from America, and ski-ing from Norway. Another interesting recent sport is a modification of skating, and is known as ice-sailing. The skater rigs up a sail which he holds with his arms stretched out as yards--himself the ship. Skimming the ice one can keep thus up only till the arms are tired, but a most exhilarating speed is possible. Ice-sailing with yachts has been recently imported to the Swiss lakes from America. For ice-yachting, an expert says, "Dress as if you were going through the Arctic Circle on a fast motor-car in the worst of snow-storms. Goggles, leathers, and furs are indispensable. Use your eyes like a lynx, your rudder like a silk rein on a blood-mare--and you will quite enjoy it." It has enough of the element of danger as well as of speed to be attractive to the adventurous. Tobogganing strictly is a Red Indian sport, and the name is Red Indian. But it is so closely related to sleighing that the germ of the sport can be discovered in almost all ice-covered countries. It was natural that in cold climates the wheels of waggons should be replaced, when the earth was frozen, with runners, and thus the sleigh came. The toboggan is a sporting variety of sleigh. Early traces of it can be found in Switzerland. An English visitor to the Alps noticed that the local postman used a rough sleigh to slide down the hills which he had to descend; was intrigued by the idea of the swift gliding; and there thus began to be cultivated the sport which has its culminating glory in the Cresta Run at St. Moritz--said, by the way, to have been planned by an Australian. Tobogganing has the charm of a great bicycle "coast" many times multiplied. Artificial difficulties have been developed to add to its risks and its excitement. The simple toboggan slide, the dragging of a toboggan up a smooth snow slope, and then sliding down at a pace reaching to thirty miles an hour, is old-fashioned and tame. Nowadays, the slide must be so arranged as to secure a much higher speed, and to give awkward turnings which need cool courage to negotiate. A speed of sixty miles an hour has been reached tobogganing. Perhaps a charm of the toboggan is that it is not very useful. The flat board, set on runners, can only slide down hill, and you must draw it up first. The ski, on the other hand, has a very definite use. It enables snow-covered country to be traversed with safety at great speed, and a proof of its practical value is that the Swiss army is trained to march on ski. Down a steep slope a pace of forty miles an hour can be reached by the expert ski-runner, and he can leap great heights and great distances with the aid of the momentum of that speed. But to become an expert ski-runner calls for some trouble and pain. With ski the exploration of the Alps in all kinds of weather has become possible. A recent _Journal de Genève_ gave the account of an extraordinary adventure of two Swiss ski-runners. On Easter Sunday, 1913, these two set out with a companion from Saas Fee for the Britannia Hut. This hut was reached at 8 A.M., and the three ski-runners went on to the Allalin Pass, but were compelled by mist to return to the hut, which they reached about 5 P.M. On the Sunday evening three Genevese climbers came to the hut, and one of the party of three ski-runners went home, leaving two. These two intended to go to Zermatt over the Adler Pass, but the weather was so bad that it was Saturday before they could start. They were seen to reach the Allalin Pass, and no more was seen or heard of them for a very long time. But it seems that the ski-ers went down to the Findelen Glacier, up to the Stockjoch, and down _via_ the Monte Rosa Glacier to the Gorner Glacier; thence up again to the Bétemps Hut, where they spent the night. The following day, Sunday, in uncertain weather, they went down on to the glacier again, meaning to go to Zermatt. One of the two, named Dehns, was going on ahead. The wind had blown away all trace of the track made by them the previous day, and the man who had remained behind noticed that Dehns was going too much to the left, and called out to him that he was not taking the right way, but too late. He had not gone more than about sixty yards on to the glacier before he disappeared into a crevasse, hidden beneath a quantity of fresh snow. "I advanced," says the narrator, "cautiously to the brink of the crevasse, and called to Dehns, who replied that he was all right, only he had torn one ear and broken the point off one of his ski. I must use his rope to help him out, he said. I tied the ends of my puttees to my ski-sticks, my bootlaces, and anything else which could possibly serve the purpose of string, and I let everything down to him so that he could tie the rope to it. Dehns could understand what I said, but I could hear nothing that he said owing to the wind and the snowstorm which had begun." Finally Dehns cut his way out of the crevasse in which he had been for four hours. He was a little frost-bitten and much bruised; and his ski were lost. They made their way to the Bétemps Hut, and there they remained for twelve days. They had very little in the way of provisions, half of what they had had with them being down the crevasse. Eventually the uninjured man contrived to burst open the door of the hut cellar, where he found food and wine. Without ski it was impossible for the prisoners to leave, for eight or ten feet of fresh snow had fallen. Moreover, the condition of Dehns, who was badly bruised and in much pain, was sufficient to prevent him reaching Zermatt even with ski. On the twelfth day Dehns was better, and they made an expedition to attempt to recover the lost ski, but in vain. Next they attempted to make a pair of ski out of planks. But that was not successful. The next day they were rescued by a search party. The facts illustrate the value of ski for travelling in the snow and the helplessness of the voyager without them. Skating, of course, is excellent in Switzerland in the winter. Most of the hotels catering for the tourist have set up rinks which are "artificial" to the extent that Nature is assisted a little to produce a clear smooth surface of ice. But the skating, like the tobogganing, is limited in its area. The visitor who would have the keys of the Alpine snows must learn the use of the ski. It will be of interest to chronicle the chief winter sports centres. Good tobogganing, bob-sleighing, skating, ski-ing, ice-hockey, and curling are to be enjoyed at Arosa, Celerina, Davos, Klosters, Lenzerheide, Maloja, Pontresina, and at St. Moritz in the Canton Grisons; at Andermatt, at Engelberg, at Adelboden, Beatenberg, Grindwald, Gstaad and Wengen in the Bernese Oberland; at Les Brenets, at Caux, Château-d'-Oex, Chesieres, Diablerets, Les Avants, St. Cergue, Villars-Ollon in the Canton de Vaud; at Champery and Loèche-les-Bains in the Canton de Valais; and at Chamonix and le Planet in the Chamonix Valley. As for summer sports, there are golf links at Aigle, Axen-Fels, Campfér, Celerina, Geneva, Gottschalkenberg, Interlaken, Les Rasses (near St. Croix), Lucerne, Lugano, Lugano-Paradiso, Maloja, Menaggio, Montana, Mont-Pélerin, Montreux, Pontresina, Ragaz, Samaden, St. Moritz-Dorf, Territet, Villeneuve, and Zurich-Dolder. Tennis courts are almost everywhere attached to the hotels. Certainly no large village is without them, and they exist in plenty at Adelboden, Chamonix, Engelberg, Grindwald, Interlaken, Lucerne, Berne, St. Moritz, Wengen, and other cities. The spring season in the Alps begins as early as March in some places, but more generally in April. It is the chief season around Lake Leman. The summer season begins with June, and is the chief season in eastern Switzerland, the Bernese Oberland, Lake Neuchâtel, Zurich, St. Gothard, and many other parts. Indeed, there is a summer season in all Switzerland. For the autumn, many favour the Lake of Lucerne and the Lake of Leman. The winter season begins usually with December, and again embraces almost all of Switzerland, but the chief centres for this season correspond with the list of the towns (already given) which make special provision for winter sports. I do not know whether bath-resorts can be described fittingly as sport centres; but it is well to chronicle somewhere the fact that Switzerland is well off for thermal and medicinal baths. Baden is the chief of the bath centres. Owing to its excellent climate and to its hot springs Baden was, in Roman times, the most important watering-place and health-resort to the north of the Alps. Numerous excavations, inscriptions, remains of temples, statues, coins and surgical instruments confirm this fact. In Roman times the principal military road of Helvetia led through Baden, connecting the watering-place with Vindonissa, the great Helvetian fortress, six miles away. In the year 1892, beyond the Roman road in Baden, in the direction of Vindonissa, there were discovered the foundations of a large connected block of buildings, which, when fully excavated, revealed fourteen apartments of various sizes, from 10 to 88 feet in length. The architecture of this building, the medical and surgical instruments and utensils found there, and the proximity of the Helvetian fortress of Vindonissa, where Roman legions were stationed, and the thermal springs show without much doubt that this was the site of a Roman military hospital. Besides those at Baden there are medicinal springs at Ragaz, Champery, Lavey-les-Bains, Passagg, Aigle, St. Moritz-Bad, Grinel-les-Bains, and many other centres. They will provide entertainment for those whose life is not happy without some devotion to a more or less real ailment. [Illustration: A CORNER OF AIGLE SKATING RINK.] CHAPTER XIV SWISS SCHOOLS Coming to the end of the limits set for this volume, the writer finds that many aspects of Swiss life have been perforce neglected. No space could be found, for example, to deal with the educational system, which both in its primary and secondary forms and in its devotion to technical instruction has aroused the admiration of experts in many countries. This Swiss educational system is at once generous and practical, with compulsory attendance enforced and gratuitous instruction, books, and materials provided. Teaching begins in the national schools, called the Primarschule, which are attended by children of all ranks and at which attendance is compulsory from the age of nine until the completion of the fifteenth year, unless children pass from these to higher schools. The classes are mixed and contain from 40 to 44 children, who are taught by both men and women teachers. The school course ensures the boys and girls a general elementary education, including a knowledge of French--so essential in a country with three national languages--which is taken during the last two years at school. Considerable time is also devoted to physical exercise, carpentry, needlework, and cookery. The plan of studies in the secondary schools, which scholars may enter after four years in the primary schools, and where they remain until the age of fifteen, is much more extensive, and includes a more profound study of French (five years' course) and an advanced course of the sciences, geometry, and drawing. The instruction is gratuitous, and the passing of a preliminary examination the only condition of entry. From the secondary schools scholars have the option of ultimately entering the Gymnasium or the industrial and commercial schools. The secondary school is succeeded by the higher schools. The _Municipal Gymnasium_ (grammar school) accepts all boys and girls above the age of ten who pass the entrance examination. In the _Progymnasium_, which corresponds to the secondary school in its course of studies, instruction is gratuitous up to the age of fifteen; after that the annual fees amount to sixty francs. There are great Universities in the chief cities, which are much favoured by foreign pupils. It is a sign of the practical side of the Swiss character that very special attention should be given to technical schools: the Swiss technical schools are said to be the most thorough in the world, and they will teach anything, from waiting to watch-making. Another sign of the practical is the Swiss custom to keep the schools in mountain villages open only during the long Alpine winter--from the beginning of October till the following Easter. All through the summer, lads and boys tend sheep or cows in the fields, help their fathers to make hay, roam in the woods, and get their fill of air and sunshine. The schoolmasters have gone to their own villages, where they mow and gather in the crops like the other peasants to whose households they belong. This is good from the point of view of health, and also from that of domestic economy. Leaving their schools strong in body because of the organised system of gymnastic training; strong in national pride because of the attention which has been paid by their teachers in impressing the glorious story of the past; with well-balanced, sane, practical minds the Swiss are ready to face the tasks of life with a fearless confidence. Their pride does not teach them to despise labour, even in forms which may appear contemptible. Their sense of thrift, which almost verges on a sense of greed, does not make them inhospitable. They show their virtues in the sphere of the commonplace, as servants, traders, petty masters. But they are heroic in the sphere of commonplace; and no one, looking back on their history, can dare to doubt that if great occasion arose in the future they would respond to it as courageously as in the past, and hold their hills against any attempt at conquest. In every respect they seem to preserve their historic national character. Since the earliest of the Middle Ages, Switzerland was accustomed to find asylum for the saint fleeing from a monarch's anger, the reformer dreading the persecution of a church, the thinker seeking a safe corner from which he could invite mankind to consider some daring hypothesis. There was a complaint in the European newspapers only this year (1913) that: Geneva has for a long time past been a centre for eccentric and ill-regulated individuals of every description, a certain proportion being in addition idle and generally undesirable characters. Her University is, of course, the main cause of a condition of things far from pleasing to the responsible authorities. It has long attracted, and still continues to attract, students from all parts of the world--crop-haired Russians, wild-looking Bulgarians, Greeks, Levantines, and Egyptians. The chief cause of dissatisfaction at the moment, it seems, was that Geneva University had become the headquarters of the so-called Permanent Committee of the Young Egyptian Party: These young Egyptians (often not really Egyptians at all, but Levantines) loom largely in the public eye. Throughout the present summer, for instance, more than a fortnight or three weeks have never elapsed without their meeting in Geneva, ostensibly to pass some resolution or to appeal to England to keep her engagements regarding the eventual evacuation of Egypt, or, it might be, to draft some letter of protest to be sent to Sir Edward Grey. These resolutions are invariably transmitted without delay to the foreign Press agencies established in Geneva, and by them telegraphed right and left throughout Europe. It frequently happens, of course, that the more serious and better-informed newspapers treat these resolutions for what they are worth, but far more frequently, especially by German newspapers or journals, which for some reason or other are not friendly disposed to Great Britain, or are wholly ignorant of British administration in Egypt, they are published _in extenso_, as if they were the decisions arrived at by the British Association, the French Academy, or some other society of long-established reputation and recognised standing. It must be admitted that the "Young Egyptians" in Geneva are very clever in hoodwinking a large number of foreign editors, and in causing themselves to be taken far more seriously than they deserve. But it is not likely that the "Young Egyptians" will find their stay in Geneva interfered with by the Swiss authorities. The tradition of the "right of asylum" is too strong; and provided that the line is drawn at actual criminality, no Power will successfully ask for their expulsion from Switzerland. Yet the presence of these futile conspirators must be of annoyance to the Swiss Government, which wishes to live at peace with all the world, and finds sometimes a threat of interference with its tourist traffic in foreign resentment at Swiss-sheltered disloyalists. But in this matter historic sentiment defeats the practical. The Swiss are determined to be hospitable, even to their own loss. And Europe generally is inclined to sympathise with, and respect, this little mountain people set in the midst of great Powers, from whose disputes they rigorously hold aloof, seeking to maintain their liberty by a sturdily pacific policy, but keeping in reserve for national defence a great military organisation. [Illustration: BERNE.] CHAPTER XV SOME STATISTICAL FACTS Switzerland is not all scenery and hotels. The little nation has a prosperous life apart from the tourists who make of its mountains a playground. There is interesting matter to be gleaned from the facts given in the publications of the Swiss Federal Statistical Bureau. The residential population of Switzerland is 3,753,293, and the area 4,129,827 square kilometres, of which 3,203,089 are counted as productive, and 926,738 as unproductive. Thus three-quarters of the land is capable of being put to some use. There are over 120 lakes within the Swiss area. The population of Switzerland lately has grown steadily. The marriage-rate (7·3) is low; the birth-rate (25·0) fairly high; the death-rate (15·1) a little above the average. All three rates show a tendency to dwindle, following the rule of the western European countries. The death-rate from infectious diseases is high, representing one-fifth of the total. Emigration to foreign lands is not large now, Switzerland losing about 5000 people a year from this cause, the great majority of whom go to the United States and the Argentine. The chief agricultural and pastoral products of Switzerland are milk, cheese, cream, cereals, vines, fruits, and tobacco. The vintage is worth £600,000 a year. The forests are made to pay well, and are very carefully safeguarded. On an average about £500,000 a year is devoted to re-planting and to protecting woods. The woods are divided into two classes, protective and non-protective. The former are treated as safe-guards against avalanches, and are exploited only with a due consideration for their primary purpose as bulwarks. Altogether 21 per cent of Switzerland is forest land, and three-quarters of this area is treated as "protective forest." The Governments of the United States and of Canada, which are disturbed regarding the de-forestation of their areas and the consequent deterioration of soil and climate, should make a careful study of the admirable Swiss system of forestry. The Swiss lake and river fisheries are very carefully preserved and cultivated. There are in all 188 fish nurseries maintained within the country, and during a year over 100,000,000 fish of various sorts (trout chiefly) are hatched out and released in the rivers and lakes. Incidentally a steady war is carried on against crows, herons, and other birds destructive to fish. In this, as in every other respect when the life of the Swiss people is examined, there will be found a steady, thrifty, scientific effort to make the most of every available resource of the country. There is probably less waste and more utilisation of natural opportunities in Switzerland than in any other country of the world. Swiss industries are in some cases Government monopolies, and help the national revenue considerably. The salt monopoly brings in about £1,500,000 a year, of which a great part is profit. The total trade of Switzerland reaches £120,000,000 value a year, of which the exports represent about £50,000,000 and the imports about £70,000,000. That is exclusive of coin, on which there is a balance in favour of Switzerland of about £600,000 annually. The tourist traffic is mainly responsible for the balance of imports in favour of Switzerland, for there is practically no foreign borrowing. The Swiss have a flourishing export trade in various manufactures, such as watches (export worth nearly £6,000,000 a year). In all 75 per cent of the Swiss export trade is in manufactured goods. Of the imports into Switzerland 40 per cent are of raw materials, 26 per cent of food supplies, and the balance of manufactured goods. Germany claims the largest share of the import trade into Switzerland, with France, Italy, and Great Britain next in that order. Of the export trade also Germany takes the largest share, but that of Great Britain is very nearly equal. The United States comes third in the list of customers for Swiss exports. The public services in Switzerland are excellent, and show a high power of organisation. The postal, telegraph, and telephone system has been, in particular, wonderfully organised in Switzerland, as the visitor soon finds and the inhabitant fully realises. You may use the post office for almost anything and telephone almost anywhere in Switzerland. Some £2,500,000 has been sunk in the telegraph and telephone lines in Switzerland, and the annual revenue is about £700,000. The articles carried by post in Switzerland total in a year about 360,000,000. The number of telegrams sent per inhabitant in Switzerland is greater than in any other European country except Great Britain. The Swiss railways are very well developed, too well developed for some lovers of the Alps. Each year there are constructed new funicular railways and tramways, until soon it will be hard to find a ten-miles' square in all Switzerland which has not a railway of some sort. Counting in all the mountain railways, the total length of Swiss lines runs to the astonishing total of over 5,250,000 metres, and additions go on at the rate of over 250,000 metres a year. These railways bring in about £9,000,000 a year, on which a good profit is realised--about £3,000,000 a year--representing 3·32 per cent on the capital invested. The Federal Government controls the chief lines and manages them very well, making a good profit out of providing reasonably cheap facilities to the public. Tourists are able to buy circular tickets, which frank over all the Swiss lines under the control of the Federal Government. The funicular railways up the mountain sides are usually privately owned. Over £1,000,000 of capital has been sunk in these enterprises, and they pay well on the average by the strength of their appeal to the arm-chair Alpinist. Education, as already observed, has been brought to a high pitch of organisation in Switzerland. From the primary schools to the seven Universities there are splendid facilities for learning. In the 4690 primary schools there are about 530,000 pupils yearly under 12,023 teachers. The cost of this primary education is a little over £2,000,000 a year. In the 642 secondary (higher) schools there are about 55,000 pupils yearly under 2000 teachers, and the cost of these schools is about £300,000 a year. There are, in addition, schools of agriculture, of dairying, of commerce, and other technical schools. In the various agricultural colleges about 1250 pupils are trained each year, in the schools of commerce about 4000 pupils. In addition, continuation commercial schools give further instruction to some 10,000 pupils yearly, who attend holiday and evening classes. But that does not exhaust the list of educational facilities. In all, Switzerland spends £3,200,000 a year on State education, nearly £1 a year per inhabitant. Since salaries are on an extraordinarily thrifty scale in all branches of the Swiss public service--the President of the Republic getting a salary which would be scorned by the manager of a small business house in London or New York--this appropriation allows for a very large number of teachers. In the seven universities of Switzerland (Bâle, Zurich, Berne, Geneva, Lausanne, Fribourg, and Neuchâtel) there is an average of 8500 students a year, of whom fully a third are foreigners. Correctional schools and schools for the feeble-minded are integral parts of the Swiss social system. An average of 1500 children a year are treated in the correctional schools, and of 1300 a year in the schools for the feeble-minded (of which there are 28 in all). There are 14 special schools for deaf mutes, treating an average of 700 pupils a year. Switzerland gathers in for Federal purposes a public revenue of nearly £6,500,000 a year, about half from the Customs, almost all the rest from the posts, telegraphs, and railways. Outgoings are on a thrifty scale. The whole of the "general administration" absorbs only £55,000 a year. The excellent army costs barely £1,700,000 a year. The Federal receipts and expenses are, of course, apart from the Canton revenues. The Cantons separately raise and spend about £5,500,000 a year. That makes the total taxation in Switzerland some £12,000,000 a year. The production and sale of alcohol is a Federal monopoly in Switzerland. The Regie makes about £400,000 a year profit, the bulk of which is returned to the Canton governments. Some further indications of Swiss social life will be given by these facts: there are in Switzerland 385 savings banks with 446,247 depositors and £63,000,000 in deposits. The gaol population is about 4170, of whom about one-fourth are serious criminals. Capital punishment is not allowed in Switzerland, nor is imprisonment for debt. The Swiss army stands to-day at an effective strength of 142,000 for the _elite_ and 7000 for the _Landwehr_. The efficiency of the _Landwehr_ (reserve) is helped much by the general popularity of rifle shooting as a sport. The Federation has 3958 rifle clubs with 232,225 members. The Government encourages these clubs with subsidies, and spends about £25,000 a year in that way. Since there are 839,114 male voters in Switzerland, it will seem that more than a fourth of the total male population belongs to rifle clubs. [Illustration: LAUSANNE.] The Swiss are keen politicians and go industriously to the polls for the election of representatives, and for the settlement of the numerous questions referred to their decision by direct vote. In 1912 there was a Swiss referendum on the subject of the new Insurance law against sickness and accidents. Of the 839,114 electors 529,001 recorded their votes. Switzerland each year attracts more and more the attention of sociologists. Its completely popular system of government, which has solved the problem of carrying on a democracy without extravagance and without bureaucratic inefficiency, its close and effective organisation of military, education, and charity matters, its methods of referring political issues for settlement directly to the people--all are being carefully studied in various countries of the world with a view to imitation. It yet remains to be seen whether methods and policies which work notably well in their native land would bear transplanting; whether, too, they would be as suitable for larger areas and larger populations than Switzerland has. In some respects the Swiss example will doubtless prove useful for imitation (with modifications) in other countries. But it is fair to question whether the happiness to which the little Swiss people have reached is the ideal with which civilised democracy would be content. The Swiss are happy, but it is a strictly mediocre happiness. They are content because they have a very modest standard of contentment. The people of the country, with all their virtues, are not inspiring; and the life they lead suggests a little too much the life of an excellently-managed institution to be really attractive. At the outset of this volume I ventured to question the justice of some eminent travellers who have abused the Swiss. They, it would seem to me, had formed an extraordinarily heroic idea of the Swiss character, and were disappointed that close examination showed a people who are very estimable, very well-educated, very firm in their patriotism, but not always suggestive of the heroic. Between an unfair depreciation and the idealising of the Swiss nation there is a reasonable middle ground, and from that middle ground the social and political inquirer should approach the study of Swiss sociological institutions. INDEX Aare, River, 120 Aargau, 35 Achaens, 20 Adelboden, 147 Adler Pass, 172 Agricultural and pastoral products, 186 Alamanni, 21, 27, 28 Albristhorn, Mt., 147 Alcohol monopoly, 192 Aletsch, Great, 99, 135 Allalin Pass, 172 Alliance of France and Switzerland, 42, 46 Alp pastures, 88, 89 "Alpine" character, the, 1, 11 Alpine climbing, 96, 102, 105, 106, 145, 150 clubs, 99, 104, 138, 141, 144 flowers, 114, 153, 163 aconite plant, 162 alyssum, sweet, 158 anemones, 156 arabis, 158 _arnica montana_, 158, 162 asters, 158 campanulas, 158 crocus, 154, 163 edelweiss, 158, 161 forget-me-nots, 156 gentian, 155, 158, 162, 163 geums, 158 gypsophila, 158 hepatica, 155 louseworts, 158 "marmot's bread," 158 orchis, 158 primrose, 155, 158 primula, 158 rampions, 158 ranunculi, 156, 158 rhododendrons, 156 rock roses, 158 roses, 156 saxifrages, 156 sedums, 158 _semper vivum_, 158 soldanella, 155 thyme, wild, 158 toadflax, 158 grass, 154 lakes, 18 meadows, 153, 163 spring, 156 storm, 149 sunset, 112 villages, 86, 87 Alps, the, 96, 100-108, 119, 120 Andes, 105 Arar (Saône), 24 Argentina, glaciers in, 99 Army, Swiss, 53, 192 Arnold, Matthew, 66, 68 Association for the Protection of Plants, 162 Asylum, Switzerland as an, 181, 183 Attinghausen, 35 Augsburg, 26 Augustus, Emperor, 26 Austerities of Calvinism, 75, 77 Australian aborigines, 15 Alps, 97, 98, 105 Autun, 25 Avalanches, 122, 123, 124, 126, 128, 134 _Grund-Lawine_ or Ground-Avalanche, 130, 131 _Lawinen-Dunst_, 133 _Schlag-Lawine_ or Stroke-Avalanche, 129 _Staub-Lawine_ or Dust-Snow-Avalanche, 128, 131 Aventicum (Avenches), 27 Baden, 176, 177 Basel, 70, 74, 114 Council of, 70 Bath-resorts, 176 Bertold V., 34, 119 Berne, 34, 119, 120 Bernese Oberland, 158 Republic, 120 Bertha, the "spinning Queen," 33 Bétemps Hut, 172, 173 Beza, 77 Bibracte, 25 Bienne, 17 Lake, 18 Blanc, Mt., 96, 102, 104, 105 Blaser, Sergeant, 43 Bob-sleighing, 169, 175 Bonderchrinde, 147 Bonderspitze, Mt., 147 Boniface IV., Pope, 2 Bonivard, François, 117, 118 Boswell, 79, 80 Bourg St. Pierre, 163 Britannia Hut, 139, 172 Bronze Age, 17, 20 Brunhilde of Burgundy, Queen, 29 Brunnen, 38 Buckle, 75 Bullinger, 73, 74 Burgundian Kingdom, 25, 33 Burgundians, 27, 28 Byron, 31, 64, 65, 68, 117, 118 Caesar, 23, 24, 25, 33, 43, 103 Calvin, 70, 71, 74, 75, 76, 77, 118 Campbell, 39 Carline thistle, 162 Cassius, 23 Catherine the Great, 79 Cattle on Alp pastures, 88, 89 Celtic immigrants, 21 Celts, 10, 21 Chamois, 167 hunting, 166 skin, 167 Champéry, 147 Character, Swiss, 194 of mountain peoples, 6 Charlemagne, 29, 30, 33, 162 Chateaubriand, 66 Chillon, Castle of, 31, 117, 118 "Chillon, Prisoner of," 117 Christian League, 71 _Christianae Religionis Institutio_, 74 Cimbri, 23 Civilisation, birthplace of, 9 of the plains, 11 Codex Manesse, 56 Communism, general, 160 Consistory of Geneva, 77, 79 Constance, Lake, 18 Constant, Benjamin, 63 Constitution of 1848, 120 Conway, Sir Martin, 100, 117, 124, 136, 142 Coppet, 57, 60, 62, 63, 65, 104 Correctional schools, 191 Cranbunden, 47 Cresta Run, 169 Crusades, 34 Curchod, Mlle, 57, 58, 59 Curling, 169, 175 Dairying industry, 91 Danger of climbing, 145 D'Aubigné, Agrippa, 119 De Broglie, Duke Victor, 65 De Choiseul, Duchesse, 79 Defence against avalanches, 127 Dents du Midi, 148 Department of Forests, 92 De Saussure, Horace, 101 Desert Pea, Sturt's, 158 Desert plants, 158 De Staël, Madame, 12, 57, 60, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 164 Devil's Bridge, 117 De Voght, Baron, 62 Diablerets Mts., 148 Dr. Schrumm's death, 147 Druidical worship, 23 Dumas, Alexandre, 12 Education, 178, 170 Einsiedeln Abbey, 71 Elsigfirst, Mt., 147 Elsighorn, Mt., 147 Emigration, 186 _Émile_, 78 Engadine, 26 Equalisation of the earth's temperature, 100 Erasmus, 70 Etruscans, 23, 26 European Alps, 98 Euthyphron, 7 Exhilaration from change of air, 8 Farel, 75 Favre, Louis, 115 Federal Post Office, Swiss, 110 States, Swiss, 38 Ferdinand of Austria, 72 Ferney, 78, 79, 104, 117 Fetan, Avalanche record, 132, 133 Findelen Glacier, 172 Finnemore, John, 167 Flemwell, Mr. G., 155 Flower-hunting, 161 Forest Cantons, 35, 36, 37, 38, 46 laws, 127 Forests, 92, 186 Fouché, 61 Franco-Prussian War, 51 Free Cities, 34 French Directory, 45, 46, 48 Reformation, 74 Revolution, 42, 44, 48, 78, 118, 120 Fresh air, gospel of, 69 Funicular railways, 106, 189, 190 Gallic Switzerland, 26 Géant, Col du, 137 Gemmi Pass, 147 Geneva, 22, 24, 60, 71, 95, 117, 120 Lake of, 119 University, 102 Genevan Consistory, 118 German Empire, 42 Gessler, 36 Gibbon, 57, 58, 59, 60 Glacier colouring, 136 Glaciers, 122, 134 beauties of, 135, 137 Swiss, 98, 99 Glarus, 70, 71 Canton of, 47 Glenarvon, 64 Goethe, 78 Golf-links, 175 Gorner Glacier, 172 Grand Muveran, 148 Grandson, 41, 119 Grauholz, 120 Great St. Bernard, 116 Gregory VII., Pope, 33 Grey, Lady Jane, 74 Grimsel, 116 Grindelwald Glaciers, 99 Gsur, Mt., 147 Gymnastic sports, 165, 166 Habsburg, House of, 34, 35 Hannibal, 103 Happiness of Swiss, 194 Harbinger of spring, 122 Harvest festival, 90 Haute Cime, 148 Helvetia, 26, 27, 176 Helvetians, 22, 23, 25, 26, 28, 33, 43 Helvetic Club, 45 Consulta, 48 Republic, 45, 46 Society, 45 Henry VI., Emperor, 33 Himalayas, 96, 105 Hohenstaufen, House of, 119 Homeric period, 19 Horace, 122 Hotel-keeping, 85 Hugo, Victor, 12 Hungarians, 33 Ice Age, 100 Ice-hockey, 175 Ice-sailing, 169 Increase of warmth of climate in Europe, 98 Influence of mountains, 2, 3 Iron Age, 17, 21 Italian civilisation, 27 lakes, 114 _Jardins refuges_, 163 Jesuits, the, 50 Johnson, 79, 80 Jura, Mount, 24 Kandersteg, 147 Keller, Dr. Ferdinand, 18 Kinzig Pass, 47 Knox, John, 75 Kopp, 37 Korsakow, General, 47 Kosciusko, Mt., 150 Lake-dwellers, 14, 17, 19, 20, 21 Lake-dwellings, Early, 16, 18, 21 Lake forces, 15 Lake prompting to community life, 16 Landgrave, Phillip of Hesse, 73 Lausanne, 22, 117 novelists at, 56, 57, 60 League of Thirteen Cantons, 42 Leman, Lake, 18, 117 Lemanic Republic, 45 Leopold, Duke, 37, 39 Les Plans, 148 Loetschberg Railway, 115 Lombardy, 114 Londinium, 27 Longfellow, 109 Lucerne, 38, 113, 114, 115, 116, 120, 121 Luther, 71 Luxeuil, 28, 29 Lyons, 26 Machiavelli, 32 Märjelen Sea, 135 Mary of England, Queen, 74 Massena, 55 Mediterranean civilisations, 20 Meilen, 17 Melchthal, 36 Mendelssohn, 111 Middle Ages, 30, 31, 44, 181 Milan, 115 _Milchsuppe_, the, 72 Minnelieder, 56 Missionaries from Ireland, 28 Monte Rosa Glacier, 172 Montreux, 78, 117 Morat, 41, 119 Lake, 18 Morgarten, Battle of, 37, 38 "Mottoes for Mountaineers," 139 Mountain's birthday, 97 Muller, 36 _Municipal Gymnasium_, 179 Muotta, 47 Naefels, 47 Battle of, 40, 41 Nancy, 41, 119 Nantes, 29 Napoleon, 42, 45, 48, 49, 61, 62, 103 Napoleonic Constitution, 48 National costume, 94 service, 92 Natural beauties of Switzerland, 109 Necker, Madame, 57, 59, 60, 61 Necker, Mr., 59 Neuchâtel, Lake, 17, 18 Neuenegg, 120 New Zealand lakes, 15 Nibelungen, 56 _Nouvelle Héloïse_, 78 Obermann, 66 Ochs, Peter, 45 Orcitrix, 22 _Origin of Inequality_, 78 Palu Glacier, 99 Panixer Pass, 47 Papuans, 15 Pas d'Éncel, 148 Pas de l'Écluse, 24 Pastoral and agricultural products, 186 Peasant life, 84, 85, 89 Peoples of the plain, 10 Peter of Savoy, 31 _Pfahl-bauer_ (pile-builders), 18 Pilatus, 113 Piso, 23 Polar glaciers, 134 Pont de Nant, 163 Population of Switzerland, 185 Pragel Pass, 47 Prehistoric Switzerland, 20 Primarschule, 178 _Progymnasium_, 179 Public revenue, 191 services, 110, 188 Radbot of Habsburg, 35 "Ranz des Vaches," 91, 92 Récamier, Madame, 63 Reding, 46 Referendum, 50, 193 Reformation, 70-77 Republic, French, 46 Helvetic, 45, 46 Lemanic, 45 Reuss, 119 Valley, 47 "Revivalist" preachers, 95 Rhætia, 26 Rhætians, 21 Rhine, 25 Glacier, 99 River, 120 Rhone, River, 24 Rifle clubs, 193 Rifle-shooting, 164, 165, 166 Rigi, 113 Ritter, Mr., 17 Rochers de Naye, 163 Rockies, 105 Roman Empire, Disruption of, 27 Gaul, 23 roads, 26 summer resorts, 27 Romans, 23, 26 Rosa, Monte, 135 Roumanians, 26 Rousseau, 56, 66, 70, 78, 79 Royal Chapel of the Savoy, 31 Ruskin, 11, 68 Rütli, 36 Saas, 143 Saas Fee, 139, 172 Safe climbs, 147 St. Columban, 28, 29, 70 St. Gall, 29, 70 St. Gall, Monastery of, 29 St. Gothard, 116 St. Gothard Pass, 47, 114 St. Gothard Railway, 115 St. Jacob, Battle of, 116 St. Moritz, 169 Salt monopoly, 187 Salvation Army, 118 Saracens, 33 Savoy, Duke of, 117, 119 Saxon invasion, 10 Schauenberg, General, 120 Schiller, 78 Schopenhauer, 5 Schwartzhorn, 150 Schwyz, 35 Selkirks, 105 Sempach, 39 Senancour, 66 Senate conspiracy against Napoleon, 61 Shelley, 67, 68 Simplon, 116 Railway, 115 Skating, 164, 174 Ski-ing, 164, 169, 173, 174, Ski-runners, 171 Smith, Mr. Albert, 104 _Social Contract_, 78 Socrates' method, 4 Soleure, 22 Solothurn, 72 South Seas, 97 Sports, Swiss National, 164 Spring season, 175 Stansenhorn, 114 Statutes of Geneva, 76 Stauffacher, 35 Stephen, Sir Leslie, 105 Stockjoch, 172 Stone Age, 17, 20 Straits of Sunda, 97 Strübel, Glacier, 147 Summer season, 176 sports, 175 Sumptuary laws, 94 Susanfe, Pass of, 148 Suwarow, General, 77, 103, 116 "Swiss Admiral," 55 Swiss Alpine Club, 98 army, 53, 192 character, 194 character in the Middle Ages, 32 cheese, 86 colonists, 82 cosmopolitan book-shops, 94 courage, 31, 40 fisheries, 187 Guard, 43, 44, 82 a handicapped people, 12 heterodoxies, 69 industries, 187 League, 42 mercenaries, 43, 44 mercenary service, 41, 70 military organisation, 50, 51, 53 milk, 86 "navy," 55 newspapers, 93 prowess, 32, 41 railways, 189 Reformed Church, 78 Republic, 34, 35 system of government, 49 thrift, 82 Symonds, John Addington, 84, 89, 112, 129, 130, 150, 165 _Tartarin de Tarascon_, 104 Technical schools, 180 Tell, William, 36 Tennis courts, 175 Tennyson, 9 Teutonic invasion, 21 Switzerland, 26 Thiele, River, 17 Thingor, Abbot of, 116 Thucydides, 24 Tigurini tribe, 23, 24 Tissot, Dr., 69 _Titanic_, 128 Tobogganing, 164, 169, 170, 171, 174 Tourist traffic, 188 Town life of the Swiss, 93 Trade, total, 187 Trelawney, 67 Troncain, Dr., 69 Tuileries, 82 defence of, 43, 44 Turnfests, 165 Turnvereins, 165 Universities, 190 Unterwalden, 35 Uri, 35, 36 Uri, Lake, 47 Vatican, 72 Vaud, Canton of, 111, 119 Vaudois Alps, 148 Verdun, Treaty of, 33 Versailles, Palace of, 69 Vespasian, 27 Vevey, 78 Vienna Congress, 49 Vindonissa, 177 Voltaire, 12, 66, 70, 72, 78, 80, 164 Von Wengi, Nicolas, 72 Warm Age, 100 Williams, Colonel, 55 Winkelried, Arnold, 39, 40, 81 Winter season, 176 Wordsworth, 68 Wülpelsburg, 35 Yodel, 92 Young Egyptian Party, 182 Zahringer dynasty, 34, 119 Zermatt, 111, 158, 143, 172 Zermatt Breithorn, 145 Zinal, 143 Zug, 72 Zurich, 18, 22, 38, 47, 71, 114, 116 Congress, 49 Lake, 17, 18, 55 Zwingli, 70, 71, 73 THE END _Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_. Transcriber's note: Archaic and inconsistent spelling, punctuation, and syntax retained. 
45097	----	Transcriber's Notes: When italics were used in the original book, the corresponding text has been surrounded by _underscores_. Ditto marks have been replaced by the text they represent. The oe ligature has been replaced by the letters oe. Some presumed printer's errors have been corrected. In particular, punctuation has been normalized and duplicate words were removed. Other corrections are listed below with the original text (top) and the replacement text (bottom): Contents: Gerni Gemmi Chapter I: herren Herren Schaffhaussen Schaffhausen Chapter II: intere t interest Chapter III: caries carries Chapter IV: withont without Chapter V: fouud found Chapter VI: Agazziz Agassiz eating-roon eating-room Chapter VII: cotages cottages Reichenback Reichenbach Alpback Alpbach white lace vails white lace veils Chapter VIII: replendent resplendent Grindenwald Grindelwald Chapter IX: visiters visitors puplis pupils Chapter X: businesss business Chapter XII: T56M[symbol] The Chapter XIII: benificent beneficent Grindewald Grindelwald Chapter XIV: fearfuly fearfully ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration: INTERLACHEN AND THE JUNGFRAU.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Letters from Switzerland. --------------------- BY SAMUEL IRENÆUS PRIME, AUTHOR OF "TRAVELS IN EUROPE AND THE EAST," &C., &C. --------------------- NEW YORK: SHELDON & COMPANY, 115 Nassau Street. BOSTON: GOULD & LINCOLN. 1860. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860, by SHELDON & COMPANY, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New-York. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CONTENTS. CHAPTER I BASLE AND THE RHINE. The Three Kings--Cathedral--Council of Basle--Puritan rules--Dance of Death--Seats in the Diligence--Supplement--The Rhine--An Alderman in trouble--Dining in haste--English manners--Girls in holiday dress--Falls of the Rhine--Niagara--Up the river--Old nunneries--Gottlieben--Prisons of Huss and Jerome of Prague. Pages 9-20 CHAPTER II CONSTANCE AND ZURICH. A decaying Town--the Kaufhaus--Famous Council--Dungeon of Huss--Scene of Martyrdom--House of Huss--Lake Constance--the Ride to Zurich--Villages--the Valley--Hotel Baur--a Swiss Cottage--the Furnishing--Miles Coverdale--Zwingle--Lavater's Grave--the Library--Sunset View from the Botanical Garden. Pages 21-31 CHAPTER III. THE MOUNTAIN TOPS. Climbing the Utleberg--Fat woman on a donkey--First Alpine view--The valley, lake and hills--Haunts of Lavater, Zimmerman, Klopstock, Gessner--The work of Escher--Coming Down--Baur Hotel--Lake Zurich--Lake Zug--Golda--Land-side--Ruin--Ascent of the Rigi--The best route--Chapels by the way--Mary of the Snow--Convent and monks--The Summit--The Company--Change of Temperature--Sunset--Supper--Night--Sunrise--Glory of the view--Getting down again--Fat man done up. Pages 32-53 CHAPTER IV. LUCERNE AND THE LAND OF TELL. The Lake--Avalanches--Pontius Pilate--Lucerne--Dance of Death--Fishing--Storm on the Lake--Ramble among the Peasantry--Two Dwarfs--On the Lake--Rifle Shooting--Chapel of William Tell--Scenes in his Life--Altorf--Hay-Making--a Great Day. Pages 54-80 CHAPTER V. PASS OF ST. GOTHARD The Priest's Leap--The Devil's Bridge--Night on the Mountains--Storm--Hospenthal--the Glaciers--a Lady in Distress--the Furca Pass--Glacier of the Rhone--Heinrich and Nature--Heinrich asks after God--Scene in the Hospice. Pages 81-106 CHAPTER VI. GLACIERS OF THE AAR. My new Friend--a Wonderful Youth--Hospice of the Grimsel--the Valley--a comfortable Day--Glaciers of the Aar--a Gloomy Vale--Climbing a Hill--View of the Glacier--Theory of its Formation--Caverns in the Ice--Incidents of Men falling in--My Leap and Fall--an Artist Lost--Return. Pages 107-121 CHAPTER VII. MOUNTAINS, STREAMS AND FALLS. Pedestrianism--Mountain Torrents--Fall of the Handek--The Guide and his Little Ones--Falls of the Reichenbach--Perilous Point of View. Pages 122-145 CHAPTER VIII. A GLACIER AND AVALANCHE. Alpine Horn--Beggars--The Rosenlaui Glacier--Beautiful Views--Glorious Mountain Scenes--Mrs. Kinney's "Alps"--A Lady and Babe--The Great Scheidek--Grindelwald--Eagle and Bear--Battle with Bugs--Wengern Alp--A real Avalanche--The Jungfrau. Pages 146-165 CHAPTER IX. INTERLACHEN AND BERNE. The Staubach Fall--Lauterbrunnen--Interlachen--Cretins and Goitre--Dr. Guggenbuhl--Giesbach Fall--Berne--Inquisitive Lady--Swiss Creed--Crossing the Gemmi--Leuchenbad Baths. Pages 166-180 CHAPTER X. MONKS OF ST. BERNARD. The Char-a-banc--the Napoleon Pass--Travellers in winter--Monks--Dogs--Dinner--Music--Dead House--Contributions--a Monk's Kiss. Pages 181-192 CHAPTER XI. FIRST SIGHT OF MONT BLANC. The Host of Martigny--Vale of the Drance--Mount Rosa--Tete Noire--Col de Balm--The Monarch of the Alps. Pages 193-204 CHAPTER XII. GENEVA A good House--Prisoner of Chillon--Calvin--Dr. Malan--Dr. Gaussen--Col. Tronchin--the Cemetery. Pages 205-213 CHAPTER XIII. PICTURES IN SWITZERLAND. Waterfalls--Constance--Zurich--William Tell--Glaciers--the Monarch. Pages 214-246 CHAPTER XIV. SAXON SWYTZ. A Model Guide--the Bastei--Banditti of old--a Cataract to Order--Scaling a Rampart--Konigstein--the Kuhstall--the Great Winterberg--Prebisch Thor--Looking Back. Pages 247-264 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ SWITZERLAND. --------------------- CHAPTER I. BASLE AND THE RHINE. The Three Kings--Cathedral--Council of Basle--Puritan rules--Dance of Death--Seats in the Diligence--Supplement--The Rhine--An Alderman in trouble--Dining in haste--English manners--Girls in holiday dress--Falls of the Rhine--Niagara--Up the river--Old nunneries--Gottlieben--Prisons of Huss and Jerome of Prague. Switzerland, to be seen aright, must be entered from Germany. Many travellers rush from Paris to Geneva, and beginning with Chamouni and Mont Blanc come down from the greater to the less, tapering off with the beautiful instead of rising to the sublime. One lovely summer day in the early part of the month of August, we left Baden Baden, where we had been resting after a tour in Belgium, Holland, Prussia, Saxony, Saxon Switzerland, Austria, Bavaria, and Bohemia, and came by the Duke of Baden's railroad to Basle. The hotel de _Trois Rois_, or, _Three Kings_, was reluctant to receive us, so great was the rush of company. Large as some of our own first class hotels, it was crowded to overflowing, but we found lodgings for three at the top of the house. It stands on the very borders of the river Rhine, which rushes by with a powerful current, and the verandah in front overhanging the stream is a pleasant lounge after a weary day of travel. Lodgings for three gentlemen, or in German, "fur drei Herren," we had so often asked for, that we came to be called the "Drei Herren," or "dry herring," as it sounded in our English ears. The river forms a broad and noble stream along the sloping bank on which the city stands; the Jura mountains rise on one side, and the hills of the Black Forest on the other, while the intermediate region is richly covered with vegetation, and the villas of a wealthy class of people who have retired from the city, or who own the soil. Basle is a goodly town, and if the people have some rigid notions of morality in the judgment of travellers of easy virtue, it is refreshing to come into a city where the shops are closed of a Sunday, and every one is required to be at home by eleven o'clock at night. A city that bore so conspicuous a part in the Reformation, and still cherishes the ashes of so many great and good men, ought not to lose its veneration for the spirit and principles of the past. In the _Cathedral_, now in process of renovation, we stood over the dust of the learned Erasmus, read his epitaph in Latin, walked among the beautiful cloisters which have been burial places for the wise and good for more than _six_ hundred years! where the monuments stand of Grynæus, and Meyer, and OEcolampadius, men who were mighty in the Scriptures, in the days when such men were few. We walked through the portal of St. Gallus, under the statues of Christ and Peter, and the wise and foolish Virgins, and admired the pulpit of three pieces of stone, carved with great skill and effect; and then we were led to the chamber where the Council of Basle held its sessions, beginning in 1436, and lasting eight years. It has undergone no alterations in the four hundred years which have since elapsed. In the _Library_ are preserved manuscripts of Luther, Melancthon, Erasmus and Zwingle, and a huge volume in which illustrious visitors had inscribed their names for two hundred years. The celebrated pictures of the _Dance of Death_ once adorned the walls of the Dominican church in Basle, and a few of them still preserved are now hung up in this collection, among others of greater merit but less fame, by Holbein. A beautiful picture, which I have seen attempted with far less success before, presents a Venus sleeping by the side of a stream, and a skull lying near her, and flowers blooming around, to illustrate the lines: _Mortis imago sopor: velut amnis labitur ætas, vix forma reliquium pulvis et ossa manent._ "The image of death is sleep: like the river life glides away, and dust and bones, the only relics of departed beauty, are left behind." In the next room the same sentiment is more impressively taught from an uncovered sarcophagus, in which a female mummy grins horribly at you, as you look into the narrow house which she has slept in for two or three thousand years. The architecture of this old Swiss town is very curious, and many of the most antique gateways and fortifications, towers and walls, remain to this hour, showing the quaint but not bad devices in the way of ornament, which were in use 450 years ago. In old times, too, they had moral laws here quite as stringent as those imputed to our New England ancestors. On the Sabbath, no one might go to church unless dressed in black; the number of dishes and the quantity of wine for a dinner party were regulated by law, as well as the style and quality of clothes. The good people used to put religious mottoes over their doors, and one or two public houses still have them: "In God I build my hopes of grace, The ancient Pig's my dwelling place." And another still more earnest: "Wake and repent your sins with grief, I'm called the Golden Shin of Beef." The gates of the town are closed on the Sabbath day during the hours of service, and an outward respect paid to the day which is creditable to the people. In the hotel, a small room has been fitted up neatly as a chapel for an English service, a custom not unusual in Switzerland, where English travellers are flocking constantly. Basle is the great starting point for Swiss travelling for those who enter the German frontier. We have now come to the end of railroads, and must depend on horses or go afoot. The sooner one takes his place in the _diligence_ after arriving, the more likely he is to have a good seat when he wishes to depart, and though we were early for this, no less than twelve had the start of us, and the coach carried only nine. "You shall have a _supplement_," we were told, and at nine in the morning with twenty-five travellers we were at the _Post Office_, to be despatched with the mails and the females to Schaffhausen. This posting is a Government concern, and the postmaster has charge of the horses as well as the letters. There was no place but the middle of the street in which to remain, till at the appointed hour the heavy diligence lumbered up to the door: the nine predestinated thereunto took their seats; an omnibus and one or two carriages by way of supplement, received the rest of us, many grumbling grievously that they had not places in the coach, and others preferring as we did, an easy carriage with a party of four. The postillion dressed in a yellow jacket with a brass horn under his arm, with which he amused himself and the country people as he passed, mounted the box, and we soon crossed the Rhine, and followed its banks upward for many a pleasant mile. The morning was fine after a rainy night, clear, cool and bracing; the distant Alps were constantly in sight on the right, and the winding, often rapid, always beautiful river, with its vine-clad shores and smiling cottages was by our side. We left the carriage at _Lauffenburg_, and walked to the banks of the Rhine, where the river is choked into a narrow gorge, and dashes with terrible force through a deep sunk channel, among opposing rocks, making a fearful pass in which an English nobleman lost his life, attempting to make the rapids in a little boat. Resuming our seats, we found one of our fellow travellers belonging to the diligence, Alderman ---- of New York left behind. The coach was out of call, and the best he could do was to mount the edge of the postillion's single seat in front of our carriage and ride on to the next post town. The Alderman was heavy, the place was too strait for him, and I suggested that a _franc_ would buy the whole seat. He tried the effect of it, the postillion took the silver, dropped down upon the foot rest, and the Alderman had the seat to himself. In an hour we stopped to dine. Perhaps we were here a few moments sooner than mine host of the _Waldshut_ Hotel expected us, for the dinner was not on the table, but it gave us a fine opportunity to observe a specimen of manners sufficiently characteristic to be made a matter of record. At the table there sat ten English, six German, and seven American ladies and gentlemen. The dishes were slow in coming in; the English gentlemen all having ladies under their care, left the table, rushed into the kitchen, seized the best dishes of meats they could find, brought them to their own places, and helping themselves and their ladies, devoured them in the presence of the more barbarous Germans and Americans, who looked on with amazement. I took the liberty of remarking that it was an outrage, of which I had never before seen an example in civilized life, and was happy to observe that the practice was confined to a single nation out of the number represented here. An English lady gave me an approving nod, but the men were too far gone in beef and sour wine to pay any attention to lessons in good breeding. As might be expected, the leader in this grab-game grumbled at his bill, declared he was charged for more wine than he had drunk, and laid himself out in abusing Swiss taverns in general, and this in particular, till the postman's horn summoned him and the rest to their seats. The scenery improves as we ascend the Rhine. The banks are steeper, the hills are bolder; the water rushes more rapidly through winding channels, and the people we meet bear more characteristic features of another country. It is a Catholic holiday. We are meeting the peasantry in great numbers, dressed in their best clothes, some of them gaily; blooming lasses in snow white muslin and no bonnets, but sweet pretty head-dresses and pink ribbons tied as pretty girls in all countries know how to tie them; they are gathering at the churches, and as they wend their way through green fields to the highway, they give a romantic air to the rural picture we are looking on. Many of them are paired, and as they saunter along hand in hand, and now and then with an arm thrown lovingly round the waist, we know them as probably paired for life, and send up a little prayer that they may jog along as pleasantly all the way through. "The finest Cataract in Europe" is at Schaffhausen. We arrived at sunset, just in time to see the falls before the last rays had faded into night. The Rhine is here 300 feet broad, and after foaming and rushing furiously for a mile or two it takes a bold leap over a shelving precipice sixty feet high, and plunges into a bay of waters below, boiling like a mighty caldron and sending up perpetual clouds of spray. In the midst of the cataract two columnar rocks rise perpendicularly, dividing the fall into three unequal parts. One of these rocks is clothed with shrubbery and the steep banks on either side are lined with trees. A castellated mansion crowns the summit on one side, and several buildings grace the other, so that nature and art have here combined to make a picture of wild romantic beauty, in which there is enough of grandeur to entitle it, at times, to be called sublime. Certainly we should so pronounce it, if we had not seen the waterfalls of America. The only place to see a fall to perfection is directly in front of it. We are told to cross the river and go up the hill to a jutting crag and there in the midst of the spray, contemplate the "hell of waters," roaring and tumbling madly on their way into the dreadful deeps below. We went over, but nothing satisfies me but to see a waterfall from its base. It was an easy matter to induce two stout oarsmen to put the nose of their skiff into the teeth of the cataract, and drive her up as near to the falling torrent as their strength would fetch her. I knew the strong current would send the little shell down stream, like an arrow, when they crossed the eddies and struck the channel; and so it proved. We toiled on till the spray-like rain covered us, and there we looked up at the white waves as they marched in fury down upon us, threatening to overwhelm the frail bark tossing on the surface as a shell. When we had studied the scene from various points of view, we returned to the shore and met a party of English gentlemen and ladies at Castle _Worth_, which commands a fine sight of the falls. "How does it compare with Niagara," one of them enquired of me. I replied, "We do not love to make comparisons between these beautiful scenes and those we have left at home. Nature there is more majestic in her works, and there is no sight on earth where so much majesty crowned with beauty is revealed as in the cataract of Niagara. You see that hill which bounds this valley on the west and that higher one which shuts it in above where the Rhine comes down: those hills are not so far asunder as the river of Niagara is at the moment it falls! It is a lake broader than this beautiful vale and the precipice to whose brow it comes is loftier than the turrets of that castle, now fading from our view. It comes not creeping down the rocks like _that_, but gathering itself up and with one mighty leap, clearing the barrier, it pours its awful flood, as if an ocean had been spilled, into the abyss below. In the moonlight and in the sunshine rainbows are twined upon its brow, and garlands of diamonds hang from the summit to the base, in beauty indescribable." We climbed up to the hotel Weber, which stands on the brow of the hill, and the good man of the house gave us a chamber in full view of the falls, where we went to sleep with the roar of the tumult of many waters in our ears, making music the last we heard at night, and the first in the morning. Now the grandeur of the distant Alps began to appear. Long ranges, peak towering above peak, are seen; the names of some of them are familiar, as they stand there inviting us to come to their feet. Let us go. _Aug. 16._--Refreshed by a sweet sleep, and ready for another fine day, we were taken after breakfast to the village of Schaffhausen, where a small steamboat received us for _Constance_. The current of the Rhine above the falls is not so swift as below, but the waters are the same deep green, increased by the reflection of the beautiful sloping banks, covered with luxuriant vineyards. The vines are trained on short upright poles, not on arbors as with us, and at a distance they look not unlike our corn fields. But the river is so narrow here that we seem to be in the midst of them, and enjoy the labors of the dressers, as they work in the sun. Now we are passing the old nunneries of Paradies, and Katherinethal, and that ancient castle above the town of Stein is Hohenlingen, once the abode of the masters of all this soil. Here is the island of _Reichenau_, where the remains of an ancient monastery are seen, and on the right as we are ascending is the castle of _Gottlieben_, where John Huss and Jerome of Prague were confined in gloomy dungeons from which they were dragged to trial and death. And this brings us to Constance. CHAPTER II. CONSTANCE AND ZURICH. A decaying Town--the Kaufhaus--Famous Council--Dungeon of Huss--Scene of Martyrdom--House of Huss--Lake Constance--the Ride to Zurich--Villages--the Valley--Hotel Baur--a Swiss Cottage--the Furnishing--Miles Coverdale--Zwingle--Lavater's Grave--the Library--Sunset View from the Botanical Garden. Forty thousand people once lived together within the walls of Constance. Now less than seven thousand are here. But the old and curious houses still stand, many of them without inhabitants, and the whole city apparently asleep at noonday as we entered. The historic interest hanging about Constance is very great, and will always render it attractive to the traveller. On the borders of the lake of Constance, and but a very few feet from the landing, we saw the _Kaufhaus_, built in 1338, and memorable as the place in which the great "Council of Constance" sat in 1414-18, whose decision for good and for evil were so momentous in the Church of Rome. We walked up the solid steps into the second story, one wide low room supported by heavy wooden pillars, and with a rough plank floor like that of a barn. Here, in this room, more than four hundred years ago were assembled from all parts of the Christian world, no less than thirty cardinals, four patriarchs, twenty archbishops, one hundred and fifty bishops, two hundred professors of theology, besides princes, ambassadors, civil and ecclesiastical, abbots, priors, and inferior churchmen. The chair in which the Emperor Sigismund sat, and the chair in which the Pope presided, stand as they stood then, and various relics of those times, historically associated with the Council, are gathered, forming a Museum of unusual interest. Before this council John Huss and Jerome of Prague were brought from their dungeons, and though the Council was assembled professedly to reform the church, it condemned these holy men to the flames. The old Cathedral is here, where those martyrs stood when the sentence of death was passed upon them, and the model of the dungeon not three feet wide and ten feet long, with the identical door and window in it, where Huss was confined for many weary months. Here too is the hurdle on which he was dragged to the place of execution, and when we had examined these and many interesting objects which a Catholic claiming to be the friend of Huss showed us, we walked out of the old chamber, and following the long street to the Huss Gate, found beyond the walls of the town, in the midst of a garden, the spot where these blessed men were caught up by chariots of fire into heaven. An old Capuchin convent, deserted now, is standing near it, and so peaceful and fertile seemed these fields as we stood in the midst of the fruits and flowers, it was hard to believe an infuriated mob had once rioted here, and religious persecution kindled the fires of martyrdom on the flesh of men of whom the world was not worthy. In the Council Chamber are wax figures of these martyrs, bearing the records which I copied. "Jerome of Prague, called Faulfisch, a learned man of great celebrity, the friend and defender of John Huss, born at Prague, March 14, 1362; burned alive in consequence of the order of the Council of Constance, May 30, 1417, in the 55th year of his age. Jerome walked to the place of punishment, as though he went to a place of rejoicing. When the executioner was going to set fire to the pile behind him, Jerome said to him, 'Come here, light it before me, for if I had feared the fire, I would not have been here.'" "John Huss, of Housenitts in Bohemia, born July 6, 1373, rector of the University and lecturer at Prague, burned alive at Constance in consequence of the order of the Council, July 6, 1415, in the 42d year of his age. His last words were, 'I resign my soul to the hands of my God and my Redeemer.'" Returning from the place of execution, we paused in front of the house in which John Huss lodged before he was imprisoned. A rude image in stone of the Reformer, but a strongly marked likeness, was on the outside. Every one we met could tell us which way to go to find the Huss house, and though there are but a few hundred Protestants in the whole city, the idea seemed to be general that a good man was wrongfully and cruelly murdered when Huss was burned. In the after part of the day, as the shades of evening were drawing around us, we had a boat and went out on the Lake, and skirted along its shores, passing a large monastery where a few brothers of the Augustine order are still maintained, and a few miles beyond is a long and beautifully planted nunnery which was suppressed in 1838, and converted into a hospital, though the sisters are permitted to live and die there, without adding to their number. This is the largest of all the Swiss lakes, and lies 1255 feet above the level of the sea. We floated around until the evening became so cool that we were glad to go ashore. Passing an ancient-looking church of which the door was standing open, we walked in: a solitary lamp was burning near the altar, and the sound of voices led us down the aisle to a door opening into one of the cloisters where a group of boys were on their knees, repeating prayers in concert, and vieing with each other in the loudness and sing-song tone with which they performed the service. We returned to our hotel by the light of lamps hung in the middle of a chain stretched across the street, and went early to bed as we were early to rise. _Aug. 17._--We went by diligence to Zurich to-day. The ride was pleasant. Some of the Swiss towns we passed through were very pretty, showing so much taste in the grounds about the houses, that one was sure there was a pleasant home. Part of the way was called the Roman road, and the remains of the ancient presence of that people are still visible. The river _Thur_ flows along in the valley of the road, and its banks are lined with frequent mansions. Chateaus of elegance are on the hill-sides, and just after leaving Constance we passed one in which the present Emperor of France once resided, and which still belongs to him. _Frauenfeld_ is a fine town where we paused to dine, and I there celebrated the day as an anniversary that I am quite sure was not forgotten elsewhere. _Winterthur_ is really a beautiful city. Its streets intersect one another at right angles, and each intersection has an arched gateway, surmounted by a tower with a clock. As we advance into Switzerland, the scenery becomes more commanding: now and then a sharp blue peak shoots up into the sky, and as the road descends we lose sight of it again, to see the same and others as we rise. At last as the day was closing, we came suddenly upon Zurich, the capital of the canton of the same name, the most thriving city in Switzerland, and rejoicing in the midst of one of the most beautiful valleys in the world. I should be deemed extravagant were I to speak of it as it appeared to me when descending through vineyards and gardens, and among elegant mansions, to the shores of the lake on which this city stands. The Hotel _Baur_ is the largest and best in the town, but it was crowded, and the gentlemanly landlord said the best he could do for us was to give us rooms in a private house adjoining his own. To this we assented with the more readiness, as it would bring us at once into the residence of the Swiss, and we could see more of their indoor life than the hotel would furnish. There is no carpet on the floor, except a beautiful square on which the centre-table with a pot of flowers is standing. A piano with music and books is on one side, a sofa covered with white dimity on the other. The chamber looks out on a square, and the windows fill the entire front of the room, but rich lace curtains hang before them, and some of the panes of glass are replaced with porcelain pictures of exceeding loveliness. Before the mirror is suspended a vase, like a pendant lamp, in which a plant is growing, with its leaves as on silver threads falling gracefully on every side of it. Another flower-pot has a plant trained upon a flat frame, in the centre of which is one of these porcelain pictures through which the light is streaming. Around the walls are many engravings in neat frames, and on the mantel and side-tables are various ornaments, chiefly curiously carved figures in wood, or beautiful glass-work, all displaying the taste of their possessor, and telling us all the time that these are the domestic precincts of some one who has let the lodgings for a season. These delicate cushions of pink silk with white lace edging, assure me that a lady is the rightful tenant; but I am tired, and shall slip into the linen sheets. Good night. _Aug. 18._--To-day we have been exploring Zurich, a city famous in the history of the Reformation and dear to every Protestant heart. Here the exiles of England, when Bloody Mary was on the throne, found a hiding-place from her bitter persecutions. Here the first entire English version of the Bible, by _Miles Coverdale_, was printed in 1535. From my window I see the cathedral where Zwingle, the soldier of the Reformation who resisted unto blood striving against sin, once thundered the wrath of heaven upon the abominations of the Church of Rome. Here is the house yet standing in which he passed the last six years of his noble life. The clock of St. Peter is now striking. This church had for its pastor for twenty-three years the celebrated _Lavater_, author of the work on Physiognomy. He was born here, and in the door of the parsonage which I visited to-day, he was shot by a brutal soldier, when the town was taken by the French in 1799. He had given wine and money to his murderer but a few minutes before: and though he lingered for three months, he refused to give up the name of the assassin to the French commander, who desired to punish the atrocious deed. I plucked a flower and a sprig of myrtle from his grave in the humble churchyard of St. Anne, where a simple tablet to his memory bears this inscription: "J. C. Lavater's Grave. Born 15th Nov. 1741. Died 2d Jan. 1801." In the town library of 45,000 volumes, admirably arranged, is a fine marble bust of Lavater, and also of Pestalozzi, with portraits of Zwingle and many other reformers. But I was more interested in reading several manuscript letters in Latin, by Lady Jane Grey, Joanna Graia, addressed to Bullinger. The beautiful execution of the writing, the quotations in Greek and Hebrew, the spirit they breathed, and the fate of their lovely author, gave them sacred interest. Here, too, in his own Bible is the family record of Zwingle and his wife Anna Bullinger; and many Greek and Arabic manuscripts which Dr. Raffles or Dr. Sprague would give a heap of guineas to get. It is said that the sunset view of the city, valley, lake, and mountains is not surpassed by any scene in Switzerland. We had been so busy in these old and interesting scenes, that the day was gone before we knew it, and as we walked out to climb the hill, from which the view is to be had, we feared the sun had already set. Part of the old rampart of the town remains, an elevated mound which has been tastefully laid out with walks and planted with shrubs and flowers, for a botanical garden. On the summit fine shade-trees stand, and here is one of the most beautiful promenades in the world. The sun was half an hour high, and just as we reached the hill-top it began to come down from behind a dense cloud, like a mass of molten gold distilled into a transparent globe. Its liquid form appeared to tremble as it came forth; but the face of nature smiled in his returning beams. The nearer summits first caught the brightness, and then the more distant, invisible before, now stood forth in their majesty, shining in the sunlight. Below me lay the lake like a silver sea. And all along its shores and far up the hill-sides, thousands of white cottages and villas, the abodes of wealth and peace and love, sweet Swiss homes, rejoiced in the sunshine, as they sent up their evening psalm of praise from ten thousand happy hearts to God. A hundred years hence our valleys may be so peopled: but we have none now like this. For a thousand years these hill-sides have been tilled, and all these acres, wrested from the forest, and subdued by the hand of industry and art, have been planted with corn and wine, neat and many splendid mansions have been reared in every nook and on every sunny slope, and now on all sides the panorama seems to present the very spot where learning, religion, taste and peace would delight to find a refuge and a home. It is now sunset in the valley. The lake is dark. The last ray has played on the spire of St. Peter and the Minster. But the dome of the Dodi still gleams in the sun, and the far-off Glarus and Uri are reflecting his lingering beams. They are gone. The rose-tints have faded from the loftiest summit of snow, and the sun has gone down to rise on those dearer to me than his light, in a distant land. CHAPTER III. THE MOUNTAIN TOPS. Climbing the Utleberg--Fat woman on a donkey--First Alpine view--The valley, lake and hills--Haunts of Lavater, Zimmerman, Klopstock, Gessner--The work of Escher--Coming Down--Baur Hotel--Lake Zurich--Lake Zug--Golda--Land-side--Ruin--Ascent of the Rigi--The best route--Chapels by the way--Mary of the Snow--Convent and monks--The Summit--The Company--Change of Temperature--Sunset--Supper--Night--Sunrise--Glory of the view--Getting down again--Fat man done up. August 19. Rankin challenged me this morning to walk to the heights of Utleberg, on the Albis ridge, to the west of Zurich. The Utleberg is only three thousand feet high! and that is a small matter in Switzerland. After a cup of coffee we set off at eight in the morning, and without guide or mules we wandered out of the town, across the river, and through beautiful vineyards, with luxuriant grapes, not ripe enough to be tempting. We climbed along up the hill-side. Other parties were on their way, some German, some French, some English, none American but ourselves. At the foot of the hill we met a flock of milk white goats, which their owner was driving down from the mountains to sell in town; beautiful creatures; for the first, we learned that beauty could be affirmed of a goat. Here the lame and the lazy supplied themselves with mules, and a comical figure of a fat German lady on a miserable little donkey, will be an amusing memory for many a day. When she was half way up the mountain she looked so jaded with the jerking, that we thought she would have suffered less if she had carried the donkey. We cut stout sticks in the forest, and pushed on, stopping now and then to pick flowers, or to examine a leech or a lizard, in the pools and streams by the side of the path, resting when tired, but pressing onward and upward, steadily and slowly; encouraged often by the splendor of the scene below, as we caught it from some opening in the woods, and feeling that we had the day before us and nothing else to do. The ascent became steeper as we pressed along, and it doubtless seemed steeper to us the more we were wearied with the way, but we made it in less than two hours, winding around the mighty rock that caps the apex, and entered the house of refreshment before we looked off into the world below. I had not felt myself in Switzerland till on this summit, we saw for the first time a real Alpine view. It has _points_ of view peculiar to itself, nationally characteristic; there is nothing got up on the same scale and the same plan in any other part of God's great world. Why it pleased him to heap these hills in such "confusion unconfused," in this little country, we do not know, but they who would see the most remarkable of his works in mountain-building, must come here and climb up to some of the highest peaks, where they can take in at once as much of the majesty of the scene as each man's mind can hold. Rankin and I reasoned some time on the question whether these lofty ranges were clouds in the heavens or mountains propping up the sky. Now the problem is solved. What we thought might be white clouds, are the snowy ridges of the distant hills, and the dark blue mountains are now facing us as from one height across the valley we see them without looking up. The vale of Zurich lies at our feet. The lake for twenty-five miles, and with a breadth of not more than three, stretches itself more like a river than a lake, through the valley to the south as far as we can see; and the hills rise very gradually from the water affording the most delightful grounds for vineyards; while scores of villages, each with its church spire, are scattered on each side, and between the villages so many dwellings are seen, that the whole valley, with its dense population, seems but one great family; certainly, it is one neighborhood, where industry, religion, intelligence and happiness, ought to flourish and have their reward. Thalwyl may be seen away to the south, near to which Lavater wrote a portion of his work on Physiognomy; and still farther on is Richtensweil, where Zimmerman lived, whose work on "Solitude" celebrates the praises of this spot. So does Klopstock in his ode, and Gessner, the Swiss poet, who was born in Zurich and has a monument reared to his memory in one of its delightful promenades. There, too, is Stafa, where Goethe once resided, and Rapperschuyl, with the longest bridge in the world, it is said, four thousand eight hundred feet, or three-fourths of a mile; but I think the Cayuga bridge is longer. There lies a beautiful islet, in which Ulrich Von Hutten, the friend of Luther, found a refuge and a grave. Look away to Usnach, and you see a valley out of which the river _Linth_ is flowing; connected with it is a remarkable story. Yesterday in the churchyard of St. Anne, we saw a massive rough stone, with a polished spot in the midst of it, on which was engraved in gilt letters, "Escher, Von der Linth," or Escher of the Linth. The title had plainly been given him for some work connected with the Swiss river of that name. Some thirty or forty years ago the river, coming down from the glaciers, and bringing with it a vast quantity of stones and soil, had become so much obstructed, that the valley was repeatedly overflowed, terrible pestilences followed, and the inhabitants swept off in great numbers. Conrad Escher suggested to the government the idea of digging a new bed for the river, and turning its waters off into another lake, the Wallenstadt, where its deposits would be received without injury. This lake he connected with that of Zurich by a navigable canal, and so complete was the success of all his suggestions, that he is looked upon as a national benefactor. Just there, at the opening of the valley, a tablet has been placed in the solid rock, with an appropriate inscription. But that is not all. Hard by it is an institution for the education of the poor of the canton, which is called after his name; and a factory where the Linth colony are at work, who were brought here and supported while the great work was in progress on which they were employed. Whichever way the eye turns from this point of observation, it finds something interesting or wonderful on which to rest. We are now in the morning of our tour in Switzerland, and have been assured again and again that this is _mere_ beauty, compared with the glory that awaits us hereafter. But those mighty mountains crowned with eternal snow, and piercing the very skies with their sharp peaks, or supporting the heavens with their broad white shoulders, are certainly most majestic works of God, and what more and greater there can be, it is beyond imagination to conceive. Not many travellers climb up here. They are in such haste to see the Rigi and the Passes, and the Vale of Chamouni, that they do not give a day to Zurich, the most classic and picturesque of any of the cantons of Switzerland. An English gentleman and lady are up here with me, who have just been traversing this whole country on foot. They are full of delight with the view, though they have seen everything else that is to be seen. The only incident to give variety to our return was losing the way, and making the walk a mile longer; but that was of small account to Swiss pedestrians, ambitious of doing great things, and making nothing of climbing a mountain, and coming down before dinner. We are at Zurich now. Mr. _Baur_ has the most elegant "Hotel and Pension" on the verge of the Lake of Zurich, that I have seen in Europe. He calls this, as well as the Hotel in front of the Post Office, after his own name, and gives them a degree of personal attention unequalled by any landlord into whose hands it was ever my pleasure to fall. In most of the hotels in Europe, the proprietor keeps himself out of sight, and trusts the entire management of affairs to his assistants, the head waiter being the most of a man you are ever able to find. Mr. Baur is everywhere at once: receives his guests on their arrival, makes himself acquainted with their wants, and sees that they are attended to without fail. His new house on the lake with a charming garden in front, is one of the most delightful places for a weary traveller to rest in for a few days. There are many routes to the Rigi. Of course we went by the best. Every traveller does; at least he thinks so, and that often amounts to the same thing. But in this as in every other road up hill in life, before a man gets half way up, he wishes he had taken the other. So it matters little, if he only reaches the top at last. The steamboat on the Zurigsee, leaves at eight in the morning, and at least a hundred passengers crowded the little thing, when with a lovely breeze and a fine clear day we were off for the Rigi. The glory of the Rigi is at sunset and sunrise, and then there is none unless the sky is clear. Nor are you sure of a clear sky up there, if it were ever so bright when you left the base. The group of mountains known by the name of Rigi, of which the highest peak is alone the object of interest to the traveller, stand so isolated by the lakes of Zug and Lucerne from the rest of the ridges and ranges, that the view from the summit, especially at the close of the day and at sunrise, is unequalled. It stands up there alone, as an observatory from which to see the others. An hour on the boat brought us to the village of Horgen, where we were carried by stages across the country to Zug, on a lake of the same name. At Horgen about sixty passengers were landed, and we found that our tickets had been numbered as they were given to us on board the boat, and we were to be seated in the coaches accordingly. My number was forty-seven, very near the end of the list, but it turned up a very good seat, on the shady side of the stage, a very important matter in the middle of a hot day for a ride of three hours. Not a winding but very much of a zig-zag road, led us over the hill country that divides the lakes. Sometimes we had delightful views, deep ravines through which the mountain streams were finding their way; on the crest, the Rigi and Pilatus first meet the eye, and then rapidly we make our way to the borders of the lake, on which stands the little town of Zug, the capital of the Canton of that name, the least among the tribes. After a hasty dinner at the tavern we embarked on another steamboat, and still smaller than the one on the Zurich Lake. What a lovely sheet of water is this Lake Zug! It lies eighteen hundred feet higher than the sea; and all around it except at the head, the richly cultivated shores are sloping away from the water's edge. But just before us, as we are going South, the noble Rigi rises from the shore of the Lake, and in the clear water the whole of that vast mountain clothed with verdure to the very summit is reflected so perfectly, that instead of looking up to study the ridges and precipices and forests and flocks on its rugged sides, it is pleasanter to study it as it lies there in the depths of this pellucid sea. We reached the South end, or head of the lake about three in the afternoon, and here we arranged to ascend the mountain. The ascent from Arth is made by many, but it is far better to push on through the village to Goldau, and there look at the evidences of the awful work of ruin and death that was wrought in 1806 by the slide of a large part of the Rossberg mountain; burying 450 human beings in one living grave. There is the fresh white side of the mountain, as if the half of it had fallen away yesterday. It is 5000 feet high; and lies in great strata of pudding stone, which is very liable to be split asunder by the water that filters between the layers. You can see the ranges in the strata as the sun falls on this bare side, and it seems as if what was left lying there, might one of these days come down to find the half that left it fifty years ago. Then a portion three miles long and a thousand feet broad and at least a hundred feet thick broke away from the rest, after a long succession of heavy rains; and came down into the valley, teeming with a population of happy peasantry, and overwhelmed them with the most awful deluge of modern times. So sudden was the rush of rocks and earth, that a party of travellers going up the Rigi, where I ascended, were met by the torrent; seven had passed on 200 yards ahead of the other four and were caught by the descending avalanche, and never seen again. The valley is now covered with vast rocks and masses of the conglomerate, which then came down, and with so much force that some of them now lie scattered some distance up the hill on the other side of the vale! Fifty years have not restored the valley to its former fertility and beauty. One of its lakes was nearly filled up, and now little pools are seen where once was the bed of a handsome sheet of water. The stories told of individual cases of suffering, of whole families perishing, and what is on some accounts more distressing, of some being taken and others left, are so many that I will not attempt to repeat them now. I walked into the beautiful little church at Goldau, a gem, and on each side of the front door is a black slab with a record of names of some of those who perished in that dreadful day. This is a Roman Catholic Canton, as I had evidence presently. A new scene opens on the eye of the traveller when for the first time he arrives at the foot of a mountain with a large party, and prepares to ascend. We led off on foot from Arth to Goldau, supposing that the fifty or more from the boat would strike up the hill immediately. But they followed us: some with guides, some without: some carrying their own packs, others with a servant to help them: some were ladies ready to foot it to the summit: some were to be carried in a chair on a bier by four bearers: the lame and the lazy are expected to ride on horses. I was in the former class to-day, recovered from my Utleberg tramp, and was glad to have good company to keep me in countenance, for I was a little ashamed of myself in taking a horse when so many, and some of them ladies, were going up on foot. The path for a mile is gently ascending, and then takes a shaded gorge in the hills, and on this account is greatly to be preferred to those paths which lead from Arth and Weggis, around the mountain, exposing the pilgrim all the way, to the rays of the sun. Now we are mounting steadily: turning frequently in the saddle to look at the constantly enlarging and ennobling view. Now and then a little cascade diversifies the hour: or we stop to refresh ourselves from the many rills that are gurgling by the path. The noise of running streams and waterfalls is constantly heard, and on the stillness of the air the tintinabula or tinkling of the bells on the necks of the dun-colored cows, that are feeding in numerous herds all up the sides of the mountain, comes gently to the ear as soft music. All along up the mountain are small sheds, called chapels or stations, with some rude image of the Saviour in it, and pilgrims, to whom indulgences were promised by the Pope in the seventeenth century, are going from one to the other stopping at each and saying their prayers. I dismounted and entered one; where the most hideous sight met my eye which I have yet seen in the miserable Romish worship. A full life size figure of Christ sinking to the earth beneath the weight of the cross is carved in wood; the countenance indicating agony, but such a horrid face to personate the Saviour! and a wig on his head of long dirty hair hanging over his shoulders! It was sickening, and I was glad to hasten away from it, as rapidly as possible. These praying stations, thirteen in number, lead on to a neat church called "Mary of the Snow," and around it are lodging-houses for pilgrims who are very numerous in the month of August. A small convent is here, where four or five monks of the Capuchin order reside; they do service in the church, and among the mountains where their priestly aid is required. These lodging-houses are sometimes resorted to by invalids for the benefit of the mountain air, and the whey of goat's milk, which can be had in great abundance here. Beggars beset your path from the valley to the mountain top: old men and old women, young men and young women, and little children trained to toddle into the road and put out their hand before they can speak so as to be understood. Many of these are not in want; but every bit of money that can be extracted from travellers is clear gain. The steepest of the ascent is over, long before you reach the summit, and the last mile of winding way is a very easy and pleasant ride. The change of atmosphere is great; and an overcoat is needed at once, if you are warm with walking. Fortunately you have had no chance to get the view for some time, till it bursts upon you all at once as you plant your feet on the mountain top, on a piece of table-land, of half an acre, that forms a magnificent platform from which to behold this scene. More than two hundred people are there before us: most of them parties travelling for pleasure from all parts of the civilized world, with guides, couriers and servants, a singular group to find yourself among so suddenly and so far above the level of "the world and the rest of mankind." One large hotel, and one small one are to shelter this company for the night, and we are so fortunate as to find that we are to have a small room with three beds, just under the roof, with holes about the size of a hat to admit light and air! That is better than none, and some of these people will have none. Still the two hotels on the summit, and one half an hour down, the Rigi Staffel, afford abundant accommodations to company, unless as in the present instance, the weather has been bad for a week, and hundreds have been waiting for a fair day, and the promise of a good night above. The Album of the house in which visitors register their names records the disappointment of many who have climbed up to see nothing but that mysterious mist which so often shrouds the mountain tops. Probably the greater part of visitors are thus mocked, for it is cloudy up here more than half the time. One party thus groans: "Seven weary up-hill leagues we sped, The setting sun to see; Sullen and grim he went to bed, Sullen and grim went we. Nine sleepless hours of night we passed The rising sun to see, Sullen and grim he rose again, Sullen and grim rose we." Not such was our fate. The sun was half an hour high when we reached the highest peak; and the first Alpine panorama was around us. Other views had been partial: this was a great circle of the heavens and the earth, three hundred miles in circumference! A few clouds in the western sky were gorgeously crimson in the declining sun, but the atmosphere was clear enough to reveal every mountain, every lake, every village, city, forest and plain, with the cottages innumerable, dotting the valleys. At our feet the Lakes of Lucerne and Zug are apparently underneath the mountain, and they stretch themselves so curiously among the hills, that we can scarcely determine to what sheets of water they belong, or whether they are new lakes and not those seen before. And away at a distance are other waters, some of them very small, but giving beauty and variety to the plains below. The villages lying close by have their historic interest. All this region is William Tell's. His name is associated with many a spot on which the eye is resting. A neat little chapel is built to mark the place where he shot his oppressor Gessler. Here at the right is the Lake and town of Zug, and just behind it, rises the spire of the church of Cappel, where Zwingle fell on the field of battle. But turning from the views at the West and North, and looking to the South and East, and such a prospect of Alps on Alps is seen as no one had believed could be piled into sight from a single point. The Bernese Alps clothed in perpetual robes of snow; those of Unterwalden and Uri, with the dull blue glaciers in the midst of them; sending up the peaks of Jungfrau, the Titlis, Rothstock and Bristenstock, are directly in front, and on to the Eastward, is the broad white head of the Dodi, the Sentis and the Glarish; but these are a few only of the many named and unnamed that are now reflecting the sunset from their white crowns, or retiring into the shades of evening as the sun goes down. We look to the South East into an opening called the Muotta Thal, where Suwarrow and Massena with their hostile armies fought bloody battles in the midst of fearful crags and precipices, and we wonder that this land of mountains and ice has been selected as the scene for so much warfare and blood. The sun was now sinking to the edge of the horizon. A lady standing near me said, "It is fit to light such a scene as this!" There was a fitness between the sun and the scene that was truly striking and glorious. The hum of the hundred voices was hushed. It was also fit that we should be still while the sun took his last look of our world that night. It is for a wonder to me that Switzerland has produced so few poets, but not strange that some of the noblest strains of English poetry have been penned under the inspiration of these Alpine views. They awaken a train of emotions so profoundly new, and at the same time so elevating and sublime, that the heart wishes to utter itself in the passionate language of poetry rather than in the duller words of prose. "These are thy works," O God: before the mountains were built, and before the hills, thou wert here. Thou didst "prepare the heavens, the earth, the fields, and the highest part of the dust of the world." Thou hast weighed the Alps in a balance, and held these mountains in the hollow of thy hand. They shall flow down at thy presence, when thou comest to shake terribly the earth. They stand now, because thou, Lord, dost hold them up, for giants as they are, and touching thy heavens, they still lean on thee. During this half hour of observation on the summit of the Rigi, we had been wrapped in our cloaks to protect us from the cold. As soon as the sun was gone, we were glad to go into the house, where a table for a hundred guests was spread, with a hot supper sufficient for half the number; and before ten o'clock we were sound asleep. Those who could not find beds spent the night in the dining hall, entertaining themselves and disturbing the rest, but we were so far above them that we heard nothing till the blast of a wooden horn rung through the halls, informing us that the sun would be up before us if we did not hasten to meet him. We hurried on our clothes, wrapped up warmly, and in a few moments stood with our faces to the East, intently watching, like worshippers of the Sun, the first signs of his coming. One single peak was precisely between us and the sun, and as the earliest tints of the morning began to redden it, the appearance was not unlike that of a kindling fire in the summit. The blaze gathered around it, and seemed to shoot away into the regions of ice and snow; and then far into the clouds above, the bright hues of day were cast, and the crowd stood still, anxious to enjoy the first view of the emerging sun. The horn was blown again by the trumpeter, a miserable mode of announcing that the King was coming, as if he needed a herald as he rode up the East in his chariot of gold and fire. There was just haze enough in the atmosphere to dim the sun of his dazzling brightness, and we could look steadily on his face as he rose behind the mountain, and seemed to pause on the summit, and calmly to look down on the world he had left in darkness a few hours before. Then peak after peak, and mountain ridges, and domes and minarets, fields of fresh snow, and forests of living green, began to catch the morning tints: gorges in the hill sides would lie there in deep shadow, and bosoms of virgin snow, bared to the rising sun, would blush when he looked in upon them, while villages and hamlets in the vale below are still wrapped in the shades of the gray dawn, and have not thought of waking yet to begin another day. We spent an hour or two in the enjoyment of this magnificent prospect, which we are told is one of the most delightful we are to have in Switzerland; and when the sun was fairly up to the dwellers in the vale as well as to us on the mountain top, we turned our backs upon him, took a cup of coffee in the Rigi Culm, and bade farewell to the most splendid of all the prospects we had ever seen, or expect to see on earth. I am greatly moved in the presence of Niagara; and there have formed impressions of the active power and glory of the great Creator, such as are conveyed by no other of the works of God. But now I am looking on the silent evidence of his creating might in a new and wonderful form; and it seems to me but a short step from those shining glaciers and snow-crowned palaces to the central throne of Him who sitteth in the circle of the heavens. "O Lord God of Hosts, who is a strong Lord like unto thee? The heavens are thine: the earth also is thine; as for the world and the fulness thereof, thou hast founded them: the north and the south thou hast created them; Tabor and Hermon shall rejoice in thy name. Thou hast a mighty arm; strong is thy hand, and high is thy right hand." As we had ascended the Rigi from Goldau, on the eastern side, we now went down on the western to Weggis. We were in no haste: the day was before us, and we had nothing to do but to walk till we were tired, choose a shady spot commanding a fine view of the lake of Lucerne and the surrounding hills, and then rest and enjoy the scene. The bells from the herds of cattle far below us, and sometimes above us, and the strains of music from the villages in the vales, would come floating to us on the morning air, while nature with all her voices was making one rich psalm. The descent is far less fatiguing than climbing up, but when continued for two or three hours it becomes exceedingly exhausting. We provided ourselves with pike staffs having a Chamois horn for a head, and with these we resisted the too constant downward tendency, using them as a drag to a wheel, and making the greatest effort to hold back. On this path to or from the Rigi is a boarding and bathing house, over a spring of very clear cold water to which invalids resort; and as walking on the mountain side for an hour or so after bathing is part of the discipline, I have no doubt that the establishment works many wonderful cures. A chapel of the Holy Virgin is close by, where prayers are daily said for the shepherds on the precipices, whose lives are in constant danger while they pursue the duties to which they are trained. Half an hour below the chapel, the path leads through a mighty archway formed by two huge masses of rock supporting a third between them. Some great convulsion of nature has thrown them into this remarkable position, and they show in their make the nature of all the upper strata of these hill sides, which are in constant danger of sliding down when the water works its way under them, and separates them from the lower. Here we sat down and refreshed ourselves: a cool breeze rushing through the passage, and making a delightful resting place for weary travellers. I said it was easier far to go down than up. So it is, but one who carries much weight, or who has not considerable powers of endurance should be cautious of making the experiment. A very heavy gentleman who came to the foot of the mountain with us yesterday, and rode up, with his son, a fine lad of fourteen, running along by the side of the horse, attempted to come down on foot. We overtook him; and just then he lay down on the grass by the side of a beautiful spring of water: he was exhausted, and had sent his son down for help. Presently the faithful and noble boy came running up the mountain with a bottle of wine and a loaf of bread, and soon four stout men with a chair, whom the lad had outstripped, came on, and the heavy gentleman was carried by hand the rest of the way. I met them afterwards at the foot of the hill, and congratulated the father on his safe arrival; and more on being the father of such a boy. CHAPTER IV. LUCERNE AND THE LAND OF TELL. The Lake--Avalanches--Pontius Pilate--Lucerne--Dance of Death--Fishing--Storm on the Lake--Ramble among the Peasantry--Two Dwarfs--On the Lake--Rifle Shooting--Chapel of William Tell--Scenes in his Life--Altorf--Hay-Making--a Great Day. In the Hotel de la _Concorde_, the "house of peace," I found a pleasant chamber on the edge of the Lake of Lucerne; and so near that in its lucid waters I can from my window see the large fish chasing and devouring the little ones, just as big fish on land are doing everywhere. In front, the lofty Pilatus rises in heavy grandeur, and the Buochsherhorn and Stauzerhorn are in full view, with other peaks all white with snow, while it is oppressively hot below. I spent the day here at the foot of the mountain. There is no life in this little settlement except when the boat arrives with travellers for the Rigi: the mountain comes down so suddenly to the shore that there is hardly room for dwellings, and a few inhabitants only are scattered along on the water's edge. But it is on the shore of the most enchanting lake in Europe, and at a point where some of the finest views of this lake are to be had. We sat on the bank to see the sun set, a sight of which one never tires; hundreds of travellers have passed up or down the Rigi to-day, and of that whole number we are the only two who have cared to rest here to study and admire the scenery, and at the same time refresh ourselves for future pilgrimages. There was a crash among the mountains just now: at first we thought it the noise of a steamboat on the lake, but the roar became quickly greater, and we knew that it was an avalanche of ice or of rocks that had come down the side of old Pilatus. It was the first that we had heard, and were very willing that the quiet of our evening should be thus disturbed. Then as if nothing were to be wanting to make the enjoyment of this scene perfect, the clouds marshaled themselves about the Buochsherhorn and played off their lightnings around his head; while torrents of rain came down on the lake below us, and the snow fell in sheets on the loftier mountains in the South. This lake is subject to sudden visitations of storms, and is therefore dangerous for skiffs unless under the guidance of the native boatmen, who know the signs of the weather, and put in for shore when they apprehend the approach of a gale. The hoary mountain _Pilatus_ is said to have derived its name from Pontius Pilate, who was driven away from Rome, became a wretched wanderer here in this wild land, and finally in the horrors of a guilty conscience plunged from one of the crags of this mountain into the lake and perished. From its peculiar position and great height, 7,000 feet above the sea, and the foremost in the Alpine chain at the North, the clouds delight to gather about it, and so many are the storms which come down from this point, the superstitious dwellers on the shores for a long time supposed that poor Pilate was at the bottom of them all, and the lake would never be safe till his troubled spirit was put to rest. From the summit of the Rigi, the seven towers of Lucerne had caught my eye, but they and the city they overlook and defend, appeared more beautiful and exceedingly picturesque as I approached them by water from Weggis. The old wall, of which the gates and towers are still remaining, surrounds the land side of the town, which stands on a side hill rising gradually from the water; and all outside of the wall the hill is dotted with handsome dwellings embosomed in orchards and rich meadow lands; a picture of quiet beauty and a spot for classic repose that a weary man might almost be pardoned for coveting. The town itself has no pretensions to taste in its architecture, but for beauty of situation on the most attractive of all the Swiss lakes, it is without a rival. The hotels are on the borders of the lake at the very landing, and the lofty Pilatus on the right, the Rigi on the left, and the far loftier and more majestic heights of the Alps in the cantons of Schwytz and Uri are lying in full view of the _Swan_ Hotel, where I lodged, a capital house, which I cordially commend. We have been exploring the town to find what of interest may be in it, though it is scarcely worth while for any man to look down for a moment while he is in Switzerland, unless he is on the top of a hill. But Lucerne has one peculiar feature of interest, in its covered bridges adorned with curious paintings. In Berlin a gallery for the fine arts was opened over a stable, and some poet ridiculed the idea by suggesting the inscription "Musis et mulis," to the Muses and mules; but the Lucerne people had the singular fancy of making their bridges over the River Reuss, which divides their town in two, the repository of paintings, some of them possessed of no artistic merit, and all of them more or less injured now by the weather. The bridges are roofed, and under the roof, about ten feet apart, these pictures in triangular frames are fastened up, so that the foot passenger, (no carriages are allowed,) may study them as he walks along. One series illustrates scenes in Swiss history--another on the reverse of the same canvass, the exploits of the patron saints of the town. These are on the Kapell-Bridge which starts near the Swan Hotel, and runs across the very rapid river Reuss, which here emerges from the lake. The Mill-bridge, lower down the river, has a very rude imitation of the paintings of the "Dance of Death," a series of pictures that are so often attempted, we may be sure they once had power on the minds of men. The originals are destroyed with the exception of the few fragments at Basle. The doggerel verse into which the German text is translated, is about equal in artistic excellence to the painting. The most remarkable bridge which Lucerne once boasted was across the end of the lake, but it has now been removed, the waters crowded back by the hand of art, and the large hotels now stand on the site of the old Hof-Bruche. In the arsenal is a sacred deposit of old armor, and relics of more than doubtful authenticity, including the sword of William Tell, and the battle-axe which it is said the Reformer Zwingle carried in his hand on the field where he fell. A stranger may look at these and a hundred other curiosities, with some interest, if he has not been already surfeited, as I am, with the same sort of thing. [Illustration: THE MONUMENT AT LUCERNE.] They have one lion here that _is_ a lion--one of the noblest monuments and magnificent designs that I have seen in Europe. We passed through the Weggis Gate, and by a shaded pleasant walk in the private grounds of General Pfyffer, came to a lonely, lovely dell. On one side of it a huge precipice presents a bare rock face from which the water trickles into a little lake at the base. This rock is fringed on the sides and over the brow with shrubbery and trees, a graceful drapery, and in the solid side of the rock the figure of a dying lion is carved out of the same stone. A broken spear sticks in his side, and the blood oozes from the wound. The agony of death is in his face, but his paw rests on a shield with the arms of France, which even in death he is determined to defend. This monument was designed by the great Thorwalsden, but was executed by Ahorn, a sculptor of Constance, to commemorate the bravery of the Swiss guards who were slain at Paris while defending the Bourbons in the Revolution of 1792. This lion is nearly thirty feet long, and in just proportions, making an impressive monument better than the deed deserves. A representative of the Swiss guard wearing his uniform, is present to expound the design to those who are not quick at finding "sermons in stones." A cool delightful walk of fifteen minutes from this sequestered spot brought us into the grounds of a little convent, pleasingly situated on the sloping banks, and among cultivated fields, now fragrant with new-mown hay. An aged priest came by, and taking off his hat politely saluted us as we passed. We paused at the door of the chapel; a single lamp was burning before the altar, and one lonely nun was on her knees performing her evening devotions. It was not in our hearts to disturb the calm current of her thoughts, as she was gazing on the picture of her Saviour, and we did not enter. So sweetly and gracefully did the villas lie among the green fields and fruit trees, with the lake in front of them and the snowy Alps on the other side of it, full in view, but far enough to be in another clime, that I felt very much like setting up a little convent there on a new plan, and sending over the sea, for the community to people it. _Aug. 24._--We had a storm on the Lake this evening. For two or three days the weather had been very hot, so much so that I was not disposed to go tramping, even for the sake of climbing up a hill into a colder atmosphere. We had been lying off, too lazy to write, or to read. So we went a fishing after dinner. The Apostles went fishing. They fished all night, and caught nothing: we fished all the afternoon and had the same success. Just before nightfall, the wind began to blow all of a sudden as if it had broken out in a new place. It blew all ways at once. The little skiffs that were out on the Lake pulled in for shore with all haste; and in less time than I have taken to tell of it, the scene of calm beauty which the Lake had presented, was changed to that of an angry tempest-tossed sea. The whole valley was filled with black, fierce clouds. Rigi was clothed with thunder. Pilatus was totally obscured. The storm was coming from his quarter, confirming the superstition of the natives, that his troubled spirit stirs the tempest. Through a single break in the clouds I could see the sunshine playing among the valleys away to the south, while darkness and gloom were all around us. The contrast was striking and peculiar to this region, where the sudden elevation of the mountains makes the transitions from one temperature to another rapid. On the bosom of the Lake the reflections of the clouds were exceedingly curious, giving almost as many colors as the rainbow that now began to appear on the Rigi. It was a beautiful bow. No rain had yet fallen here; but there on the side of that noble mountain on whose summit I had spent the night, the blessed bow was resting; so pure, so glorious, so full of sweet suggestions of God's promise, that I looked on it as on the face of a friend in a strange land. It is just such a bow as they have in America. The same sun and the same showers make it, and the same God hangs it out there, the sign of his faithfulness, the token of his love. Who can be afraid of a storm when the rainbow appears? But it faded, as all bright things fade, and the dark clouds grew darker, and a heavy clap of thunder in the west shook the Alps, and another: not preceded by a streak of chain lightning leaping like a red serpent in the clouds, but by a broad lurid sheet of fire, filling the atmosphere, and then suddenly vanishing into darkness. The rain now came down in sheets; the wind blew with increasing power, and for a few moments it did indeed appear as if the prince of the powers of the air had been suffered to reign, and he was doing his worst while he was left unchained. The ignorance of the people could readily be imposed upon, when such scenes as this are frequent; and I am told, in former times so strictly was the ascent of Mount Pilatus forbidden, lest a storm should be provoked by the intrusion, that a Naturalist, Gessner, had to obtain a special license to pursue his investigations there. The storm was of short duration. The hundreds, induced by the clear bright morning to go to the summit of Rigi for a sunset and a sunrise, found it was not the entertainment to which they were invited. In full view from my window, though five hours distant, I can see where the clouds cap his head, the rain is pouring there in torrents, the western and eastern sky is enveloped in mists that obscure all view of the sun, and more than half of the time, there is as little to be seen from the summit of Rigi, as in a cellar. The sun is shining brightly now on the lake near me, and a great fleece, as if a thousand flocks had yielded theirs for a robe, is thrown over the crown of the mountain, making a veil that no glass can see through. The next morning we set off for a walk into the country. The landlord of the Swan assured us it would be a pleasant day, and as this prediction was made at the risk of losing two guests in consequence, we were bound to respect his judgment. We resolved to make an expedition into the country behind Lucerne, cross some of the spurs of the mountains, come around by the foot of old Pilatus, and so return to our lodgings. The whole walk would be only about twelve or fifteen miles, and if we should lose our way and make it a little longer, why so much the better. It was just eight in the morning as we left and wandered slowly through the streets with our Alpen-stocks or pike staffs in hand. We paused at a church door or two, and looked in, where a few were paying their silent devotions before the altar, with a single burning lamp, and passing out of the gate underneath one of the seven old feudal towers, we took the bank of the river Reuss, and walked by a pleasant path, expecting every moment to find a bridge, as our road was to lead us off to the west, and we must cross the stream to reach it. I asked a little girl, tending two babies in a cottage door, if there was any bridge in that direction, and her ready answer "Nein," or _no_, sent us about in a hurry. Here was the first mile thrown away, and retracing our steps, we crossed at the bridge near the wall, and taking the high road toward Berne, were soon in the midst of rural Swiss valley scenery. A path for a mile or more on the bank of the river, shaded by a row of fine trees, led along by the side of the carriage road, but we kept the track, having little desire to miss it again. Three miles of easy walking brought us past the village of Lindau to a bridge over a deep and frightful gorge, through which a mountain stream is rushing, fifty or sixty feet below the bridge. Here it is compressed in one place to a passage it has worn for itself through the solid rock, and not more than three feet wide, but the bed of the ravine gives evidence that the torrent when swollen with melting snows in early summer, or by heavy rains, may be terrible, so that this massive bridge, though very short, is required to resist its force. The sides of this ravine were so precipitous that we did not attempt the descent: but finding a path up the mountain, and learning from a peasant whom we met that it would take us over into a vale, we struck into it, and climbed. The roots of trees in some places made a flight of steps up which we walked, and all the way it was so steep that to get on required resolution and wind. But the ascent though sharp was very short, and in a few minutes we reached a well made winding way, that led us into a lovely vale. Thirsty if not weary, we called at the door of a little dwelling and asked for milk. The farmer and his wife were sitting on wooden benches by a table, taking their meal; what meal it was we could not determine, as it was ten o'clock in the morning; too late for breakfast, too early for dinner. They had an earthen pot of weak coffee or something of the same color, and pieces of brown bread which they dipped in and ate, taking a drink of the fluid now and then, and apparently enjoying their frugal meal. The old woman gave me a "Yah" in answer to my request for milk, and taking a glass tumbler from a closet, she wiped the dust out of it with her fingers, and going into a dark room, the dairy likely, she brought me a draught of as sweet milk as ever wet the lips of man or boy. The cottage was not clean, I am sorry to say it. I looked up a flight of stairs, and the appearance of things there did not suggest to me the idea of taking lodgings, but giving the woman a bit of silver for which she thanked me in German, we walked on, refreshed with the milk and the moment's rest while getting it. A little farther on, and a fine mansion with castellated towers, stood on the rising hill commanding a wide prospect of mountain scenery, but the road did not lead us near to it. Perhaps the proprietor of the valley has his home up there, and the tenants below may not be thriving: certainly it looks as if wealth, state, comfort, and elegance were in those old halls and having had milk in the cottage, I presume we might have wine in the mansion. We soon lost sight of every sign of a dwelling, and walked on through a pine forest, the saddest of all forests to tread in: the sighing of the air through the tree tops making a music "mournful to the soul." A water course, in hollowed logs carried through the woods, led on to a mill by the way-side, into which we entered to see a novel operation, and as queer a little miller as any body ever saw. The water turned an overshot wheel outside of the mill, and this turned two large wooden cog wheels, which raised two beams and let them fall, up and down, upon pine bark, which was thus pounded up fine enough to be used for tanning. But the miller who fed the mill with the bark was a man dwarf about three feet high, well enough proportioned, a stout healthy fellow, forty years old. He looked up and laughed us a good morning, and went on with his work, which made such a noise that it was useless to converse. And just as we left the mill we met a woman not more than three feet long, so nearly the same age and size, we could not but think they might be another remarkable pair of twins, who would have made the fortune of any body bringing them to America for exhibition. We were now in a manufacturing valley. The fine water power was improved to drive looms in a mill where twenty girls were weaving, and when we passed, which was at eleven o'clock, they all quit for dinner, and trooped by us in rows of six abreast: hearty looking girls with no hats on, their hair braided, and hanging in two strips half way to their feet. They seemed to be very happy among themselves, and modest and well behaved as we walked along with them for a while. Other establishments for working iron were in the same neighborhood, and a village called _Kriens_, had some beautiful houses in it--one of them with twelve windows in a row in front, and three stories high, a fine mansion; and all of them were surrounded with flower gardens, tended with care, and glowing with splendid dahlias, and other flowers. The best houses I have yet seen in Switzerland are covered instead of clapboards, with small, round-end shingles, put on so neatly as to look like scollop shell work. So we walked from one to another hamlet, studying life in these secluded places, where the habits of the people are quite as unsophisticated as if they had never been a mile from home--the children did not know of such a place as Lucerne, though not five miles off--but there was peace, order, thrift, and contentment--the mountains rise suddenly from behind their dwellings, and shelter them from the winds, and God watches them in the winter when the deep snow fills this vale, and they are as contented as if they knew that people live on the other side of the hills. Some of the cottages were beautifully covered with grape vines, trained between the windows, and giving them an appearance of luxurious growth, that might be adopted in our country far more than it is. The vine thus cultivated occupies no space that could otherwise be used, and is an ornament and protection, while it yields delicious and abundant fruit. Our walk this morning of five hours brought us through this valley and back to Lucerne by one o'clock, and if there had been any good reason for it, we could have done a dozen miles more toward night. We had been brought more immediately into contact with the country people, and saw more of their way of life, than we would in a month of travel on the thoroughfares. None of the places we visited are even named in the guide books, and we thus had the pleasure of breaking out of the beaten path, and finding one that was new and interesting. _Lake of the Four Forest Cantons._ Lake Lucerne is called the Lake of the Four Forest Cantons, a longer but a very appropriate name, as its shores are washed by four and only four of the Cantons of Switzerland--Lucerne, Uri, Unterwalden, and Schwytz. Above all the lakes of the country, and perhaps of the world, it is distinguished for the majesty of its scenery and the grandeur of its historical associations. Speaking of the classic history of the lake and mountains around it, Sir James McIntosh says: "It is upon this that the superiority of the lake of Lucerne to all other lakes, or as far as I know, to all other scenes upon earth, depends. The vast mountains rising on every side, and closing at the end, with their rich clothing of wood, the soft spots of verdant pasture scattered at their feet, and sometimes on their breast, and the expanse of water unbroken by islands, and almost undisturbed by any signs of living men, make an impression which it would be foolish to attempt to convey by words. The only memorials which would not disgrace such a scene as those of past ages renowned for heroism and virtue, and no part of the world is more full of such venerable ones." The shores of this lake are the scenes of William Tell's illustrious deeds, and the theatre also of modern deeds of valor not surpassed by those of ancient times. It was the contemplation of the moral as well as the physical sublime in this region, that led the same elegant author to write: "The combination of whatever is grandest in nature, with whatever is pure and sublime in human conduct, affected me more powerfully in the passage of this lake, than any scene which I had ever seen. Perhaps neither Greece nor Rome would have had such power over me. They are dead. The present inhabitants are a new race who regard with little or no feeling the memorials of former ages. This is perhaps the only place in our globe where deeds of pure virtue, ancient enough to be venerable, are consecrated by the religion of the people, and continue to command interest and reverence. No local superstition so beautiful and so moral anywhere exists. The inhabitants of Thermopylae or Marathon know no more of those famous spots than that they are so many square feet of earth. England is too extensive a country to make Runnymede an object of national affection. In countries of industry and wealth the stream of events sweeps away these old remembrances. The solitude of the Alps is a sanctuary destined for the monuments of ancient virtue; Grutli and Tell's chapel are as much reverenced by the Alpine peasants as Mecca by a devout Musselman; and the deputies of the three ancient cantons met, so late as 1715, to renew their allegiance and their oaths of eternal union." Filled with such emotions as these and fresh from the perusal of these fine passages I left Lucerne on a lovely morning in August, the atmosphere pleasantly cooled by the previous storms, and now a glorious cloudless sky hanging over this mountain sea. On a little island, and strange to say the only island in the lake, a monument of wood once stood to the memory of William Tell, but it was struck by lightning and has disappeared. Near it the bay of Kussnacht sets up, where is a chapel to mark the spot on which the arrow from Tell's unerring bow drank the heart's blood of his enemy and tyrant Gessler; and a ruined castle said to have been the prison to which Tell was destined when he made his memorable escape of which we shall soon speak. But the boat put up into another bay on the other side under old Pilatus and landed passengers who were taken into the small boats which ply continually among these bays, and distribute the passengers at the several points from which they would make their excursions into the country. Pilatus rises in gloomy grandeur from the very shores of the water, and its bifurcated peak soon is lost sight of, while but one presents itself. Rugged, barren and uninviting as it is, there are those who yet make the ascent, and from this landing, though the ascent is far more difficult, and the view from the summit far less satisfactory than the Rigi. We now returned to Kussnacht bay; and if the great shooting match which occurred last Monday had been coming off to-day, we would go ashore to see it. Once a year the marksmen of the canton assemble for a trial of their skill with the rifle, and there is also an annual festival, when the best from all the cantons assemble for the federal shooting match. With music and banners and processions, with garlands and arches of victory and feasting and drinking, they keep up this custom from generation to generation; and the riflemen of the Swiss and Tyrol mountains, like their ancestors of the bow, have no rival. The military displays were very miserable. Having just come from France, Prussia, and Austria, where the army was evidently the pet of governments, and the curse of the people, I was pleased to see that the Swiss had no need of armies, and the military procession was sorry enough. But the music was stirring, and the Swiss feel it a part and parcel of their patrimonial inheritance, to be roused by its strains to noble deeds, or melted to tenderness by its subduing power. The lake had assumed to the eye, when looking down upon it from one slope of the Rigi, the form of an X, and now the two promontories that divide it come within a mile of each other, and are called the Noses, which we pass, and enter the bay of Brochs, where the Horn of that name and Stawzer rear their lofty heads. We touched at Bechenried, and then swept the width of the lake again to _Gersau_, a little cluster of houses at the foot of a gently-receding hill, one of the most remarkable spots of land in the whole world, in the fact that for four hundred years the people of this village, shut out from the rest of mankind by these mighty ramparts of mountains, and having but three miles long and two wide of territory, maintained an independent democratic government of their own. The French invasion of 1798 destroyed their freedom by uniting them to the Canton Schwytz. The mountain-side is covered with orchards, in the midst of which neat cottages nestle sweetly. All the land they have has been washed down from the mountains, and it would not be strange if trees and cottages and people should one day be washed into the lake together. Such a calamity would carry off the old gallows, still standing, but which the government had no occasion to use during its independent existence. Here the scenery of the lake becomes in the highest degree sublime. We stop for a moment at Brunnen, where goods are deposited that are to go over the Alps by St. Gothard into Italy, and on one of the warehouses you see three men painted in bold colors, and their names affixed, the heroes who with Tell achieved the deliverance of Switzerland in 1315. On this spot the alliance was formed between the three cantons of Uri, Unterwalden and Schwytz. Now the vast mountains rise more perpendicularly from the lake: a solitary rock stands a few feet from the shore on the promontory opposite, and passing it we seem to be issuing into a new lake altogether. Away on the ledges, or table land on the heights, stands a little church, and a few dwellings are scattered around, but we lose sight of them, and are now in the midst of a solitude of water, mountain, snow and sky, the grandeur and sublimity of which it is equally impossible for me to exaggerate or describe. No road, not even a footpath can be made along the base of these rocky mountains that literally stand in the water, and thence rear their heads so far into the upper air that the fields of snow lie there in full view, forever whitening in the sun. A little recession from the shore gives lodgment for soil enough to make a secluded bosom in the hills; and this _oasis_ is a sacred spot in Swiss history, for here in the dead of night, the three confederates met to form their plans to deliver their country from the Austrian yoke. This is Grutli, and every American who passes the spot will feel a sympathetic thrill of joy to look on the birth-place of a country's freedom. Nearly opposite to Grutli, the steamboat slackens its speed, and moves slowly and solemnly by a small chapel, with an open front, and filled with rude paintings of scenes in Swiss history. This chapel is to commemorate the spot where Tell leaped ashore from the boat in which the tyrant Gessler was conveying him from Altorf to his dungeon in Kussnacht. A storm came up with such fury that Gessler, being frightened, and his oarsmen failing, ordered the chains to be taken off from Tell, that he might guide the skiff ashore. He ran it to this rock, leaped ashore, and made his escape. Before the despot reached his castle, Tell had waylaid him and sent an arrow to his heart. This chapel was "built in 1388, by the Canton of Uri, only thirty-one years after Tell's death, and in the presence of one hundred and fourteen persons who had known the hero. Once a year, mass is said, and a sermon preached in the chapel to the inhabitants of these borders, who repair hither in boats, forming an aquatic procession." We were at the head of the lake in a few minutes. I was willing that it should be extended for hours, but the little village of Fluellen was reached, and here we go ashore. The village stands in a marsh, which is formed at the entrance of the river Reuss into the lake, and in consequence the people are subject to goitre and cretinism, those terrible diseases so peculiar to this country. It is not desirable to stay here any longer than is necessary to get away; and there is nothing to attract the stranger. We took the first carriage we found, and rode on to _Altorf_. At the hotel two young women came out to receive us, as men waiters would do in another country. It was a novelty to be thus received, and giving a hand to each of the damsels I was assisted from the carriage and escorted into the house. One of them, a fine-looking girl of eighteen, in a picturesque and becoming dress, white spencer and short sleeves with a dark skirt and bracelets, insisted on taking my knapsack, which I declined giving up, and leaning on my Alpen stock, I had so much of an argument with her that the travellers formed a circle about us and looked on. While dinner was preparing I walked out to the open square in which that scene was enacted which has been more famous than any other in Swiss history. Here by this fountain was the tree to which the son of William Tell was bound, with the apple on his head, and at the other fountain the father stood, to obey the infamous order of the tyrant to shoot with his cross-bow the apple from the head of his lovely boy. A statue of the father surmounts the fountain. The old village has all the signs of decay, and I found it difficult to believe that here the crowd had gathered five hundred years ago to behold that dreadful spectacle--here stood the monster who had given the cruel order, here fell the arrows from beneath the garment of Tell, which he declared he designed for the tyrant if his arrow had slain his son. I walked out of the village into the narrow meadow under the brow of overhanging mountains, and admired the industry that has terraced the slopes and wrung all the support it would yield from the soil. A row of targets was here, with evidences that the people having long since laid aside the cross bow, are now experts with the rifle: and as this village is the capital of the canton of Uri, it is the rallying place for those trials of skill in which they take so much delight. The tree on which Gessler's hat was hung, with the command that the people should bow down to it, stood here till 1567, when it was removed and a stone erected in its place. The valley of Schachen, which we enter on leaving Altorf, delighted me with the beauty of its meadows, in which the Swiss peasants were making hay under a burning sun, while the mountains rising from the edge of the fields were white with snow. The men and women at noon when we passed were resting from their toil, and lying around on the mown grass, the very picture of slow and easy hay-makers. We crossed a rapid stream foaming in its downward course, in which William Tell was drowned while nobly striving to save the life of a child; and a little further on we passed the village in which he was born. Thus in a single day which is not yet half gone, we have seen the various spots in Switzerland made classic by the deeds of William Tell and his compatriots, and the places where that illustrious though rustic hero was born, where he performed his great exploits, and where he perished in the midst of one not less noble than any other that sheds honor on his name. It was a great day to have passed through all these scenes, and I can say, without affectation that my solitary walk in that ruined town of Altorf moved me more than the contemplation of any battle field in Europe. CHAPTER V. PASS OF SAINT GOTHARD. The Priest's Leap--The Devil's Bridge--Night on the Mountains--Storm--Hospenthal--the Glaciers--a Lady in Distress--the Furca Pass--Glacier of the Rhone--Heinrich and Nature--Heinrich asks after God--Scene in the Hospice. We are now on the great road that leads over the Alps into Italy by the famous Pass of St. Gothard. The diligence to Milan went off this morning at nine o'clock, and had we come on in the earliest boat from Lucerne, we might have been taken on as far as we liked by that lumbering conveyance. A party of students, seven from Germany, and two from Oxford joined us, and we resolved to hire a carriage to Amsteg, two hours onward, and there to begin the ascent and pedestrianism together. The ride to Amsteg was lively, but when we were set down at that village, with a walk of five hours before us, all the way up the mountains, I confess to a slight sinking at the heart; and my courage oozed out gradually at the end of my toes. At the inn of Altorf, a young German student attracted me by the gracefulness of his manner, the delicacy of his features, and the pleasant expression with which he conversed. He attached himself to our party, and we walked on together, pilgrims to see Switzerland, and rejoicing in the power to take leave of all modes of travelling, but that first and best, which nature had provided. The river Reuss comes dashing along down with the fury of a young torrent, pouring over rocks, and whirling around precipices with a madness that brooks no control. The Bristenock mountain towers aloft into the regions of snow and ice, and nature begins to grow wild and dreary. The soft meadows on which the maids of Uri were making hay have disappeared, and the green pastures with frequent herds are now the only hope of the shepherd. The road is no longer a straight path, but in its toilsome way upward, it crosses again and again this foaming river, and bridges of solid masonry, built to resist the flood when it bears the ruins of avalanches on its bosom, and spreads them in the spring on the plains below. We crossed the third bridge and came to a gorge of frightful depth through which the river rages furiously, in a maddened torrent too fearful to look on without awe. It is called Pfaffensprung, or the Priest's Leap, from a story--which no one will believe who stands here--that a monk once leaped across the chasm with a maiden in his arms. I have no doubt a monk would do his best under the circumstances, but I doubt the possibility of his clearing thirty feet at a bound over such an abyss as this, even for the sake of the prize he is said to have carried off. We had been beset by beggars under all sorts of guises, and here a miserable old woman--alas that a woman could come to this--appeared with a huge stone in her hands, which she hurled into the deeps, for us to see it leap from rock to rock and finally sink into the raging waters far below. A few cents she expected for this service, and she received them with gratitude; when an old man, perhaps her husband, came on with another rock which he was willing to drop for a similar consideration. As I turned away from the scene, a carriage came up in which an English gentleman was riding, with two servants on the box. I walked by the side of his carriage and fell into conversation, when he very politely invited me to ride with him. I declined of course, and told him that I was making a pedestrian tour, and designed to walk to Andermatt, three hours and a half farther up the mountain. "I spend the night there also," he said, "and I will esteem it an honor, Sir, if you will take a seat in my carriage." Such an invitation, under the circumstances, was not to be refused, and I took a seat by the gentleman's side. How wonderfully the scenery improved, certainly how much my appreciation of it increased, when I fell back on the cushions! My companion was an accomplished member of the London bar. He knew public men whom I had met, and was well acquainted with all subjects of international interest, so that in fifteen minutes we were comparing minds on those questions in which England and America are so much concerned. We stopped at the little village of Wasen for refreshments. I insisted on paying the reckoning, when he stopped me with this remark, "Sir, you are my guest to-day: when I meet you in America I shall be happy to be yours." We rode on and upward, the road now assuming the character of a mighty structure of mason work through a savage defile, only wide enough for the carriage-path, and the torrent of the Reuss, which no longer flows, but tumbles headlong from one cliff to another, while for three or four miles the lofty precipices hang fearfully on high. In the spring, the rage of this mountain river, swollen by melting snows, and bringing down ice and rocks in its thundering fall, would tear away the foundations of any common pathway, and this must be built to defy the fiercest storm. Twenty-five or thirty thousand persons cross the Alps by this route every year; and to secure this travel, which would otherwise be carried off to the other passes, the cantons of Uri and Tessin built a road which has twice been swept away by the avalanches, but one would think that the present might stand while the mountains stand. So rapid is the ascent, that the road is made often to double on itself, so that we are going directly backward on the route; a foot passenger may clamber across the doublets and save his time, but the carriage must keep the zig-zag way, patiently toiling up a smoother and more beautiful highway than can be found in the most level region of the United States of America! Not a pebble in the path: the wheels meet no other obstruction than gravitation, which is sufficient to be overcome only by the strongest of horse power. Yet through this very defile, long before any road like this had been built, three armies, the French and the Russians and the Austrians, have pursued each other, contesting every inch of this ground, and each one of these rugged heights, and disputing the possession of dizzy cliffs where the hunter was afraid to tread. Never did the feeling of Nature's awful wildness so take possession of my soul, as when night was shutting in upon me in this dreary pass. Sometimes the road is hewn out of the solid rock in the side of the precipice, which hangs over it as a roof, and again it is borne over the roaring stream, which in a gulf four hundred feet below is boiling in its obstructed course, and making for itself an opening, it leaps away over the rocks, and rushes down while we are toiling up. In the day-time it would be gloomy here; it will be terrible indeed if the darkness overtakes us before we reach our resting-place for the night. More than five hundred years ago an old Abbot of Einsiedeln built a bridge over an awful chasm here, but such is the fury of the descending stream, the horrid ruggedness of the surrounding scenery, the smoothness and solidity of the impending rocks, the roar and rage of the waters as they are tossed about and beaten into spray, and so unlikely does it appear that human power could ever have reared a bridge over such a cataract, that it has been called from time immemorial the Devil's Bridge, and so it will be called probably till the end of time. It was just nightfall when we reached it. It was very cold, so far up had we ascended. We had left the carriage and were walking to quicken the blood, when the roar of the waters rose suddenly upon us, the spray swept over us, and we were in the midst of a scene of such awful grandeur, and with terror mingled, as might well make the nerves of a strong man tremble. The river Reuss, at this stage of its course, makes a sweeping leap, a tremendous plunge at the very moment it bends nearly in a semi-circle, while the rocks, as if by some superhuman energy, have been hurled into the torrent's path, so as to break its fall, but not to withstand its power. Two bridges are here--for when the old road was swept away, the bridge defied the storm, and this one, more solid and of far greater span, has been thrown high above the other which is left as an architectural curiosity in the depths below. And long before that was built, another one was there, and when the French in 1799 pursued the Austrians over it, and while the embattled hosts were making hell in a furious fight upon and over this frightful gorge, the bridge was blown up, and the struggling foes were whelmed together in the devouring flood. A month afterwards, and the Russians met the French at the same spot--no bridge was here, but the fierce Russians bound timbers together with the scarfs of the officers, threw them over the chasm, crossed in the midst of a murderous fire, and drove the enemy down the Pass into the vales below. [Illustration: THE DEVIL'S BRIDGE.] It was dark before we were willing to quit this fearful place. The strength of the present bridge is so obvious, and the parapet so high, that the scene may be contemplated without fear; but the clouds had now gathered, hoarse thunder muttered among the mountains, spiteful squalls of rain, cold, gloomy, and piercing, were driving into our faces, and we were anxious to find shelter for the night. We left the Bridge, but in another moment plunged into utter darkness as we entered a tunnel called the _Hole of Uri_, where the road is bored one hundred and eighty feet through the solid rock, a hard but the only passage, as the stream usurps the rest of the way, and the precipice admits no possible path over its lofty head. This was made a hundred and fifty years ago, and before that time the passage was made on a shelf supported by chains let down from above. It was called the Gallery of Uri, and along it a single traveller could creep, if he had the nerve, in the midst of the roar and the spray of the torrent, and with an hungry gulph yawning wide below him.--Emerging from this den, we entered a valley five thousand feet above the sea; once doubtless a lake, whence the waters of the Reuss have burst the barriers of these giant fortresses, and found their way into more hospitable climes. No corn grows here, but the land flows with milk and honey--by no means an indication of fertility, for the cows and the goats find pasture at the foot of the glaciers, and the bees their nests in the stunted trees and the holes of the rocks. We drove through it till we came to Andermatt, where the numerous lights in the windows guided us to a rustic tavern. By this time it had commenced raining hard, and I began to be anxious for my young friend Rankin, and a German student, Heinrich. But I could do no more for them than to send a man to watch in the highway till they should come up, and lead them into the house where I was resolved to spend the night, whether we could find beds or not. These rural inns in Switzerland are rude and often far from comfortable. But travellers here must not stand upon trifles. The house was designed to lodge twenty travellers, and thirty at least were here before us. A large supper table was spread, and around it a company of gentlemen and ladies, mostly German, were enjoying themselves right heartily, after the day's fatigue was over. The London lawyer and myself had a separate table laid for us--we soon gathered on it some of the good things of this life, which by the way you can find almost every where, and had made some progress in the discussion of the various subjects before us, when Rankin and Heinrich arrived nearly exhausted with their toilsome walk. They had a dreadful tale to tell of the storm they had met--which we just escaped, and barely that. The lightning filled the gloomy gorge, lighting up for an instant the mighty cliffs and hanging precipices, while the thunder roared above the sound of the torrent, and the rain drove into their faces, disputing with them the upward pass. But they were young men, and strong. They told me that I never could have borne the labor and the exposure of the walk. Two travellers and a guide had given out, and taken lodgings in a hamlet we had passed, and the man whom we had employed to bring on our light bags, had also halted for the night, and would come up early in the morning. After supper I led them to our chamber. Upon my arrival, the landlady assured me that every bed in the house was full, but I insisted so strenuously on having _three_, that the girls exchanged looks of agreement, and one of them offered to show me a chamber, if it would be acceptable. She led me up three pair of stairs, into a low garret bed-room, with one window of boards which could be opened, and one small one of glass that could not, and here were three beds kindly given up by the young women. Into this chamber I now conducted my young friends. Worn out with their hard day's work, but free from all anxious care, they were asleep in five minutes, while I coaxed the candle to burn as long as it would, fastened it up with a pin on the top of the candlestick, and tried to write the records of the few past hours. It was amusing to hear my companions, one on each side of me, talk in their sleep; Heinrich in his native German, and Rankin in his English, showing the restlessness of over-fatigue, while I sat wondering at myself, so lately a poor invalid, now in this wild region, exposed to such nights of discomfort, and days of toil. Yet was I grateful even there, not only for a safe shelter and a much better bed than my Master had, but for the strength to attempt such things, and for the luxury of health that lives and flows in a genial current through every part of a renovated frame. In the morning I met an American gentleman returning from the summit of St. Gothard pass, and he advised me strenuously not to go further up, unless I was going now into Italy. The most wonderful of the engineering in the construction of the road, had already been seen, and there was nothing else of interest above. The same savage scenery, in the midst of which the Reuss leaps down 2,000 feet in the course of a two hours' walk, is continued, and the dreariness of desolation reigns alone. A house for the accommodation of travellers has been maintained for hundreds of years, destroyed at times and then restored, and a few monks have been supported here to extend what aid they may to those who require their assistance. We resolved to pursue a route through the _Furca_ pass, one of the most romantic and interesting of all the passes in Switzerland. A long day's walk it would be over frozen mountains and by the side of never melting glaciers, and no carriage way! Nothing but a bridle and a foot path, and a rough one too, was now before us, and if we left the present road, and struck off over the Furca, it would be four or five days before we should reach the routes which are traversed by wheels. Our baggage, though but a bag apiece and blankets, was too heavy for us to carry if we walked, and I proposed to take a horse, put on him our three bundles, and ride by turns. Heinrich had never heard of the mode of travelling called "ride and tie," and he was greatly amused when it was described to him. Accordingly we ordered a horse for the day. The price is regulated by law, under the pretence of protecting the traveller, but really for the purpose of extorting from him a sum twice as large as he would have to pay if the business were open to competition. The horse was brought to the door, and when we ordered the bags of three to be strapped on, the landlord flew into a great rage, and declared he would not be imposed upon. I smiled in his red face, and asked, "If he knew how much baggage the law allowed each man to carry on his horse." He said he did, and I then told him to weigh those, and he might have for his own all over and above the legal allowance. He was still dissatisfied, but when we bade him to take his old nag to the stable, he suddenly cooled. Without further delay he made fast "the traps," gave me a good stout fellow to conduct the party and bring back the beast. An idle group of guides and tavern hangers, and quite a party of Germans and English were looking on when I bestrode the animal, and took my seat in the midst of the bundles rising before and behind, like the humps of a camel. We are yet in the vale of the Urseren, not more than a mile wide, and lofty mountains flanking its sides. The mountain of St. Anne is clad with a glacier, from which the "thunderbolts of snow" come down with terrific power in the spring, and yet there stands a forest in the form of a triangle, pointing upward, and so placed that the slides of snow as they come down are broken in pieces and guided away from the village below. The great business of the people in this vale is to keep cattle and to fleece the strangers who travel in throngs over the pass of St. Gothard. Hundreds of horses are kept for hire, and nothing is to be had by a "foreigner" unless he pays an exorbitant price. Even the specimens of minerals are held so high, that no reasonable man can afford to buy them. But we are now leaving Andermatt, and on the side of the road not long after leaving the village we saw two stone pillars, which need but a beam to be laid across them, and they make a gallows, on which criminals were formerly hung, when this little valley, like Gersau on the lake, was an independent state. The pillars are still preserved with care, as a memorial of the former sovereignty of the community. We reached _Hospenthal_ in a few moments; a cluster of houses about a church, and with a tower above the hamlet which is attributed to the Lombards. I was struck with the exceeding loneliness and forsakenness of this spot. It seemed that men had once been here, but had retired from so wild and barren a land, to some more genial clime. Hospenthal has a hotel or two, and it is a great halting place for travellers who are about to take our route over the Furca to the Hospice of the Grimsel. Here we quit the St. Gothard road, and winding off by a narrow path in which we can go only in single file, we are soon out of the vale, and slowly making our way up the mountain. The hill sides are dotted with the huts of the poor peasants, who have hard work to hold fast to the slopes with one hand, while they work for a miserable living with the other. The morning sun was playing on the blue glacier of St. Anne, and a beautiful waterfall wandered and tumbled down the mountain; yet this was but one of many of the same kind that we are constantly meeting as we go through these defiles of the high Alps. The vast masses of snow and ice on the summits are sending down streams through the Summer, and these sometimes leap from rock to rock, and again they clear hundreds of feet at a single bound; slender, like a long white scarf on the green hill, but very picturesque and beautiful. At the foot of this mountain are the remains of an awful avalanche, which buried a little hamlet here in a sudden grave, and a sad story of a maiden and a babe who perished, was told me with much feeling by the guide as we passed over the spot. The peasant men and women were bringing down bundles of hay on their heads and shoulders from the scanty meadows which here and there in a warm bosom of the hills may be found, and as they descended I recalled the story of Orpheus, at whose music the trees are said to have followed him, and I could readily understand that such a procession might be taken or mistaken for the marching of a young forest. We are still following up the river Reuss towards its source, and though it is narrower, it is often fiercer and makes longer strides at a step than it did last evening. We cross it now and then on occasional stones, or on rude logs, and come to a spot where the bridge was swept away last night by an avalanche of earth and ice, and well for us that it came in the night before we were here to be caught. An old man with a pickaxe in his hand had been working to repair the crossing, and had managed to get a few stones arranged so that foot passengers could leap over, and the horses after slight hesitation and careful sounding of the bottom, took to the torrent and waded safely over. I held my feet high enough to escape a wetting, but I heard a lady of another party complaining bitterly that the water was so deep or her foot so far down, I could not tell which, but it was evident that very much against her will she had been drawn through the river. At Realp, a little handful of houses, we found a small house of refreshment, where two Capuchin friars reside to minister to travellers, and this was the last sign of a human habitation we saw for some weary hours. We are now so far up in the world, that the snow lay in banks by the side of the path, while flowers, bright beautiful flowers were blooming in the sun. It is difficult to reconcile this apparent contradiction in nature. The fact is not surprising here, where we see such vast accumulations of snow and remember that a short summer does not suffice to melt it, but it is strange to read of flowery banks all gay and smiling, within a few feet only of these heaps of snow. I counted flowers of seven distinct colors, and gathered those that would press well in my books, souvenirs of this remarkable region. On the right the Galenstock Glacier now appears, and out of it vast rocks like the battlements of some old castle shoot 1,000 feet into the air. I am now among the ice palaces of the earth. The cold winds are sweeping down upon me, and I hug my coat closer as the ice blast strikes a chill to my heart. We were just making the last sharp ascent before reaching the summit of the Furca when I overtook a lady sitting disconsolately by the wayside. She cried out as soon as I came up, "O Sir, my guide is such a brute--the saddle turns under me and I cannot get him to fix it--my husband has gone on before me--I cannot speak a word of German and the dumb fool cannot speak a word of English. What shall I do?" "Madam," said I, "my servant shall arrange your saddle, and I will conduct you to the summit where the rest of your party will doubtless wait." She overpowered me with her expressions of gratitude, and while my servant was putting her saddle girths to rights, I gave her guide the needful cautions, and we crossed a vast snow bank together, climbed the steep pitch, and in ten minutes reached the inn at the top of the Furca. Distant glaciers, snow clad summits, ridges, and ranges stood around me, a world without inhabitants, desolate, cold and grand in its icy canopy and hoary robes of snow. The descent was too rapid and severe for riding, and giving the horse into the charge of the servant we walked down, discoursing by the way of things rarely talked of in the Alps. My young German friend had all the enthusiasm of the French character joined to the mysticism of his own nation. He is well read in English literature, and familiar with ancient and modern authors, so that we had sources unfailing, to entertain us as we wandered on; now sitting down to rest and now bracing ourselves for a smart walk over a rugged pass. I became intensely interested in him, though I had constant occasion to challenge his opinions, and especially to contrast his philosophy with the revealed wisdom of God. We had spoken of these things for an hour or more when I asked him if he had ever read "the Pilgrim's Progress," and when I found he had not, I told him the design of the allegory, and said "we are pilgrims over these mountains, and have been cheering one another with pleasing discourse as the travellers did on their way to the celestial city. They came at last in sight of its gates of pearl." "But what is that?" We had suddenly turned the shoulder of a hill, and a glacier of such splendor and extent burst upon our view as to fix us to the spot in silent but excited admiration. It was the first we had seen near us. Others had been lying away in the far heights, their surface smoothed by the distance, and their color a dull blue; but now we were at the foot of a mountain of ice! We could stand upon it, walk on its face, gaze on its form and features, wonder, admire, look above it and adore! This is the glacier of the Rhone! That great river springs from its bosom, first with a strong bound as if suddenly summoned into being, works its way through a mighty cavern of ice, and then winds along the base till it emerges in a roaring, milky white stream and rushes down the valley toward the sea. This glacier has been called a "magnificent sea of ice." It is not so. That description conveys no idea of the stupendous scene. You have stood in front of the _American_ fall of Niagara. Extend that fall far up the rapids, receding as it rises a thousand feet or more from where you stand to the crest: at each side of it let a tall mountain rise as a giant frame work on which the tableau is to rest; then suddenly congeal this cataract, with its curling waves, its clouds of spray, its falling showers of jewelry, point its brow with pinnacles of ice, and then, then let the bright sun pour on it his beams, giving the brilliancy not of snow but of polished ice to the vast hill-side now before you, and you will then have but a faint conception of the grandeur of this glacier. "It answers," said Heinrich, "to Burke's definition of the sublime--it is vast, mysterious, terrible!" I replied that "it was impossible for me to have the sensation of fear, and scarcely of awe in looking upon the scene before us--it rather had to me the image of the outer walls of heaven, as if there must be infinite glory within and beyond when such majesty and beauty were without. And then these flowers skirting the borders of this frozen pile, and smiling as lovely as beneath the sunniest slope in Italy, forbade the idea that this crystal mountain was of ice." "But will it not vanish if we look away?" said Heinrich, as he gazed on the frozen cataracts, and gave utterance to his admiration in the most expressive words that German, French, English, Latin or Greek would supply, for our discourse was in a mixture of them all. Soon after passing the Glacier of the Rhone we met a peasant who assured us that he had fallen into one of its crevices, seventy feet, and had cut his way up with a hatchet, thus delivering himself from an icy grave. A little wayside inn gave us a brief respite from our toilsome journey. We climbed the Grimsel, and reached the Dead Sea on its summit. It is called the Lake of the Dead, because the bodies of those who perished in making this journey were formerly cast into it for burial. Heinrich and I left the path and climbed to a cliff where we looked down on the pilgrim parties on horses and on foot, winding their way along its borders. We sent our servant onward to engage beds for us at the hospice of the Grimsel, and resolved to spend the rest of the day (the sun was yet three hours high) in this wilderness of mountain scenery. We could now look down into the valley, a little valley, but like an immense cauldron, the sides of which are sterile naked rocks, eight hundred feet high! On the west they stand like the walls and towers of a fortified city, and in the bottom of the vale is a single house and a small lake; but a flock of a hundred goats and a score of cows, with tinkling bells, are picking a scanty subsistence among the stones. The scene was wild, savage, grand indeed, and had there been no sun to light it up with the lustre of heaven, it would have been dreary and dismal. Heinrich had been very thoughtful for an hour. He had discovered that my thoughts turned constantly to the God who made all these mountains, while he was ever studying the mountains themselves. "Here I will commune with nature." I replied, "And I will go on a little further, and commune with God!" "Stay," he cried, "I would go with you." "But you cannot see Him," I said--"I see Him in the mountain and the glacier and the flower: I hear Him in the torrent and the still small voice of the rills and little waterfalls that are warbling ever in our ears. I feel his presence and something of his power. I beg you to stay and commune with nature, while I go and commune with God." I left him and wandered off alone, and in an hour went down the mountain, and to my chamber in the hospice. I was sitting on the bedside, arranging the flowers I had gathered during the day, when Heinrich entered, and giving me his hand said to me, "I wish you would speak more to me of God!" He sat down by my side, and I asked him if he believed the Bible to be the Word of God. He said he did, but he would examine it by the light of history and reason, and reject what he did not find to be true. "And do you believe that the soul of man will live hereafter?" "I doubt," was his desponding answer. I then addressed him tenderly, "My dear young friend, I have loved you since the hour I met you at Altorf. And now tell me, with all your studies have you yet learned how to die? You _doubt_, but are you so well satisfied with your philosophy that you are able to look upon death among the mountains, or by the lightning, without fear? My faith tells me that when I die my life and joy will just begin, and go on in glory forever. This is the source of all my hopes, and it gives me comfort now when I think that I may never see my native land and those I love on earth again. I _know_ that in another land we shall meet?" "How do you know that you shall meet?" "My faith, my heart, my Bible tells me so. I shall meet all the _good_ in heaven. I am sure of one child, an angel now." "And where are your children?" "Four in America, and one in heaven. I had a boy four years ago; earth never had a fairer. His locks were of gold and hung in rich curls on a neck and shoulders whiter than the snow: his brow was high and broad like an infant cherub's; and his eye was blue as the evening sky. And he was lovelier than he was fair. But in the budding of his beauty, he fell sick and died." "O no, not died!" "Yes, he died here by my heart. And that child is the only one of mine that I am sure of ever seeing again." "I do not understand you." "If my other children grow up to _doubt_ as _you_ doubt, they may wander away on the mountains of error or the glaciers of vice, and fall into some awful gulph and be lost forever. And if I do not live to see my living children, I am as sure of meeting that one now in heaven, as if I saw him here in the light of the setting sun.--Heinrich, have you a mother, my dear friend?" "Yes, yes," he cried, "and her faith is the same as yours." I had seen his eyes filling, and had felt my own lips quivering as I spoke, but now he burst into tears and fell on my breast. He kissed my lips, and my cheeks, and my forehead, and the hot tears rained on my face, and mingled with my own. "O teach me the way to feel and believe," he said at last, as he clung to me like a frightened child, and clasped me convulsively to his heart. I held him long and tenderly, and felt for him somewhat, I hope, as Jesus did for the young man who came to him with a similar inquiry. _I loved him_, and longed to lead him to the light of day. CHAPTER VI. GLACIERS OF THE AAR. My new Friend--a Wonderful Youth--Hospice of the Grimsel--the Valley--a comfortable Day--Glaciers of the Aar--a Gloomy Vale--Climbing a Hill--View of the Glacier--Theory of its Formation--Caverns in the Ice--Incidents of Men falling in--My Leap and Fall--an Artist Lost--Return. Heinrich proved to be a wonderful youth. He had a warm heart, and his intellect was cultivated to a degree not parallelled in my acquaintance among young men. He was just one and twenty years of age, and had not completed the usual course of collegiate education. But there was no author in the Latin or Greek languages, poet, philosopher or historian, whose works I have ever heard of, which were not familiar to him, as the English Classics are to well read men in England or America. He discoursed readily of the style, the dialect, the shade of sentiment on any disputed point; he cited passages and drew illustrations from the pages of ancient literature which seemed to him like household words: and one of our amusements when crossing the Alps was to discuss the difference in Greek or Latin words which are usually regarded as synonymes. But classical learning was the least and lowest attainment of this accomplished youth. The whole range of Natural Sciences had been pursued with a zeal that might be called a passion. Botany and Mineralogy were child's play to him: and Chemistry had been a favorite study evidently, for its principles often came up in our rambling discourse, and he was master of it as if he had been a teacher of the science for years. Geology was a hobby of his, and he thrust it upon me often when I wished he would let me alone, or discourse of something else. And yet when I have said all this I have not mentioned the department in which he was most at home, where his soul revelled in profound enjoyment, and in which he was resolved to spend his life. _Metaphysics_ was his favorite pursuit. His analytical mind was always on the track of investigation, challenging a reason for everything, questioning the truth of every proposition, and never resting till his reason had subjected it to the most exhausting process. Yet in the midst of these studies including many departments to which I have not referred, as the exact sciences, he had polished this fine intellect by the widest course of polite literature, perusing in the German translations, all the old masters of the English tongue, admiring Shakespeare and Milton, quoting from them as a scholar would from Sophocles or Homer, and surprising me by reference to English authors, whose works I had not supposed were translated into the German language. Of course the poets and philosophers of his father-land were his pride and love. Often he would speak of them in terms of endearment, as if they were his personal friends; though of all beings, present or past, in heaven or out of it, I think he loved Plato most. This boy was just out of his teens, a student still, and modest as he was learned; burning to learn more; asking questions till it was tiresome to hear them; and never dreaming that he knew more than others. He was the most learned young man I ever saw. And few old men know half as much. He now joined my party, leaving his own altogether, and resolved to follow me to the ends of the earth. We are now in the Vale of the Grimsel. In the bottom of the Valley, by the side of a lake forever dark with the shadows of overhanging hills, is the _Hospice_, a name that here combines the idea of hospital and hotel--its design being to furnish lodging and entertainment to travellers, whether they are able to pay for the hospitality or not. Last winter the landlord of the Grimsel having insured his house, set fire to it, to get the money, and now is in prison for twenty years as the penalty of his crime. In years past there have been terrible avalanches here, and once the house was crushed by the "thunderbolts of snow." Often it is surrounded by snow drifts twenty or thirty feet high, yet some one lodges here all winter to keep up a fire and furnish shelter to the benighted traveller. It is strange that these lonely paths should be traversed at all in the depth of winter. But there is no other mode of communication between the valleys, than along these defiles, and the traffic among the people of one canton with another is carried on, and the intercourse of families is kept up at the risk of life here as in other countries. If one has a good home, it were better to stay in it than to cross the Grimsel in the winter. A mixed multitude were under the roof of the Hospice. The building is yet unfinished; and it must have required prodigious exertions to get it so far under way, since the fire, as to make it habitable for travellers this season. Every stick of timber must be brought up by hand from the plain some miles below. The walls are of stone, about three feet thick, and rough enough. No attempt to smooth a wall, or paint a board appears on the edifice, and the rude bedsteads, benches and chairs suggest to the luxurious traveller how few of the good things he has at home are actually essential to his comfort. The house has about forty beds, but these were far from being sufficient to give each weary pilgrim one. Many were obliged to choose the softest boards in the dining room floor, and sleep on them. Yet in that company of sixty who crowded around the supper table were many of the learned, and titled, and beautiful, and wealthy of many lands; meeting socially in a dreary valley, on a journey of pleasure, and refreshing each other with the "feast of reason and the flow of soul." Reserve was banished, and the hour freely given to good cheer, in which all strove to forget the toils of the day, in the pleasures of the evening, and the repose of a peaceful night. Within an hour's walk from the door of the Hospice is the Glacier of the Aar, the most interesting and instructive of all the Glaciers of Switzerland. It has been more studied by men of science than any other. Agassiz and Forbes had their huts on its bosom, and spent many long and weary months in prying into the mysteries of these stupendous seas of solid water. Not one of the whole company who staid at the Hospice last night, turned aside for a day to study with us this wonderful scene. A party of English people read the guide book on the route to Meyringen, and congratulated themselves on having a "comfortable" day, as there was very little to see! They were _doing_ Switzerland, and were evidently pleased to find a day before them when they had nothing to do but to go on, without being worried with fine views and climbing hills. One party after another came down and took a wretched cup of coffee, and were off on their pilgrimage, some on foot, some on mules, and one or two were carried on chairs by porters. We were left alone at the Hospice, and after breakfast set off to spend the day on the Glaciers. There are two of them, the Obi and Unter, or Upper and Lower; the latter being the most easily reached, and happily the most interesting. It is eighteen miles long, and about three miles wide. To circumnavigate it therefore, is not the journey of a day, but it may be explored on foot, and Hugi, the naturalist, is said to have rode over it on a horse. The morning was not promising. Heavy mists had lodged in the vale of the Grimsel. But far above them in gloomy grandeur rose the sterile ridges of rocks, towering aloft, and looking like the battlements of giants' castles, inaccessible save to the chamois and his pursuer, who often risked, and sometimes threw away his life in his daring adventures to secure his prey. Even the chamois has now almost entirety disappeared, and the eagles alone have their dwelling places in these desolate abodes. Yet from the lofty heights some beautiful cascades are pouring all the way down into the vale, foaming as they fall; and sometimes caught by the intervening rocks, and sent out from the side of the precipice they melt into spray, and again on a lower ledge are gathered to pursue their downward course. Along the bottom of this gloomy vale we walked for an hour, till we came in sight of a mighty pile of earth, rocks, ice and snow. At first we thought we had come to a vast heap of sand, or to the _debris_ brought down by an avalanche of soil with stones intermingled, but from the base of it a torrent was rushing, not of clear blue water, but of a dirty milky hue, as are all the streams when they issue from the beds of these Glaciers. The front of the mass was perhaps one hundred and fifty feet high, and nearly perpendicular, and here it was half a mile in width. On nearer approach, we could see the rocks of blue ice projecting through the coating of earth, showing plainly that the body of the great pile before us was the cold icebergs hid beneath a covering of earth that had been washed down upon it, from the mountains above. Now and then large masses of earth, or a huge boulder would be dislodged from the brow of the pile, and thunder along down, as we sat watching for these miniature avalanches. The sense of the terrible was strong upon us now. It was not beautiful: it was grand and awful, as we changed our position lest the falling rocks should overtake us in their course. But a few little birds were flying about from stone to stone unconscious of danger, the solitary inhabitants of this frozen world. We now determined to ascend and look on its face. With incredible toil we climbed the hill by the side of it. If there ever was a path, we could not find it, but from rock to rock, often pulling ourselves up by the stunted bushes, we worked our way. Onward and upward we mounted, and at last were rewarded for the struggle by standing abreast of the glacier, where we could walk around and upon it and contemplate its stupendous proportions. From the bosom of it rises the Finster-Aarhorn, a lone pyramid that seems now to touch the blue sky: so cold and stern it stands there, its head forever covered with snow and its foot in this everlasting ocean of ice. The Schreckhorn is the other peak that stands yet farther off, but the clouds are now so dense around its summit, that I cannot see its hoary head. Here we are six thousand feet above the level of the sea, and for three-quarters of the year the snow is falling on these mountains: not an April snow that melts as it falls, but a dry powder, into which a man without snow-shoes would sink out of sight, as in the water. On the loftiest of these mountains, the surface of the snow melts a little every day, and the deeper you descend into the snow, the melting is going on also. But at night it freezes, as by day for a little while it thaws, and this process is continued until the snow is gradually converted into ice. The high valleys are filled with these ever increasing deposits of snow, which are thus constantly undergoing this change, and as the fresh deposit far exceeds what is carried off by melting, the enormous mass is rather increased than diminished by the lapse of time. It becomes a fixed fact; yet not fixed, for the most remarkable, and to my mind, the sublimest fact in this relation, is that these glaciers are actually moving steadily, year by year. The projecting mass in the lowest valley, as where we were standing a few hours ago, is melting away, and sending out the river that leaves its bosom on its mission into a world far below. Underneath the glacier, where it presses on the earth, which has a heart of fire, the work of dissolution is rapidly going on, while the sun on the upper surface melts the ice, and streams flow along and cut deep crevices into which the uncautious traveller may fall never to rise again till the last day. Some of these glaciers may be traversed underneath, by following the streams. Hugi wandered a mile in this way underneath magnificent domes, through which the sun-light was streaming, and among crystal columns which had been left standing as if to support the superincumbent mass. The water, as in rocky caverns, trickles through and freezes in beautiful stalactytes, to adorn these palaces, unseen except by the eye to which darkness and light are both alike. As this decay of the glacier takes place, and it is always more rapid near the lower border of it than above, the pressure of the upper masses brings the whole mountain slowly along: with a steadiness of march that cannot be perceived by the eye, but which is marked with precision, and chronicled from year to year. The place where great rocks are reposing on the surface near the edge of the mountain against which the glacier presses has been carefully noted, and the next year and for many subsequent years, the onward progress of the boulder has been noted. Blocks of granite have been inserted in the bosom of the glacier, and their position defined by their relation to the points of land in sight; and years afterwards they are away on their journey, and by and by, they have disappeared altogether as the glacier moves on and heaves and breaks and closes again. More wonderful still, it is recorded that a "mass of granite of twenty six thousand cubic feet, originally buried under the snow, was raised to the surface and even elevated above it upon two pillars of ice, so that a small army might have found shelter under it." The men of science who have pursued investigations here under circumstances quite as fearful and forbidding as the navigators around the north Pole, have a rude hut in which they make themselves as comfortable as the nature of the case will admit; but this house though founded on a rock is not stationary. It moves on with the mighty field of ice, about three hundred feet in a year, or nearly one foot every day: not so rapidly in winter as in summer, for the rate of progress depends on the melting, which is arrested for a brief period during the terrible winters of this Alpine region. Other glaciers move with greater rapidity than this. The Mere de Glace is believed to move at the rate of four or five hundred feet every year, and it is said that the glacier is gradually wasting out. The surface of this frozen sea is exceedingly irregular, depending on the nature of the ground below, and the progress of the ice. When a stream has cut away a great seam, where the descent of the moving mass will be swift when it does move, the shock will throw up the ice in ridges, in pyramids, in various fantastic shapes, piling rocks on rocks of ice, as if some great explosion underneath had upheaved the surface and the fragments had come down in wild confusion, like the ruins of a crystal city. Then the sun gradually melts those towers, and they assume strange shapes of wild and dazzling beauty, unreal palaces, glittering minarets, silvered domes and shining battlements; freaks of nature we call them, but they are too beautiful for chance work, and we do not know to what eyes these forms of glory may give pleasure, nor why it is that God displays so much of his selectest skill and most stupendous power, where few behold it of the race to which we belong. Doubtless our own great Cataract leaped and thundered in the wilderness thousands of years, with no human ear or eye to receive its majesty and beauty, but it did not roar in vain. God has other and nobler worshippers than man, and while we are groping like moles beneath the surface, and striving in our blindness to discover the mysteries of God's works, there are minds to which these wonders are revelations of their Maker's glory and goodness, and they understand, admire and adore. Here was a world of solid water, gradually enlarging and then melting away, to send down rivers into the plains below, and this with the other glaciers of the Alps, is thus supplying all the rivers in Europe which might otherwise be dry. Yet as other rivers in other lands are constantly supplied without this provision, we must suppose that some other design in Providence is laid, which science may or may not discover, but whether it does or not, we are certain that they are not without a purpose corresponding with the magnitude of their proportions, and the wisdom of Him who, though omnipotent, never wastes His strength in works without design. We confined our walks to the edges of this solid but still treacherous sea. We had yesterday conversed with a man who had fallen into the crevices of one of these glaciers, and we had a greater horror of repeating the experiment. The case is on record of a shepherd who was crossing this very glacier with his flock, when he fell into one of the clefts, into which a torrent was pouring. This stream was his guide to life and liberty again; for he followed its course under the archway it had made, until it led him to the foot of the glacier into the open air. But a Swiss clergyman, a spiritual shepherd, M. Mouron, was leaning on the edge of a fissure to explore a remarkable formation over the brink, when the staff on which he rested gave way, and he fell, only to be drawn out again a mangled corpse. A man was let down by a rope, and after two or three unsuccessful expeditions, found him at last, and was drawn up with the body in his arms. Coming down from the hill, we had hard work in crossing some dangerous clefts in the rocks, and once I planted my Alpen-stock firmly, as I thought, in the thin soil, and leaped; the spike failed; the foot of the staff slipped on and left the steel in the ground, and I was sprawling generally along down the hill: fortunately I recovered my foothold, and came down standing! And this is a good place in which to say that shoes with iron nails in the soles are not the best for walking over these mountains: a good pair of boots with double soles have served me many times, sticking fast in the face of a slippery rock, while travellers shod with iron have been sliding down with no strength of sole to resist the gravitation. But I met with no such misfortune in all my travels over the most dangerous passes, and under circumstances of trial not often exceeded by those who wander in these parts. We had several sorts of weather in this expedition to the source of the Aar. The misty morning was succeeded by a glowing sun at noon, followed by clouds and rain. When this was coming, we thought it time to be going, and gathering a few flowers, as usual, on the verge of the cold beds of ice, we turned our weary steps towards the Hospice. It was our good fortune just then to meet an Italian artist who had lost his way, and we had the pleasure of guiding him to the Hospice. Wandering with his knapsack and port folio, in search of the beautiful in nature, which he sketched by the way, it was of no great consequence to him, in which direction he travelled, but a storm was now at hand, it was rapidly growing cold, and he was going every moment farther from any place of shelter. We were soon housed safely in the Hospice; and glad enough to stretch ourselves on a bed after the walk of the morning. It was hard to keep warm anywhere else but in bed. The house was yet so unfinished and open, and the storm increasing every moment; a wretched old stove in one corner of the eating-room, scarcely giving any heat with the few sticks of fuel we were able to find. We wrapped blankets around us, and tried to write, and when that proved to be more than we could accomplish under the difficulties, I took my Bible and read to my German friend some of the sublimest passages in the Psalms, where the Lord is revealed among the mountains, and his majesty portrayed by the loftiest of his works. He listened with interest, and when I laid aside the book, he asked for it, and read it long and earnestly. As the evening drew on, a few travellers began to drop in, and at seven o'clock a company, much like the one of last night, but all with new faces, sat down to supper. CHAPTER VII. MOUNTAINS, STREAMS AND FALLS. Pedestrianism--Mountain Torrents--Fall of the Handek--The Guide and his Little Ones--Falls of the Reichenbach--Perilous Point of View. Not in the best of spirits, nor in as good condition as a pedestrian could wish, I set off the next morning, with my young friends. We would have felt better but for a foolish resolution to carry our own knapsacks and overcoats and to make one day's journey without guide or mule. Success is apt to make one proud; and we had improved so much in our walking with each day's experience, that we actually began to think we could do anything in that line. The storm of the night before had gone by, and a clear cool day encouraged us. Alas, we knew not how soon, in the midst of glaciers, and in sight of dazzling snow-drifts, the hot sun would thaw our resolution, and compel us to call lustily for help, when no Hercules would be at hand to lend us aid. Not a wilder or more romantic path had we found than the one which led us out of the vale of the Grimsel. The river Aar is by our side, leaping from ledge to ledge in its rapid descent; dashing now against rocks and foaming around them and onward, as if maddened by every obstacle and brooking no delay. Water in motion is always beautiful. Here on our right hand a streamlet is falling from the giddy height of a thousand feet above us. At first it slips along on the edge of the rocks, as if afraid to fall, and then with a graceful bound it clears the side of the mountain, and comes down to a lower level, where it reposes for a moment in a basin made without hands, and again it flows along down like a long white robe suspended on the hill side, tastefully winding itself, as in folds. In full view, but far above us the snow lies fresh and white, for much of it fell there yesterday: and among the clouds as they roll open and let us see their beds, the blue glacier lies. Some of the views along here are exceedingly grand, and in the midst of barrenness that can hardly be excelled, the soul feels that enough is here to make a world, though there is little vegetation, and not a human habitation. We frequently cross the torrent by narrow bridges, and pause on each of them to watch the angry waters whirling underneath. I was arrested on one of them by the sight of a reservoir hollowed out of the solid rock by the water; it would hold twenty barrels, and was full. The torrent was now raving a few inches below, while the water within was as placid in the sunshine as if it had never moved. The contrast was beautiful. Let the mad world rush by, noisy, turbulent and thoughtless: it is better to be calm and trusting: certainly it is better if our rest is on a rock which cannot be moved. The mountains rise suddenly from the edge of the torrent, and there is barely room in some places for the path and the stream. There is great danger too in travelling here in the winter when the avalanches come rushing down the precipitous sides of these mountains. Their work of destruction is lying all around us. They sweep across the path and for a long distance have laid the rock perfectly bare, and polished it so smoothly, that there is constant danger of sliding off into the gulf by the side of the way. Grooves have been cut in the rock, that the feet of the mules may have some support, but a prudent traveller will trust to his own feet and his staff, and tread cautiously. We become so accustomed to these dangerous places, that we pass them without emotion; but there is never a season without its fatal accidents to travellers, and none but fool-hardy persons will needlessly expose their lives. An American family returned home a few days ago, having left the mangled corpse of their son, a lad of twelve years, in some frightful gorge into which he had fallen while riding on a mule in the midst of the Alps. We frequently hear of painful facts like these, yet there is not a pass in Switzerland which may not be safely made with prudence and coolness. One of the finest cascades we had yet seen was on our right, after we had made about five miles from the hospice. Its width of stream, volume of water, and great height, entitle it to a name and a record which it has not; and this has frequently appeared to me strange in this journey; that _falls_ in Switzerland, of comparatively little beauty, have been painted and praised the world over, while others of more romantic and impressive features have no place in the hand-books, but are strictly anonymous. The one we are now speaking of, attracted our attention as decidedly more interesting than any we had seen among the mountains, and in this opinion I presume others will agree. Its misfortune is that it is within a mile of the Handek, which we are now approaching. A huge log-hut received us, and we found refreshments such as might be expected in a wilderness like this. Sour bread and sour wine, with strong cheese, and a strange-looking pie, composed of materials into which it was not prudent to inquire, gave us a lunch that might have been worse. We were glad to get it, but even more pleased to find a place where we could lay down our burdens, under which we had been groaning for an hour. This pedestrianism in the Alps is very well to talk about, but it is not the most agreeable mode of travelling to one who is accustomed only to a sedentary life. We could find no mules here, however, but meeting a sturdy fellow who was going up the pass, and who was a guide but not just now engaged, we made a bargain with him to turn about and carry our traps to Meyringen. He was on his way over the Grimsel into Canton Vallais to buy eggs and butter, which he and his son, who was with him, would bring back to sell in the lower valleys. This is the way in which the traffic among the cantons is chiefly carried on. We are constantly meeting the traders, men and women, with long baskets or wooden cans on their backs, trudging over these mountains, exchanging the produce of one part of the country for that of another. And this business is driven in winter as well as summer, and many lose their lives in the snow, or are overwhelmed by the avalanches. Our man now sent his boy on alone; gave him a few directions as to what articles he should buy, and where to wait his return, and then set off with us. I was astonished that a father would trust a lad of such tender years (he was not more than twelve), to go off on such an expedition alone, in such a region as this; and after they had parted, I slipped some money into the little fellow's hand, and said a cheering word or two, for I felt as if it were cruel thus to leave him. The river Aar has been rushing along by us, and now it has reached the verge of a precipice more than a hundred feet high. At this point another stream of only less volume forces its way across the path, and dashes boldly into the Aar on the brink of the fall. Like two frantic lovers they take the mad leap together into the fearful gulf. Standing above the brow of the fall, and looking into the dark abyss, where the vast column of water stands, silvered at the summit, spread and broken into foam as it reaches the base, with clouds of spray rising from the boiling depths below, we see a cataract that combines more of the sublime with the very beautiful than any other in Switzerland. After we had gazed upon it from the bridge at the brow, we went around and down through the forest, and reached the ledge from which we could look up and out upon the column of waters now pouring before us in exceeding strength. A faint rainbow trembled midway, but the pine trees were too thick to admit the sun's rays in full blaze upon the face of the fall. But the surrounding scenery adds so much to the gloomy grandeur of the scene, that I am quite willing to write this down as a _real_ cataract, a wonderful leap and rush of waters, in the midst of a ravine of terrific construction; filling the mind with the strongest sense of wildness, horror, desolation and destruction, while the image of beauty in the water and the bow, plays constantly over the face of all. We left it with strong emotions of pleasurable excitement, and shall retain the recollections of the falls of the Aar for many days. The path by and by led under an extraordinary projection of rock, shelving over, and making a pavilion. The descent became more rapid, until we took to a long flight of stone steps in the path: and then on a lower grade, we came upon meadow land, through which the grass had been cut away for foot passengers to make a shorter course than that by which the horses must find their way down. We entered a little cottage and refreshed ourselves _again_, with coffee and milk, and had some pleasant talk with the old lady and one or two of the neighbors who had dropped down from some mountain home; for it is even pleasant, if no useful knowledge is gathered, to learn the thoughts and feelings of these secluded people, and to find that enjoyment, and contentment can exist as truly and beautifully in the dreary heights of these Alpine pasturages, as in the courts of kings: and a little more so. For we were not very far above a lovely valley, one of the sweetest spots that I carry in my memory. It is surprising how suddenly the line of barrenness is passed, and the region of fruits and abundant vegetation bursts upon you in this country. We had not been two hours from dreary and inhospitable Guttanen, when we emerged from the narrow defile into a vale, a plain, a basin of rare loveliness for situation and embellishment. Level as a threshing floor, with a hundred Swiss cottages scattered over it, and each of them surrounded with a garden stored with fruits, apples, pears, and the like, while a stream flowing through the midst of it divided the vale into two settlements, in one of which a neat church sent up its graceful spire. We had been loitering along down, and it was now drawing toward evening: the bell of the old church was ringing for evening prayers, and the people, a few of them, were gathering in their sanctuary as we passed. Four mountains, each of them a distinct pyramid, rise on as many sides of this valley, and seem at once to shut it from the world, and to stand around it as towers of defence, as the mountains are round about Jerusalem. This is the Vale of Upper Hasli; the river Aar flows through it; on the right as we are going, is the village of Im-Hof, and on the left the settlement is called Im-Grund. We passed a low house, like all the rest, and three little children in a row, broke out with a song, a sweet Psalm tune, such as our Sabbath school children would sing. We stopped to listen, and the guide stood with us in front of the group, while they sang one after another of their native melodies as birds of the forest would warble an evening song. The youngest was not more than two years old; and when we had given them some money for their music, I took the little thing by the hand, and said, "Come away with me." The guide took it by the other, and it trotted along between us with so much readiness, that it occurred to me instantly that these might be the children of the man who was with me. I said to him, "Are these yours?" "Yes Sir," said he, and catching up the little thing in his arms, he kissed it fondly, and carried it on with all the burdens already on his back. When he had put it down and the children had returned, I asked him why it was that no sign of recognition passed between him and his children when we first came up to them as they stood by the side of the house. He told me that he had taught them to receive him in this way when he came by with strangers, whom he was guiding, and as they sang to receive what money might be given them it was better that it should not be known there was any relation between him and them. I had detected the connection by the willingness of the babe to follow us, and the father was delighted to be able to discover himself to his child, and to take it for a moment in his arms. This incident reminded me of a striking scene in the well known history of William Tell, where the tyrant Gessler confronts the son with the father, and they both, without preconcert, but by a common instinct of caution, deny one another, and persist in the denial till the father is about to die. Leaving the valley, we have a sharp hill to climb. A zig-zag path for carriages has been made over it at great expense of money and labor; so that this vale may be reached from the other side. The hill must at some distant period in the past have resisted the progress of the Aar, and this romantic valley was probably a beautiful lake in the midst of these noble mountains. But the hill by some convulsion has been rent from the top to the bottom, and the river finds its way through a fearful cavern; one of the most awful gorges that can be found in Switzerland. After crossing the hill we left the road, and following our guide for twenty minutes came to the mouth of the cave, that leads down to the bed of the river, where it is rushing through with frightful force in darkness but not silence; for the roar of the waters is repeated among the rocks, adding greatly to the terror of the scene. It is only half an hour's walk from the Cave to Meyringen; but we made it more than an hour, enjoying the fine views that opened upon us as we stood above the village. It is but three miles across the plain, and as I look upon the splendid cataract of the Reichenbach falling into it on one side, and the Alpbach coming down on the other, and streaming cascades in great numbers pouring into it down the precipitous sides of the mountains, the first thought that strikes the mind is of the danger that the valley would be filled with water one of these days and the people driven out. Such a calamity has indeed occurred, and to guard against its return, a stone dyke one thousand feet long and eight feet wide has been built, that the swollen river may be conducted with safety out of the vale. Long years ago the mountain torrent brought down a mass of earth with it, so suddenly and so fearfully that in one brief hour, a large part of the village was buried twenty feet deep, and the desolation thus wrought still appears over the whole face of the plain. The Church has a black line painted on it to mark the height to which it was filled with the mud and water in this deluge of 1762. There is something very fearful in the idea of dwelling in a region subject to such visitations. But there is a fine race of men and women here. The men are spoken of as models for strength and agility, and the matches and games in which they annually contend with the champions of other cantons decide their claims to the distinction. The women are good looking, and that is more than I can say for most of the women I have met among the Alps; where the hardy, exposed, and toilsome life they lead, in poverty and disease, gives them such a look as I cannot bear to see in a female face. In fact I could not tell a man from a woman but by their dress in many parts of the mountains. Now we are down in the region of improved civilization, and some taste in dress begins to appear among the women, who rig themselves out in a holiday or Sunday suit of black velvet bodice, white muslin sleeves, a yellow petticoat, and a black hat set jauntingly on one side of the head, with their braided hair hanging down their backs. An old woman on the hill at whose house I stopped for a drink, told me I ought to stay there till next Sunday and see them all come out of church; "a prettier sight I would never see in all my life." Coming down from the Hospice of the Grimsel, I was filled with admiration when I entered the valley in which the villages of Im-Hof and Im-Grund lie, with their single church and hundred cottages. Naigle, my guide, was one of the dwellers in this vale, and the meeting with his children as he passed through had deeply interested me in the place and the people. I wished to know more of their habits and especially I would know the spirit and the power of the religion which these people professed. They are so secluded from all the world, so girt with great mountains and compelled to look upwards whenever they would see far, that it seemed to me they must be a thoughtful religious people, even if their way of religion was not the same as mine. It was a Protestant Canton, and so far their faith was mine, but there is a wide difference between the faith and practice of many churches that profess Protestantism, as there is also in the churches under the dominion of the Pope of Rome. Naigle was a character. I was sure of it in five minutes after he was in my service. Six feet high on a perpendicular, he was at least six feet four, on a curve, for long service in carrying heavy burdens over the mountains had made a bend in his back like a bow that is never unstrung. I had asked him how many of those children he had, and he had told me eight: and he did not improve in my good opinion when he offered as the only objection to selling me the youngest, that he would be sent to prison if he did. Yet Naigle loved his children I am sure, and would not part with one of them unless for the sake of improving its prospects for the future. His own were dark enough. One franc a day, less than twenty cents of our money, is the price of a day's labor in the hardest work of the year, though the very men who are glad to get this of their neighbors, will not guide a stranger through their country, or carry his bag, for less than five francs for eight or ten hours. The women will work out doors all day for less than a man's wages, and perform the same kind of labor. This Naigle was a hard-working man, it was very plain, and there was a decided streak of good sense in him that assured me, he could give me much valuable information, in spite of that miserable mixture of German and French which was the only language he could speak. Fortunately I had my young German friend with me, and we managed among us to extract from Naigle all we desired. We had good rooms at Meyringen, and Naigle was to stay over night there and return to his family in the morning. I asked him where he would sleep; and he said "in the stable," a lodgment I afterwards found to be common in this and other European countries: not in rooms fitted up over the stalls, as in America, but in bunks by the side of the horses: in the midst of foul atmosphere which would be enough, I should suppose, to stifle any man in the course of the night. Yet I have heard a German gentleman say that there is no smell so pleasant to him as that of a stable, and I record it as another evidence of the truth of the adage "there is no disputing about _tastes_." Naigle came up to my room in the evening, sat down on a trunk, and answered questions for an hour or two, but I can put all I learned of him into a moderate compass, though it will want the freshness and often the peculiar turn of thought with which he imparted it. Naigle told me first of his family which he had great difficulty in supporting on the low wages he received, and the small profits he could make on his trade with the neighboring valleys. At least half of the year, he said, they do not have a particle of meat in the house: they live chiefly on potatoes and beans, with bread and milk: few vegetables, and these not the most nutritious. The snow comes on so early in autumn and lies so late in the spring that the season for cultivation is very short, though they try to make the most of it while it lasts, as they do of the little land in their valley, and on the mountain sides. Yet poverty often stares them in the face with a melancholy threat of famine. No people on earth dwell in such glorious scenery and in such destitution of the real comforts of life. But what are the morals of such a people? Are the virtues of social life held in honor among them, and are the children of these mountain homes trained up in the way they should go? One of the severest replies I have had was given to me by a Swiss guide, who had followed his business of showing strangers through the country for thirty years: and when he told me he had three sons grown up to manhood I asked him if they were guides also? He said, "No, he never allowed them to travel about with foreigners: the boys learned too many bad words and ways in that business." Very likely intercourse with travellers is not happy on the morals of any people, but it is little that the dwellers in these valleys see of foreigners, who push through them without pausing even to spend a night. Naigle gave me however to understand that the standard of social morals was very low among them, and this was confirmed by all that I learned from the various classes of men with whom I came in contact during my journey in this country. It is true everywhere, that virtue does not flourish in the extremes of poverty or wealth. He was greatly interested in the little church, and was pleased to answer all my inquiries. The pastor, he said, was a good man who was kind to them in sickness, visiting them to give the consolations of the gospel, and especially at such times did they prize his instructions and prayers. This service was rendered freely to the poorest among them, on whom the pastor calls as soon as he hears that they are in distress, and he is always engaged in looking among his flock to find those who have need of his peculiar care. The same good shepherd has charge of the parish school, to which all the children are sent; and if the parents are able to pay anything toward their children's education, they are expected to do so, but if not they are not deprived of the privileges of the school. Here they are taught to read, to write, and to keep accounts; but more than all this, they are instructed in the catechism of the church, and are examined often on it, and encouraged to become acquainted with the doctrines and duties of religion. It was hard for me to convey my idea to Naigle when I sought to learn of him, if the good pastor required of the young people any proof of _regeneration_, or a change of heart, before giving them the second sacrament. He said their children are all baptized in infancy, and admitted to the Lord's Supper when they are old enough, and good enough, and understand the doctrines taught in the school. "But what if one of those who has come to the holy sacrament falls into some sin, as stealing, or profane swearing?" "O, in that case he is not allowed to come to the sacrament, till he has repented and reformed. The minister is very strict about that, and the people who belong to the church, that is, those who wish to be considered as good Christian people, never indulge in any of those things which are forbidden by the Bible. There are many loose people in the valley who have no care for God or man, but have no connection with the church." On the whole, I was led to infer from what Naigle said that the church of the Upper Hasli valley is about in the same condition with hundreds of others in this and other lands. There is in the midst of this mountain scenery far removed from the intercourse of the world, where a newspaper is rarely seen, and few books are ever read, a little people among whom God has some friends, who in their way are striving to serve him, and whose service it will be pleasure to accept. Many of them have only a form of religion. The Romish religion that surrounds these lands, and which is so admirably framed for an ignorant and sensual people, pervades the minds of many who are Protestants in name, and who cannot be taught, or rather will not learn, that salvation is only by faith in the Saviour. That other gospel which gives heaven to him who does penance for his great sins, and bows often to the picture of a handsome woman, is _the_ religion for a people who cannot read, or who have no books if they can. Ignorance and Romanism go hand in hand. My estimate of the Swiss character has wofully depreciated since I have travelled among these mountains. With a history such as Greece might be proud of, and a race of heroes that Rome never excelled in the days when women would be mothers only to have sons for warriors; the Swiss people now are at a point of national and social depression painful to contemplate. They are indebted largely to the defences of nature for the comparative liberty they enjoy, and perhaps to the same seclusion is to be referred their want of a thousand comforts of life, which an improved state of society brings. All the romance of a Swiss cottage is taken out of a traveller's mind, the moment he enters one of these cabins and seeks refreshment or rest. The saddest marks of poverty meet him in the door. The same roof is the shelter of the man, woman and beast. The same room is often the bed chamber of all. Scanty food, and that miserably prepared, is consumed without regard to those domestic arrangements which make life at home a luxury. There is no _future_ to the mind of a Swiss youth. He lives to live as his father lived--and that is the end of life with him. Perhaps he may have a gun, and in that case, to be the best shot in the valley may fill his ambition: or if he is strong in the arms and legs he may aim at distinction in the games which once a year are held at some hamlet in the Canton, where the wrestlers and runners contend for victory, and others throw weights and leap bars as of old in Greece, when kings were not ashamed to enter the lists. Many of the youth of Switzerland are willing to sell themselves into the service of foreign powers, as soldiers--Swiss soldiers--hired to be shot at, and shoot any body a foreign despot may send them to slay: a service so degrading, and at the same time so decidedly hazardous to life and limb, with so poor a chance for pay, that none but a people far gone in social degradation would be willing thus to make merchandise of their blood. Yet they have fought battles bravely with none of the stimulus of patriotism, and their blood has been as freely poured out for tyrants who hired them, as if they were bleeding for their own and the land of William Tell. _Falls of the Reichenbach._ I had enjoyed all the pleasures of pedestrianism that I wished, and told Naigle to get me a horse for to-morrow. He was willing to go on with us for a day or two more, but I gave him a trifle for his wife, and to pay him for his evening while I kept him talking when he would have been sleeping; and after he had brought me a man who would go with his horse, and carry me on over the Wengern Alp, I dismissed him. There is nothing in Swiss travelling more annoying than the impositions practised upon you by those who have horses or mules for hire. The price for a horse is at the rate usually of about ten francs or two dollars a day; but if you are not to return the next day to the place from which you started, (and you rarely or never do,) you must pay the same price for the horse to come back. The driver manages to find a traveller to come back with, and so gets double pay both ways in nine trips out of ten. If the business were left open to competition without the help of government, the price would be reduced. Naigle brought me a man who would go with his horse as far as I liked for ten francs a day, and nothing for return money, but he desired me to set off in the morning on foot, and he would be a few minutes off, out of the village, for if the landlords who keep horses to let, knew that he was at the business on his own hook, they would molest him. He served me well, and I paid him to his entire satisfaction. Leaving Meyringen on a lovely morning, the last of August, crossing the Aar by a bridge, I came at once to the Baths of Reichenbach, where there is a good hotel, said to be better than those at Meyringen. The grounds about are tastefully arranged, and an establishment fitted up for invalids, with every convenience for warm and cold baths on a moderate scale. If plenty of mountain water and mountain air will make sick people well, here is a fine place for them to come and be cured. I climbed the mountain in haste, to get the finer view of the Reichenbach Fall, whose roar I had heard, and the spray of which was rising continually before me. I could see the torrent as it took its first leap out of the forest, but it plunged instantly out of sight into a deep abyss, and I must ascend to its brow, and see the rush of waters as they descend into the gorge. The path to those coming down is very difficult, so steep, indeed, that it is safer and pleasanter to leave the horse and come on foot. But we went up slowly till we reached a meadow of table land, which we were permitted to cross on paying a small toll, to a house which has been built at the point where the best view of the fall from below can be had. It is almost a shame to board up such scenes as these, and compel a man to look through a window at a scene where he would have nothing around him but the mountain, flood and sky. The young woman was very civil, and offered us woodwork for sale, and a view through colored glass, and a subscription-book to record our donations for the construction of the foot-path, and we finally had the privilege of taking a look in silence. A narrow, but no mean stream, plunging TWO THOUSAND feet makes a cataract before which the spectator stands with awe. The leap is not made at once, yet the river rests but twice in all that distance, and only for a moment then. The point of view where we are now beholding it, is midway of the upper and grandest of these successive falls. The fury of the descending torrent is terrible. The spray rises in perpetual clouds from the dread abyss into which the river leaps. It might be a bottomless abyss, so far as human penetration can discover, for no arm can fathom it, no eye can pierce the dark cavern where the waters boil and roar, and whence they issue only to make another leap into the vale below. The bow of God is on the brow of the cataract. I do so love to find it there, not more for its exceeding beauty than the feeling of hope and safety it always inspires. We counted all the colors as it waved and smiled so fondly in the spray, as if it loved its birth-place.--Having had the finest opportunity of seeing the fall from this point, we did not return across the field to the horses, but took the foot-path straight up the mountain, over a rough and toilsome way, led on by a little lad who seemed anxious to do us the favor. He guided us by a walk of twenty minutes to the brink of the precipice. The path was just wide enough for one person to pass around the headland, holding by the bushes as we walked, and thus by taking turns in the perilous excursion, we went to the brow of the cataract, and looked down the front of the terrific fall. A single misstep or the slipping of a foot, might plunge the curious gazer into the gulph; yet so seductive and so flattering is such danger, we rarely have the least sense of it till it is over. Not the water only, but the whole prospect from this overhanging cliff, is in a high degree sublime. The plains of Meyringen, the mountains beyond, from which cascades are hanging like white lace veils on the green hill-sides, villages and scattered cottages, the river Aar shooting swiftly across the valley, are now in full view, and we turn away reluctantly from the sight to resume the ascent. CHAPTER VIII. A GLACIER AND AVALANCHE. Alpine Horn--Beggars--The Rosenlaui Glacier--Beautiful Views--Glorious Mountain Scenes--Mrs. Kinney's "Alps"--A Lady and Babe--The Great Scheidek--Grindelwald--Eagle and Bear--Battle with Bugs--Wengern Alp--A real Avalanche--The Jungfrau. A beautiful Chamois was standing on the ledge of rock that overhung the path as I turned away from the Reichenbach Fall, and I was pleased to see so fine a specimen of the animal whose home is the Alps and whose pursuit has for ages been the delight of the mountaineer. He would have sprung from crag to crag at my approach and soon disappeared, had he not been held by a string in the hand of a boy who expected a few coppers for showing the animal. This is but one of a hundred ways and means of begging adopted by the Swiss peasantry. Of all ages from the infant to extreme decrepitude, they plant themselves along the highways of travel, and by every possible pretext seek to obtain the pence of the traveller. Some are glad to have a poor cretin or a case of goitre in the family, that they may have an additional plea to put in for charity. Others sing or play on some wretched instrument, and the traveller would cheerfully pay them something to be silent, that he may enjoy the beauties of the world around him without the torment of their music. But the Alpine Horn makes music to which the hills listen. A wooden tube nearly ten feet long and three inches in diameter, curved at the mouth which is slightly enlarged, is blown with great strength of lungs, and the blast at first harsh and startling is caught by the mountain sides and returned in softened strains, echoing again and again as if the spirits of the wood were answering to the calls of the dwellers in the vales. The man who was blowing, had but one hand, and after a single performance, or one blast, he held out that hand for his pay, and then returned to his instrument, making the hills to resound again with his wild notes. The Rosenlaui valley into which we now enter is a green and sunny plain, where the verdure is as rich and the fruits as fair as if there were no oceans of never melting ice and hills of snow lying all around and above it. On either side the bare mountains rise perpendicularly: the Engel-Horner or Angel's Peaks sending their shining summits so far into the heavens that the pagans would make them the thrones of gods, and the Well-Horn, and Wetter-Horn, bleak and cold, but now resplendent in a brilliant sun light. A small but very comfortable inn is fitted up in this valley with conveniences for bathing, and a few invalids are always here for the benefit of the air, scenery and the mountain baths. We rested at the tavern, and then walked a mile out of the way to see the Glacier of the Rosenlaui. After a short ascent we entered a fine forest, and followed the gorge through which the glacier torrent is rushing: an awful gorge a thousand feet deep it seemed to me, and if some mighty shock has not rent these rocks, and opened the way for the waters that are now roaring in those dark mysterious depths, they must have been a thousand years in wearing out the channel for themselves. A slight bridge is thrown across the ravine, and a terrible pleasure there is in standing on it and listening to the mad leaps of rocks which the peasants are prepared to launch into the abyss, for the amusement of travellers. I shuddered at the thought of falling, and felt a glow of pleasing relief when I was away from the tempting verge. I never could explain to myself the source of that half formed desire which so many, perhaps all have, of trying the leap when standing on the brow of a cataract, the verge of a precipice, the summit of a lofty tower. It is often a question whether persons who have thus perished, designed to commit suicide or not. It is not unlikely that some are suddenly seized with this undefined desire to make the trial: the mind is wrought into a frenzy of excitement, dizziness ensues, and in a moment of fear, desire and delirium the irresponsible victim leaps into the gulf. Many of the fearful passes of the Alps have their local tragedies of this sort, and I was not disposed to add another. We soon climbed to the foot of the glacier. We have come to a mountain of emerald. The sun is shining on it, at high noon. The melting waters have cut a glorious gateway of solid crystal: we step within and beneath the arch. A ledge of ice affords a standing place for the cool traveller who may plant his pike staff firmly and look over into the depths where the torrent has wrought its passage and from which the mists are curling upwards. The sunlight streams through the blue domes of these caverns, long icicles sparkle in the roof, and jewels, crowns and thrones of ice are all about me in this crystal cave. Its outer surface is remarkable for the purity of the ice, its perfect freedom from that deposit of earth and broken stone which mars the beauty of most of the glaciers of Switzerland. Great white wreaths are twisted on its brow, and on its bosom palaces and towers are brilliant in the sunlight; and from the side of it the Well-horn and Wetter-horn rise like giants from their bed, and stretch themselves away into the clouds. No sight among the Alps had so charmed me with its beauty and sublimity. These hills of pure ice, this great gateway only less bright in the sun than the gates of pearl, cold indeed, but with flowers and evergreens cheating the senses into the feeling that this is not real, it must be a reproduction of fabled palaces and hills of diamonds, and mountains of light. I am sure that I do not exaggerate: the memory of it now that I recur to it after many days is of great glory, such as the eye never can see out of Switzerland, and the forms of beauty and the thoughts of majesty, awakened as I stood before and beneath and upon this glacier, must remain among the latest images that will fade from the soul. Excited by what I had seen and mindless of the path by which I had ascended, I threw myself back upon my Alpen-stock and slid down the face of a long shelving rock, leaping when I could, and gliding when the way was smooth, and reached the bridge and the ravine in safety, though the guides insisted that the longest way around was the surest way down. We are now at the foot of lofty mountains. The warm sun is loosening the masses of snow and ice and we are constantly hearing the roar of the avalanches. At first it startles us, as if behind the clear blue sky above us there is a gathering storm: the sound comes rushing down and multiplied by echoes themselves re-echoed from the surrounding hills, the thunder is forgotten in the majesty of this music of the mountains. We see nothing from which these voices came. There are valleys beyond these peaks where perhaps the foot of man has never trod, and He who directs the thunderbolt when it falls, is guiding these ice-falls into the depths of some abyss where they may not crush even one of the least of the creatures of his care. It is grand to hear them and feel that they will not come nigh us. Our path is now so far from the base of this precipitous mountain that if those snow caps fall, and we are constantly wishing that they would, we should be in no peril, and so we ride on with hearts full of worship, rejoicing in the thoughts of Him who built these high places, and whose praise is uttered in the silence of all these speechless peaks, and shouted in the avalanche in tones which seem to be reverberated all around the world. One of our own poets, with a soul in harmony with the greatness as well as the beauty of this scenery, exclaims in view of these towering heights-- Eternal pyramids, built not with hands, From linked foundations that deep-hidden lie, Ye rise apart, and each a wonder stands! Your marble peaks, that pierce the clouds so high, Seem holding up the curtain of the sky. And there, sublime and solemn, have ye stood While crumbling Time, o'erawed, passed reverent by-- Since Nature's resurrection from the flood, Since earth, new-born, again received God's plaudit, "Good!" * Vast as mysterious, beautiful as grand! Forever looking into Heaven's clear face, Types of sublimest Faith, unmoved ye stand, While tortured torrents rave along your base: Silent yourselves, while, loosed from its high place, Headlong the avalanche loud thundering leaps! Like a foul spirit, maddened by disgrace, That in its fall the souls of thousands sweeps Into perdition's gulf, down ruin's slippery steeps. Dread monuments of your Creator's power! When Egypt's pyramids shall mouldering fall, In undiminished glory ye shall tower, And still the reverent heart to worship call, Yourselves a hymn of praise perpetual; And if at last, when rent is Law's great chain, Ye with material things must perish all, Thoughts which ye have inspired, not born in vain, In immaterial minds for aye shall live again. My mind was full of such thoughts as these, so finely clothed in Mrs. Kinney's words, when I met a party, of ladies and gentlemen, and one of the ladies was borne along in a chair, with a babe in her arms! Here was a contrast, and a suggestive sight. It was certainly the pursuit of knowledge under difficulties, but I could readily understand that having overcome every obstacle in her strong desire to see the Alps, and to see them now, she was enjoying them perhaps more than any one of the group around her. And I did not fail to admire the energy of soul that in its love of nature, and its thirsting after these mighty manifestations of power and beauty, was equal to all the difficulties that opposed her way. Whether ladies may make these difficult passes, which must be made to see the inner life and real character of Switzerland, is merely a question of dollars and cents. The feeblest may be borne as tenderly as this infant was on its mother's breast, and the most delicate will gather health and strength from the bracing mountain air, and new life will be inspired in the midst of these exciting scenes. To see Switzerland on wheels is impracticable. Its brightest glories are hid away in regions of perpetual ice and snow, where no traveller passes except to _see_. The highways of trade are not here. This is a secret place of the Most High, where from the foundation of the world, he has wrapt himself in storms and clouds, and thundered among the hills, and has been admired only by those who have come here expressly to behold his works. The solitude of such scenery adds intensely to the sense of the sublime. Mountains all around us and God! To be alone with him anywhere is to be near him: in the midnight, or on the ocean or the desert, it is a heart-luxury to feel that only God is near; that his presence fills immensity, and his Spirit pervades all matter and all space. But to stand in the midst of these great Alps, hoary patriarchs, monuments compared with which the pyramids are children of a day, is to stand in the high places of his dominions and to be raised by his own hand into audience with him at whose presence these mountains shall one day flow down like water and melt away. _Heinrich_, my young German friend, was peopling them continually with the creatures of Grecian mythology, and his classic history often led him to speak of the lofty seats of divinities where ancient poets had planted the council halls of the gods. I loved to believe that God had made these hills for himself, and as the people who dwell among them have no heart to appreciate them, pilgrims from all lands are flocking here, and offering the incense of praise at the foot of these high altars. How they do lead the soul along upward toward the great white throne! How like that throne is yonder peak in snowy purity shining now in this bright sun. It is very glorious, and no human footstep ever trod the summit. God sits there alone. Let us admire and adore. He is fearful in praises, doing wonders! Who is like unto him, a great God, and a great King! But this is not getting on with the journey. You have the privilege of skipping my _reflections_ as you read; but to travel without reflection, common as it is, is not my way--and if you would feel the sights that meet the eye in this world of wonders, you must indulge me in pausing now and then, to muse. All this time we have been going steadily up the Great Scheidek, and have now stopped at a small house, with the word tavern painted on it in two or three different languages. An apology for a dinner we got after waiting for it till an appetite for supper came. The view from this height into the Grindelwald valley is enchanting. The descent is so steep that we were willing to leave the mules and walk down, holding back by the alpenstock, and resting often to enjoy the sight, into the valley below. And now we have come to another glacier, in the midst of a sunny slope, stretching down into the bosom of verdant pasturage where herds are grazing and flowers are blossoming, and women and children are laboring under a burning sun. It is hard to believe, even as we stand at the foot of it, that this is everlasting ice: a segment of the frozen zone let fall into the lap of summer, and sleeping here age after age, perishing continually, but renewed day by day, so that it seems unchanged. It is a wonderful growth and decay; and the greater wonder to my mind, and one that does not diminish, is that so much life and beauty can exist and flourish in the midst of this eternal cold.--Yet there is a greater contrast even here. We are coming into the valley, and there another, called the Upper Glacier lies, and yet that is not to furnish the contrast of which I speak. It is in the wide and wonderful difference between this people and their country! Degenerate, ignorant, begging and demoralized, this people seem, and indeed are, unworthy of such a land as this. They have a history, but Switzerland was, and is not. The race has run down.--Disease and hardships have reduced the stock, till now we rarely meet a fine-looking man, never a fine-looking woman, as we cross the mountains and traverse the valleys of this noble country. The vale of Grindelwald, into which we have now descended, is one of the most fertile, picturesque, and quiet in Switzerland. It is a place to stay in. The hotels, of which there are two, are crowded to overflowing. We sent our guide ahead to get room for us, but he failed. There was no room for us at the inn. We paused first at the _Eagle_, a very good-looking establishment, and the balcony running across the front of it was filled with good-looking people--but there were as many there as the house would hold, and we had to go on to the _Bear_. And the Bear would not let us in. The very best the landlord could do, was to give us a room with three beds in it, in a _cottage_ across the way, where we would be quiet and comfortable. We went over. Up stairs, by as dark, narrow, dirty, ricketty, dangerous and disagreeable a passage as I had made among the mountains, we were led by a tall, skinny, slatternly woman, with a tallow candle in her fingers, and shown into our treble chamber. For the first time we were in such a house as the better class of peasants occupy in Switzerland. It had been taken by the proprietor of the hotel, as a sort of makeshift when his hotel was overflowing--the lower part of it was his bake and wash house, and this room was reserved for lodgings. I was worn out with the journey of the day, and glad enough to stretch myself on any thing that ventured to call itself a bed. The walls of the chamber around and above were rude boards, and the bare floor had been trodden a hundred years without feeling. The furniture was a mixture of the broken chairs of the hotel and the superannuated relics of the cottage, an amusing study, which helped to pass away half an hour, while our prison keeper, the ugly old woman, was scaring up something for us to eat. Bread and milk, with some cheese so strong that we begged her to take it off, made a frugal repast, but sweet to a hungry man: this mountaineering does give a man an appetite--and then he sleeps so well after eating. Alas! my dreams were short; a band of bloodthirsty villains attacked me in the dead of night, and for four hours I fought them tooth and nail. The battle made real the poet's description of another scene-- "Though hundreds, thousands bleed, Still hundreds, thousands, more succeed." How many of the foe found that night a bed of death in my bed, I cannot say, as we took no account of the slain, but the conflict was sanguinary and the destruction of life was immense. The sun rose upon the battle field, but it was hard to say which was the victor. Exhausted quite as much by the night's exertions as the travels of the previous day, I rose to address myself to the journey. The rapacious landlord of the Bear charged us the same price for our lodgings that was paid by those who had the best rooms in his house, and I told him we were willing to pay him for the privilege of hunting in his grounds, which we had greatly enjoyed for several hours. He was too slow to take my meaning, but when he did, he had no idea there was any harm in a few fleas. All these mountain sides are covered with the huts of the shepherds, where during a part of the year a man remains to tend the flocks, and he takes with him some coarse food to last him during the months of his stay. The shepherds and their families live in the midst of their dogs and cattle, and fleas are no worse to them than they are to us. It only served to amuse the landlord of the _Bear_, when we related to him the sufferings of the night, and besought him never to expose travellers to such annoyances again. The ascent of the _Faulhorn_ is made from Grindelwald. It is a mountain eight thousand feet high, and the view from the summit is said to be an ample reward for the five hours' walk or ride which is necessary to gain it. The long and glorious range of the Bernese Alps stands majestically in sight, and there are not wanting those who declare the prospect superior to that which is had on the Rigi. I took it on trust, and having loftier summits still before me, was willing to leave the Faulhorn. And I was willing to leave Grindelwald too--glad to escape the scene of my midnight sufferings, but I doubt not that at the _Eagle_ (and not at the Bear) we might have spent a day or two very pleasantly in this charming vale. And how soon are these little vexations of life forgotten. They are worth mentioning only to remind us how foolish it is to be vexed at trifles, which in a single day are with the things that happened a hundred years ago. Thus moralizing and half sorry that I had made any complaint of my quarters for the night, I mounted my horse and set off to cross _The Wengern Alp._ The ride through the vale in the early morning was refreshing. Parties of travellers were emerging from cottages where they had found beds, and winding their way by the bridle paths, in various directions, on foot and on horseback, all seeking to see the world of Switzerland, and all enjoying themselves with the various degrees of ability which had been given them. We crossed the lesser _Sheideck_, and stopped on the ridge of it at a small house of refreshment to eat Alpine strawberries and milk. The berries are small and have very little of the strawberry taste, but are quite a treat in their way. They were apparently more abundant here than we had seen them elsewhere, and with plenty of milk they made a capital lunch. Well for us that we had the milk before a dirty boy who was playing at the door when we came up, plunged his mouth and nose into the milkpan and took a long drink, only withdrawing when his father wished to dip some out for a lady who had just arrived. Had she seen the operation, she would have declined the draught, but where "Ignorance is bliss 'tis folly to be wise." We rested a few moments only at this chalet, and then pushed on, passing a forest, or the ruins of a forest, which the avalanches had mown down as grass. The stumps, and here and there a scraggy tree were the witnesses of the desolation that had been wrought. From the height we are crossing we have one of the most magnificent of Alpine views. The Jungfrau stands before us clad in white raiment, beautiful as a bride adorned for her husband: in the sunlight she is dazzling and seems so near to heaven, and so pure in her vestal robes, that we are willing to believe the gateway must be there. The name of this mountain Jungfrau, or the Virgin, is given, on account of the peculiar beauty and purity of the peak which until 1812 had never been sullied by the foot of man. Rising like a pyramid above the surrounding heights thirteen thousand seven hundred and forty-eight feet, and seeming to be as smooth as if cut with a chisel out of solid marble, she stands there sublimely beautiful, to be gazed at and admired. Lord Byron has made this region the scene of some of his most terrible passages, and I was forcibly impressed as I read them with the _contrast_, not the similarity, between his emotions and my own in the midst of these mountains. Here he conceived some of those images never read in his Manfred without a shudder. In his Journal he says "the clouds rose from the opposite valley, curling up perpendicular precipices like the foam of the ocean of hell during a spring-tide--it was white and sulphury, and immeasurably deep in appearance." Then in Manfred he does it into verse: "The mists boil up around the glaciers: clouds Rise curling fast beneath me white and sulphury, Like foam from the roused ocean of deep hell Whose every wave breaks on a living shore, Heap'd with the damn'd like pebbles." None but a mind surcharged with horrors, a mind which all bad things inhabit, could find such images to convey its emotions in view of these sights of grandeur, beauty, and glory. The mists were curling along up the precipices as I have seen incense in a great cathedral, mounting the lofty columns, and curling among the arches, a symbol of the praise that goes up from the hearts of worshippers to the God of heaven. These white clouds, not "sulphury"--so far from being suggestive of hell-waves, were heavenly robes rather, and as the sun now nearly at noon, was filling them with light, I loved to watch them, and then look away up to the summit of the mountains around me, rejoicing in the manifestations which the King of kings was making of himself in this dwelling among the munitions of rocks. With these thoughts full on me as I rode along the verge of the tremendous ravine that separates the Wengern Alp from the Jungfrau, we reached a small inn, on the brow of the ravine, where large parties, chiefly English people, were ravening for dinner. This house has been planted here in the Jungfrau, that travellers may rest themselves in its beauty, and watch for the avalanches that now and then come thundering down its precipitous sides. Streams of water are in some places pouring down. The music of the fall is constantly heard, and every five or ten minutes the roar of a snow-slide thunders on the ear. Few of them are seen. They break away from crags that are out of sight, and plunge into dark abysses where the eye of man does not follow them. But this is just the time of day when we might look for one, for it is past noon when the sun's power is the greatest, and if the great toppling mass which seems to be holding on with difficulty would but let go its cold death grasp and come headlong into this mighty grave at the base of the mountain, it would be a sight worth coming to Switzerland to see. We watched and wished, and the more we watched, the more it would not come. During the half hour we had sat wrapped up in our blankets, gazing at the cold snow hills, and shivering in the bleak winds, the dinner had been in preparation, and despairing of getting something to see, we determined like sensible people, to have something to eat. The long table was filled with hungry travellers, and all had forgotten in the enjoyment of dinner the wonders of the Alps, when suddenly the alarm was given, "_Laweenen_," the "_Avalanche_." Servants dropped the dishes and ran, gentlemen and ladies following them rushed from the table, over chairs and each other, crowding for the doors and windows: and had there been danger of a sudden overwhelming of the house, and the destruction of all the inhabitants, we could not have fled in greater haste and confusion than we now did, to see the descending "thunderbolt of snow." All eyes were upon one point where a stream like powdered marble was pouring from one of the gullies far up the Jungfrau and lodging on a ledge. It differed in no respect from a stream of snow, nor indeed from one of water which is perfectly white in the distance when a small cascade is dangling from the rocks. Yet we are told, and there is no reason to doubt that this stream is made up of vast blocks of ice and masses of snow, dashed constantly into smaller fragments as it comes "rushing amain down," but still weighing each of them many tons, and capable of dealing destruction to forests and villages if they stood in its path. We looked on in silence, and with disappointment mingled with awe. The stream that had rested for a while on one ledge now began to flow again, and the roar of the torrent increased every instant, filling the air with its reverberations, which were caught by distant mountains and sent back in sharp echoes, and again in deep toned voices that seemed to shake the sky. But I was disappointed. It was just what I did not expect, although I had read enough of them to be prepared for what was to come. This was _said to be_ one of the grandest scenes this season! Of course we believed it, and report it accordingly. Grand indeed it was, and when we consider that at least four miles are between us and the hill side down which it is rushing, it is not surprising that the masses of ice should be blended into a steady and liquid stream. Certainly I prefer to see such a torrent at a distance, to being sufficiently near it to run any risk of being buried alive in an icy grave. CHAPTER IX. INTERLACHEN AND BERNE. The Staubach Fall--Lauterbrunnen--Interlachen--Cretins and Goitre--Dr. Guggenbuhl--Giesbach Fall--Berne--Inquisitive Lady--Swiss Creed--Crossing the Gemmi--Leuchenbad Baths. The Staubach Fall, nearly a thousand feet high, is far from being such a thing of beauty as I had hoped to find it. It comes from such a height and has so small a body of water, that it dissolves into spray, and falling upon the rocks gathers itself up again and leaps down into the valley. Byron compares it to the tail of the white horse in the Apocalypse. Wordsworth speaks of it as a "heaven-born waterfall," and Murray likens it to a "beautiful lace veil suspended from a precipice." It is just at the entrance of the village of Lauterbrunnen, which lies in a valley literally gloomy and sublime. The sides of the mountains that shut it in are precipitous and so lofty that in winter the sun does not climb the eastern side till noon, and so cold is it through the summer, that only the hardiest fruits can be raised. I counted between twenty and thirty cascades leaping over the brow of these mountains and plunging into the valley. In the calm of the evening, after the sun had ceased to shine in it, I rode from the village to Interlachen, and thought it the most mournfully pleasing ride in Switzerland. Others whom I met, and who passed me on the way, appeared to regard it as purely delightful, and perhaps few would find in it as I did, the materials of melancholy musings. But all these feelings soon gave way to those of calm enjoyment, when a weary pilgrimage of a week was brought to a close in the beautiful village of Interlachen. We were at the hotel des Alpes; the largest and best boarding establishment in the village, where, for a dollar a day the traveller finds every comfort that a first class hotel affords. It was a very bright day, and the sun had been shining with a ravishing clearness on the snow-white breast of the Jungfrau. At the dinner-table, one of a party of ladies inquired the meaning of Jungfrau, and being told that it was German for a young unmarried lady, I ventured to say that it could not be called the Jungfrau to-morrow. "And why not, pray," was instantly demanded. "Because," said I, "she is certainly clad in her bridal robes to-day." Beyond all doubt, it is the most beautiful single mountain in Switzerland. It is a calm, sweet pleasure to sit and look at her, as a bride adorned for her husband: white exceedingly; pure as the sun and snow; bright as the light, and glorious "as the gate of heaven." Sometimes its lofty summit seems to be touching the vault of heaven, and I could easily imagine that angels were on it, and not far from home. The wide plain in the midst of which the village is planted is the theatre of those yearly contests of strength and skill in which the inhabitants of all the surrounding hills and valleys engage. On the overhanging heights on your right hand as we go to Lauterbrunnen is the Castle of _Unspunnen_, to which a legend attaches that I have not time to tell. Byron is said to have had this scene before him when he made his Manfred. Instead of telling you the doubtful story of this old castle, I would rather give you some account of a modern and more humble house on the hill. It is in sight from the plain: not an imposing structure, but so far above the vale, that you are tempted to inquire what it is, and with a real pleasure you are told it is Dr. Guggenbuhl's Asylum for Cretins. For weeks we have been pained almost daily with the sight of these miserable objects. More distressing to the eye is the victim of the _goitre_, which is a swelling on the neck, gradually enlarging with the growth of the unfortunate subject, till it hangs down on the breast, and sometimes becomes so heavy that the miserable individual is compelled to crawl on the ground. What a strange ordering of Providence it is, that these beautiful valleys should be infected with such a disgusting disease. In the higher regions it is not known, but in low, damp valleys where much water remains stagnant, it abounds. And so degraded are many of the inhabitants, that some families regard it a blessing to have a case of goitre, as it gives them a claim on the charity of others. "Cretinism, which occurs in the same localities as goitre, and evidently arises from the same cause, whatever it may be, is a more serious malady, inasmuch as it affects the mind. The cretin is an idiot--a melancholy spectacle--a creature who may almost be said to rank a step below a human being. There is a vacancy in his countenance; his head is disproportionately large; his limbs are stunted or crippled; he cannot articulate his words with distinctness; and there is scarcely any work which he is capable of executing. He spends his days basking in the sun, and, from its warmth, appears to derive great gratification. When a stranger appears, he becomes a clamorous and importunate beggar, assailing him with a ceaseless chattering; and the traveller is commonly glad to be rid of his hideous presence at the expense of a batz. At times the disease has such an effect on the mind, that the sufferer is unable to find his way home when within a few feet of his own door." A young Swiss physician in Zurich, rapidly gaining fame and fortune in his profession, one day saw a little _cretin_ near a fountain of water. His heart was touched with a sudden sympathy, not for the single unfortunate before him only, but for the thousands whom he knew to be scattered over his magnificent country. His noble heart was moved as he made an estimate of the numbers of his fellow beings in this helpless and now hopeless condition. In a single valley where some ten or fifteen thousand people live, not less than _three thousand_ cretins are found. He could not redeem them all, but could he not do something for a few of them--put a new soul into these bodies--snatch them from the lower order of creation, from a lower level than the dog or the horse, and raise them to the scale of man? It was a noble impulse; it was the beginning of a noble work. In the virtuous heroism of the hour, he resolved to give his life to the cause. Such a man could not have lived even a few years in a community without gaining the affections of all the good, and when it became known that the young physician would leave Zurich to study abroad the subject to which he had consecrated his powers, the poor people flocked about him, and held his knees beseeching him not to forsake them. But his resolution was taken. His observation and study taught him that in the more elevated regions of the country, he would find the only place to locate a hospital, with any hope of making improvement in the miserable cases on whom he might make his experiments. Coming to this lovely vale of Interlachen, and selecting a lofty and most commanding site, away above the old castle of _Unspunnen_, with all the property that he possessed, and what he could obtain from the charity of those who were willing to aid him in his doubtful but philanthropic enterprise, he purchased a tract of mountain land, and built a house of refuge, a hospital for idiots. I rode a donkey up the hill, and with my German friend Heinrich on one side of me, and my American friend Rankin on the other, we had a delightful excursion through the forest; often emerging upon the side of the hill from which we could look off on one of the loveliest scenes, then winding our way by a most circuitous and sometimes a very steep path, we at last overcame the four miles of travel, and found ourselves at the door of the Asylum. At our call a young woman, evidently not a servant, came to the door and showed us into a plainly furnished sitting room, while she retired to announce to the Superintendent that strangers would be pleased to view his establishment. She returned with the register of visitors in which we were desired to write our names and address. She then carried the book to the Doctor, who soon appeared, gave us a cordial greeting, and invited us to walk with him through the house. While we had been sitting there, an uproar was going on overhead, as if the floor was to be broken through. Dr. Guggenbuhl led us directly to the room where the riot was in progress. It was hushed as we entered. But the cause was apparent. We were in the school-room, and teachers and pupils were amusing themselves in the recess with all sorts of diverting and boisterous plays. Here were thirty-seven idiots, of various ages from three to thirty, in the way of being trained to the first exercise of intelligent humanity, the art of thinking. The teachers are young women, the daughters of Swiss Protestant pastors chiefly, devoting themselves without fee or reward, like the Sisters of Charity, to this painfully disagreeable task. Around the room are hung large pictures of beasts and birds, which are designed to catch the attention of the cretins, and to induce them to make inquiries. The first indication of a desire to know any thing is seized upon with avidity and stimulated by every encouragement. While we were standing there, several came in with one of the teachers from a ramble in the woods. They had been for some years in training, and were now awake to the world around them. They brought in beautiful wild flowers which they had gathered, and were delighted to show to us, describing their varieties, and exhibiting a familiarity with the study that I did not dream of its being possible for them to acquire. Feeble as were the exercises of these poor things, it was a joy to know that they can be taught, and Dr. G. assured me that he has had the pleasure and reward of seeing some of them so far restored to sense, that they may be expected to provide for themselves, and have some of the enjoyments of rational beings. He is obliged to use his own discretion in the admission of pupils: his house will contain but his present number, and hundreds must be denied his care, to whom he would gladly extend it, if the rich would give him the means. He devotes all his own property to their relief, and expects to give his life to this self-denying work. In reply to my inquiries if his labors were acknowledged by medical men abroad, he referred me to a score of diplomas that had been sent to him from all the leading Societies on the Continent of Europe and in England, but I saw none from America. Does not my country know, and does it not delight to honor a man whose philanthropy and genius are alike deserving the admiration of the world? Among the poor idiots in this institution is one, the son of an English Lord, sent far away from his native land, in the hope, faint indeed, that the wonderful skill of this heroic man may open the eyes of this child's understanding. What indeed is wealth, and title, and power, to a fool? And O how happy they, who have joyous, bright and knowing little ones, though only bread and milk to eat, and little of that. The good doctor followed us to the brow of the hill, and with us admired the lovely landscape away below, the richly tilled plain--the white cottages scattered over it, and in its midst the beautiful village--wide sheets of water around which the mountains stand and look down, solemn and grand, in their everlasting silence and gray heads: and then we pressed his hands long and earnestly, asking God to bless him, a noble specimen of a Christian physician. While at Interlachen we made excursions to the Geisbach Falls, which have the preference in my view decidedly before all others in Switzerland. We also made a trip to Berne, and passed a few days at the _Couronne_ Hotel, one of the best in the land.--Every body has read of the Bears of Berne, and there are many lions there to see, in the Museum and out. The view of the Bernese Alps is worth the journey to Switzerland. I saw them at sunset, in glory unrivalled and indescribable. Returning from Berne in the diligence, an elderly English lady sitting in front of me, and hearing me converse with my friends, presumed I must be a countryman of her own, and opened a catechism as follows-- _Lady._--"How long since you left England, Sir?" _I._--About two months, Madam. _Lady._--"When do you return, Sir?" _I._--I hope in the Spring, Madam. _Lady._--"Where do you spend the winter?" _I._--In Syria. _Lady._--"Good Lord, what a traveller you are!" She took a pinch of snuff, and I resumed my notes and remarks with my companion. She listened, and grew impatient to get hold of something by which to learn who we were. She at last ventured to come toward the point by asking, "In what part of England do you reside, Sir?" I am not an Englishman, Madam. _Lady._--"Bless me, and of what country are you, pray?" I am an American. _Lady._--"O you are, are you? Well, I would not have thought it. Would it be an _indiscretion_ for me to ask you what is your name, Sir?" I gave her my name of course, but she was not satisfied. "Will you," said she, "have the goodness to give me your name in writing?" I handed her my card, for which she thanked me, and then added, "I know that you are making notes, and will write a book, and I shall hear of you, &c.," and so she chatted on, amusing me not a little with her loquacity. We returned to Interlachen, and here a German lady who was travelling with her family, begged me to allow her son, a student of Heidelberg, to join my party, to make an excursion of a few days, and meet her at Geneva. To this I assented, as it would increase our number to four, and be quite agreeable. With this escort of young men, two Germans and one American, I set off at daylight in the morning, to make the Gemmi Pass. Along the shores of Lake Thun and by the castles of Wimmis and of Spietz, we entered the beautiful vale of Frutigen, where the shepherds and flocks, with their crooks and their dogs, gave us a sweet picture of pastoral life. At a little tavern at which we halted for lunch, I found the following Creed, framed and hung up in the dining-room. It was in French. "I believe in the Swiss country, the brave mother of brave men, and in Freedom only begotten daughter of Helvetia, conceived in Grutli, by the patriot in 1308 who suffered under the aristocrats and priests, was crucified for many centuries, died and was buried in 1814; after sixteen years was again raised from the dead, came back into the bosom of true patriots, from hence she shall come to judge all the wicked. I believe in the human spirit which was delivered from ignorance by knowledge and raised by Education. I believe in a holy general brotherhood of the oppressed in Spain, Portugal, Poland and Italy, the communion of all patriots, the destruction of all tariffs, and the life everlasting of republics, Amen." This is scarcely better than blasphemy; and it is probably one of the formulas of faith on which the Continental conspiracies are formed. On and up, the road led us to some beautiful falls of water, and between perpendicular masses of rock that stood as if split asunder to give us a passage through. We reached Kanderstey in the middle of the day, and met parties returning from the Gemmi, who advised us against going on, as there was every prospect of a coming storm. We were determined however to press forward. I got a mule and a guide, and the young men were ready to walk. We set off in good spirits, but as soon as we struck into the defile which led up the hill, the mists began to thicken around us, and it was impossible to call it any thing but rain. Three hours of steady climbing brought us to the wretched inn of Schwarenbach, which Werner makes the scene of a fearful tale of blood. We were wet and cold, but found no fire, and the set of men and women inside were too dirty and savage to tempt us to spend the night with them, as we were now heartily disposed to do, if the quarters had been safe. I preferred to run the risk of getting over the mountain to staying here. This was the unanimous vote, and again we plunged into the storm. Dreary and dismal was the way, along by the side of the Lake; the Dauben See, and in the midst of broken masses of stone, strewed in wild disorder. We were near the summit when the rain became snow and hail, and the winds swept fearfully over us, so that I could not sit upon my mule. I had scarcely dismounted, before he slipped on a ledge and fell; I might have broken my neck had I fallen with him. No signs of a human habitation are on this lonely height. And if there were, we could not find them in this driving storm. There are no monks to come with their dogs to look us up, if we lose the way. We must go over and down on the other side, or perish. To return is impossible. Among the scattered fragments of rocks, no path was to be seen; and we frequently feared that we had lost our way. I followed the guide to the brink of a precipice two thousand feet deep, and perpendicular. Down the face of this solid rock leads the most wonderful of all the pathways in Switzerland. So narrow as just to allow two mules to pass as they meet, the zigzag path is cut out of the solid rock, and covered with earth and stones to prevent our feet from slipping. The mule, by a wonderful instinct, walks upon the extreme outer verge, lest in making the sudden turn his load should strike the rock and tumble him off. Sheltered somewhat from the rain by the overhanging rocks, we pursued our weary way to the bottom; and then, through mud and mire and darkness, drenched to our skins, we reached the Hotel Blanche at Leukenbad. This is the great bathing establishment of Switzerland. It is higher above the sea than the summit of any mountain in Great Britain. Again and again it has been swept away by avalanches, and is now protected by a strong wall above the village. The water bursts out from the ground immediately in front of our hotel, and supplies the baths, which are twenty feet square, and in which a dozen or twenty men and women may be seen, for hours, sitting with their heads only out of water, reading the newspapers, or books, on little floats before them; playing chess; or whiling away the time in some more agreeable manner. The next morning, by a most romantic pathway along the borders of a vast abyss, the scene of a bloody battle in 1799, we pursued our journey to the valley of the Rhone, and taking the Great Simplon road, through Sion, went to Martigny. CHAPTER X. MONKS OF SAINT BERNARD. The Char-a-banc--the Napoleon Pass--Travellers in winter--Monks--Dogs--Dinner--Music--Dead-house--Contributions--a Monk's Kiss. The weather was threatening when we set off from Martigny, and we had many forebodings that the dogs of Saint Bernard might have to look us up, if the storm should come before we reached the hospice. A char-a-banc, a narrow carriage in which we sat three in a line with the _tandem_ horses, was to convey us to the village of Liddes. On leaving the valley and crossing the river Drance, we soon commenced the ascent, by the side of the raving torrent, with majestic heights on either hand. A terrible tale of devastation and misery, of sublime fortitude and heroic courage, is told of the valley of Bagnes, where the ice had made a mighty barrier against the descending waters, which accumulated so rapidly that a lake seven thousand feet wide was formed, and a tunnel was cut through the frozen dam with incredible toil, when it burst through and swept madly over the country below, bearing destruction upon its bosom. In two hours some four hundred houses were destroyed with thirty-four lives and half a million dollars' worth of property. We were four hours and a half getting up to Liddes, where we had a wretched dinner, and then mounted horses to ride to the summit of the pass. The rain, which had been falling at intervals all the morning, was changed into snow as we got into colder regions. The path became rougher and more difficult, and it was hard to believe that even the indomitable spirit of Napoleon could have carried an army with all the munitions of war, over such a route as this. Yet the passage now is smooth and easy compared with what it was when in 1800 he crossed the Alps. Leaving the miserable village of Saint Pierre, through which a Roman Catholic procession was passing, we had an opportunity of refusing to take off our hats, though some of the peasants insisted on our so doing. We came up to heights where no trees and few shrubs were growing: flowers would sometimes put their sweet faces up through the snow and smile on us as we passed, and I stopped to gather them as emblems of beauty and happiness in the midst of desolation and death. [Illustration: THE HOSPICE OF ST. BERNARD.] The most of the travellers on their upward way, were mounted on mules, but a few were on foot, and among these was one of the monks of the Hospice, who with a couple of blooming Swiss damsels, was returning to his quarters from a visit below. We passed one or two cottages, and a house of stone which has been built away up here for the reception of benighted travellers, and after a toilsome journey of four hours, just at sunset we came upon the Hospice, a large three-story stone house, on the height of the mountain more than eight thousand feet above the sea, the highest inhabited spot in Europe. To shelter those who are compelled to cross this formidable pass in winter, when the paths are far down underneath the snow, and travellers are in danger of being overtaken by storms, or overcome with fatigue and sinking in the depths of the drifts, this _hospice_ has been founded and sustained. In the summer season, as now, it is merely a large hotel, where pleasure parties are drawn by curiosity to visit the monks and their establishment, famed the world over for its hospitality and self-denying charity. The snow was falling fast as we ascended the rugged pass, and at least six inches of it lay on the ground at the top. I was glad to have reached it, in the midst of such a storm. It gave me a vivid picture of the hospice when its walls and cheerful fires and kind sympathies are needed for worn and exhausted pilgrims. Such were some who arrived here this evening. Father Maillard, a young monk, received us at the door, and after pleasing salutations conducted us to our chambers, plainly furnished apartments with no carpets on the floor, but with good beds. The house was very cold. As the season is not yet far advanced, perhaps their winter fires were not kindled, and as no fuel is to be had except what is brought up from below on the backs of horses, it is well for the monks to be chary of its use. Our host led us to the chamber in which Napoleon slept when he was here, and my young German friend occupied the same bed in which the Emperor lay. He did not tell me in the morning that his dreams were any better than mine, though I had but a humble pilgrim's. After we had taken possession of our quarters, we were at liberty to survey the establishment. We began at the kitchen, where a small army of servants were preparing dinner, over immense cooking stoves. The house is fitted up to lodge seventy guests, but oftentimes a hundred and even five hundred have been known to be here at one time. To get dinner for such a host, in a house so many miles above the rest of the world, is no small affair. We came up to the Cabinet, enriched with a thousand curious objects of nature and art, many of them presented by travellers grateful for kindness they had received, and some of them relics of the old Romans who once had a temple to Jupiter on this spot. The reception room, which was also a sitting and dining room, was now rapidly filling up with travellers, arriving at nightfall. One English lady, overcome with the exertion of climbing the hill on horseback, sank upon the floor and fainted as soon as she was brought in. A gentleman who had but little more nerve in him, was also exhausted. The kind-hearted priests hastened to bring restoratives, and speedily carried off the invalids to their beds--the best place for them. It was quite late, certainly seven in the evening before dinner was served, and with edged appetites, such as only mountain climbing in snow time can set, we were ready at the call. The monks wait upon their guests, girded with a napkin, taking the place of servants, and thus showing, or making a show of humility. It was not pleasant to my feelings to have a St. Augustine monk, in the habit of his order, a black cloth frock reaching to his feet, and buttoned, with a white band around his neck, and passing down in front and behind to his girdle, now standing behind me while I was eating, offering to change my plate, and serving me with an alacrity worth imitating by those whose business it is to wait on table. And when I said, "thank you, father," in Italian, it was no more than the tribute of respect due to a gentleman of education and taste, whose religion had condemned him to such a life as this. Father Maillard presided at the table, and was very conversable with the guests; cheerfully imparting such information as we desired. Of the eight or ten monks here, not one of then speaks the English language; but the French, Italian and German are all in use among them. I inquired of Father Maillard if those terrible disasters of which we formerly read so much, travellers perishing in the snow, are of frequent occurrence in late years. He told me that rarely, I think he said never, does a winter pass, without some accident of the sort. Hundreds of the peasantry, engaged in trade, or for the sake of visiting friends, will make the pass, and though the paths are marked by high poles set up in Summer, these are sometimes completely buried under mountains of snow, and the poor traveller loses his way and sinks as he would in the sea. He also told me that after his brethren reside in this cold climate for a few years, they find their health giving way and they are obliged to retire to some other field of labor, and usually with broken constitutions. Yet there are always some who are willing, at this hazard, to devote the best years of their life to the noble work of saving the lives of others. Honor to the men, whether their faith be ours or not. Our dinner, this being our only dinner where monks were our hosts and servants, is worth being reported. We had no printed bill of fare; but my young friends helped me to make one out the next day as follows: 1. Vermicelli soup. 2. Beef a la mode. 3. Potatoes. 4. Roast Lamb. 5. Roast Veal stuffed. 6. Dessert of nuts, figs, cheese, &c. This with plenty of wine, for which the cellars of St. Bernard are famous, was dinner and supper enough for any, certainly we were prepared to do it justice, as to a table spread in the wilderness. After dinner, the party now numbering fifty or more, assembled from the two or three refectories, in the drawing-room, and the many languages spoken gave us a small idea of Babel. One of the priests took his seat at a poor piano, sadly out of tune; and commenced playing some lively airs. The two Swiss maidens who had come up with him to visit the hospice, stood one on each side of him, at the piano, and sang with great glee to his music, and at the close of every song, the party applauded with hearty clapping of hands, that would have pleased Mario and Grisi. I asked Father Maillard, who stood by me all the evening, and with whom I formed a very pleasant acquaintance, if they had such gay times every night. He said that during the summer travel they had many pleasant people who enjoyed themselves much during their brief visit. We certainly did. And at an hour later than usual we retired to our chambers. It was so cold that I had to take my Glasgow blanket and wrap myself well up in it before turning in, but I slept soundly, and was awakened by the Convent bell, before daylight, calling the monks to morning prayers. I rose, and hastily dressing, hurried to the chapel. The priests, the servants, and thirty or forty muleteers who had come with the travellers were on their knees on the stone floor of a pretty little chapel, devoutly worshipping. None of the travellers were here: but those who entertained and served them, had left their beds before dawn to pray. Breakfast was not prepared for all at once, but each person as he was ready called for his coffee and rolls, and they were immediately brought. The celebrated dogs of St. Bernard were playing in the snow as I stepped out after breakfast: a noble set of fellows they were, and invested with a sort of romantic nobility, when we thought of them ploughing their way through drifts, leading on the search for lost travellers, and carrying on their necks a basket of bread and wine which may be as life to the dead. The dead! Come and see them. Close by the hospice is a square stone house, into which are carried the lifeless bodies of those who perish in the snow, and are found by the dogs, or on the melting of the snow in the summer. They cannot dig graves on these rocky heights, and it is always so cold that the bodies do not rot, but they are placed in this charnel-house just as they are found, and are left to dry up and gradually to turn to dust. I counted thirty skulls lying on the ground in the midst of ribs, arms and legs; and twenty skeletons were standing around the sides of the room, a ghastly sight. In one corner a dead mother held the bones of her dead child in her arms: as she perished so she stood, to be recognized if it might be, by anxious friends, but none had ever come to claim her. What a tale of tender and tragic interest, we read in these bones. Sad, and sickening the sight is, and I am willing to get away. Father Maillard walked with me into the chapel, showed me the paintings, and the monument of Gen. Dessaix, and when I asked him for the box into which alms are put, he pointed to it, and hastened away that he might not see what I put in. They make no charge for entertaining travellers, but every honest man will give at least as much in the way of a donation as he would pay at a hotel. My friend, as I now call him, Father Maillard, embraced me tenderly, and even kissed me, when I bade him farewell, and mounting my horse, set off at eight in the morning, with a bright sunshine, to descend the mountain. CHAPTER XI. FIRST SIGHT OF MONT BLANC. The Host of Martigny--Vale of the Drance--Mount Rosa--Tete Noire--Col de Balm--The Monarch of the Alps. "Bring me for my ride to-morrow the _easiest_ of all the mules in Martigny," I said to Antonio, on the evening after my return from the pass of St. Bernard. I was knocked up nearly, done over certainly, and contemplated another trip with a sort of shrink. But there is nothing in Martigny to see, after you have looked at the measures of the various heights to which the water has risen in times of inundation, to which these valley-villages are sadly subject. So in the morning--a bright glad day it was--Antonio came in to tell me that he had a lady's mule for me, so easy I should be in danger of falling asleep on his back; but this hazard I was willing to risk. The past few days of walking and riding had made me so stiff in the joints that I was awkward about mounting, and my host of the _Poste_, a huge man as well as an admirable publican, put his hands under my shoulders, and with all ease placed me astride of the beast in a moment. The feat was received with applause by a score of rough-looking peasants, guides, beggars, &c., of whom there are plenty in this unwholesome valley; and we were off for the vale of Chamouni. Following up the river Drance, we turned off to the right, and slowly worked our way by a bad pathway, meeting people now and then coming down with their truck to sell below. One man had a log of wood with a string tied around it, dragging it behind him, women with baskets of knick-knacks, all intent upon driving a trade in a very small way, but industriously, and that commends a people to you wherever you see them. On the left were terrible precipices, along the edge of which the path often led us; till we came to a lovely reach of pasturages, a wide plain where cottages were scattered, and flocks were grazing--a peaceful scene in the midst of rugged mountains. Crossing this plain we ascended the Forclaz, and from the ridge looked back on the valley of the Rhone. The great road over the Simplon stretches for many a long mile up this vale, and Sion in the distance is seen; and around us more than fifty snowy peaks of the Alps with the morning sun gilding their crowns. Among them, but in beauty above them all is Mount Rosa, admired even more than Mont Blanc; and now that peculiar tint of pink was spread all over it with uncommon lustre. "Great glory" was the exclamation which often rose to my lips as from one and another point of observation I looked at these white mountains, and the "excessive brightness" blazing from every summit. But we cannot always be on the mountain tops looking at still higher mountains. We descend into the valley of Trient, into which a glacier extends, bringing its perpetual ice into the bosom of a sweet vale, where green meadows were rejoicing, and the peasants were busy with a scant harvest. We have our choice of two roads from this valley to Chamouni. The one by the _Tete Noire_ is the easiest, and we resolved in the freshness of our strength to take this road first, and having pursued it to the _Tete_, to enjoy the view, and then come back and go by the Col de Balm. By this extra effort we accomplished a noble day's work, and were richly repaid for the fatigue. In no part of Switzerland are the precipices grander and more fearful, and for an hour we rode along the edge; and when the rocks shoot out over the path, a tunnel or gallery as they call it, is cut through; and near by a rude inscription cut into the rock celebrates an English lady who contributed something to improve the pass. The _Tete_ or Head, Black Head, is given to the dark mountain, whose overhanging rocks present a gloomy front which has given its name to this narrow defile. Hundreds of feet down in the dark abyss on whose verge we are travelling, the Trient is roaring and leaping along its rocky way to the Rhone. At every turn in our zigzag single-file march, we are tempted to pause and study the scenes of sublime and terrible that break upon us: for when we are in no danger ourselves, there is a fascination in looking upon scenes where the fearful makes us shudder. But we returned from these out-of-the-way places and were at noon in the valley of Trient again, gazing at the lofty crags from which Escher de Berg fell in 1791, when, like many more fortunate travellers, he disregarded the advice of his guides, and lost his life in showing his temerity and strength in making a leap. The ascent of the Col de Balm has been described by the most of travellers as one of the most difficult, and we are told it seems incredible that mules can work their way up where travellers are obliged to climb by the roots and shrubs. But over this hill lies the road to Chamouni, and over this hill we are going. For an hour we did have hard work, and Heinrich and I amused ourselves with digging up some Greek roots, while the mules were slowly picking their way among the stones up a path sometimes all but perpendicular. And when at last we emerged from the forest, and reached the high pasturages, we had still a long hour of travel before us, through the open country. Our party had been enlarged during the morning by the accession of others on the same route, and as we were nearing the ridge, there began to be quite a strife among us as to whose eyes should have the first sight of Mont Blanc. For a month we had been on and under the mountains of Switzerland; gazing successively upon higher and yet higher heights; and when the Jungfrau, and Mount Rosa, and other of the lesser kings of the country had stood before us, we could not believe that any other could be a monarch in the midst of such mountains as these. But Mont Blanc was always to come. It was the last, for we had seen them all, rejoiced in them all, looked up through them all to Him who holds them in his hand, and counts them only as dust in the balance; and still one more wonderful than they was just before us, on the other side of the ridge, and in a few moments more would stand up and meet us face to face. Over the pasturages there were many paths, and we scattered in our attempts to gain upon each other. The mules seemed to catch somewhat of the inspiration of the occasion, and did their best, till we came out together, neck and neck, and we stood on the summit, with the vale of Chamouni, the steeple-like _Aiguilles_ of Charmoz and Midi, Argentiere and Verte, and others shooting up cold and black, sentinels around the hoary old monarch of the Alps lying there with a crown of mist on his head, which rises as we look at it, and Mont Blanc is before us. "Disappointed of course," you say. Perhaps so. It does not stand in the middle of a plain, and rise right up like a pyramid, till its apex touches the blue sky. In fact, you must be assured by your guide that the round summit to the South of two or three that seem to be higher is actually Mont Blanc, the loftiest of them all; and as you sit here and take in the wonderful panorama of the glaciers, needles, and majestic summits, the grandeur gradually steals into your soul and takes quiet possession. I wanted to be still and absorb the scene, which I should soon leave and never see again. I would expose my heart to it, till a sort of daguerreotype was made, which I could carry with me, and look at when I should sit down at Niagara, or among the White Hills of New Hampshire. [Illustration: CHAMOUNI AND MT. BLANC.] "'Pon my honor, 'tis very fine," said a very red-faced, red-whiskered Englishman, who had followed me to my solitary stand-point. "What do you think of it? Is it not fine: very fine?" And so he kept chattering on, till I crept off gently a few rods, and again essayed to be alone. But my tormentor followed up, and renewed his attack, as if it were impossible for him to see the prospect with any satisfaction unless he could keep talking to somebody all the while. A small house of entertainment stands here, and while my Englishman went in to have some brandy and water, I managed to get a few moments of undisturbed possession of the scene. Of all the points of observation in this country of stupendous scenes, there is no one that furnishes a more sublime and glorious spectacle than this. It is the crowning hour of the tour of Switzerland. I felt that I had reached the climax, and with reverence I could make a parody on the words of old Simeon. All my feelings have been of reverence in this country. The Alps and God have been around me for a month, and my soul has been rising in high converse with Him who covers these hills with his presence, and is glorious in the solitudes of these vales. And now as I look off at these glistening glaciers, so many miles of resplendent ice, a _Mer de Glace_, a sea of glass, lying among those mountains, and extending far down into the vales below; when I look up at these precipitous peaks actually piercing the clouds, and then at the solemn brows of those giant mountains, where the foot of man has seldom trod, and the glory of God is forever shining, I feel a sense of the presence of the Infinite and Eternal as no other scene has ever yet awakened in my soul. With the disciples on another Mount, I feel "it is good to be here." That was my first sight of Mont Blanc. The day could not have been more favorable, and that evening as the sun went down, I stood in the vale of Chamouni and saw his last rays lingering on the summit, the stars trooping around it at night, and the next morning before sunrise I was out again to see the first beams of day as they kissed his brow. Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Thou owest; not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks and secret ecstacy! Awake, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn.-- Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale! O struggling with the darkness all the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink; Companion of the morning-star at dawn, Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald! wake, O! wake, and utter praise! Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad, Who called you forth from night and utter death, From dark and icy caverns called you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, Forever shattered, and the same forever? Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam? And who commanded, (and the silence came,) "Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?"-- Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amain! Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopped at once amid 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 hue, spread garlands at your feet? God! Let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer, and 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 their 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 element, Utter forth, God! and fill the hills with praise.-- Once more, hoar mount, with thy sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward glittering through the pure serene, Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast.-- Thou too, again, stupendous mountain thou That, as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoration upward from thy base, Slow travelling, with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, To rise before me,--rise, O! ever rise, Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth! Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven. Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. _Coleridge._ CHAPTER XII. GENEVA. A good House--Prisoner of Chillon--Calvin--Dr. Malan--Dr. Gaussen--Col. Tronchin--The Cemetery. The _Hotel des Bergues_ stands on the Lake of Geneva, just where the "arrowy Rhone" shoots out from its bosom. This is one of the finest hotels in Europe, and with the _Trois Couronnes_ at Vevay, may fairly challenge comparison with any other. I brought up at this house from the Vale of Chamouni. The dismal rain through which I had been riding on a chill autumn day, had increased to a storm, and the old town, that is gloomy enough at any time, was peculiarly uninviting on its first appearance. But this city I had longed to visit, even from the time that I read in Cæsar's Commentaries, "the farthest town of the Allobroges and the nearest to the frontier of the Helvetii, is Geneva." Julius Cæsar took possession of it, and the remains of his erections are to be seen at the present day. The Christian religion was introduced in the fifth century, and bishops appointed by the Pope by degrees became lords temporal as well as spiritual, which they are very apt to do as fast and as far as they can get the power. The right of naming the Bishops, about the year 1400, fell into the hands of the ducal house of Savoy, and their creatures became despots of the reddest dye. Their oppressions grew to be so intolerable that the citizens rebelled. A bloody persecution ensued. The chapter of its history is among the darkest of the records of popery. The deeds of patriotic heroism which were brought out have scarcely a parallel. One citizen cut his own tongue out with a razor, lest the torture should compel him to betray his friends. Bonnivard became the chained prisoner of Chillon. But his story is not to be passed over without being told. "In 1530, _Francois Bonnivard, Prior of Saint Victor_, was seized on the Jorat by a band of marauders, whose chief was the Sieur de Beaufort, Governor of Chillon, for his bitter enemy, the Duke of Savoy. As a punishment for his heroic defence of the liberty of Geneva, he was condemned by the petty tyrant to perpetual captivity in the castle. Here he remained during seven years, buried alive in a dungeon on a level with the waters of the lake, and fastened by a chain round his body to a ring still remaining on one of the pillars. Irritated to agony by sad reflections on his own and his adopted country's slavery, he wore away the stone floor beneath his feet, by constantly pacing to and fro, like a wild beast, from end to end of its cage. At length, in 1536, the Bernese, with their allies of Geneva, effected the conquest of the Pays du Vaud. Chillon was the last place which held out for Duke Charles V. of Savoy, but the Bernese having laid siege to it by land, while the Genevese gave an assault by water, the garrison was forced to a surrender, and Bonnivard, with several other prisoners, was restored to liberty. He had left Geneva a Roman Catholic state, under the domination of the House of Savoy, he found her a free republic, openly professing the reformed religion. The citizens were by no means backward in recompensing him for past sufferings; in June, 1536, he was admitted to the highest privileges of the State, and presented with the house previously inhabited by the Roman Catholic Vice-General, besides an annual pension of two hundred crowns of gold, so long as he chose to dwell there." Then came the Reformation. The people, long sick of Roman despotism and disgusted with Romish wickedness, embraced the doctrines of the Reformers, and Geneva became doubly free. John Calvin came in 1536, and Protestants from other countries fled to Geneva as an asylum from persecution. His genius and austere morals, contrasted with the dissoluteness of the Romish Clergy, gave him unbounded influence in the state. He was called the Pope, and Geneva the Rome of Protestantism. John Knox was here with him, and hundreds of distinguished men whose principles made it necessary for them to fly from England, France, Spain and Italy. Through the seventeenth century the city had rest, and made great progress in arts and science; the resort of men of learning, and distinguished for the industry and thrift of its inhabitants. The eighteenth century was marked with insurrections, distractions, civil wars and revolution. The scenes of Paris were performed in Geneva. The blood of her best citizens was shed by the hands of the mob, in the name of liberty. Then the city was grafted upon France, and so remained till 1813, when with the aid of Austria, it became once more a Genevan Republic. The next year it became one of the Cantons of Switzerland, but the city held on to its aristocratic constitution. Still it flourished in peace and progress, till the contest between the radical and conservative parties broke out in 1841, and resulted in the revision of the constitution, but not in the establishment of confidence and quiet. In 1846 a fierce struggle occurred, still fresh in every memory, which ended in the establishment of the present constitution, on a democratic basis, and in giving an impulse to the attempt to overturn the thrones of despotism in Europe; a noble but abortive effort, which failed in 1848. Geneva, under John Calvin, called Europe to religious liberty in 1536, and the people heard the call. If another John Calvin had been in Geneva in 1848, we should not have been compelled to deplore the miscarriage of that struggle in Europe for Constitutional liberty, which shook every government, but eventuated in giving a charter to the people of but a single State. I had been wandering a month among the mountains of Switzerland, and had not had a line from home. The bankers closed their offices at four o'clock and it was nearly five when we arrived. Disappointed and grieved I returned to the Hotel, the more sad as to-morrow is to be the Sabbath, and I shall not be able to get my letters till Monday. It occurred to me that something might have been sent for me to the care of a venerable and well-known clergyman of Geneva, whom I should not fail to see, and I would therefore call at once upon him, without ceremony. I soon found his gate. A woman at the lodge answered the bell and took my card up to the house with a message to ask if anything had been left for me; for it was late and Saturday evening, and I would not intrude upon the pastor at such an hour. In a few moments the good man stood on the walk, under the trees, with a lantern in his hand; a tall old man, with long grey hair hanging in curls, and a countenance shining with love. He put out his hands and throwing one arm around me drew me to him, as if I were his only son, and kissed me. It was the Rev. Dr. Cæsar Malan, and a welcome such as a pilgrim in a strange land can feel. Many pleasant hours I had with his interesting family, now reduced by the frequent inroads which my countrymen have made upon it. No less than three of them have repaid this good man's hospitality by carrying off his daughters; and the last but one had been taken but a few days before I arrived. These deeds were done by clergymen from America, and when I was asked in a social gathering of Genevan ladies, if my countrymen were obliged to go abroad for their wives, I could only say that no one would blame them for taking a wife at a venture when they come to Geneva. The gentle Gaussen, author of an excellent work on the Inspiration of the Scriptures, charmed me with his sweet Christian spirit, and his broad-hearted charity, so happily in contrast with much of the foreign half-reformed religion, which in England and France still abounds. D'Aubigne was not at home. Col. Tronchin has a lovely residence out of town and overlooking the lake. He sustains at his own charges an asylum for convalescing invalids, one of the most interesting charities I have ever seen. He took me through the establishment, and I felt, as I never did before, what a blessedness it is to have wealth and a heart to use it for the sake of those who are suffering. A young woman sitting at the door and enjoying the sunshine, pale and thin, but smiling with the prospect of returning health, rose, when he stopped and asked her if she was getting well, and blessed him for her comforts, with looks and words of gratitude that must have been a rich reward. This home for the poor is charmingly situated in the midst of shade-trees, with walks and beds of flowers, and furnished with everything to promote the health and comfort of the patients, who come here when discharged from the hospitals as no longer requiring medical aid, and are yet unable to labor. In the pure air of this rural abode, and surrounded with all the good things which this benevolent man has provided, twenty-five invalids are supported at his expense, and as soon as one departs, another is ready and waiting to come in. Indeed it occurred to me that many of them would be slow to get well if they must be banished from this lovely spot to a cellar or garret in a crowded street, to toil and sicken again. Begging in the streets is forbidden, and in the whole of Switzerland you may distinguish between the Protestant and Catholic cantons, by the fact that few beggars are in the former, compared with the crowds that infest the latter, annoying and often disgusting the traveller. The morals of the two religions are as strikingly contrasted. The Catholics accuse the Genevese females of prudery, and Sismondi tells us that the young women are "pious, well brought up, prudent and good managers." In the cemetery I found the grave of Sir Humphrey Davy and Pictet and other distinguished men, foreigners and citizens, but no man knows where Calvin is buried. He forbade any monument to be erected to mark the spot, and so it has passed from the knowledge of man. But in the old cathedral, standing on the spot where once stood a pagan temple of Apollo, is the pulpit in which Calvin and Knox and Beza, Farel and Viret, and a long line of glorious men, have preached: and this noble building, presenting many fine specimens of architecture and sculpture of the middle ages, now wrested from the hands of Popery, is a fitting monument to the memory of the Reformers. In the public library founded by _Bonnivard_, the Prisoner of Chillon, I saw the manuscripts and portraits of all the Genevan Reformers, four hundred of the MSS. being Calvin's, and a collection of literary curiosities of unrivalled interest. There is little else to see in Geneva. Its attraction lies in its historic interest, its delightful situation, and good society. In and around it, all along the borders of Lake Leman, are sites made famous by the residence of men and women of taste and letters. CHAPTER XIII. PICTURES IN SWITZERLAND.[1] Waterfalls--Constance--Zurich--William Tell--Glaciers--the Monarch. The waterfalls of Switzerland are among its crowning glories; and of these the falls of Schaffhausen are altogether the most imposing. The European, who has never worshiped at the foot of our own great cataract, looks down from the base of the Castle of Lauffen, after paying a franc for the privilege of getting to a standing-place; or he looks up from the opposite shore, where is reared the Castle of Worth, and he pronounces it magnificent. Mrs. Bull does not hesitate to declare it charming! Mr. Murray, in that everlasting Red book, without which no Englishman could _do_ Europe--as this is the authority on which alone he ventures to admire any thing in art or nature, just as he swears only by the _Times_--Mr. Murray, in his never-to-be-dispensed-with Hand-book, informs him that this is "the finest cataract in Europe," and, of course, in his opinion, it is the finest in the world. He leads the trembling traveller to the verge of the awful precipice, where, covered with spray, he may enjoy the full grandeur of this "hell of waters," and then he adds, "It is only by this close proximity, amidst the tremendous roar and the uninterrupted rush of the river, that a true notion can be formed of the stupendous nature of this cataract!" The Rhine here leaps over the rocks into an abyss of fifty feet. The river is cloven in twain by a tower of rock in the centre of the stream, and the spray rises from its base in an eternal cloud. Picturesque and beautiful the falls certainly are, but grandeur can hardly be affirmed of them. It was my first day of travel in Switzerland when I reached them--a warm day in the summer of last year. A month of hot weather in Dresden and Munich had been too much for the restoring powers of the waters of Baden-Baden, and it was like waking up in a new world of beauty, with a new soul to love it, to find myself in the midst of this Swiss scenery--the breezes of its snow hills and glaciers fanning me, and its peaks pointing skyward, where there are temples and palaces whose every dome is a sun and every pinnacle a star. But I could not be satisfied till, with the aid of two stout fellows, I made my way through the boiling waters nearly to the foot of the central tower, and there, in the toppling skiff which threatened to tip over on very gentle occasions, I looked up at the mass of waters tumbling from above. The rocks were partially covered with green shrubbery, and a scraggy tree stretched its frightful arms into the spray; but I was not disposed to climb, as some have done, to the top of the cliff, for the sake of enjoying the scene. A curious old town is Schaffhausen, so named from the boat-houses, or skiff-houses, which were here erected, for the falls made this the great terminus of navigation on the Rhine. We had come by diligence from Basle, and after passing a night in Weber's excellent hotel at the falls, we came on in the morning, and spent an hour or two looking at the ancient architecture of the town, whose buildings are adorned with such fanciful and extravagant carvings as would hardly be deemed ornamental in the Fifth Avenue. A very small specimen of a steamer received us now, and bore us up against a strong current. The banks on either side were green with vineyards, now loaded with unripe fruit, and in the midst of the vines the dressers were at their work. On the sloping hillsides the neat cottages of the Swiss peasantry were scattered, making a picture of constant beauty through which we were passing. Among our passengers were a dozen German students, with their knapsacks on their backs, making a tour of Switzerland, the most of which they would perform on foot, gathering health and strength as they trudged on through the mountain passes, and studied the glacier theories on the spot. It was noon when we arrived at Constance, on the lake of the same name, and a city to be forever associated with the trial and martyrdom of John Huss and Jerome of Prague--a city on which the curse of shedding innocent blood seems resting to this day. In the loft of a long building, now standing near the water's edge, was gathered a Council, in the year of our Lord 1414, over which the Emperor Sigismund presided, and attended by some five hundred princes, cardinals, bishops, archbishops and professors, who deposed two popes and set up another, and crowned their four years' labor of love by condemning to the flames those martyr men of God, whose names are this day fragrant in the churches of a land that was not known when Huss was burning. In the midst of a cabbage garden outside the gate, yet called the Huss Gate, we were led to the spot where he suffered; and returning, we called at the house in which he was lodged before he was brought to trial. But the streets of the city had grass growing in them; for of the forty thousand inhabitants who once filled these houses but seven thousand remain! Tenements are now tenantless that once were thronged with life. It was sad to wander by daylight through the streets without meeting a living being; and this was my experience here, and afterward in the island city of Rhodes. A chain stretched across the street sustained a lantern in the centre--a very convenient substitute for lamp-posts, if there are no carriages to pass, but a very awkward arrangement for a city infested with omnibuses. Another day and the diligence brought us to Zurich, on the lake of the same name--the most thriving town in Switzerland. Here the lion-hearted reformer, Zwingle--the soldier of the cross, who perished on the field of battle--preached in the Cathedral, and dwelt in a house which is still standing and known as his. Here Lavater, the physiognomist, had a home and found a grave, over which the flowers are blooming. His was a lovely and loving spirit. Switzerland, strange to say, has not given birth to poets, but she is the mother of many noble sons, and her scenery has inspired the souls of the sons of song from other climes, who have wandered here and meditated among her lakes and hills. Coming into Zurich, as we descended into the vale that holds the city and the lake, I had been charmed with the view; and now at the close of the next day, we were led to the height of one of the old ramparts, to behold a Swiss sunset, and certified to be "one of the finest scenes in Switzerland." The elevation, no longer needed for purposes of defence, has been tastefully transformed into a flower-garden. Enormous shade trees are crowning the summit, and on rude benches the romantically-disposed people, citizens and strangers, are seated. As we came to the top of the hill, the god of day was coming down from the midst of a dense cloud, like a mass of molten gold distilled into a transparent globe. His liquid face was trembling; but the world below sent back a smile of gladness as the king in his glory looked down upon it. The nearer summits seemed to catch the brightness first, and then in the distance others, invisible before, stood forth in their majesty, as if called into being by his quickening beams. At our feet was the lake, like a sea of glass. The spires of the city and the sloping hills were reflected from the mirror; and all over the country side, as far as the eye could reach, were thousands of white cottages and villas, the abode of wealth and peace and love--sweet Swiss homes, rejoicing in the sunshine as they send up their evening psalm of praise. It was a scene to make its impress on the memory, and to come up again and again in the far-off dreams of other lands and years. To climb the Rigi, to spend the night on the top, to see the sun go down and get up in the morning, these are among the things to be done in a tour of Switzerland, and all these we set off to do, taking the steamer at Zurich and touching at Horgen, crossing over to Zug, and by steamer again to the little village of Arth, which lies at the foot of the hill we are to ascend. As we were approaching the shore, the reflection of the Rigi from the lake was so vivid and perfect that we could study the mountain in the water with as much satisfaction as a good-looking man contemplates his own person in a glass. Every particular cliff and crag, individual trees, and winding paths, and torrent beds, which we could see above, were defined with marvelous precision below. On landing, we dispatched a fleet mountain-boy ahead of us to engage beds at the house on the summit; for so many were with us on board the steamer, and so many more were doubtless climbing from the other side at the same time, that we were likely to have a bed on the floor unless we stole a march on our fellow-travellers. Most of them pushed upward from Arth, while we kept upon the plain for a mile or more to the village of Goldau, once the scene of a terrible catastrophe, the gloom of which still seems to be hanging over the ill-fated spot. The Rossberg Mountain is on the east of it, five thousand feet high, and in the year 1806 a mighty mass of it, some three miles long and a thousand feet thick, came sliding down into the valley, burying four hundred and fifty human beings in one untimely, dreadful grave. Travellers, like ourselves, who were making their way among these romantic regions, were suddenly overwhelmed in the deluge of earth and stones, and the places of their burial are unknown to this day. This event happened fifty years ago; but the broad, bare strip on the mountain side, which no verdure has since clad, is an ever-present record of the awful fall; and the great rocks that are lying on the opposite side of the valley, and away up the Rigi, are present witnesses of the messengers of death that came down in their wrath on that memorable day. The village church was then buried with the people who had been wont to frequent its courts, and nothing of it was ever found but the bell, which was carried a mile or more and now hangs in the steeple of another little temple filled with memorials of the ancient calamity. Here we began the ascent of the Rigi. Some on horses, some on mules, more on foot, two or three ladies in sedan chairs, each borne by four stout men--a very lazy way of getting up hill, where health as well as pleasure is sought in travel; but every one choosing his own mode of ascent, and none having wings, we set off, as motley a party of mountain-climbers as ever undertook to scale a fortress. Four hours' steady travel, pausing only to look in occasionally at the chapels in which the Catholic pilgrims perform their prayers as they ascend to the church of "Mary in the Snow," which is about half-way up, brought us to the top where as yet the sun was half an hour high. And now, for the first time, did we know that we were in Switzerland. Not because we are on a very lofty mountain top--for the Rigi is not quite six thousand feet high--but we are on a mountain which stands so isolated that it affords us a better view than any other point, however elevated, of the mountains, the lakes, valleys, and villages, that make this land so peculiar for its beauty and grandeur. On the west, where we gazed with the deepest emotion as soon as we planted our feet on the summit, we saw the hoary Mount Pilatus, and at its base the Lake Lucerne, the most romantic of the Swiss lakes, and not exceeded by the scenery of any lake in the world. The city of Lucerne sends up its towers and battlements, and the whole canton of that name is spread out, with the River Reuss flowing over its bosom. At our feet, nestling under the Rigi and on the borders of the lake, is the village of Kussnacht, and the chapel of William Tell, marking the spot where the intrepid patriot pierced the tyrant's heart with his unerring arrow. And now the descending sun is pouring a flood of golden glory over all this broad expanse of lake and forest, plain and towering hills, whose peaks are touching the blue skies, gilded with last rays of declining day. Far southward we look away upon the mountains of Unterwalden, of Berne, and of Uri, whose snow-clad summits and blue glaciers are in full view, the beautiful Jungfrau rising, queen-like, in the midst of the magnificent group of sisters in white raiment. The eastern horizon is supported by the snowy peaks of the Sentis, the Glarnisch, and the Dodi; and the two Mitres start up from the midst of that region where Tell and his compatriots conspired to give liberty to their native land. All around us are lakes, so strangely nestled among the mountains that they seem to be innumerable, peeping from behind the hills and forests. And now the sound of the village bells, and the Alpine horn, and the evening psalm, comes stealing up the rugged sides of the Rigi, and we are assured that, in this world of ice, and snow, and eternal rocks, there are human hearts all warm and musical with the love of Him whose is the strength of the hills. We had a short night's sleep, for what with a late supper and a crowd of people who had no beds, our rest was broken; and just as the dawn began, a monster, with a long wooden horn, marched through the halls, startling the sleepers with its blast, and forbidding sleep to come again. We had been warned over night that, at this signal, we must wrap up and run if we would see the sun rise; and as a posted notice in French forbade the use of the bed-blankets, we hurried on our clothes, and in a few moments stood, with a hundred others, like the Persian fire-worshippers, gazing eastward to catch the first glimpse of the coming king! Not long had we to wait. Another blast of the wooden trump gave notice of his approach, and presently a coal of fire seemed to be glowing in the crown of the mountain directly in front of us. It grew till the whole peak was ruddy with the glow, and then the great globe rose and rested on the summit! From this, as from a fount of light new-created and rejoicing in the first morning of its being, the streams of glory were poured out upon the world below and around us. Peak after peak, and long mountain ranges and ridges, domes and sky-piercing needles, and fields of fresh snow, and forests of living green, began to smile in the sunlight. In the space of a brief half hour the world was lighted up for the business of another day, and when we had had a cup of wretched coffee and a bit of sour bread, we "marched down again." The steamer from Lucerne, on its daily trip from that city, touches at Weggis, where we awaited its coming, and were soon in the midst of the most romantic scenery in Europe. From the water's edge the mountains rise perpendicularly. Broken into ridges, clothed with green forests or smooth pastures, and now and then sheltering a hamlet in the openings, the mountains stand around this lake with a majesty too impressive for words. We have come into the heart of a land of heroes. The waters of this lake are like the life-blood of martyrs. This little village of Gersau, on a sloping hillside, shut out from the rest of the world by these mountain ramparts, was an independent democracy of four hundred years, though its domains were only three miles by two! Here, at Brunnen, are painted, on the outer walls of a building on the waterside, the effigies of the three great men who, with William Tell, achieved the independence of Switzerland in 1815. Across the lake, away up among the ledges of the rocks, there lies a little plain, an _oasis_ in the wilderness, where, in the dead of night, the three confederates met and laid their plans for the deliverance of their country from the yoke of a foreign oppressor. That spot is Grutli. It is a holy place, for liberty was there conceived, and every patriot, from whatever land he comes, is thrilled when his eye looks on it. Yet not so sacred is Grutli as the land upon the opposite side of the lake, where the steamer slackens its speed as we are passing a little chapel that is built upon the margin of the lake. This chapel marks the spot where William Tell escaped from the boat in which he was a prisoner on his way to Gessler's prison at Kussnacht. It does savage violence to one's better feelings to be told that no such man as Tell was ever living in this land we are now exploring. He has been our ideal of a patriot chieftain from childhood, and we are not to be cheated out of him without a struggle. Skeptical critics may tell us, as they do, that Tell is a myth; but we have history for our faith to lean upon, and tradition tells us that this chapel was built in 1388, thirty-one years after the hero's death, and in presence of one hundred and fourteen persons who had known him when he was living. Such is our faith, and as we are passing by the chapel, to which, even unto this day, the Swiss make an annual pilgrimage and have a solemn mass performed within its narrow walls, and a sermon preached, we will tell the story of Tell. When the year 1300 was coming in, Albert of Austria was ruling with a rod of iron over the dwellers in these mountains. He sent magistrates among them who exacted heavy taxes which they were unable to pay, and imposed arbitrary and cruel punishments upon them on slight occasions. Arnold, a peasant of Uterwalden, was condemned for some insignificant offence to give up a yoke of fine oxen, and the servant of the bailiff seized them while Arnold was plowing with them, and said, as he drove them off, "Peasants may draw the plow themselves." Arnold smote the servant, breaking two of his fingers, and fled. The tyrant seized the father of Arnold and put out both his eyes! Such cruelties became too many and too grievous to be borne. Even the women--brave souls!--refused to submit, and the wife of Werner Stauffacher said to her husband: "Shall foreigners be masters of this soil and of our property? What are the men of the mountain good for? Must we mothers nurse beggars at our breasts, and bring up our daughters to be maid-servants to foreign lords? We must put an end to this!" Her husband was roused, and went to Arnold, whose father's eyes had been put out, and Walter Furst. These three held their meetings for counsel at Grutli. Afterward each of them brought ten men there, who bound themselves by a great oath to deliver their land from the oppressor. This oath was taken in the night of November 17, 1307. Not long afterward the bailiff, Herman Gessler, when he saw the people more restless and bold, resolved to humble them. He placed the ducal hat of Austria upon a pole, and ordered every one who passed by to bow down in reverence before it. William Tell, one of the men who had taken the oath at Grutli, held his head proudly erect as he passed, and when warned of the danger of such disobedience stoutly refused to bow. He was seized and carried before the bailiff, who was told that Tell, the most skillful archer of Uri, had refused to pay homage to the emblem of Austrian power. Enraged at Tell's audacity, Gessler exclaimed, "Presumptuous archer, I will humble thee by the display of thine own skill. I will put an apple on the top of the head of thy little son; shoot it off, and you shall be pardoned!" In vain did the wretched father plead against such cruelty. He could pierce the eagle on the wing, and bring down the fleet chamois from the lofty rocks, but his arm would tremble and his eyesight fail him when he took aim at the head of his noble boy. But his remonstrances were all in vain. The boy was bound to a tree, and the apple set upon his head. The strong-hearted father took leave of his son, scarce hoping that he could spare him, and rather believing that his arrow would in another moment be rushing through his brain. With a prayer for help from Him who holds the stars in his hand, and without whose providence not a sparrow falls, the wretched father drew his bow. The unerring arrow pierced the apple, and the child was saved. Another arrow fell from underneath the garment of the archer as the shout of the people proclaimed the father's triumph. "What means this?" demanded the tyrant. "To pierce thy heart," replied Tell, "if the other had slain my son!" Gessler ordered the man to be seized and bound, and hurried off to the dungeon he had built at Kussnacht. Fearing to trust the guards with their prisoner--for he knew not how far the spirit of rebellion might have spread--Gessler embarked in the boat with them, and hastened off lest the people should rise to the rescue of their countryman. The lake was subject then, as it is now, to sudden and fearful tempests. The wind rose and swept the waves over the boat, defying the skill of the boatmen, and threatening their speedy destruction. Tell was known for his skill with a boat as well as with a bow. Tyrants are always cowards, and when the tyrant saw that his own men were not able to manage the craft, he ordered Tell's bonds to be removed that he might take the helm in his hand. Steering the boat as near to the projecting rock of Axenberg as she could run, he suddenly leaped from it to the ledge, and the force of his leap sent the boat backward upon the lake. The prisoner was free. Pursuit was hopeless. He was at home among the mountains. Every path was familiar to him. But vengeance would be taken on those dearer than his own life. He resolved to preserve them by the death of the monster who had sought to make him slay his own son. With the speed of the chamois he sped his way across the mountains to the very place where he was to have been carried in chains, and there awaited the coming of Gessler. The tyrant came but to die. The arrow of the patriot drank his heart's blood. Then the inhabitants of the mountain fastnesses flew to arms. The minions of Austria were seized, and with a wonderful forbearance were not slain, but sent out of the country under an oath never to return. The King Albert came to subdue the rebels. On his way he was murdered by his nephew and a band of conspirators, whom he had thought his friends. He expired at the wayside, his head being supported by a peasant woman who found him lying in his blood. The children of the murdered man and his widow, and Agnes the Queen of Hungary, took terrible vengeance on the murderers, and, confounding the innocent with the guilty, shed blood like water. Agnes was a woman-fiend. As the blood of sixty-three guiltless knights was flowing at her feet, she said: "See, now I am bathing in May-dew!" One of the most distinguished of the enemies of the King, the Knight Rudolf, was, at her orders, broken on the rack, and while yet living was exposed to the birds of prey. While dying, he consoled his faithful wife, who alone knelt near him, and had in vain prostrated herself in the dust at the feet of Agnes, imploring her husband's pardon. But the war of oppression went on. An army marched into Switzerland, and to the many thousands of their invaders the men of Grutli could oppose only thirteen thousand. But they were all true men, and at Morgarten, on a rosy morning in 1315, they met the enemy and routed them utterly, after such deeds of valor as history scarcely elsewhere has recorded. This gave freedom to Switzerland. Of that struggle the first blow was struck by William Tell when he smote Gessler to the earth. At the head of the Lake of Lucerne, and a few miles above the chapel of Tell, is the village of Fluelen, at which we rest only long enough to get away, for the low grounds, where the River Reuss comes down into the lake, breeds pestilence, and the inhabitants give proofs of the unhealthiness of the place by the number of cretins and goitred cases that are found among them. Two miles beyond is the old town of Altorf. Lapped in the midst of rugged mountains, which shut down closely on every side, it is secluded from the world that is familiar with its name. Here, on this village green, in front of the old tower, a fountain, surmounted by a statue, marks the spot where William Tell shot the apple from the head of his son. The tree on which the ducal hat was hung by Gessler, and the same to which the boy was bound, is said to have remained there three hundred years after the event. The _tower_ dates back of that time, as records still in existence prove it to be more than five hundred and fifty years old. To this day the hunters of Uri come down to Altorf to try their skill with the rifle, which has now taken the place of the bow and arrow. A few miles further on we came to the River Reuss, in which William Tell was drowned while attempting to save the life of a boy. There was something sublime in the thought that a man whose name is now identified with the patriots and heroes of the world should finally lose his life in the performance of a deed that requires more of the self-sacrificing spirit than to scale the walls of a fortress and perish in the midst of a nation's praise. The men of this region are spoken of as the finest race in Switzerland. We had no reason to think them remarkable; but the women, who were making hay in the meadows while the men were off hunting, were certainly very good-looking for women who work in the fields in all weathers, braving the storms of rain and snow, tending the sheep and cattle on the hillsides, and carrying the hay on their backs to the barns. As we pressed our way up the great Saint Gothard road, frowning precipices rise a thousand feet high, black, jagged rocks, almost bare of vegetation, shutting out the sunlight, and making a solitude fearful and solemn, its silence rarely disturbed but by the passing traveller and the ceaseless dashing of the river, which, instead of flowing, tumbles from ledge to ledge. In the spring of the year the avalanches make the passage still more fearful. Twenty or thirty thousand persons travel over this pass every year; and to keep the current in this direction, the cantons of Uri and Tessin built this splendid carriage-path, as smooth as a floor, and so firm in its substructures as to resist the violence of the storms and the swollen torrents that so often rush frightfully down these gorges. Twice was the work swept away before this road was completed, which, it is believed, will stand while the mountains stand. So rapid is the ascent, that the road often doubles upon itself, and we are going half the time backward on our route. Sometimes the road is hewn out of the solid rock in the side of the precipice, which hangs over it as a roof, and again it is carried over the roaring stream that is boiling in a gulf four hundred feet below. Toiling up the gorge, with the savage wildness of the scenery becoming every moment more savage still, we reach the Devil's Bridge. More than five hundred years ago, an old abbot of Einsiedeln built a bridge over an awful chasm here; but such is the fury of the descending stream, the whole mass of waters being beaten into foam among the rocks that lift their heads through the cataracts--such is the horrid ruggedness of the surrounding scenery, and so unlikely does it appear that human power could ever have reared a bridge over such a fearful chasm, it has been called, from time immemorial, the Devil's Bridge. A Christian traveller would much prefer to ascribe its origin to a better source; for whatever miracle it required, we might refer it to the skill and goodness of Him who hung the earth upon nothing, and holds the stars in his hand. We were quite cold when we reached the bridge, and, quitting the carriage, walked over it to study its structure, and enjoy the grandeur of a scene that has hardly an equal even in this land of the sublime and terrible. At this spot the River Reuss makes a tremendous plunge at the very moment that it bends nearly in a semicircle, and a world of rocks has been hurled and heaped in the midst of the torrent, to increase the rage and roar of the waters, arrested for a moment only to gather strength for a more terrific rush into the abysses below. We approach the parapet, and look calmly over, and there, far below us, is another bridge, which, becoming useless by age and the violence of the elements, was superseded by this new and costly structure. We crossed the bridge and soon entered the long _Gallery of Uri_--a tunnel cut through the solid rock--a hard but the only passage, as the torrent usurps the whole of the gorge, and the precipice above admits no possible path overhead. A hundred and fifty years ago this hole was bored, and before that time the only passage was made on a shelf supported by chains let down from above, on which a single traveller could creep, if he had the nerve, in the midst of the roar and the spray of the torrent in the yawning gulf below him. To add to the gloom and terror of the scene about us, a storm, with thunder and lightning broke upon us as we emerged from this den, and right speedily set in while as yet we had no shelter. We had come into an upper valley, a vale five thousand feet above the level of the sea, where no corn grows, though the land flows with milk and honey. The cows and goats find pasture at the foot of the glaciers, and the bees, who find flowers even in these realms of eternal snow, make their nests in the stunted trees and the holes in the rocks. At Andermatt, a village among the mountains, we come upon an inn whose many lighted windows invited us to seek refuge from the increasing storm, and we entered a room already thronged with travellers who had reached it before us, many of them coming down, and they were now rejoicing over a smoking supper. They made us welcome, and in the good cheer we soon forgot the fatigues and the perils of the most exciting and exhausting day we had had in Switzerland. "Blessed be he who first invented sleep," the weary traveller says, with Sancho, whenever night comes, and wherever, if he is so happy as to have a place wherein and on to lay his head. Sleep, that will not come for wooing to him who wastes his hours in idleness at home, now folds her soft arms lovingly about him, kisses his eyelids, whispers gentle memories in his soul, and dreams of the loved and the distant are his as the swift night-hours steal away. The nights are not long enough; for when the first nap is past the sun of another day is struggling to get over the hill-top and look down into the vale of Andermatt! We might pursue this St. Gothard highway over into Italy, but we have not yet seen Switzerland.--Hitherto we have been traversing only the great roads of travel. Now we will strike off into the regions where wheel carriages have never yet been seen. The Furca Pass leads off from the St. Gothard road, and with a guide to pilot us, we struck into a narrow defile. Away above us the blue glacier of St. Anne was shining in the morning sun, and now we are at the foot of a beautiful waterfall that leaps from its bosom into the vale below. Here are the remains of an awful avalanche of rocks and earth that came down a few years since, on a little hamlet clustering on the hillside. The inhabitants fled as they heard it coming, but a maiden, tending a babe, refused to leave her precious charge, and could not fly with it as rapidly as the rest. She perished with it in her arms. Soon we came to a mountain stream which crossed our path, and the bridge had been swept away by an avalanche only the very night before. There were no signs of danger now, and we could scarcely believe the stories that were told us of the sudden destruction wrought by these thunderbolts of snow, and ice, and earth, which are the terror of these regions. The village we slept in last night is protected by a forest of trees so arranged as to receive and ward off the slides; but they come at times with such force as to cut off the trees, and bury everything in undistinguished ruin. This _pedestrianism_ is very well to boast of at home, and for those who are used to it and fond of it, it may be a very agreeable mode of travel; I confess I was tired of it the first day, and took to the horse as decidedly a better, as it certainly is an easier method of transit. It was just about as much as I could do to _walk_, and think of the number of miles we had gone, and had yet to go, with scarcely any spirit to enjoy the romance of the scenery, the glaciers and waterfalls, the precipices and snowy summits that were around me; and groaning all the while with the burden of locomotion. It was another thing altogether to sit on a horse, and folding one's arms, to look upward and around rejoicing in the wonders of God's world, and breathing in with the mountain air, the rich inspirations of the scene. We are now so far up in the world that the snow, though the month of August is closing, is lying by the side of the pathway, while the wild flowers, in bright and beautiful colors, are blooming in the sun, and close to the edges of these chilling banks. On our right hand the Galenstoch glacier lies among the peaks of naked rock that, like the battlements of some thunder-riven castle, shoot upward eleven thousand feet into the clear blue sky. We are among the ice-palaces of the earth. I hug my great coat closely, as the cold winds from these eternal icebergs search me, and in a few minutes reached the inn at the summit of the Furca Pass. Snow-clad summits of distant mountains glistened in the noonday sun, and blue glaciers wound along and down the gorges, and so far above the valleys were we now that it seemed like a world without inhabitants, desolate, cold, and majestic, in its solitude and icy splendor. The descent was too rapid for safe riding, and, giving the horse to the guide, who would lead him around, I leaped down the steep declivity, and soon found myself in a lovely vale. Turning suddenly around a promontory, a scene of such grandeur and beauty burst upon our sight as we had not yet encountered, even in this land of wonders. An ocean lashed into ridges and covered with foam, then suddenly congealed, would not be the spectacle! Freeze the cataract of Niagara and the rapids above it, and let them rise a thousand feet into the air; congeal the clouds of spray, the falling jewelry; pile up pyramids and minarets, and columns, and battlements of ice, and then, at each side of this magnificent scene, set a tall mountain, with green pasturage on its sides, and its head crowned with everlasting snow, and you have some faint image of the Glacier of the Rhone! Travellers have called it the Frozen Ocean of Switzerland. But it is more than this. And yet out of its bosom, its cold but melting heart, the River Rhone is flowing. This is its source. The daring adventurer may follow it up, beneath the blue arches and between the polished walls, till he finds himself far away in these caverns of ice, where no living thing abides. And here he learns the great design of a beneficent Creator in forming these glaciers. The snows of winter are here stored up, and, instead of being suddenly melted in the spring, and then sent down in torrents to devastate the lands through which the overwhelming currents would be borne, they are melted by degrees, and led by channels through these mountain passes into the river beds that water all the countries of Europe! For this great purpose Switzerland was built! It has been lightly said that this Swiss country looks as if it had been the leavings of the world when creation was finished, and the refuse material that could not be conveniently worked in had been thrown in dire confusion, heaps on heaps, into this wilderness of jagged rocks, and shapeless mountains, and disordered ranges of hill and vale--impracticable for man or beast--a rude, wild land, doomed to perpetual poverty, and existing only to be an object of curiosity to the traveller. But we find it to be the great fountain of living waters, pouring its inexhaustible streams into the wide and many lands below, carrying fertility and beauty over millions of acres, and food and gladness to countless homes. A hard hill to climb was the Grimsel. Sometimes I rode, but more frequently I was content to toil upward on my own feet, without taxing the jaded horse with my weight to be added to his own. But when we reached the summit, and overtook other parties who were before us, and were overtaken by yet others coming up behind, we formed a picturesque procession of some forty or fifty pilgrims, who wound slowly along the banks of the _Dead Sea_--a lake that lies away up among these frozen heights, and derives its name from the fact that it was once the grave of a multitude of soldiers who perished in the fight in these mountain fastnesses. The vale of the Grimsel is beneath us, and just before the sun sets we reach the Hospice, and eagerly ask for lodgings. On the borders of a little lake, in the bottom of a narrow valley, surrounded by almost perpendicular rocks, stands this solitary house, in former years inhabited by friendly monks who made it their pious care to entertain the traveller and furnish free hospitality to the poor. Now it is a hotel, and a very poor one at that, where you may get a supper, and a bed, and a large bill in the morning. This is a dreary spot now, and in the winter more fearful it must be. In the morning we found the path that led us out of the valley to the Glaciers of the Aar. The mountain of earth, rocks, ice and snow that we encountered put to flight all ideas we had formed of a glacier. We seemed to have come to a vast heap of sand, or to the _debris_ brought down by an avalanche, but from the base of it a torrent was rushing of a dirty milky hue, and out of its front we could see rocks of blue ice projecting. Now and then a mass of earth or a huge boulder would be hurled along down the precipice. And this mighty mass of ice, decaying at the front and pressed down from above, is slowly moving onward at the rate of some twelve inches a day. If a stream of water running across it cuts a wide seam, so that the mass is suddenly brought down, the shock will throw up the ice in ridges, and in various fantastic shapes, as if some great explosion had upheaved the frozen ocean, and the fragments had come down in wild confusion, like the ruins of a crystal city. Then the sun gradually melts the towers, and they assume shapes of dazzling beauty, palaces of glass, silver domes, and shining battlements--making us to wonder that so much beauty and magnificence are seemingly wasted in these dreary solitudes. Nestled charmingly among the hills is the sweet village of Interlaken. The plain which it adorns stretches from Lake Thun to Lake Brienz, and the quiet retreat it furnishes is improved by hundreds of English people, who make it a summer residence. It combines two advantages, very rarely blended in this world--it is _cheap_ and _genteel_. A large number of neat boarding-houses, some of them aspiring to the rank of first-class hotels, are scattered along the main street of the village; and at the _Hotel des Alpen_, the largest establishment and admirably kept, the traveller may find good rooms and board for a dollar a day, and at even less than that if he is disposed to be very economical. We had crossed the Wengern Alp and passed the vale of Grindelwald; had seen an avalanche come down from the side of the Jungfrau, and been amused with the little cascade called the Staubach, about which poets and printers have gone into ecstasies; and we were glad to find so quiet, beautiful, and civilized a spot in which to sit down for a few days and rest. While we were at Interlaken we made a beautiful excursion on Lake Brienz to the Giesbach Fall. It has some peculiarities that claim for it the very first rank among the falls of Switzerland. See the little stream that issues as from a cleft in the rock, nearly a thousand feet above the waters of the lake. Then among the dark evergreens the white flood comes swelling and plunging into secret abysses where the eye can not search its hidings, but it rises again with a widened torrent, and now spreads a broad bosom of waters over a mighty precipice; and here a bridge has been thrown across in front of the falls, and a gallery cut away behind it, so that it may be circumvented by the visitor who is provided with an overcoat of India rubber, or is willing to take a thorough sponging for sake of the submarine excursion. When I had completed the circuit, a lady was regretting that she could not venture on the tour, but her scruples were instantly removed when I offered her my water-proof, and in a few minutes she returned "charmed" with her trip. Once more the swollen mass of waters plunges over the rocks and shoots out into the lake, in one of the most romantic and beautiful regions that is to be found in this wildly beautiful land. I pass over the experiences of a few days' travel, and come suddenly to the summit of the Col de Balm. Mont Blanc is in sight! Not a faint and doubtful view of a peak among a hundred peaks, but the monarch of the Alps stands there--a king in his glory, revealed from his summit to the base. A cloud is gathered like a halo on his head; but it rises and vanishes as we look upon it with silent admiration and awe. Around him are the Aiguilles or Needles, bare pinnacles of rock stretching up like guards into the heavens, and between are the glaciers--reflecting now the rays of the noonday sun, and among them the _Mer de Glace_--winding along down the gorges, and resting their cold feet in the vale below. [Illustration: UNDER THE GEISBACH FALLS.] Afterward I saw Mont Blanc from its base, and sought other heights from which it might be surveyed, but I could find nothing comparable to the view from the _Col de Balm_. There it stands, towering fifteen thousand eight hundred and ten feet toward the sky, the loftiest summit in Europe, with thirty-four glaciers around it; and as I gazed, it was a strange question to discuss--but one that might well be argued till sundown--is old Ocean, or Niagara, a sublimer sight? It seems so near the sky that the blue firmament kisses its brow. It is so far off, yet so near, so bright and pure, that the angels might be sporting on its summit and be safe from the intrusion of men. It is a _solemn_ mountain. Even the hills of Syria and Palestine, on which I afterward gazed, Lebanon and Hermon, Carmel and Horeb, with their hallowed memories clustering on them, were not more impressive than this hoary hill--forever clothed in white raiment, standing there like an ivory throne for the King of Kings! We went down into the vale of Chamouni, and at evening saw the stars like diamonds sparkling in the crown of the monarch, and then the moonbeams fell all cold upon his crest. We rose the next morning early, and saw the summit of Mont Blanc in a blaze of glory long before the dwellers in the vale had seen the rays of the rising sun. And then we left Switzerland. ----- Footnote 1: The preceding letters were originally addressed to the New York Observer. This chapter, embracing a general view of the country, with pictures of scenes already noticed, was contributed to Harper's Monthly Magazine. CHAPTER XIV. SAXON SWYTZ. A model guide--The Bastei--Banditti of old--A cataract to order--Scaling a Rampart--Konigstein--the Kuhstall--the Great Winterberg--Prebisch Thor--Looking Back. In a corner of Saxony is a miniature Switzerland. They call it Saxon Switzerland; perhaps the name is not well chosen, for it has one feature only of Swiss scenery--exceeding beauty. Only three days are required to see it, and two will give a good traveller all the more prominent points, in a series of views, the romantic loveliness of which will linger a lifetime in the memory of one who has seen them. The Elbe is now navigated by little steamboats, which English enterprise introduced, but a better way to reach Saxon Swytz, if you are pressed for time, is to go with us by rail to Rathen, and there strike off into the mountains. A local guide must be had at once, before you take a step. It was now the height of the travelling season, and on a fine morning in July we found ourselves at a small tavern on the banks of the Elbe, with half a dozen men about us pressing their claims to be employed as guides among the mountains. "Do you speak English?" we inquired of one: to which he answered "Yes," and this with the frequent exclamation "look here" proved to be the Alpha and Omega of our German's knowledge of English. He had a book of certificates which former travellers had given him, and as they were sure he could not read one of them, they had very freely commended him as ignorant, stupid, temperate and faithful, acquainted with the country, and probably no worse a guide than the rest. He was our man. We could get out of him all that was necessary, and as he pleaded hard for employment, and knew three words of English more than the rest, we took him, and in five minutes he took us into a small boat to pull us over the Elbe. Instantly the bewitching scenery began to surround us. The river was here so winding that we could see a little way only, either up or down, but the lofty banks rose so abruptly from the water and the rocks, in the midst of which evergreens were growing, hung so fearfully above us, that we seemed to be suddenly borne into a land of enchantment. We landed on the other side, a "house of refreshment," where German ladies and gentlemen were recruiting themselves with beer, which like an overflowing stream appears to come from some exhaustless fountain. Now we are to decide between a pedestrian tour and mules. We were not long in making up our minds, and soon we were off on the beasts; sorry beasts they were; better men than Balaam might have wished for a sword, or some more fitting weapon to make them go. They were indifferent to all minor arguments, such as words and kicks, and only conscious of the _a posteriori_ mode of reasoning, to which the muleteer in the rear continually resorted. We left the common road, and by a narrow path commenced the ascent to one of the most celebrated and splendid points of observation, the Bastei. On either side of us as we are ascending, huge precipices frown and deep grottoes in which the fairy spirits of these forests may be supposed to dwell, invite us to rest as weary of the upward way. Now a waterfall, beautiful as water in motion always is, and picturesque as a cascade in the green woods must be, tempts us to linger and take the spray on our heated brows. Through dense shades of evergreen forests, by a path so steep, at times, that it is difficult to keep your seat in the saddle, we toil on, and in the course of an hour have triumphed over the hardships of the hill, and have reached the summit of the loftiest bastion in the world. It is as perpendicular as a wall that has been reared for defence. The rock on which we were standing projects from the front of the precipice, and we are hanging six hundred feet above the Elbe. The river winds round the base of the mountain, and both up and down the stream for many miles the eye rests on similar heights on the same side that we are standing. Behind us, Ossa upon Pelion seems to be piled. Giant rocks stand up there in solemn and solitary grandeur, as if by some great convulsion of nature the earth had been torn from their sides, and they were left to brave earthquakes and thunderbolts with their naked heads and sides exposed to perpetual storms. Yet the bravery of man has bridged the horrid chasms that yawn between these separated cliffs, and they have in times past, been the hiding places of banditti, who from these heights could watch the Elbe, and make their descent upon the hapless navigator of the peaceful stream. On one of the rocks is a huge boulder so evenly balanced on the very pinnacle that it has been called "Napoleon's Crown," and another from a fancied resemblance, "the Turk's head," and all of them have titles more or less fitting. Across the river, and in front of us, the plain spreads wide and rises as it recedes from the shore till it meets a range of wooded mountains. From the midst of this plain there rise immense cones, suddenly and remarkably, strange formations, a study for the geologist, probably left there when all the surrounding masses were worn away by the Elbe in making its way through this mountainous region. The country is full of legends connected with each and all of these strange columns, the summits of which are sometimes crowned with castles, and one of them, the Lilienstein, is so perpendicular and lofty, that the Elector of Saxony and King of Poland, when he had scaled its heights, left a record of his memorable exploit. In the hiding places of this wild and rugged rock, the spirits of the woods are supposed to hover over concealed treasures. "A holy nun miraculously transported from the irregularities of her convent to the summit of the Normenstein, that she might spend her days in prayer and purity in its caverns, is commemorated in the name of the rock, and the '_Jungfernsprung_,' or leap of the Virgin, perpetuates the memory of the Saxon maid who when pursued by a brutal lustling threw herself from the brink of its hideous precipice to die unpolluted."--Russell. _Konigstein_, nearly a thousand feet high, with its impregnable fortress, we shall attempt this afternoon, and enter it with a flag of truce, as it was never taken by force. We came up here for the sake of view, and fully repaid for the toil of the ride, we are now prepared to descend by another route, when we are told for the first time that the mules are not for us to ride down, we must foot it, and the mules be driven by the same road they came up. Through the wildest of all wild gorges our winding way led us, at the base of jagged rocks of fearful height, out of the broken breasts of which huge trees were growing, threatening to fall, yet clinging for life to the crevices in which their roots were fastened. Now and then a scared eagle would scream and soar away from his nest, but rarely did a sound except the murmur of water, and the sighing of the air through the narrow defile disturb the deep stillness of that solitude. That projecting rock, with its adjacent pillars of stone, is called the Devil's Pulpit, and that, the Throne, and so other points of peculiar configuration have names more or less fanciful, which a lively imagination has given them. Suddenly, we came upon a family of peasants, who have a hut under the shelter of the rocks, and a few articles of refreshment for weary travellers; sweet milk, and bread and cheese, and a bottle or two of liquor--but they are chiefly and decidedly in the cold water line; they are in the cataract business! The little stream that takes this gorge in its way to the Elbe, at this point would make a leap of some twenty feet among the rocks. With an economy that would do honor to American foresight, these people have made a dam across the rivulet before it falls, and thus accumulating the waters, have them ready for a grand splurge, when a party come along who are willing to pay a few pence for the pleasure of seeing the performance. One of our people gave the word of command in German, of which a free translation would be "Let her slide," and down came the young Niagara. But for the ludicrous idea of an artificial cataract in the mountains, the sight would have been very pretty. The gorge hitherto had been so narrow and deep, that the sun never shines to the bottom, and no flowers ever cheer its gloom; but now the sun lighted up the falling drops, making them like great diamonds, as we from behind the sheet looked out upon the extempore waterfall. It was a walk of four or five miles, through such scenes, to the place from which we had started, and here we awaited the coming of a little steamer which was creeping along the banks to pick up passengers. It picked us up, and dropped us in a few minutes at Konigstein, or the _King's Stone_. The little town with a thousand people in it, would not deserve a call, but it is in our way to the fortress on the summit of the rocky height behind. The road is paved all the way with large square stones, making a carriage path, up which enormous guns are dragged for its defence. To this day it boasts of never having fallen into the hands of the enemy. Napoleon, with incredible toil, carried some of his heaviest pieces of ordnance to the top of _Lilienstein_, but could not reach it with his balls. Much of the distance up which we toiled, the road is cut through a living rock, which rises a solid wall on either side, and winds around the hill, till we come to a wooden bridge over an awful chasm, which separates the passage from the cliff on which the fortress stands, on a platform two miles in circuit, inaccessible except to friends, or to foes with wings. One portcullis passed, and we have only come to the gate. Iron spikes projecting from the stonework threaten us as we approach. At the gate, soldiers are looking through the port-holes, and challenge us to stand. They take our cards and passports to the commander, and soon return with permission for us to enter. But once admitted within the massive gate, we have still a long bridge across the moat to pass, and then by a covered passage at an angle of forty-five degrees, over a stone road, up which cannon are drawn by a windlass, we come out on the summit of the hill to a scene of transcendent beauty, and of the richest historic interest. The ground is neatly laid out in walks and gardens; there are fields of pasture for herds of cattle and of grain raised for the support of the garrison. Their unfailing supply of water is drawn from a well _eighteen hundred feet deep_! We held a mirror to the sun, and sent the reflected light away down into that mysterious depth, and watched it sporting on the waters. Then we poured a glass of water into the well, and in _thirty seconds_ by the watch, the sound returned to our listening ears. Sound travels eleven hundred and forty-two feet in a second, and would therefore be less than two seconds in coming up; so that if our measure of time was correct, it must have taken the water nearly half a minute to travel down to the surface from which it had been drawn. We drank of that well and found the water cool and delightful. Standing on the ramparts, which are defended by enormous guns, we overlooked the plains on one hand, the river and the romantic hills of Saxon Switzerland on the other. Again the columnal rocks arrested our attention, more peculiar now that we are nearer. Far, very far higher than the loftiest cathedral spire, and not broader at the base, they rise in solitary grandeur, where the Great Architect of the earth first placed them, and where they will stand till all the cathedrals and fortresses and pyramids of man's building have crumbled into dust. We bought a few pieces of Bohemian glass ware as souvenirs of this visit, and then reluctantly turning away from the scene, which seemed more beautiful the longer we dwelt upon it--so it is with beauty ever--we reluctantly came down. A German full of humor, a rare sort of German, for they are not addicted to the humorous at home or abroad, had joined us in our pedestrian tour to Konigstein; and having just come down the river as we were going up, he gave us the information we asked for of the upper country. He spoke a "leetel English," and that made his answers more amusing. "Which is the best hotel for us in Ichandau?" we inquired. "They is dree hotels, one is so bad as de toder," said he. "And what shall we find at Winterberg?" "Noding but gray sand-stone and sheating strangers." With this very unpromising prospect, we waited for the steamer to come along to take us to Ichandau and Winterberg. Steaming on the Elbe is a very small affair; a narrow boat with a long nose, moves on at the rate of four or five miles an hour, and stops at the end of a plank or two put out from the shore for a wharf. One of these filled with pleasure travellers in the aft and the long bows covered with peasantry, touched at Konigstein, and received us. It was near sunset. We were often in the deep shadows of the mountains, and then through the openings, or as the circuitous river brought us into the day again, the declining sun streamed upon us with exceeding beauty. Tired with the hard day's work, having mounted the Bastei on one side of the Elbe, and Konigstein on the other, I was glad to lie off upon a bench and enjoy the luxury of this cool delicious hour. Ichandau charmingly dropped down among the mountains, is an old town, but only remarkable as the point from which to set off on exploring expeditions into the interior of Saxon Switzerland. The three hotels were filled with company, who were spending their evening in eating and drinking at small tables on the piazzas, or under the shade trees, a practice of which the Germans are more fond than any other people I have met. We found beds in a great ball-room, with low partitions running between them, so that when the room was needed for dancing, these could be readily removed. I was in want of some refreshments after the fatigues of the day, and when the various drinks that I called for were not to be had, the waiter asked me if I would have "Yahmah Kah rhoom," which I declined after finding that he meant Jamaica rum. Without any night-cap of the sort, and spite of more noise than would have been agreeable if we had not been so weary, we had a good night of it, and rose with the sun to continue our pilgrimage. A carriage was ready for us, to convey us six miles from Ichandau, through a romantic glen, wide enough to afford beautiful meadows on both sides of a stream, by the side of which a good road was leading us into the mountains. The women were at work making hay, scores of them, and not a man to be seen. The brightest of Cole's landscapes among the Kaatskill mountains came to my mind as we rode on, and admired the green hill sides; then, as we advanced, gnarled trees stood out upon the rocks, immense piles, jagged, riven, blasted and heaped one upon another in such orderly confusion, that it seemed as if architecture had done its worst to make towers for giants here. Our ride terminated at _Peishll Swarl_, where we were surrounded by a troop of men who had horses to let, and in their German tongue, they clamored most importunately for us to engage them. Our friend, the Rev. Dr. K., being of German origin, and better skilled in the language than the rest of us, we left to make the bargain, while we selected the best horses for ourselves with that beautiful selfishness so common to the human species. As we deserved, and as he deserved, we got the worst of the lot, and he was soon mounted on a handsome pony, that easily led the party, the whole day. Now it may be known to some who read this, that Dr. K. is not a very tall divine, but what he lacks of being gigantic in height, he makes up in breadth, so that seated upon this little animal about four feet high, and riding up a steep mountain pass, when seen from before, he looked like a horse with a man's head, but when we gazed upward at him from behind, we saw a man with a horse's tail. I had selected a good looking beast, but it had a lady's saddle to which I objected, as it was "Fur damen," for women: but the owner promptly met the objection by pulling away the _rest_, and crying out with a laugh "Fur herren," for men. Immediately on mounting we struck into the woods, and soon into a narrow pass where the rocks had been cleft asunder just far enough for a path for a single horseman; a hundred steps lead up to the summit of a lofty hill whence a fine view is had of the columnal rocks and numerous peaks of mountains, whose hard names would not be remembered if we were to repeat them. On this height is the famous _Kuhstall_, or in English _Cow-stall_, a cave in the rock, to which in the Thirty Years' war, the peasants in the plains below were in the habit of driving their cattle for safety, and in these all but inaccessible solitudes, the Protestant Christians fled from persecution, and hid themselves as their primitive brethren did, in dens and caves of the earth. One of these recesses, more retired and better sheltered than the rest, had the name of the "Woman's bed." Who can tell the sufferings, who can tell the joys that the people of God have known in these high places? No cathedral service could be more sublime than prayer and praise on the mountain tops, and in the grottoes of these rocky heights, where now the weary traveller from a land on the other side of the sea, sits down and recalls the story of those times that "tried men's souls." Through a narrow fissure in the rock we ascended to a platform that makes the roof of the Kuhstall. Before us was a valley surrounded by mighty rocks and pine-covered hills, an amphitheatre in which the present population of the earth could stand, and it required but little stretch of the imagination to believe that a strong voice could be heard by the multitude so assembled. My servant led my horse to the edge of the precipice, many hundred feet high, and he planted his feet firmly on the edge, as if he were accustomed to the spot, and there stood for me to enjoy the glorious scene. On this lofty and far away height, some women had a stand for the sale of strawberries and cream, the taste of which did not interfere with the beauties of the prospect, as I sat on my horse eating, and gazing, and making these notes. But we cannot be on the mount always. We crossed the valley, and on the narrow road met parties of German travellers smoking as they trudged along, women and some children, making the tour of the mountains on foot, and in the course of a couple of hours we commenced the ascent of the Great Winterberg, and climbed it to the summit. Here at the height of one thousand seven hundred feet above the sea we found a good hotel, with every comfort for the entertainment of travellers and a fine lookout from which may be had the grandest sight in Saxon Switzerland. I wrote the names of sixteen noble peaks that stood up around me, with their thick green foliage, the intervening valleys dense with forest, the beautiful Elbe silently circling the base of the mountains, and the pillars of stone rising like sentinels away off in the plains beyond. Our way lay through the thick forest, as we came down to the _Prebisch Thor_ or Gate, a mighty arch, a hundred feet broad, and sixty-five feet high, a wonderful freak of nature, not so lofty as the Natural Bridge of Virginia, but more impressive from the position it occupies, away up in these mountains, more than a thousand feet above the river. It might be the gate of the world! How mean the splendid arches of Conquerors, compared with this which the King of Kings had reared. I exclaimed with reverence as I saw it, "Lift up your heads, O ye gates, and be ye lifted up ye everlasting doors, and the King of glory shall come in." A score of visitors were here before us. A row of romantic cottages, clinging like eagles' nests, to the ledges of the rocks, furnish rest and refreshment to the pilgrims, and we sat down in sight of this stupendous wonder of nature, and dined, while we sought to take in at the same time, an image of it which we should never lose. Underneath the arch ambitious travellers have vied with each other in seeing how high they could inscribe their names, and some have made the records so as to resemble tombstones, rows of which are cut into the solid rock. Visitors from many different lands, have in their several languages left their impressions in the book which is kept here for the purpose, and we added our names and a faint transcript of our feelings to the records of the Prebisch Thor. The descent was by several hundred steps, sometimes of wood, then of stone, and again of earth, which we made on foot, while the horses were led by a longer road around. As we came down into the valley, we met--for we were now in Bohemia, under Austrian rule--numerous beggars with various claims upon our charity. Among them was an old woman who stretched out a pair of naked arms dried to the bone and the color of bronze, her feet and the lower part of her legs, her head and breast were bare, and all so dried and dark, so unlike a woman that it made me sick to look at her. "Can a woman come to that?" I asked myself, as I gave my servant some money for the old crone, and hurried on for fear she would get before me again to thank me. In the stream which comes leaping down from the mountain, were women and children wading, with hooks in their hands to catch the floating bits of wood, and bring them ashore for fuel. The narrow defile through which we passed was picturesque, and the great mountains behind us often called us back to look at the heights where we had stood, and so now looking back, and now plunging on and down, into the regions of human dwellings, by little mills on the leaping stream, and by the side of cottages where some taste appeared in vines and flowers, we arrived at _Hirniskretchen_, on the Elbe. Here we crossed the river, and by the railroad which comes along on the other side, we reached in a few moments the station at _Bodenbach_ the frontier town of _Austria_. The train is detained an hour, while the passports, and luggage of all the passengers are examined with that minuteness which is always suffered in small towns more inconveniently than in cities. Some of the ladies' trunks made such revelations of articles of dress and jewelry, that no protestations of their being designed only for personal use were of any avail. It was impossible in the eyes of these simple officers, that women could need so many gloves, and laces and bracelets, and they were all examined even to the smallest boxes of "_bijouterie_" which could be found. We had no difficulty whatever, being very slightly loaded with baggage of any sort, especially of that sort which custom houses, those pests of nations, are so apt to challenge. At last we were pronounced all right, and the train set off, through a beautiful country, a massive church standing on one side of the river, a towering castle on the other; now rushing by Aussig, a precipice and gorge of frightful height, where the road hugs the rock into the side of which it is cut, and so through numerous pleasing villages, we are hurried on to the ancient city of Prague. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Sheldon and Company. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ A Select List OF PUBLICATIONS. --------------------- Messrs. Sheldon & Company beg leave to say that their publications can generally be found at all Book Stores, News Depots, and Religious Depositories. When not obtainable at these places, any book on the list will be forwarded, prepaid by mail, on receipt of the retail prices annexed to each book. Special attention is called to the list of School and College Text Books. 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39542	----	THE ALPS DESCRIBED BY W. MARTIN CONWAY PAINTED BY A. D. McCORMICK THE ALPS AGENTS IN AMERICA THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK [Illustration: 1. HAYMAKERS IN THE VAL MAGGIA. The loads carried by the women are enormous in size, what they are in weight I don't know; but many of them are larger than those shown in the picture. One load I measured was twice the height of the woman.] THE ALPS DESCRIBED BY W. MARTIN CONWAY PAINTED BY A. D. McCORMICK LONDON ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK 1904 CONTENTS PAGE CHAPTER I THE TREASURES OF THE SNOW 1 CHAPTER II HOW TO SEE MOUNTAINS 22 CHAPTER III HOW MOUNTAINS ARE MADE 46 CHAPTER IV ALL SORTS AND CONDITIONS OF ALPS 72 CHAPTER V THE MOODS OF THE MOUNTAINS 101 CHAPTER VI MOUNTAINS ALL THE YEAR ROUND 128 CHAPTER VII TYPES OF ALPINE PEAKS 151 CHAPTER VIII PASSES 177 CHAPTER IX GLACIERS 202 CHAPTER X ALPINE PASTURES 226 CHAPTER XI THE HUMAN INTEREST 251 CHAPTER XII VOLCANOES 274 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 1. Haymakers in the Val Maggia _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE 2. Bern from the Schänzli 2 3. View of the Bernese Alps from the Gurten, near Bern 4 4. The Pier at Scherzligen, Lake of Thun--Evening 6 5. Melchior Anderegg 8 6. Storm coming up over Lake of Lucerne 10 7. Looking up Valley towards Zermatt from near Randa 14 8. Eiger, Mönch, and Jungfrau from Scherzligen, near Thun 16 9. Lucerne and Lake from the Drei Linden 20 10. The Jungfrau from Interlaken 24 11. Fiescherhorn and Lower Grindelwald Glacier 30 12. The Castle of Chillon 34 13. The Corpus Christi Procession to the Hofkirche of St. Leodegar 38 14. Cloud-burst over Lucerne 44 15. At Meiringen 48 16. Storm Clouds over the Lake of Thun 52 17. Vitznau and Lake of Lucerne 54 18. The Falls of Tosa, Val Formazza 60 19. Looking over Lucerne from the Drei Linden 70 20. François Devouassoud 72 21. At Bignasco 76 22. Looking down the Aletsch Glacier from Concordia Hut 82 23. Asconia--on Lago Maggiore 84 24. Locarno from the Banks of the Lake 88 25. Pallanza--Evening 90 26. The Madonna del Sasso, Locarno 92 27. Locarno at Sunset, and North End of Lago Maggiore 100 28. Moonlight in the Val Formazza from the Tosa Falls 104 29. A Mountain Path, Grindelwald 108 30. The Aletschhorn 112 31. The Grosser Aletsch-Firn from Concordia Hut 116 32. Thunderstorm breaking over Pallanza 124 33. The Wetterhorn 130 34. Märjelen Alp 134 35. Lower Glacier and Grindelwald Church 142 36. Grindelwald looking towards the Wengen Alp 146 37. Rimpfischorn and Strahlhorn from the Riffelberg 150 38. The Matterhorn, Twilight 156 39. Weisshorn and Matterhorn from Fiescheralp 160 40. Aiguille Verte and Aiguille du Dru from the Chamonix Valley 164 41. Boden and Gorner 166 42. The Breithorn from Schwarz See 172 43. The Lyskamm 174 44. The Road from Vitznau to Gersau 180 45. Amsteg in the Reussthal 188 46. The Dent Blanche from the Riffelberg 192 47. The Village of Soldimo, at the Entrance of the Val Maggia 198 48. Flüelen at end of Lake of Uri, South Arm of Lake of Lucerne 200 49. Furggen Glacier Icefall 206 50. The Gletscherhorn from the Pavilion, Hôtel Cathrein, close to Concordia Hut 208 51. The Trugberg 210 52. Pallanza--Sunset 212 53. Kranzberg--Rotthalhorn--and Jungfrau: Sunset 214 54. Märjelen See and Great Aletsch Glacier 220 55. The Castle of Zähringen-Kyburg, Thun 226 56. Chalets and Church. Riederalp 234 57. Evening in Zermatt 236 58. Bern from the North-West 238 59. Looking down the Val Formazza from Tosa 240 60. In the Val Bavona 242 61. In the Val d'Aosta 246 62. Châtillon, Val d'Aosta 260 63. A Corner of the Town of Altdorf 262 64. Ponte Brolla 266 65. In the Val d'Aosta 268 66. In the Woods of Chamonix 270 67. In a Garden at Locarno 272 68. Pilatus and Lake of Lucerne from the Slopes of the Rigi 276 69. Montreux, Lake of Geneva 280 70. After the Sunset 290 THE ALPS CHAPTER I THE TREASURES OF THE SNOW John Ruskin, in a fine and famous passage, describes the effect of a first view of the Alps upon a young and sensitive mind. He was at Schaffhausen with his parents. "We must have spent some time in town-seeing," he writes, "for it was drawing towards sunset when we got up to some sort of garden promenade--west of the town, I believe; and high above the Rhine, so as to command the open country across it to the south and west. At which open country of low undulation, far into blue--gazing as at one of our own distances from Malvern of Worcestershire, or Dorking of Kent,--suddenly--behold--beyond! There was no thought in any of us for a moment of their being clouds. They were clear as crystal, sharp on the pure horizon sky, and already tinged with rose by the sinking sun. Infinitely beyond all that we had ever thought or dreamed,--the seen walls of lost Eden could not have been more beautiful to us; not more awful, round heaven, the walls of sacred Death. It is not possible to imagine, in any time of the world, a more blessed entrance into life, for a child of such a temperament as mine." Many a lad or man has felt a similar awakening when the snowy Alps first smote upon his vision, though none has ever so nobly expressed the emotion. It is a feeling not to be forgotten in after life. All who love mountains have begun to love them from some remembered moment. We may have known the hills from infancy, but to know is not necessarily to love. It is the day of awakening that counts. To me the hills were early friends. Malvern of Worcestershire was my childish delight. I climbed Snowdon at the age of seven, and felt the delight that arises from standing high and gazing far. But the mountains as beautiful things to look at came later. Well do I remember the year when I was at last going to the Alps. A vague feeling of expectation and suspense pervaded the summer term--the unknown was in the future and hovered there as something large and bright. What would the great snow mountains look like? That was the abiding question. One June day I was idly lying prone upon a grassy bank, watching piled masses of cumulous cloud tower in the east with the afternoon sun shining splendidly upon them. Could it be that any snow mountains were really as fine as clouds like these? I could not believe it. [Illustration 2: BERN FROM THE SCHÄNZLI. The seat of the Swiss Government. The Rathhaus, a modern "old Catholic church," in centre of picture. The Bernese Oberland Mountains in heat-haze at top.] At last the day came when the sea was crossed and the long railway journey (how long it seemed!) was accomplished. We approached Olten. The Oberland ought to have appeared, but only rain fell. We reached Bern, and drove up to the little country village of Zimmerwald, where my friends were staying; still there was no distant view--nothing but wooded and green hills around, that reminded me of other views, and revealed no such startling novelty as I was awaiting. One day passed and then another. On the third morning the sun rose in a sky perfectly clear. When I looked from my window across the green country, and over the deep-lying lake of Thun, I saw them--"suddenly--behold--beyond!" Jungfrau, Mönch, Eiger, and the rest, not yet individuals for me, not for a long time yet, but all together, a great white wall, utterly unlike any dream of them that had visited me before, a new revelation, unimaginable, indescribable, there they stood, and from that moment I also entered into life. Returned to my school friends in due season, I thought to tell them of this new and splendid joy that had come to me, but a few attempts cured me of any such endeavour. It was impossible. My words fell upon deaf ears, or rather I had no words. What I said failed to raise a picture in their minds, as what had before been said to me had failed. I have never repeated the attempt; I shall not do so now. The prophet who saw the vision of the Almighty could speak only by aid of types and shadows. The great revelations of nature's majesty are not describable. Who that had never seen a thunderstorm could learn its majestic quality from description? Who can enter into the treasures of the snow by way of words? The glory of a great desert must be seen to be realised. The delicate magnificence of the Arctics none can translate into language. We may speak of that we do know, and testify that we have seen, but no one receives our testimony, because words cannot utter the essential facts. [Illustration: 3. VIEW OF THE BERNESE ALPS FROM THE GURTEN, NEAR BERN.] In writing about the Alps, therefore, we write and paint primarily to remind those who know; to suggest further visions of a like character to those they possess within themselves. Even the greatest master of descriptive writing can only manifest his mastership by knowing what to omit and where to stop. "Suddenly--behold--beyond!" That is enough for those who know. For those who do not know, no words can embody and transmit the unfelt emotion. Since the first day when I saw the snowy mountains, I have seen them again and again in all parts of the world, and have come to know them from above as well as from below. I have penetrated them in all directions and grown to understand the meaning of their smallest details of couloir, crevasse, ice-fall, cornice, arête, and bergschrund. It has not been all gain. Gladly would some of us be able to shed our knowledge of detail, if it were but for a moment, and once again behold the great wall of white as ignorantly as we first beheld it--a thing, vast, majestic, and above all mysterious--unapproachable as the clouds--a region not for men but fairies--the rose-clad tops of the mountains where dance the spirits of the dawn. Fairest of all is ever the first vision, not completest. Later we know more, we understand more, we may even come to love more, but the first vision of a young man's love is surpassed by no future splendour, and the first glory of a mountain view never comes again. Doubtless there may exist some people who, even if they had been smitten by the glory of the mountains in the age of their own most abounding youthful powers of body, would not have been attracted to climb them; yet such folks must be rare. Those who first see mountains in the years of their solid maturity naturally escape the attraction. But most young and healthy individuals as naturally desire to climb as they do to swim or to wander. The instinct of man is to believe that joy is somewhere else than where he stands. "Dort wo du nicht bist, dort ist das Glück." It is not true, but life is not long enough to teach us that it is not--and fortunately, else were half our efforts quenched in the impulse. To see round, over, and beyond--that is the natural desire of all. We want to go everywhere, to behold everything. Who would not rush to visit the other side of the moon, were such journey possible? If Messrs. Cook were to advertise a trip to Mars, who would not be of the party? "To see round, over, and beyond"--that is a common human instinct, which accounts for the passion of historical and scientific investigation, for the eagerness of politicians, for the enthusiasm of explorers and excavators, for the inquisitiveness of psychical societies, for the prosperity of fortune-tellers, and for the energy of mountaineers. What! There is a height looking down on me and I cannot attain it? There is a mountain wall around me and I cannot look over it? Perish the thought! There is an historical limit behind which I know nothing about the human race? Give me a spade, that I may dig out some yet earlier ancestor and discover something about him. There is an unmapped region at the south pole? What is my Government made of that it does not send forth an expedition to describe it? [Illustration: 4. THE PIER AT SCHERZLIGEN, LAKE OF THUN--EVENING. The Niesen on the right.] In face of the unknown all men are of one mind. They cannot but endeavour to replace ignorance by knowledge. What is true of the mass is true to some extent of each individual. There exists in the unit the same tendency at all events as in the multitude. Each man wants to see what he has not seen, to stand where he has not stood, to learn more than he knows. In the presence of mountains this desire urges him upward. He does not start as a mountaineer intending to climb, and climb. He starts for a single expedition, just to see what high peaks and glaciers are like. The snowy regions beheld from a distance puzzle him. Evidently they are not like the places he is familiar with. He will for once go and take a nearer look. He will climb somewhither and get a sight all round. Little does he suspect what the outcome of his venture may be. A week ago he was perhaps laughing at the tattered-faced climbers he met, as mad fools, going up to mountain-tops just to come down again and say they had been there. Of such folly he at any rate will never be guilty. Climbing has no fascinations for him; he is merely going to have a look at the white world, so that he may know what it is that he hears people talking about--their corridors and their couloirs, crevasses, snow-bridges, séracs, and bergschrunds. So he hires a guide and sets forth for the Breithorn, perhaps, or some such high and safe-reputed peak. He hits upon a day when the weather turns bad. Winds buffet him; rain and snow drench him; he labours through soft snow; he is bewildered by fog. If the sun shines for a few moments, it is only long enough to scorch the skin off his face and ensure him a few days of great discomfort to follow. He has no view from the summit. He returns wearied out to his inn. [Illustration: 5. MELCHIOR ANDEREGG. Born 1828. A celebrated Alpine guide; with the late Sir Leslie Stephen made many first ascents, including the Rympfischhorn, Alphubel, Oberaarhorn. Also well known for his wood-carving.] Yes!--and thenceforward the alpine fever masters him. He is caught and makes no effort to escape. His keenest desire is to be off once more into those same high regions--once more to feel the ice beneath his feet--once more to scramble up clean crags fresh from nature's sculpturing and undefiled by soil or vegetation. With each new ascent he becomes eager for more. The summers are all too short for his satisfaction. He goes home to read about other people's climbs, to study maps and guide-books, to lay out schemes for future seasons. Dauphiny, the Graians, the Engadine and Tirol--he must give a season or seasons to each. Thus is the climber fashioned out of an ordinary man. Each new votary of the peaks in turn experiences the same sudden conversion, expects to be able to explain his new delight to his lowland friends, and in turn discovers the same impossibility. He learns, as we all have learned, that the delight is not translatable into words; that each must experience it for himself and each must win his own entrance into the secret alone. The most we can do is to awaken the inquisitive sense in another, who beholds the visible evidence of our enjoyment and wonders what its source may be. In that fashion the infection can be spread, and is spread with the extraordinary rapidity that the last half-century has witnessed. What climber does not recall the enthusiasm of his first seasons? the passionate expectation of the coming summer, the painful awaiting for the moment when his foot should once again crunch the ice-corn of the glacier beneath its hob-nailed sole? Gradually that enthusiasm passes and is replaced by a settled mood of calmer, but no less intense, satisfaction. But does the æsthetic delight in the beauty of the mountains remain through all these experiences undimmed? Not always. In the first view of them it is the beauty of the snowy peaks, of the great white walls, that appeals to the eye. Ignorant of the meaning of every detail, the details are almost unseen. It is the whole that is beheld in the glory of its whiteness. The wonder of the silver snow beyond the green and beneath the sky invades the mind of every new spectator. Small need be our surprise that unsophisticated, semi-civilised peoples have always believed the snowy regions to be part of the other world--the home of ghosts and fairies, or of demons and dragons. "Not more awful, round heaven, the walls of sacred Death," says Ruskin in the passage above quoted, thereby manifesting how close in its instincts is the sympathy between genius and the purely natural man. Almost universal is the feeling aroused by a first sight of a great snowy range that it is unearthly. Mystery gathers over it. Its shining majesty in full sunlight, its rosy splendours at dawn and eve, its pallid glimmer under the clear moon, its wreathed and ever-changing drapery of cloud, its terrific experiences in storm, all these elements and aspects strike the imagination and appeal broadly to the æsthetic sense. Nor are they ever quite forgotten even by the most callous of professional mountaineers. [Illustration: 6. STORM COMING UP OVER LAKE OF LUCERNE. Sketch made from Flüelen.] But with increase of experience on the mountains themselves come knowledge and a whole group of new associations. A man does not climb a mountain without bringing some of it away with him and leaving something of himself upon it. Returned to the level and looking back, he does not see his peak as before. Every feature of the road he traversed is remembered, and he instinctively tries to fit the features to the view. That velvet slope above the trees is the stony tract up which he toiled before dawn and where he stumbled in the fitful lantern-light. That grey band beside the glacier is the moraine, whose big rocks were unstable beneath his tread. That glacier--how slippery it was before the sun smote it! There are the crevasses that made his track so devious; and there began the snowfield so hard and pleasant under foot in the early hours, so toilsome to wade through as the day advanced. In the upper part of the mountain all the little features, that seemed unimportant from below, take on a new meaning. He finds it hard to identify different points. Can that tiny thread of snow be the broad gully up which so many steps had to be cut? He looks at it through a telescope, and the actual traces of his staircase become visible. The mountain judged by the scale of remembered toil grows wonderfully in height. The eye thus trained begins to realise and even to exaggerate the vast scale on which peaks are built. But along with this gain in the truthful sense of scale comes the loss of mystery. The peak which was in heaven is brought down to earth. It was a mere thing of beauty to be adored and wondered at; it has become something to be climbed. Its details have grown intelligible and interesting. The mind regards it from a new aspect, begins to analyse its forms and features, and to consider them mainly in their relation to man as a climber. As knowledge grows this attitude of mind develops. Each fresh peak ascended teaches something. The nature of the climbing on peaks not yet ascended can to some extent be estimated from below. The inquiry naturally arises, How shall that peak be climbed? Which is the way to attack it? The eye traces possible routes and foresees probable difficulties. It rejects or modifies proposed ways. It observes all kinds of structural details. It notes the path of avalanches and the signs of falling stones. It concentrates its attention upon ice-falls and endeavours to thread the maze of their séracs. Thus the intelligence replaces the æsthetic sense and the enjoyment of beauty becomes or is liable to become dimmed. The longer a climber gratifies his instincts and pursues his sport, the larger becomes his store of reminiscences and the greater his experience. If he confines his attention to a single range of mountains such as the Alps, he is almost always in sight of mountains he has climbed and glaciers he has traversed. Each view shows him some route he has once pursued, some glacier basin he has explored, some pass he has crossed. The labyrinth of valleys and the crests of successive ridges do not puzzle him. He knows how they are grouped and whither they lead. Beyond those mountains is the Zermatt valley; that peak looks down on Zinal; that col leads to Saas. Thus there grows in him the sense of the general shape and arrangement of the country. It is no longer a tangled chaos of heights and depths, but an ordered anatomy, formed by the action of definite and continuous forces. So far as his knowledge extends this orderliness is realised. He has developed a geographical sense. That in its turn poses problems for solution. He notes some corner of his map where a deep-lying valley is intricately fitted in amongst ridges which he has seen from without. He becomes desirous to visit it, so that he may complete the map in his own understanding. When he goes to a new district he cannot but be eager to obtain a geographical grasp of its form and arrangement. The instinct that desires to see round corners and over walls has now new food to grow on. In a fresh district the geographical problem is always fascinating, but in one that has been explored by no mountaineer before, its fascination is overwhelming, especially if the explorer be a surveyor and cartographer, as I can attest. To see the sketch-map of a previously unsurveyed country grow upon the paper is an intense satisfaction. The aspect of every peak gives rise to a twofold problem. Can it be climbed, and if so by what route? How should it be depicted on the map? These questions are ever present. The solution of them is the thought of every hour, the first point of interest in every view. As it is with the explorer, so to a less extent is it liable to be with every climber; for all climbers are to some extent explorers, even though they are but exploring previously described and mapped territory. It is new to them, at any rate, and that is the important fact. Climbers, when they begin to exhaust a district, move to another in hunger after the unknown. [Illustration: 7. LOOKING UP VALLEY TOWARDS ZERMATT FROM NEAR RANDA. Theodulhorn and Furggengrat in distance.] Hence, as the seasons go by, it happens that the æsthetic interest, which was at first the climber's main delight, begins to fade. If he be a man of scientific interests it is liable to an even quicker evanescence than if he be not, for problems of geological structure, or of botanical distribution, or of glaciology and the like, are a keen source of intellectual enjoyment. At length, perhaps, the day comes when the loss is felt. There is a gorgeous range of snow mountains with every effect of cloud and sunshine that the eye can desire, displayed about and upon them, yet the climber finds with dismay that his heart is cold. The old glory has vanished from the scene and the old thrill is an unfelt emotion. What is the matter? Have his eyes grown dim? Has he lost the faculty of delight? Is he growing old? Whatever the cause, the effect is painful in the extreme. It is one that many of us have felt, especially towards the close of a long and successful climbing season, or extensive journey of exploration. There is but one remedy--to quit the mountains for a while and attend to the common business of life. When winter months have gone by and summer is again at hand, the old enthusiasm is liable to return. Sooner or later the true mountain-lover will begin to starve for sight of the snows. When age comes upon him and his limbs grow stiff and his heart enfeebles, the desire to climb may slacken, but the love of mountains will not diminish. Rather will it take on again something of its first freshness. Then it was purely objective; now it becomes objective once more. The desire to obtain and to possess passes away. We know what it is like to be aloft. We foresee the toil with no less, perhaps with even greater clearness of prevision than we foresee the triumph and the delight. We have learnt the secret of the hills and entered into the treasures of the snow. Now we can afford to rest below and gaze aloft. If the mystery of our first views can never return, the glow of multitudinous memories replaces it not unworthily. The peaks have become inaccessible once more. They again belong to another world, the world of the past. The ghosts of our dead friends people them, and the ghosts of our dead selves. When the evening glow floods them at close of day it mingles with the mellow glories of the years that are gone. The old passionate hopes and strivings, the old disappointments and regrets, the old rivalries, and the old triumphs, vaguely mingling in a faint regret, beget in the retired mountaineer an attitude of peace and aloofness. He feels again the incommunicable and indescribable delight that thrilled him at the first; but now, though it is less passionate, less stimulating, less overwhelming than of yore, it is mellower and not a whit less beautiful and true. [Illustration: 8. EIGER, MÖNCH, AND JUNGFRAU, FROM SCHERZLIGEN, NEAR THUN.] One precious thing beside memory the retired mountaineer possesses, which he who has never climbed must lack: it is knowledge. The keenest mountain-lover who never climbed does not really know the nature of what he is looking at. Even Ruskin, the most gifted mountain-lover that never climbed, constantly reveals in his writings failures to understand. The true scale of things was never apparent to his eye. Like all beginners, at first underestimating, he presently came to overestimate the size of cliffs and ridges. Ability to see things truly is a great possession. None but an experienced mountaineer can ever so see mountains. He instinctively recognises the important features and distinguishes them from the unimportant. He is conscious of what is in front and what behind. He does not mistake foreshortened ridges for needle-pointed peaks. A range of mountains is not a wall to him but a deep extending mass. He feels the recesses and the projections. He has a sense of what is round the corner. The deep circuits of the hills are present in his imagination even when unbeheld. He knows their white loneliness. The seen end of a glacier-snout implies to him all the unseen upper course and expanse of its gathering ground. Thus every view to him is instinct with implications of the unseen and the beyond. Such knowledge well replaces the mystery of his youthful ignorance. If time has taken something away, it has amply repaid the theft. It is not his debtor. He may mingle now with the crowd who never quit the roads, and no external sign shall distinguish him from them, but the actual difference between them is fundamental. For the snows are beyond their ken and belong to the same region as the sky; but they are within his area; they form part of his intellectual estate; they hold his past life upon their crests. Where the lowlander looks and wonders, the mountaineer possesses and remembers, nor wonders less for being able to realise the immensity of the mass of beauteous detail that unites to form a mountain landscape. To attain such ripe fruition, however, does not come to every man, nor to any without taking thought. The most callous person will feel some thrill from a first view of a snowy range, but it may soon become a commonplace sight, its beauty soon be unperceived. Only by taking thought can this be avoided. Unless we can learn from year to year to see more, and more recondite, beauties in nature, we are yearly losing sensitiveness to nature's beauty. There is no standing still in this matter. We must advance or we must go back. A faculty must be used or it will atrophy. It is not enough to go to the mountains in order to grow in their grace. Sensitiveness to beauty increases in the man who looks for beauty and greatly desires to find it. Pure nature is always and everywhere beautiful to the eye that knows how to see. The perception of the beauty of a thing is, however, not the same as the mere sight of a thing. Many may behold a view, and of them all only one may see beauty in it. He does so because he brings with him the innate or trained capacity for seeing that kind of beauty. But how is that capacity to be acquired or emphasised by training? This question might be answered in a volume and even then the answer would be incomplete and would not compel assent from all. We can only afford a single phrase here for the reply--"by taking thought." If, when a sight produces on the spectator the thrill that comes from the recognition of beauty, he will concentrate his attention upon it and remember it (as a youth remembers the beautiful face of a girl he has merely passed in the street), and if he will be on the alert to find it again and yet again, he will assuredly obtain by degrees a completer understanding and a more sensitive recognition of that particular kind of beauty. He will find more sides and aspects of it than he at first suspected. It will lead him on to a larger knowledge and a wider sympathy. His æsthetic capacity will be increased and his powers of delight continuously developed. All this in the case of mountain-beauty will come to him, not merely because he wanders among or upon mountains, but because being there he retains towards them a definite attitude of mind,--an attitude, however, which is not that of the climber, and which mere climbing and exploration do not by themselves encourage. He that looks for structure will find structure; he that studies routes will find routes. To find beauty it is beauty that must be searched for as a prospector searches for gold. More priceless than gold, beauty abundantly rewards those who find her. With that guerdon in mind let the mountaineering reader ask himself, "Hast thou entered into the treasures of the snow?" [Illustration: 9. LUCERNE AND LAKE FROM THE DREI LINDEN. Pilatus with storm breaking over mountain and town.] CHAPTER II HOW TO SEE MOUNTAINS I have borrowed the title of this chapter from that of an excellent book, recently published, called _How to Look at Pictures_. The natural man might suppose that such were questions on which there is nothing to say. The picture is before you, and all you have to do is to open your eyes and let the image of it fall on your retina. What can be more simple? Yet that is not all, because the eye only sees that which it brings with it the power of seeing. How much more one sees in the face of a friend than in that of a stranger! It is similar with all objects. In order to see aright and to see fully, the power of seeing must be acquired. Some learn more easily than others, but all must learn. It is admittedly so with music. The most self-satisfied person cannot refuse to admit that even a short tune is better grasped, better _heard_, on a second hearing than the first time. What is true of a simple tune is more obviously true of a complicated work. The most accomplished musician does not grasp a Wagner opera at a first hearing. Man is a creature with faculties that need training. He is not born with faculties fully trained by instinct. To perceive beauty in a scene implies a power of selection. There is beauty in every view if you know how to find it, but the eye has to sift it out. Open your eyes at random. They are saluted by an infinite multitude of details. You can pass from one to another, but you cannot see them all at once. Looking at a tree, you can see a few leaves and twigs surrounded by a green spludge, which experience has taught you is made up of leaves or twigs, but you do not see all the leaves at once; so with blades of grass, flowers in a field, strata edges on a cliff, or crevasses in a glacier. In a broad effect of sunset you cannot be simultaneously conscious of more than a few forms and colours, and, of those you are simultaneously conscious of, one will be more important than the rest--one will give the key-note. Nor can you be equally conscious at one moment of forms and colours, or of colours and light and shade. If a view strikes you at all, it strikes you by some effect in it which you perceive, even though you may not be able to state in words what that effect is. It is clear, however, that any effect is the result of selection by the eye. The effect upon the eye would be unchanged if a quantity of details were blotted out, so long as none of those details formed part of the effect. Thus if you were attracted by the bright effulgence of a snow slope seen against a clear sky (to take a simple instance), and if your mind were concentrated upon that contrast, you would not notice the sudden obliteration of a crevasse in the slope. That detail would form no part of the effect. As you gaze at any scene you may be continually and rapidly changing the effects you are observing, and that without altering the direction of the eye. Such, in fact, is what every view-gazer is always doing. He is searching for a satisfying effect of beauty out of the multitude of possible effects that could be found, such possible effects being always practically infinite in number. Ultimately it is probable that some one effect will obtain the mastery within him, an effect that his eye is specially capable of seeing and his mind of comprehending. He passes on his way, and a day afterwards recalls yesterday's view. What rises in his memory is not the whole scene with all its details, but the special effect that ultimately impressed him, the result of a kind of survival of the fittest within him of a multitude of competing effects that he saw or almost saw. [Illustration: 10. THE JUNGFRAU FROM INTERLAKEN. First ascended 1811.] Take, for example, a very simple instance, the view of the Jungfrau from Interlaken on a clear day. What most people see is a roughly triangular white mass below a blue sky, and limited on either hand and below by green slopes and foreground. Suppose the looker to be a meteorologist whose special study is the atmosphere and its clouds. Probably the first thing he will notice will be the quality of the blueness of the sky and the tone of the lower atmosphere between him and the white mountain and green hills. He will, in fact, observe the air-tones, and consciously or unconsciously they will be the key-note of his impression. Next comes an East Londoner with a Toynbee Hall party, let us say. What strikes him is the novelty of the white mountain. Its whiteness is his main impression, the blue and the green being perceived as mere contrasts to that, and the forms of mountain and hills being unimportant shapes of the colour limits. The size of the mountain may be a subsidiary impression, but it will depend still upon the white colour, the wonder being that so large a natural object should be of snow. Anon comes a lover of woods and trees and of the green world. The white mountain for him will merely emphasise and dignify the pine woods and the grassy swards. He will note the draping of the hills by the pine-trees, and the character of the woods. The white peak will have value in the view to him, but only a value subordinate to that of the forest. After him comes a climber, trained, let us say, in the Canadian Rockies, and now for the first time visiting the classic land of climbers. When, on a clear day, the Jungfrau bursts upon his vision, he will give all his eyes to her and her only. He will not observe the greater or lesser blueness of the sky, nor the forms and features of the foreground hills--that is to say, they will not be the first object of his attention, the key-note of the effect he perceives. No! he will notice the form of the snow peak, the modelling of the glacier surface, the striping of the avalanche tracks, the character of the outlining ridges and minor buttresses. He will be subtly conscious of what is snow and what ice, of how and why rocks emerge from the snowy envelope. Where the ignorant will conceive the peak to be a great mound of snow, the newly-arrived climber will feel it to be a mass of rock draped in snow and ice, and his attention will be caught and held by that drapery, its forms and foldings. Finally there comes an artist, who knows nothing about mountains or forests and cares nothing, but who loves above all else (let us say) colour. What he will see will be some colour effect, some special harmony of tints in sky and snow and forest, some unifying effect that will make white, blue, and green all qualities of a single glory. If he paint the view, that is the effect he will strive to render, and in so doing he will care little about forms and details, little about modellings of glacier drapery and rocky skeleton. The colour-chord will be his aim, and all the power of his vision and the skill of his hand will be concentrated upon that. Or perhaps the artist will not come alone but in company with another of different character. This one cares less about colour than form. What will strike him will be the graceful architecture of the view, the delicate outlines, the intricate rareness of surface modelling in the snow, the strongly relieved emphasis of the limiting lines of the framing hills. Whether the sky be blue of a special tone and the foreground embellished with every shade and combination of greens will be immaterial to him for the time. He will feast his eyes upon form, and form will be the real subject of whatever representation of the scene he may endeavour to set down. Any one can multiply instances for himself and carry further to any extent the analysis of possible simultaneous varieties of effect in a single view. If to that he add the changes of effect that nature makes by variations of the weather, time of day, and season of the year, it will be evident enough how a single scene may be beheld with infinite variety by the eye of man; and the suspicion will arise that all conceptions, all appreciations, may not be equally fine or equally easy to grasp, and that, where one man may see little, another may be able to see an effect of singular beauty. It is the true and proper function of a landscape painter to find effects in views, but it does not follow that the effects he sees are those seen by any man in the street. "I never saw a sunset look like that," said a man to Turner when looking at one of his pictures. "No!" was the reply, "but don't you wish you could?" It should be the business of a painter to inspire such envy in those who see his works. If he merely shows us things as we see them for ourselves, he is of little service. At best he does but revive our memories. He should do more. He should stimulate our imaginations to a higher activity, or provide us with something to look for in the future even more than to revive in the past. To return to our two painters of a previous paragraph: if their drawings of the Jungfrau were shown to the meteorologist, he might be prompt to observe that the atmospheric effect was not rendered, and that the colour of the sky was incorrect. The Toynbee Hall excursionist would find the snow lacking in the radiance that had dazzled him. The forest-lover would declare that he could not identify the character of the trees and that the various greens of the foreground were untrue to nature. Whilst the climber would regard the colourist's Jungfrau as a daub in which all the character of the peak was missed. He would fail to recognise any possible route up its painted image or the signs of the difficulties and dangers of the way. Finally, each artist might regard the other's picture as a more or less mistaken effort. Yet if all these gentry were animated by a proper spirit they would recognise that their own view was not the only way of seeing the peak, but that any of the others was equally truthful, perhaps equally worthy, nay, that some other effect than those they respectively felt might be superior. Each might learn from the drawings another kind of effect to look for, and raising his eyes from the paper to the peak might then and there see the pictured effect for himself, and thenceforward be able to discover the like again in other places. It is difficult to estimate how far the effective sight of any man has been thus educated, either by pictured scenes, or by a word in season from some companion who shared with him this or the other splendid view. Each of us starts but poorly equipped; each may discover something for himself and to some extent develop his faculties by his own unaided efforts; but ultimately each, even the most naturally gifted, learns far more from others than he originates. The most efficient teachers of how to look are painters--of how to look at scenery, landscape painters. It is unfortunate that the snowy ranges have not been studied by a larger number of the great landscape artists. Turner handled them in their broader aspects and from relatively low and distant points of view; by so doing he greatly helped to spread and deepen a knowledge of mountain beauty. No inconsiderable number of later artists, mostly, however, admittedly of the second rank, have devoted at least a part of their time to mountain-landscape art, some pursuing it to the higher and inner recesses of the snowy region. Yet it must be admitted that the great mountain pictures are yet to be painted. Stott seemed on the verge of a higher success. Segantini almost touched the goal, and would doubtless have come nearer if he had lived longer. Such men amongst the dead, and many living artists, whose names I do not venture to set down lest by inadvertent omission I were to be unjust, have earned our thankfulness by the lessons they have taught; yet plenty more remains to be accomplished. The hills have not inspired landscape painters with all the fulness of their charm. [Illustration: 11. FIESCHERHORN AND LOWER GRINDELWALD GLACIER] It is often forgotten that mountains and even snowy mountains found their way into pictures at a very early date. Even the father of modern landscape painting, Hubert Van Eyck, introduced admirable renderings of lines of snowy peaks into the backgrounds of some of his pictures, as, for instance, in the "Three Maries at the Sepulchre," belonging to Sir Frederick Cook, where the effect of a distant range is beautifully suggested. Albrecht Dürer again, about a century later, made a series of the carefullest studies of mountain scenes in the neighbourhood of the Brenner road, and thenceforward he was fond of introducing excellently-drawn peaks into the backgrounds of his engravings and woodcuts. He possessed a remarkable knowledge of the essential facts of mountain form, so that even a modern mountaineer can learn from his works some of the elements of "how to see." Well-drawn mountains are of frequent occurrence in sixteenth century woodcuts and drawings by the prolific masters of sixteenth century south German and Venetian schools. The fact is one of many proofs of the vitality of that first modern outburst of mountain enthusiasm which gradually faded as the sixteenth century advanced. It is the commonplace of seventeenth and eighteenth century writers, who chance to refer to mountain scenery, to describe it as of monstrous, horrible, or even hideous character. Contemporary artists gave it corresponding expression. We are wrong to assume that their pictures and prints manifest any incapacity to draw, because we do not recognise in them the peaks and landscapes we know. The fact was that those artists gave quite truthful expression to the impression produced upon them by mountain scenery. Most Alpine lovers have seen prints professing to depict such objects as the Grindelwald glaciers and the surrounding heights, and have wondered how any one with the view before him can have so libelled it. But the artist intended no libel. All snowy peaks to him were inaccessible altitudes; in imagination he doubled their steepness. I myself, when a boy, approached the Matterhorn with a belief that it was built of precipices. I had always heard it so spoken of. With the thing itself before me I sat down to draw it, and quite unintentionally and unconsciously exaggerated its steepness and sharpness in a way that now seems difficult to account for. If such was the effect of preconception upon a modern lad who had already climbed several relatively high Alpine mountains, how easy it must have been for a seventeenth-century artist to be misled, who never thought of climbing at all, and to whose mind the notion of any individual interest attaching to a particular peak was altogether foreign. He merely felt a general awe, or horror, of his surroundings, and in depicting mountain scenery very properly made the rendering of either emotion his chief aim. Pictures painted at that time under those influences are not to be regarded as valueless and ridiculous. They are of great value as enabling us to see with our own eyes what mountain scenery actually looked like to the people of those days, and thus to account for the extraordinary language employed by travellers going _the grand tour_ who attempted to describe the scenery through which they passed when crossing the Alps. [Illustration: 12. THE CASTLE OF CHILLON Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls: A thousand feet in depth below Its massy waters meet and flow. BYRON. ] I have thus far only spoken of the educative effect of mountain paintings in teaching us how to see mountain scenery, but there are other forms of art equally efficient. As a matter of history, it was the writers, and especially the poets, who induced the intelligent public to change their attitude towards mountains. I do not know who was the initiator of the movement or in what country it was first apparent. Rousseau deserves to be remembered in this connection. Sir Walter Scott and Byron carried on the work, and were supported by the poets of the Lake School. Goethe and Schiller were widely influential in the same direction. At first it was the vague romanticism of the hills and of the supposed simple life of mountain peasants that attracted sympathetic notice and description. Gradually mountains came to be looked at in greater detail and for their own sake. Finally, in our own day, Ruskin for the first time attempted to analyse mountain beauty, and not only produced in the fourth volume of _Modern Painters_ a most suggestive and illuminating work, but by the magic of his language and the charm and aptness of his illustrative drawings attracted to it the attention of all that was best in English society. Whether what followed was directly due to his initiative, I do not know. The next important step was the publication of Mr. Edward Whymper's _Scrambles amongst the Alps_, which rapidly attained popularity of the best kind. It is difficult nowadays to put one's self in the place of mountain lovers who met with that book when it first appeared. To us it is still full of freshness and charm, but to them it was far more significant. They compared its illustrations with those in _Peaks, Passes, and Glaciers_, published twelve years before, and they were smitten with admiration. "Look at the poor old chromo-lithographs," wrote Leslie Stephen, "which then professed to represent the mountains, and compare them with Mr. Whymper's admirable woodcuts. The difference is really remarkable. Though some of these old illustrations, copied from photographs, suggest the general outlines with tolerable fidelity, most of them utterly fail to represent a mountain at all to an educated eye.... The old daubs are mere random indications of certain obtrusive features which could not well be overlooked. Mr. Whymper's woodcuts seem to bring the genuine Alps before us in all their marvellous beauty and variety of architecture." Ruskin and Whymper, in fact, took up mountain-drawing where Dürer had left it three hundred and fifty years before. They looked at the mountains themselves with the humility that belongs to men who love the truth, and they taught others so to look. Alpine climbing taught men for the first time what mountains actually are. The power so to see them was simultaneously developed, and photography has helped. The question of mountain-photography is a thorny one, but it must be faced. The reader can scarcely deny that if mountains really looked like the ordinary run of commercial photographs of them, they would be ugly or at least unattractive objects. A volume of such photographs would scarcely lead a man, who had never left his home, eagerly to desire a close acquaintance with snowy peaks. That, however, was actually what Mr. Whymper's woodcuts did. Hundreds of readers of his book were thereby led to become mountaineers. Wherein does this different efficiency consist? A photograph, in theory, repeats every detail of the view it contains. Such details as drop out are either too small or too faint to be visible in the print. A camera does not select. It takes all. In this respect it differs altogether from the human eye. If you look fixedly in a definite direction and regard carefully what it is that you actually see, you will discover it to be a few central details only, and that they are surrounded not merely by vaguely defined objects but by objects duplicated. Thus the sight of the eye and the sight of a camera are not alike, either in what is beheld or what is selected. The sense of beauty depends upon what the eye selects. It would seem then that the beauty of a view could not possibly be reproduced by photography, and such was the crude conclusion once held by artists of the capacities of this modern process. Photographers, however, have proved that such is not necessarily the case. In the infinite effects, all of them beautiful, that a single landscape is capable of yielding, and yielding simultaneously, most are beyond the reach of photography; but the same is likewise true of any one art-process. Pen-and-ink drawing, for example, is as incapable of reproducing colour effects as photography. Each art has its own limited area of possible effect. Photography, in so far as it is an art, is subject to its own definite and rather narrow limitations. A photographer can choose his subject and determine its exact limitations. As he can deal only with forms and tones, he must choose a subject so arranged by nature that its forms are in themselves beautiful, and its tones a harmonious distribution of light and shade. But light and shade varies with the hour of the day and season of the year, and forms vary with the drift of clouds over the hills, so that the selection of moment becomes for the photographer as important as the choice of point of view, direction, and area of subject. Again, by choice of length of exposure and by methods of development, the photographer can alter the quality of light and shade in his negative and the amount of detail he renders. These three factors are entirely under the photographer's control, and in so far as he avails himself of them, not merely to reproduce a view but to reproduce the picturesque effect in a view, he becomes and deserves to be regarded as an artist. [Illustration: 13. THE CORPUS CHRISTI PROCESSION TO THE HOFKIRCHE OF ST. LEODEGAR. The Principal Catholic Church of Lucerne.] In our own days, as the photograph exhibitions of the Alpine Club have demonstrated, there are no inconsiderable number of mountain artist-photographers. It has been proved that snow mountains are a specially suitable subject for such art. Views in the high regions of ice and rock seldom depend for their chief beauty upon colour. He whose eye is sensitive to colour-effects can, indeed, find such in profusion in the regions of snow, but they are not the effects to which experience shows mountain lovers are as a rule most sensitive. What most of us love in mountains is primarily their form. Grand forms are profusely supplied by frost-riven rocks and cloven glaciers. In great snow-fields and slopes, the surface modelling is often of transcendent beauty, and that modelling can be rendered to perfection by photography, if the right moment be chosen. Photographers who have known what to look for and what to reject, have perhaps done more even than any other kind of artists in revealing the mountains. But the right moment comes comparatively seldom and has to be seized. A climber may pass for hours through gorgeous scenery, full of subjects for a painter, yet there may not be offered to him one photographable effect. He may expose plate after plate, and carry away with him the most interesting topographical and geographical records, but among them all there will not be a single picture that will render a picturesque effect and be worthy to rank as a work of art. The artist-photographer is a man who can snatch the right moment for the right effect. He must be able to recognise immediately and instinctively, when it comes before his vision, an effect of beauty that can be reproduced. He must see in the complexity of every view what the camera will make of it, knowing for a certainty what it can be made to reflect and what to exclude. In fact he must possess the same qualities as any other kind of landscape artist, the eye that recognises an effect suited to his art and the skill to render that effect in his resulting work of art. Such photographers, as I have said, there are and have been. Their works have opened the eyes of many a climber to effects of beauty in mountains of which they had before been unconscious. Returning to the regions of snow, they have been thus enabled to look for them and to find them. Their own sensibility to beauty has thus been enriched and their power of enjoyment correspondingly increased. In consequence of the work of poets, writers, painters, photographers, indeed all kinds of artists, and of the stimulus exerted by them upon mountain travellers of all sorts, men have learned in the last half-century to see mountains far better, more truly, and more beautifully than was possible before. We find in them complexities and refinements of beauty the very existence of which was previously unsuspected. We do not merely wonder at their size or shudder at their savagery. We can do that when the mood is on us, but the mood seldom comes. Our forefathers generally looked at them from a distance and thought of them as a whole, seldom doing more than to identify here and there a single individual from the mass. We, on the contrary, have learnt to know them from nearer at hand. We have made friends with them; we can call them all by their names. We know the aspect of each from many points of view, and their features are as familiar to us as were the features of woodside and stream to the mediæval villager. This intimacy with the mountains has taught us that all the snowy ranges of the world are, as it were, of a single race, and that he who knows one knows something about all. The Alpine climber, who knows the Alps, can be interested in mere description of mountain ascents elsewhere. Knowing what Alpine peaks look like and how they appear in picture and photograph, he can, by aid of pictures and photographs, attain a tolerably complete idea of the aspect of other mountain ranges. Hence the explorers of such ranges, of the Caucasus, the Himalayas, the peaks of Central Africa, South America, and New Zealand, have been called upon to describe the peaks they have climbed, the valleys and glaciers they have traversed, and the scenery of the regions and ranges they have explored, in a way that would have been unintelligible two generations ago. What we now demand of a mountain explorer is not merely to tell us the adventures of his route, but to explain to us wherein the quality of the mountain scenery differs from that which is familiar nearer home. He must be prepared to answer many questions which would not have been asked till recently. Has he been to the Himalayas or the Andes? We want to know whether those great mountains look their size, and, if so, wherein the effect is manifested of a scale greater than the Alps. Is he returning from Sikhim? We shall ask him to tell us what the great peaks there look like when seen from the beautiful forest below. What are the atmospheric effects peculiar to the region? And, with yet more persistence, what is the quality of mountain form which distinguishes the great peaks there, so that, beheld merely through the medium of photographs, they so impress their individuality upon us? Knowing, as we do, the great variety of mountain scenery that can be found in the Alps, between the Dolomites of Tirol at one end and the crags of Dauphiny at the other, we expect to be told whether, in the case of the long Andes range, corresponding varieties are discoverable, and what and where they are. Such questions and multitudes more arise within us. It is much if a traveller can answer a few of them. At best he leaves us hungry. It is this hunger that impels us to travel afar ourselves, if fortune permit. Some indeed travel and explore for merely scientific reasons. They desire to add to knowledge and to diminish the area of the unknown. Some perhaps believe that they go merely in search of sport. The normal man is more complex. He has these ends in view to a greater or less extent perhaps; but, if he be a normal mountaineer, deep down within him there assuredly resides a true and hearty attachment to mountains and mountain scenery for the sake of their beauty. He may be too dumb to express it or too shy to admit, but we soon discover that the feeling is there, and that it is a dominant fact in his nature. He may not have analysed it. He may never speak of it, never perhaps even state it to himself, yet when we stand beside him on a mountain height, gazing abroad on the undefiled world of snow spread abroad at our feet, we find that we share with him a common feeling and embrace a common joy. After all, it is the beauty of the snows that takes us all back to them, and again back. Were that beauty blotted out, how many of us would be climbers? We are like anglers in this respect. We set an aim before us and pursue it with vigour and seem to be wholly intent upon it, but it is the beautiful, natural surroundings of our sport to which it owes its charm. Only the artist can make the realisation of that beauty his active aim, and activity is a necessity to most of us, so we employ ourselves actively in the world of beauty, and take her for the exceeding great reward of our seemingly needless and unprofitable toil. [Illustration: 14. CLOUD-BURST OVER LUCERNE.] NOTE.--As to the historical question referred to at the foot of page 34, see Coolidge's _Swiss Travel_, pp. 24 and 128, and the references there given to A. von Haller's _Die Alpen_ of 1732. CHAPTER III HOW MOUNTAINS ARE MADE "Old as the hills" is not a comparison that would be considered apt if invented to-day, for we now know that, geologically speaking, the greatest mountain ranges are of recent elevation, and that even low hills are seldom of great antiquity. It was not till men became climbers, and so grew to have an intimate acquaintance with mountains in detail, that a recognition of the rapid degradation which all mountains are suffering was clearly obtained. To look at the Matterhorn from below is to behold an apparently everlasting tower, yet its base is strewn with ruins, and its flanks are continuously swept by falling masses of rock. The realisation of this different point of view, which we must presently discuss in more detail, forms a clear mark of division between the attitude towards mountains, of men in the pre-scientific age and to-day. Our forefathers naturally regarded the hills as eternal and everlasting. They defined the beginning of things in such phrases as "Before the mountains were brought forth." The tops of peaks, actually their newest feature, were hoary-headed to them. This was indeed partly due to their limited idea of the stretch of time into the past. Six thousand years, which to us seems but a day, was an eternity to them. Of course six thousand years is a brief period in the life of a mountain. Judged by such a standard it may be called eternal, and that was the kind of meaning they attached to the word. Mountains have grown young as our notions of time past have extended. If we could lengthen our time-span, the interval of time (about one-tenth of a second) of which we are simultaneously conscious, if we could extend it to years instead of a fraction of a second, we should actually see the mountains changing. In a sense that is what we have imaginatively accomplished. Pre-scientific man possessed no such power. Dwellers in mountain countries beheld the peaks apparently ever the same. Each summer, as it stripped away part of the winter accumulation of snow, revealed the same apparently unaltering features. They knew nothing of the movement of glaciers. They regarded snow-mountains as accumulations piled up continuously from the beginning of the world and destined to go on increasing till the end. I remember reading in the comparatively recent book of travel written by an Anglo-Indian, how he went up some Himalayan valley and came to the glacier at the head of it. He attempted to go no further. He conceived himself to have reached the limit of possible advance. He mounted some way up the hillside and looked along towards the head of the valley; all was ice--an accumulation fallen from the cliffs on either hand for thousands of years and some day destined to fill the trough to the brim--such was his notion of the thing he was looking at. Changeless, eternal, forbidding, still, silent, and horrible--thus the snowy ranges appeared to the pre-scientific gaze. To us they seem the very reverse. We know them to be ceaselessly changing, of relatively short persistence, the theatre of movements of all kinds both violent and slow--not places of death by any means, but the home of an active, a beneficent, and a formative life--not regions cut off and unrelated to the lowlands and habitable world, but the very parent of such, the laboratory where soil is made, and the head of water collected that distributes it below; the counterbalance of the denuding forces that would level the earth with the ocean; regions beneficent as they are beautiful, and as necessary to the well-being of the habitable world as is the richest and most fertile plain. [Illustration: 15. AT MEIRINGEN. Ridge above the Brünig Pass in distance.] He that would know mountains and mountain regions aright must know them as the theatre of change, the domain of action. He must not merely look upon peaks as they are, but must conceive of them as they have been and will be. As this kind of knowledge grows and becomes instinctive within him, it will alter his attitude towards Alpine panoramas and broaden his grasp of the significance of mountain physiognomy. Let us briefly consider the stages of formation and decay of a single group of mountains, not volcanic. If we go back to the very start, we may imagine their future site occupied by a plain. The slow cooling and consequent shrinking of the world involves the wrinkling of its surface, and the position of the wrinkles is determined by a variety of forces, as yet little understood, with which we need not concern ourselves. Suffice it to assume that our plain occupies the position of the next coming group of wrinkles. A single range or line of mountains hardly exists in the world outside of the commonplace cartographer's mind. Old-fashioned maps used to represent mountains by a kind of caterpillar meandering about on them, and thus gave currency to the notion that mountains are generally arranged along a single line--a notion, by the by, that (in the minds of politicians negotiating boundary treaties) has been prolific in costly disputes and misunderstandings.[1] Mountains generally exist in rows of more or less parallel ranges intricately jointed together, and they do so because, when the wrinkling that caused them began, it did not begin with a single wrinkle, but with a row of wrinkles, such as a soft tablecloth makes on a smooth table when parts of it are moved toward one another. [Footnote 1: Witness the Argentine and Alaska boundary disputes.] Thus the first sign of a mountain range will be a series of undulations upon the surface of the supposed plain. These undulations will be roughly parallel to one another. We call the direction of their parallelism the strike of the ranges. From the moment the wrinkling movement begins, a set of forces is put in operation tending to level the wrinkles and fill up the hollows or valleys between them. These are the forces of denudation. People often vaguely speak as though mountains were first elevated to their full height and then only began to be pulled down; but of course the process of mountain sculpture is due to the simultaneous operation of the elevating and destructive forces. Every mountain is being pulled down in the very process of its elevation. It grows only because it is elevated faster than the destructive forces avail to level it. For all we yet know, some of the mountain ranges which seem most rapidly disintegrating may, in fact, still be growing. No one has yet divided the mountain ranges of the world into those which have not yet reached and those which have passed their maturity. When that has been done we shall doubtless find some clearly marked difference in aspect between them which now we do not know enough to recognise. The visible difference once discovered, the two groups will raise different kinds of emotion in the man who sees them. He will note the aspect of growth in one set and of decay in the other, and will be correspondingly affected, as we all now are by the young leaves and buds of spring and the fruits and faded foliage of autumn. Sad folk will love the fading and sanguine folk the growing hills. There will arise a new subject for poets and a new group of similes for preachers and moralists. In this way also science enlarges the material of art. But we must return to our nascent mountain group, as yet a mere series of parallel wrinklings, higher here, lower there, with lines of depression between them. Rain falling will need to drain away, and in doing so will form pools in hollows, and will run along the furrows till it reaches the open country and can turn away. Thus the first streams of a nascent group of mountains follow and do not flow across the strike. Only the rivulets that actually flow down the slopes will flow in a direction perpendicular to the strike, and will be tributaries to the main lines of drainage that flow along the strike. [Illustration: 16. STORM CLOUDS OVER THE LAKE OF THUN. Looking up the Kander Thal. The Niesen on the right.] The mountains are rising steadily as the millenniums of years pass on. The rain keeps falling on them, and as they grow higher the snows of winter first, and later of all the year, whiten their summits and gradually descend upon their slopes as the summits reach higher and higher aloft. If the rain always fell uniformly over the whole area, and if the ranges were of rock, homogeneous like a great lump of plaster, equally strong in every direction--if such were the case, each range would remain approximately symmetrical on both sides, and the crest of it would lie evenly between its two flanking troughs. But that is never the case. The rain-bringing winds are sure to come more frequently from one side of the mountain area than from the other. The wet quarter will be the east or the west or the south-west, as the case may be, and more moisture will be precipitated and consequently more denudation effected by it on one side of the ridges than on the other, with important sculpturing results as we shall presently observe. We may best regard the rising mountain area as a plateau with a wrinkled top, such a plateau as Tibet, for example. As time advances the plateau will present ever loftier walls to the outside world, but the undulations within will not greatly develop by any directly wrinkling process. It is not the wrinkling that splits the plateau up into ranges, but quite other forces. All that the wrinkling does is to give to those forces their first direction. The interior of Tibet shows us what, but for these other forces, a great mountain region would be like. It would be traversed from end to end by low and roughly parallel ridges, separated from one another by shallow valleys raised high aloft on the great plateau-pedestal. In the shallow valleys there would lie many lakes, some having no outlets, others drained by slow streams flowing along the strike of the ranges, and fed by driblets from the slopes of the flanking hills. But at the ends and around the periphery of the plateau generally a different condition of things will be found. Let us regard the ends first. The slow flowing rivers of the plateau as they reach its extremity will become swift, where they plunge down to the plain. In proportion to their swiftness is the speed with which they cut down their beds into the mass of the plateau-pedestal. If the end of the plateau were a cliff, the rivers would tumble over it in waterfalls, and these would cut their way back and thus dig out cañons in place of the shallow valleys of the original wrinkling. In any case a similar result will be arrived at, and the plateau will be more and more cut down into deep valleys with high ridges between. What were originally small wrinkles above the mean level of the plateau and slight depressions beneath it will be changed by denudation into high mountains and deep valleys, their scale being determined by the amount of general elevation of the plateau above the low-lying country. As the general elevating process goes on, so does the excavation. The deep valleys will be formed first at the edge of the plateau. They will work back into its heart in process of time. The original Tibetan plateau is now greatly reduced, and only the remaining middle part of it preserves any resemblance to its primary surface-form. As you go eastward or westward from that central portion you come into ever deepening valleys and ever relatively higher peaks, measured from the neighbouring valley floor. [Illustration: 17. VITZNAU AND LAKE OF LUCERNE. Vitznau is the terminus of the Rigi Railway. The two promontories on the right and left of the picture are the Nasen, Ober Nase and Untere Nase.] Thus far we have only spoken of the natural development of the strike rivers, those original lines of flow that follow the direction of the ranges. We must now observe how their course is affected by the development of the tributary streams that flow down the slopes of the ridges approximately at right angles to the strike. In the case of the Himalayas the rains come from southerly quarters. The damp air-current drifts against and over the plateau from that direction. Contact with the elevations against which it drifts causes the rains to fall. As the damp current flows further north it becomes continually dryer, so that less and less rain falls. Thus denudation is most energetic on the southern slopes. As the plateau rises its southern edge (to consider that alone for a moment) is most vigorously cut into by the water pouring down that face and forming gullies, which continuously tend to deepen and to cut back into the mass of the plateau. The process has only to go forward long enough, for the most energetic of these side-streams to eat its way back, right through the outermost wrinkle of the plateau, till it taps the first or southernmost of the strike rivers. From that moment the course of the strike river is changed, and instead of flowing away along its original valley, it turns at right angles and flows out through the gully cut by the side-stream, which thus becomes the main river. The next wrinkle is in turn attacked by the side-streams flowing down its south slope and in turn cut through, so that the second strike river becomes thus tributary to the first. And so the process continues. Such is the history of the formation of a great river like the Indus. It is filled by the robbed waters of countless smaller rivers, one by one drawn within its drainage area by the action of side-streams cutting through intervening ridges. All these rivers and their tributaries go on cutting their way back with ever-increasing vigour as the trunk outlet is lowered by their united volume. This is the process whereby an original plateau is sculptured into a maze of ridges and valleys. The towering heights we behold were never elevated in isolated magnificence. A different thrust did not send up the Matterhorn, the Weisshorn, and Monte Rosa, but all the neighbourhood was elevated by one great heaving. To begin with, some lines of elevation were a little higher than others, and they determined the position of principal peaks and ridges; but as the mass was elevated the hollows were engraved by the _burin_ of flowing water. The higher the mass was raised the deeper the hollows were impressed and the wider became their opening, for the self-same forces operate on every slope and continually eat it away and open side-valleys and subsidiary side-valleys into them. These forces operating on both sides of every ridge rapidly pull down its crest and ultimately round it off and reduce it lower and lower continually, so that it is only a question of time for the biggest mountain mass to be lowered to the level of the plains around it. Running water is not the only agent that has to be considered. Even more energetic agents act in the higher regions of frost. There the snow that is melted by the sun (whose dissolving power is as operative in the regions so-called of perpetual snow as it is below) percolates into the crevices of the rocks and finds out all their weak places. At night this water freezes, and in freezing expands, thus acting like a wedge and splitting the rock it has penetrated. Next time the sun shines the pieces thus split off may fall. Sooner or later, after repeated operations of the wedge, they must fall, and a new surface of rock will be uncovered to be split and shivered in its turn. The rocks that fall tumble ultimately on to the snow-fields that spread over the high open spaces, where they are taken charge of by the great carrying agents of the heights--the glaciers. The higher a peak is, relatively to its neighbours, the more rapidly will frost attack it, and the more energetic will be the destruction wrought upon it. I have heard it estimated, or perhaps only guessed, that 1000 tons of rock fall daily from the upper portion of the Matterhorn's rock-pyramid. The great peaks of the Himalaya are falling yet more rapidly to pieces. But what in this relation is the action of the glaciers? At one time they were regarded as a great abrading agency. It was thought that the high valleys were fashioned out by them. Later it was concluded that their hollowing action was a negligible quantity. The general belief now is that it is not considerable. Whatever may be the action of glaciers upon their beds, it is at all events a small matter compared with their action as transporting agents. Glaciers are not hoary accumulations of snow, collected in hollow places since the beginning of the world, as our forefathers supposed, but flowing streams of ice, whose rate of movement varies with the slope, the latitude, the mean temperature, and other factors of their situation. The snow that falls at high elevations lies in great masses where it finds lodgment, or falls to such places from the steep rocks which are unable to give it steady support. By these means it falls and drifts together into those great upper reservoirs we call the snow-fields--resplendent areas of purest white, so toilsome to cross when the sun shines hotly upon them, and so incomparably beautiful to look upon. Here by melting of the surface, percolation into the body of the snow-field, and freezing there, and by the pressure of the ever-increasing accumulation of snow, the substance is gradually changed into granulated ice, and the ice thus formed slowly moves down-hill. The various neighbouring streams of ice flow and unite together, and thus, reaching lower and lower levels and continually melting, they come to a line where the annual increment of snow is equal in amount to the depth of snow annually melted. This is called the snow-line. Still downward flows the mass, and now the amount melted becomes greater than the amount annually received. The thickness of the ice steadily diminishes till at last the total arrival melts and the glacier ends in a so-called snout. [Illustration: 18. THE FALLS OF TOSA, VAL FORMAZZA. Said to be the grandest in the Alps, 470 feet high. The Tosa falls in three cascades. The first only is shown in the picture.] The great importance of glaciers in mountain formation is the part they play as carrying agents. There is practically no limit to the weight of rock they will bear down with them in their steady uninterrupted flow. Whatever falls upon the glacier at any part of its course is carried down by it and ultimately dumped off its sides or end. A stone that falls on the highest rim of the snowfield will presently be covered up by newly-fallen snow and will be carried down at, or close to, the floor of the glacier, where it will either be ground to powder or will not emerge till it is melted out at the end of the glacier's snout. A stone that plunges in a crevasse to the bottom of the glacier will have similar experiences. Stones that tumble on to the glacier surface further down will not be so deeply covered by annual accumulations of snow, and will therefore sooner emerge again on to the surface by the melting away of the accumulation above them. Stones that fall on to the glacier below the snow-line will not be covered up at all, but will simply be carried down on the surface. The visible collections of stone rubbish carried by a glacier are called its moraines. As the surface of a glacier tends to become convex the moraine-stuff tends to be rolled off towards the sides, where it forms the right and left lateral moraines. Where two glaciers flow together and unite, the right lateral moraine of the one and the left of the other will join and be carried down as a medial moraine on the surface of the united glacier. Such medial moraines may be observed in considerable numbers flowing down, side by side, on glaciers formed by the union of a number of higher tributaries. First comers to the Alps, beholding them from a distance, or seeing them in photographs, sometimes have thought they were cart-ruts, thus showing how false a scale of size their unaccustomed vision applies to mountain views. A given kind of rock subjected to the action of frost and the other disintegrating forces operative at high levels, usually breaks up into debris of a roughly uniform average size. There will, of course, be some large masses and a lot of dust and gravel, but the average lump will be fairly uniform. A climber in a given district comes to know what to expect on a moraine, and he will immediately notice if the average size of the debris is much larger or smaller than usual. Thus, when he sees a debris-slope or a moraine from a distance, he is instinctively conscious that its granulated aspect represents great blocks of rock. That gives him a roughly correct scale for the view. The lowlander, who has never been in contact with a moraine, has no such sense, and can imagine that the brown streak he sees a few miles away is, as it looks to be, a mere line of dust. It was through the aspect of the moraines and debris-slopes that I first obtained an approach to a direct visual understanding of the vaster scale of the Himalayas than that of the Alps. A cliff below the snowy regions, if it does not rise out of the sea, is protected at its base by the debris fallen from it. What tumbles from above piles up below, and keeps the foot of the cliff from being eaten away. But a cliff or slope of rock rising out of a glacier or snow-field is deprived of such protection. All the stones that fall from it are carried away by the ice, so that the surface of the whole cliff keeps on peeling off, and that face of the mountain is gradually planed away. Where a great glacier bay reaches into the mountains this action may be very energetic. The whole surrounding cirque is constantly eaten at and continually extends its inner circumference. In some regions this action is more rapid than in others. Where, as in the tropics, the heat is great by day and the frost at high altitudes bitter by night, destruction goes quickly forward, and the mountains are vigorously reduced. Weak points in the rocky structure are soon found out. The range itself will be penetrated. A pass thus formed tends to be continuously lowered. In the neighbourhood of the greatest altitudes the destruction is of course most vigorous. This is the reason why, in so many places, alike in the Himalayas and the Andes, cross-cutting rivers find their way through a range by a gorge that passes quite near a culminating peak. The great Indus gorge below Nanga Parbat is the most notable instance I can recall. We have thus, in the briefest possible manner, sketched out how some of the chief sculpturing forces operate to form mountains. I have not attempted to go into detail or to explain the various corrections and modifications that have to be applied to make the simple outline correspond with facts. Some valleys are actual depressions formed by the caving in of the earth along a line of weakness. Every mountain region contains examples of such hollows. Now and again by some complication or intersection of the wrinkling process a small area may be forced up considerably higher than the surrounding elevation and thus the mass provided for an exceptionally high peak. Volcanic peaks also remain to be considered, and have been excluded from the foregoing brief survey. In the main, however, the statement is correct that the mountains of a region are produced by the sculpturing into ridges and subsidiary ridges of a great and slowly elevated mass. What begins as a growing plateau, passes through the stage of rocky and snowy ranges, becomes later on an area of undulating country, and if time sufficed would ultimately flatten out once more into a plain. Between the first stage and the last the sculpturing operations of nature pass through many phases. In the beginning, when the area has only just begun to rise from the level, those forces operate gently. Slopes are slight and streams flow easily down them. When the mountains have been roughly blocked out and the valleys precipitously deepened, the region enters into the dramatic stage of its history. The peaks are at their highest, the valleys at their deepest relatively to the heights. Cliffs are boldest, needles sharpest, torrents most voluminous and rapid. Now is the time when great mountain-falls most frequently occur. The rocks do not merely crumble away stone by stone, but huge masses are undermined and fall with gigantic crash and violence into the valleys, temporarily damming them across and forming lakes, which presently burst, and pour an incredible volume of water in destructive flood down the narrow and winding valley below. The flood transports and grinds up great quantities of rock and carries the material afar, for hundreds of miles perhaps, before the plain is reached and the mud deposited upon it. In the theatrical stage mud avalanches are likewise common. To produce them there must be a great supply of loose debris on steep rocks at a high level and much rapidly melting snow about them, whose water drains into gullies and unites in larger gullies, all with banks of rotten and crumbling rock. On a suitable day in early summer, when the sky is clear and the sun hot, the stones will fall in such numbers that they will plug some gully and dam back the water. It will collect and burst the dam, and a flow of stones, dust, and water will begin. At other neighbouring spots the same thing will happen, and the elements of the avalanche will flow together, block a larger gully, and presently burst that block also. So it will go on till a great mass of mud, water, and rocks collects somewhere and finally bursts loose in an avalanche which sweeps all before it. Such an avalanche I saw from close at hand on 8th July 1892, in the mountains of Nagar. We were walking up the right bank of a great glacier river, and were forced at intervals to cross its tributaries which came rushing down the hillside on our left. Approaching the mouth of one of these side gullies we heard a noise like thunder and beheld a vast black wave bulging down it. It passed before we arrived and there was silence for a few minutes. Presently the sounds of another were heard aloft, and it soon heaved into view--a terrific sight. The weight of the mud rolled masses of rock down the gully, turning them over and over like so many pebbles. They restrained the muddy torrent and kept it moving slowly with accumulating volume. Each big rock in the vanguard of the avalanche weighed many tons; some were about 10-foot cubes. The stuff behind them filled the gully some 15 feet deep by 40 wide. The thing travelled perhaps at the rate of seven miles an hour. Sometimes a bigger rock than usual barred the way till the mud, piling up behind it, swept it on. The avalanche ate into the sides of the gully and carried away huge undermined masses that fell into it. We saw three enormous avalanches of this sort pass down the same gully in rapid succession, and, after we had gone by, others followed. All the neighbouring similar gullies discharged such groups of mud avalanches during that period of the year. They are one of the chief agents used by nature to pull down mountains during this, the dramatic stage of their existence. The roaring torrential river below carries off the mud and receives the boulders in its bed, where they are rolled along and in time ground to powder. Mud avalanches are rare now in the Alps, and are only caused by some exceptional event, such as the bursting of a glacier lake. Once they were common. Mountain-falls of any great size are also much rarer in the Alps now than they were formerly or than they are in some Himalayan regions. Alps and Andes have passed beyond the culmination of their dramatic stage. The mountains of Hunza, Nagar, and North Kashmir generally, are in the midst of theirs. A mountaineer who has acquired a knowledge of how mountains are made, who has seen in action the forces I have briefly described, who has climbed among mountains in sunshine and storm, in heat and frost, who has spent nights on their cold crests, who knows how and where avalanches of snow, ice, and rock are likely to fall and has a realising sense of their force, their frequency, and their mass: a mountaineer who has attained by long experience a knowledge of the ways and action of glaciers, who can as it were feel their weight and momentum, in whose mind, when he looks at them, they are felt to be moving and vigorous agents, who sees the lines of motion upon them, their swing round corners, their energy in mid course, their feebleness at the snout:--such a man can look abroad over a mountain panorama with an understanding, a sense of the significance of what he beholds, which, far from detracting from its aspect of beauty, adds greatly to it. To him a mountain area is no confused labyrinth of valleys and tangle of ridges, but the orderly and logical expression of a number of forces, and of forces that are still operative. To him what he beholds is not a painting on the wall, finished and done once and for ever, but, as it were, a scene in a play--a scene to which others have led up, and after which others will follow, all linked together and arising one out of another in unavoidable and necessary sequence. He perceives the arrangement of the peaks to be as logical as that of the men in a regiment on parade. Each stands in its own proper place, buttressed, and founded upon a broad and sufficient base. Its drapery of snow is not a kind of fortuitous whitewashing, splashed on anyhow by the whim of a storm. It is a vital part of the peak to which it adheres, owing all its forms to the modelling of that peak--here lying in deep and almost level snow-fields where broad hollows exist beneath it; there breaking into a mass of towering séracs where it is forced to fall over a step in its bed; there again reuniting in a smoothly surfaced area where the bed is once more relatively smooth; yet again opening a system of crevasses where its substance is torn asunder by unequal rates of flow. [Illustration: 19. LOOKING OVER LUCERNE FROM THE DREI LINDEN. The Towers of the Musegg in the middle distance.] To the instructed eye it is not mysterious why one peak should be a tower of rock and the next a dome of snow. All the forms assumed are the result of a few simple causes. They express the past history of the action of natural forces, not difficult of comprehension. Be assured that the understanding eye is well rewarded for the power of comprehension it has slowly and perhaps laboriously acquired. Such understanding comes not merely by familiarity with mountain regions, and is not to be attained by climbing alone, no matter for how many seasons or with what refinement of gymnastic ability. It comes indeed only to the climber, to the man who makes himself familiar with the fastnesses of the hills by actually going amongst them; but it only comes to him if he avails himself of his opportunities to watch the action of Nature's forces when he comes in contact with them. It is not enough merely to see, it is necessary also to look, to examine, to remember, and to love. He that thus acquaints himself with the high places, will learn to know them as they can be known by no other. They will become to him a home, full of reminiscences, full of shared pleasures, full also of problems yet to be solved, and of hopes yet to be fulfilled. To such a mountain-lover weariness of mountains can never come. His climbing days may be ended, for whatever reason; he may cease to expect or even to desire to mount far aloft; but the mountains themselves, whencesoever seen, will remain to him a joy, permanent, indescribable, and of priceless worth, which he at least will hold to be superior to all other emotions aroused within him by the beauties of Nature. CHAPTER IV ALL SORTS AND CONDITIONS OF ALPS Relatively few Alpine climbers of the present generation know the Alps. They know a district or two, perhaps, though even that amount of knowledge is not so common as might be expected. It were truer to say that the normal present-day climber knows a special kind of climbing and only cares to go where that is to be found. The popular kind of climbing to-day is rock-climbing. The new mountaineer is a specialist rock-climber. Having once fallen in love with rock-climbing, he devotes himself to it, becomes more and more skilful, hunts out harder and harder climbs, and only cares to go where those are to be had. He has discovered that England is not ill-provided with such scrambles, if you know where to look for them; and he knows. He may be found at Easter and Whitsuntide in recondite gullies in Wales, the Lakes, Derbyshire, or Scotland. In the summer he is to be looked for among the Chamonix Aiguilles or in the Dolomites, or, if at other centres, then on the more difficult rock routes. Naturally a small area suffices him. It is not mountains he seeks but climbs. A single peak will afford him several, a small group might even occupy him for a lifetime of scrambling holidays. [Illustration: 20. FRANÇOIS DEVOUASSOUD.] He does not care for easy ways. He hates snow-pounding. A glacier route does not attract him unless it be difficult. Hence his knowledge even of his own particular district or districts is likely to be incomplete. He is not drawn to travel far afield. A wanderer by nature he cannot be; nor is the wandering instinct likely to be developed in him. He does not care for all sorts and conditions of Alps, but for one sort. Only where that kind is to be found is he attracted to go. All present-day mountaineers, of course, are not of this type; but this is the type that present-day mountaineering tends to develop; and of this type the output is considerable. The old generation of climbers--the founders of the Alpine Club--men who were active in the sixties and seventies, were essentially wanderers. The craft of climbing was less an object of pursuit to them than the exploration of the Alps. Probably the reason was that they had the Alps to explore, and theirs was the pleasure of exploration which we have not. The Alps have all been explored before our coming. The old men had not even decent maps of the snowy regions to go by. No one knew what was round most upper corners, or whither passes led, or how you could get by high-level routes from place to place. It was a great delight to solve such problems, and it led climbers to become geographers and to interest themselves in the general structure and topography of the Alps. No such problems now remain to be solved. Admirable maps exist, solving them all. The game of exploration is played out in Central Europe. He that would take a hand in it now must wander further afield. Yet even now to know the Alps would be a life-work for any one. To know them, like the writer of a Climbers' Guide, is more than a life-work. For the Alps cover a much larger area than most people realise. Ordinary persons think of the Alps and Switzerland as almost identical, yet less than a third of the Alpine area is in Switzerland. By the Alps I mean the whole mountain area between the Mediterranean and the plains of North Italy, France, and Northern Europe, from where they begin at an arbitrary point of offshoot from the Apennines, called the Colle di Tenda, to where they fade out along a curved line, which may be vaguely described as joining Vienna to Fiume. They lie therefore in the five countries, Italy, France, Switzerland, Bavaria, and Austria. Very few people indeed have any considerable general knowledge of the whole of this great area, or indeed even any sense of the size of it and the main features of its chief divisions. I spent one summer in the attempt to traverse round along the curved middle line of it from the Col di Tenda at one end to the neighbourhood of Vienna at the other, and after walking approximately a thousand miles, including zigzags, I only reached the termination of the snowy ridges, but by no means that of the forest-covered eastern outliers. That journey, however, taught me how much there is to know, and enables me to realise how little I have actually learnt of the contents and character of the Alps as a whole. This one fact, however, it demonstrated to me: that the several divisions and subdivisions of the Alps contain varieties of scenery of the utmost diversity. Thus a man who knows only the great ranges of the Central Alps must still regard himself as ignorant of the Alps at large. Not only are there all sorts and conditions of peaks, but there are all sorts and conditions of types of scenery, and between these types there is as much divergence as there is between a Kentish landscape and a view from the Gorner Grat. In this chapter I by no means propose to describe all the regions and types of scenery that the Alps contain, but only to mention a few of them as specimens of far more numerous other types, which there is no space here to include or of which I am ignorant. A scientific writer would divide these types of scenery according to the geological nature of their upbuilding and substance. For instance, he would broadly contrast the limestone with the slaty-crystalline areas, and show how scenery and structure match. I propose to adopt no such rational method, but to roam at random through the region of old memories, and refer as chance directs to such types of scenery and such local varieties as happen to suggest themselves in turn for description or brief analysis. [Illustration: 21. AT BIGNASCO. Old Bridge over the Maggia. Shrine at end, looking up Val Bavona. Basodino in background.] Literally speaking, "alps" are high pastures where cattle go to graze in summer-time. We here use the name with no such meaning, but to designate the mountains in general. The Alps, _par excellence_, to the normal man are the great groups of snowy peaks in the heart of the Alpine area. Let us in the first place confine our attention to them. In popular estimation these groups are the following, the Dauphiny, Mont Blanc, Monte Rosa, Oberland, and Engadine masses. In the second rank come others we will refer to later. _Place au géant!_ First among all is Mont Blanc and its satellites, pre-eminent in size, pre-eminent also in dignity. For this group is really one buttressed mountain, and all its minor masses are supports to the central dome, like the semi-domes, vaulted porticoes and abutments of Hagia Sophia to the uplifted cupola. He who stands on the summit of the great mountain beholds that this is so. His position there is pre-eminent. No other neighbouring height rivals that which he occupies. The highest are many hundred feet below, and they are all obvious supporters and tributaries of Mont Blanc itself. It is only the yet smaller and remoter elevations that assert a claim to independence. This pre-eminence of the central mass is the key-note of Mont Blanc scenery. Moreover the mountain is not merely pre-eminent in altitude, but in volume and simplicity of form. Its upper part is a great white dome, whereas the buttress-peaks are for the most part rocky pinnacles. The contrast between these slender, jagged supports and the reposeful majesty of the Calotte is a most picturesque feature and a very rare one, not repeated, so far as I remember, in any other part of the Alps. It dominates the scenery of the whole district. No doubt within the district there are views of great beauty and considerable comprehension, where Mont Blanc forms no part--such, for example, as the Montenvers view up the Mer de Glace--but the characteristic prospects contain Mont Blanc as their central and most important object. This is specially true of all the views from summits, a quality that distinguishes them from summit-views in other districts. Whatever Aiguille you stand upon, and whatever may have been the character of the scenery passed through on the way up, the moment you arrive upon the top, Mont Blanc assumes the predominance and all else takes second rank. The ordinary summit-view, the wide world over, is a panorama, in which the uninterrupted roving of the vision round the whole circuit is the chief charm. From a minor summit in the Mont Blanc region, the great mountain shuts out a large fraction of the distant panorama and attracts chief attention to itself. Of the other conspicuous beauties of this district, its glorious ice scenery, its astonishingly precipitous crags and slender needle-peaks, we shall take occasion to speak hereafter. In this place it is only the dominant note of each locality that calls for brief description. From Mont Blanc we naturally pass to Monte Rosa and the Matterhorn. The fact that the two peaks call for co-ordinate attention, at once marks the dispersion of interest characteristic of the Pennine Alps. Indeed not two but nearly a dozen mountains in that group are of almost equal importance, each having votaries who prefer it to the rest. The Matterhorn, of course, is in its own way pre-eminent, if seen from certain points of view; but, when beheld from other summits around, it does not maintain an appearance of leadership. Monte Rosa from Macugnaga, the Dom and Täschhorn from Saas, the Weisshorn from north or east, the Dent Blanche from the Triftjoch, are objects as imposing each in its own way as is the Matterhorn from Zermatt or the Riffelalp. That peak, as we shall hereafter take occasion to observe in more detail, surpasses them, and perhaps all the rock mountains in the world, in grace of outline from certain points of view. It likewise rejoices in a rare prestige, due to its tragic history and its geographical position. But to those who know it from all sides, and know its neighbours also, it is not the unique and dominating mountain of its district that it is popularly supposed to be. The Zermatt mountain area is probably best to be differentiated from the other great Alpine groups by the almost uniform magnificence and relative equality of its chief peaks. It resembles some splendid Venetian oligarchy as contrasted with monarchical Mont Blanc. The nobles of the Pennine Court with their satellites present greater variety, a more elaborate organisation, and a more varied historical record. Each seems worthy to be chief when beheld from a selected vantage point. Seen from elsewhere, each subordinates itself to some other. This is the region of large independent glaciers, of deep recesses, of noble passes from place to place. It is also specially rich in minor points of view about 10,000 feet high, and of good sites for hotels some 3,000 feet lower, where each possesses a specially fine outlook of its own, which it shares with no other. The dominant note of the district is grandeur; if it lacks anything, it is charm. This, in fact, is a stalwart group, which must be wandered over and inspected from many sides and along many routes. No "centre" reveals it. It is a place for walkers and climbers in the heyday of their vigour. Turn we next to the Bernese Oberland, the queen district, if Mont Blanc is the king. The Oberland has always seemed to me to be the most graceful and romantic of the great Alpine masses. The very names of its peaks enshrine the poetry that the peasant-dwellers on their flanks learned from them in days long gone by. The Maiden, the Monk, the Ogre, the peak of Terror, and what not. And then how richly they roll off the tongue--Finsteraarhorn, Lauteraarhorn, Blümlisalp, Strahleck! No other part of Switzerland can rival the Oberland for names--certainly not Zermatt with its Meadow-peak, Red-peak, Broad-peak, Black-peak, White-tooth, and the like feeble designations. Easily first for beauty and prestige among Oberland mountains is the peerless Jungfrau--but you must only see her from the north. Thence she is beheld, a most effulgent beauty, fair among the fairest mountain visions upon earth. The elegance of her form, displayed and emphasised by the white samite of her drapery, and beheld from the lake at her foot, abides in the memory of all who are privileged to behold her. Only one rival does she possess in the district, and that is not a mountain but a glacier, the Great Aletsch, greatest of all in the Alps, beautiful exceedingly to look down upon, beautiful in its middle course, and fairest of all in the wide expanses of its ample gathering ground. It subordinates to itself all the high surrounding peaks and renders them the mere rim of its cup. To a less degree magnificent, yet far finer than the general run of Alpine glaciers, are the other chief ice-rivers of the Oberland district, which thus becomes _par excellence_ the home of long glacier-passes, leading through great varieties of mountain scenery, and connecting centres relatively remote. The longest and finest glacier-traverse in the Alps is that which leads from the Grimsel to the Lötschen valley right through the heart of the range. [Illustration: 22. LOOKING DOWN THE ALETSCH GLACIER FROM CONCORDIA HUT. Eggishorn peak dark.] Dauphiny, compared with the Pennines and the Oberland, presents to one sensitive to mountain character more contrasts than similarities. For this is an austere region, which gathers itself up together and stands apart, away from natural through routes and the ordinary courses of the human tide. Its valleys are deep, sombre, and stony; its alpine pastures meagre; its forests few and thin. Its peaks hide themselves behind their own knees. He that would know them must search them out. But they reward the search. It is because of the steepness of their bases that they are so recondite, and that very steepness gives them a dignified character all their own. The Meije is their typical representative, a mountain of strangely complex sky-line and irregular shape, that supports its own private glaciers cut-off upon cliffs, and presents the climber with surprises round every corner. Few are the regular pyramids, fewer still the domed snow caps in the tangled complexity of this region, where Nature has impressed her chisel deeply, and has hewn out the great rock masses with unusual ruggedness. Very different is the remote Engadine group, remarkable for the high level and broad expanse of the floor of its chief valley, where lake beyond lake reflects the summer sunshine and carries the white curtain of winter on its level frozen surface. A region, this, of fine forests and large expanses of rich grazing grounds, of picturesque torrents and smiling flower-strewn slopes. Its snowy group is little more than an appendage of minor importance to the general scenic attractions of the district. Two fine mountain cirques, defining the basins of two picturesque glaciers, are its dominant features, and in each cirque one peak shines forth pre-eminent. The scenery of these cirques, however, is not of any special character that calls for mention as distinguishing it from the scenery of the other great Alpine groups. The _note_ of the Engadine is not sounded there, but rather in the wide, lake-strewn valley itself, where the snow-crests count mainly as the silvery embellishment of its frame. [Illustration: 23. ASCONIA--ON LAGO MAGGIORE.] Climbers who have spent a season or two in each of these five groups may think that they know the Alps, but they will be greatly mistaken. Most of them, indeed, will admit that they cannot afford to neglect the Dolomites, and will at least intend to spend a season amongst them. From a scrambling point of view, if they are rock-climbers, they will be well rewarded, for Dolomite rock-climbing is a thing apart. Dolomite scenery is even more truly unique. Less grand than that of the great mountain groups, it has a distinction all its own. There is nothing forbidding about the precipitance of its cliffs and summits. Their relative lightness of tint and the warm suffusion of the sun-pervaded atmosphere that so frequently envelops them, makes their elevated parts seem almost to float in the sky. The visible traces of the horizontal bedding of the rocks that compose them render the effect of even their slenderest pinnacles less aspiring than that of the flaked and tilted slaty-crystalline spires of older and more rugged formations. Some of the sentiment of Italy hangs about the Dolomites. The airs that are drifted over them seem steeped in Italian colour, even as their names re-echo the music of the Italian tongue. The valleys between them soon dip into the level of chestnut and vine ere yet they forsake the mountains. The chalets are pregnant with suggestions of Italy, and the inhabitants possess more of Italian grace than of Swiss ruggedness. It is, however, colour, and especially atmospheric colour, that the mention of the Dolomites first calls to the mind of the votaries of those hills and valleys. Who that has beheld dawn or sunset on Cristallo or Rosengarten can forget the glorious display of rosy lights and purple shadows? The mountain forms are sometimes fine, oftener picturesque (as Titian knew). They have the rare merit of seeming to group into the happiest of combinations and contrasts as though by exceptional good luck; but the luck is of such frequent recurrence that instead of being an exception it must be counted the rule. In the presence of Mont Blanc or the Matterhorn it is natural to adore. The Dolomites men love. Such, then, are the six main groups of Alps that the ordinary run of tourists know. They include the most majestic scenery, but are far from including all the finest. There yet remain a bewildering multitude of minor groups and areas, each rich in its own charm. Such are the Maritime Alps, the Cottians around Monte Viso, the Graians led by Grand Paradis and Grivola, the limestone Alps of Savoy, the green hills of north Switzerland and Bavaria, the Lepontine Alps, the hills of the Italian Lakes, the Tödi, the Rhætikon, the Adamello, Ortler, Oetzthal, Stubaithal, and Zillerthal snowy masses, the Hohe Tauern, the Carnic and Julian Alps, and various other mountain groups of Styria, Carinthia, and Carniola. How many of us know a tithe of all these? It is impossible here to do more than refer briefly to a few of them. Amongst the fairest of them all, the Maritimes should assuredly be reckoned, little visited though they be except by Italians. Their eastern and northern valleys, which alone are known to me, must be counted lovely, even judged by the high standard of loveliness that the Italian Alpine valleys set. Any one of them, transported to the midst of a Swiss group of mountains, would be the pearl of the district. What more enchanting resort can be imagined than the Baths of Valdieri, planted amidst umbrageous copses and beside laughing waters? Here all the elements of picturesque landscape group themselves together in the most perfect natural harmony. Nowhere in the opening season are the flowers more rich, the hillsides more verdant, the foliage of the trees more varied. Nowhere do woods climb slopes in more graceful procession. Nowhere are the rocks and lofty snow-peaks set in more fascinating frames of unexpected foreground. It is a valley of endless surprises and delights. Moreover, its waters are clear and glancing. They burst from the hillsides, tumble in crystalline brilliance over clifflets, dance through the meadows, and race-along beneath the shadow of beeches and chestnuts. No ogres, we may be sure, lurk in the fastnesses of these hills, but only the most delicate fairies, glittering with dew. And then the views from the peaks--how memorable they are, how unlike those of the Central Alps! For from these summits you behold always the sea, far stretching, and ever apparently calm. It looks indeed like any other sea, but you know that it is the Mediterranean with all Africa beyond it, away there in the sunny south. On the other side, far, far off to the north, is the great Alpine wall, and at your feet the sea-like Lombard plain. Those sweeps of flatness on either hand, how they tell in the midst of a mountain view! They bring into it a sense of repose. There Nature has finished her work of pulling down, and man can rest upon the fertile soil in peace. Sweet indeed is Valdieri, but it is no sweeter than its neighbouring glens. He that loves mountains in less savage mood than the great giants are wont to bear, let him fly to the Maritimes and he will not be disappointed. [Illustration: 24. LOCARNO FROM THE BANKS OF THE LAKE. Madonna del Sasso on the slope above.] Proceeding northward, the Cottians and the Tarentaise and Graians present loftier peaks and valleys beautiful, though lacking the richness and luxuriance of the Maritimes. In fact these groups stand between the Pennines and the Maritimes alike in position and in character. From the Pennines the fertile valleys are so far removed as scarcely to enter into the normal scenery of the region. In the Maritimes the chestnut woods are at the very foot of the peaks. They are further away in the Cottians, but not absolutely removed from the Alpine area. You may sleep near a vineyard one night and yet be on the snows next day. The great glory of the Cottians is the fine pyramid of Monte Viso, which so many climbers in the Swiss Alps know from afar off. It stands splendidly alone and commands one of the most superb panoramas in the Alps, wide ranging as Mont Blanc's, but seen as from the top of a tower instead of a slowly curving dome with a large white foreground that hides the depth beneath. From the Viso the sight plunges down and then flies away and yet away over the Lombard plain to peaks so remote as practically to defy identification by unaided skill of recognition. We cannot linger in the west, for our space is limited and more than half of it is spent. Flying eastward, then, we come next to the Italian valleys of the Monte Rosa group, to which indeed they belong, though I purposely omitted reference to them when writing of that, for in style of scenery they are widely different and frequented by travellers of another sort. Here are mountain centres indeed--Breuil, Gressoney, Alagna, and so forth--whence great climbs may be made. It is not in these centres, however, that the beauty of the valleys culminates, but further down. There are in fact three zones in each valley: the upper, which is purely Alpine though lacking the grandeur of the northern slope; the middle, where on either hand are found peaks that just reach the snow level and rise from luxuriantly afforested bases: and the lower, which in summer time is too hot and fly-infested to be an agreeable resort. The middle zone is the region of fine scenery, of beautiful low passes, and of superb points of view, whence the whole Pennine range to the north is gloriously beheld. At the lower limit of this zone stands Varallo, in the Sesia valley, a most beautiful resort for one jaded with the austere scenery of the snow and ice world. Here art and nature together claim the traveller's attention. The remarkable lifelike sculptures of the Sacro Monte and the frescoes of Gaudenzio Ferrari well deserve their wide repute, whilst the walk over the Col della Colma to the lake of Orta is one of the most charming known to me the wide world over. Once I beheld from the crest of the pass a cloudless sunrise on Monte Rosa, when the rosy glow of the snows was not more beautiful than the rich and rare violets and purples of the lower foreground hills. [Illustration: 25. PALLANZA--EVENING. South end of Lago Maggiore. Campanile of the Church of St. Leonardo, mountains of Saas in the background.] By this pass we may well enter the Italian Lake districts, whose fame is known to all. He would be a niggard indeed who should refuse to reckon as Alpine this gem of scenery. Many of us regard, and rightly, a drop down into the land of the lakes as a necessary part of a full Alpine holiday, the contrast between their luxuriance and high Alpine asceticism serving best to display the charms of each. It is indeed the distant prospects of the snowy range that give a finishing touch of utter perfection to the scenery of the lakes, the finest view-point of all for comprehension and perfect composition being, perhaps, the terrace of Santa Catarina del Sasso. The climber, however, will not really learn to know the lakes if he remains, as most do, idly on their shores. Here, if anywhere, he should ascend. Down below, save for the water, the scenery may be matched all round the Italian plain and in many a valley, but up aloft on Monte Mottarone, Monte Nudo, Monte Generoso, and hills of that size, you are in the presence of panoramas nowhere else to be matched. The Rigi, the Niesen, and their fellows offer corresponding but not equal prospects north of the main range; for though lakes and snows and wide stretches of landscape are visible from them, they lack vision of the Lombard plain and the magic opalescence of the Italian atmosphere. The mountaineer who has no experience, or if experienced, no joy in the grass-crowned foot-hills that flank the great ranges is no true mountain-lover. For such persons this book is not written. They have their own kinds of pleasure and reward, pleasures which are not low and rewards well worth the winning, but they are not those that I have sought after or can rightly estimate. [Illustration: 26. THE MADONNA DEL SASSO, LOCARNO. A Pilgrimage Church, picturesquely situated on a wooded rocky cliff high above the town and Lago Maggiore.] Some of the fair qualities of Italian lake scenery mingle with the bolder forms of the mountains of Ticino, and something of the softness of Maggiore's air tempers the fresh breezes falling from Ticino snows. Here lies the peerless Val Maggia, whose orchard-bearing floor sweeps up between mile after mile of noble cliffs. Here every village church and almost every cottage seems to have been designed and planted for picturesque effect. It is a valley of many gardens, trimly kept, of much emigrant-won prosperity, a home of the vine and the fig-tree, also of trout-streams and other bright-glancing waters. Comfortably habitable and home-suggesting is it; a place to fall in love with, which every visitor hopes to see again, and every native promises himself that he will return to for the evening of his days. Such as it is, such also are its neighbours. Its upper reaches are more splendid than I can suggest. There is a grace in their many waterfalls, a majesty in their great steps and verdant levels, a relative wealth in their vegetation, and a charm about their villages, that must be seen to be understood. Even the Maritimes can boast no more beautiful valley scenery. The Bergamasque Alps are, I believe, not dissimilar in character, but I know only the mere outskirts of them. What I have seen does not equal Ticino. These carry us by a natural transition to the Adamello group, which yields a remarkable long traverse over high-planted snows commanding a stupendous depth and comprehensiveness of outlook, which culminates in the extraordinary panorama visible from the highest point. We are thus brought back again to the dominantly snowy groups, whereof a number remain yet uncharacterised. First among these secondary masses the Ortler and its fellows call for mention--a group far better known by our German and Italian colleagues than by ourselves. The chief peaks, though built on a smaller scale, have much of the apparent bulk and grandeur of the greater masses of the Central Alps. Their ice-walls and their glacier scenery in general are of the grand type. Like the great peaks, too, they are withdrawn from southern luxury. When all is said, however, they remain second-rate, nor can I recall any special note of beauty by which this district is distinguished. The Oetzthal, Stubaithal, and Zillerthal groups, which follow one another to the eastward, are, I think, in better case; though they have lost in charm by the rapid shrinkage of their glaciers since I first knew them almost thirty years ago. The average height of the peaks is small when the large area of glacier they support is considered. Formerly the glaciers were much larger. Several that I knew have utterly vanished, and the largest are greatly reduced. The snow-fields, however, still retain their wide expanse. In consequence of the smallness of the peaks, a greater number of them exist in a given area than elsewhere in the snowy Alpine regions. This makes the foregrounds in the summit views more complex. As the scale does not obtrude itself, the eye magnifies it, and the result is an imposing effect. A similar effect of complexity struck me in Spitsbergen, where the peaks are very much smaller still, and group themselves so closely together that they seem to form a spiny tangle at once puzzling to the topographer and pleasing to the lover of mountain varieties. Owing to the smallness of scale of the Stubai peaks, for instance, you can climb two or three of them in a single day from a high-planted hut, and thus behold in the afternoon a peak you climbed in the morning. Such wandering about at high levels is a new and agreeable experience to mountaineers accustomed to the long scrambles that the greater ranges afford. The Hohe Tauern, which splits into the two groups, dominated respectively by the Gross Glockner and Gross Venediger, scarcely calls for other remark, from a scenic point of view, than what was said about the Ortler. The panoramas from the two chief peaks are unusually fine, a quality which they share with three or four of the main elevations of the three groups just referred to. The glacier scenery of the northern slope of the Venediger and the southern of the Glockner group is the finest in Tirol, whilst the Glockner itself is built on great lines, has the qualities of a true giant, and affords some climbing of a high order. If the reader, however, will consent to descend from these superior considerations to others of a more practical character, his attention may be called to the fact that, in this many-hutted district, facilities are afforded to a climber which he will not often find equalled elsewhere except in one or two minor Tirolese groups. So numerous and large are the huts, and so well provided with all the necessaries for life and reasonable comfort, that it is almost superfluous to carry food, or for a party of moderately experienced climbers to require the services of a guide. There are huts where you can breakfast, lunch, dine, and sleep at convenient intervals. If this tends to destroy the charm of solitude, which is one of the greatest that the regions of snow usually afford, it enables even the average climber to wander more freely than he can elsewhere, and less burdened with baggage or the often unsympathetic companionship of a guide. The gain more than compensates most men for the loss, and makes this district specially deserving of the guideless amateur's attention. Of regions further east and south I cannot write, knowing only from personal acquaintance the mountains near the Semmering pass, and the hills between them and Vienna. Here the forest scenery is the great charm. The forest-clad hills and deep hidden lakes of the Salzkammergut, North Tirol, and the Bavarian uplands must at least be mentioned. They belong to what we English may describe as the Scotland of the Alps. No lover of mountains will deny the potent charm of forests, especially in hilly country richly watered. Their sombre gloom matches many a human mood. Not all scenery is alike grateful to every one, or to any one at all times. It behoves a traveller to know his own mood and to choose a resort that matches it. If he wants solitude, he should not select Zermatt or Chamonix. If he abounds in energy, he should not look to lakes and mild climates for its satisfaction. If he loves variety, he should not plant himself in the midst of a mainly snow-clad region. One district will suit him best in one year, another in another. That will not delight him equally in maturity which enlists the strongest enthusiasm of his youth. But the variety that is in the Alps at large is infinite. There will always be discoverable the right thing for each who cares to search it out. The habit of constantly returning to the same spot may almost be regarded as a vice to be avoided. "To give space for wandering is it That the world was made so wide." Assuredly the wanderer has most rewards. The more he knows of other regions, the more is the significance increased of the view which he at any moment beholds, and so much the more capable does his eye become of recognising all sorts and varieties of beauty. But this is only true of one who travels with observant eyes and receptive understanding. It is possible to travel far and wide without ever really seeing anything. Such travel is the merest waste of energy. To travel should be to learn; but travelling is only learning when the traveller makes learning his purpose. Discrimination is the quality that distinguishes intelligence from brutal greed. It differentiates the _gourmet_ from the _gourmand_. It divides the mountain-lover from the common peak peak-hunter. It is the quality that continues growing longest, whose exercise is never wearisome, whose reward is always increasing. To be able to discriminate between the qualities of different Alpine regions and to appreciate all their varied merits is to know the Alps. All that it has been possible to do in the present chapter is to indicate in briefest terms some of the characteristic charms of the principal regions, known incompletely to the present writer, and by him but feebly grasped. He ventures to hope that even this sketch, slight and falteringly drawn as it is, may yet serve to suggest to some readers a whole world of delights, which, if they choose, they may immediately enter into and possess. By all means visit the famous centres. A true instinct has marked them out and made them widely known as specially calculated to awaken the imagination of the town-dwelling modern world. But do not regard them as the whole Alps; do not start with the assurance that there alone is Alpine beauty to be found in highest perfection. For you, perhaps, the highest Alpine beauty resides in less well advertised localities. Let each seek out for himself that which he can most keenly enjoy. It will be his possession and not another's. Let him take it to his soul. But let him also remember that there are other capacities, which he does not possess or has not yet developed, and that for them also the mountains great and small possess powers of satisfaction as rich and manifold as any he has himself experienced. [Illustration: 27. LOCARNO AT SUNSET, AND NORTH END OF LAGO MAGGIORE] CHAPTER V THE MOODS OF THE MOUNTAINS Mountains do not merely vary from district to district, but from time to time. Were it not so, how soon should we tire of any single outlook or the neighbourhood of any one centre! They change from hour to hour with the incidence of sunlight, and from day to day with the passing season of the year. They change also, often from moment to moment, with the inconstancy of the weather. In fact they are never twice absolutely the same. In the heyday of our scrambling enthusiasm, we perhaps regarded this variability of the mountains with less satisfaction than it obtains from us later. We should have chosen an unbroken series of long and cloudless days, with the snow all melted from the rocks, and the summit views all complete in cloudless, transparent visibility. Yet even then we found a singular joy in snatching an ascent in some brief fine interval between two spells of bad weather. Whereas the details of many a featurelessly fine ascent have passed from our minds, which of us does not remember, and recall with a keen delight, climbs accomplished in the teeth of storms, when Nature seemed to stand forth as an antagonist whom we wrestled fiercely with, and joyously overcame? We may regard mountain moods from two points of view; as experienced by the climber, and as affecting the aspect of mountain scenery when beheld from a greater or less distance. The circumstances of his sport, though in most cases they restrict the climber to one season of the year, fortunately compel him to be on mountains at almost all hours of the twenty-four. Most sports are functions of daylight; the climber must travel by night as frequently as by day. None better than he, unless it be the astronomer, knows the full secrets of midnight beauty. What climber's memory is not stored with priceless recollections of the night and its myriad voices, its noble diapason. By day the eye is supreme; by night the ear. Then it is, when marching along upland valleys, that one hears the full chorus of the rushing torrent, now booming close at hand, accompanied by infinite ripplings and splashings of little waves, now fainter and more sibilant but no less musical in the distance. Then, too, it is that the breezes sing most sweetly among the trees; then that the glaciers are most melodious, the moulins most tuneful; then, too, on the highest levels, that the ultimate silences are most impressive. The hum of a falling stone, the rattle of a discharge of rocks, the boom of an avalanche, the crack of an opening crevasse, all these sounds should be heard framed in the silence of night, when the sense of hearing is most alert and the imagination most easily stirred. Who does not recall the velvety darkness of the sleeping valleys through which he passed near the midnight hour when just setting forth for some long ascent? How that contrasted with and set off the brilliancy of the star-spangled sky, where Orion, the Alpine climber's heavenly guide, shone over some col or darkly perceptible ridge, and bade him expect the coming of the day. Then, as the trees are left behind and the open alp is reached, while night still reigns in her darkest hour, how sweet are the airs, how uplifting the sense of widening space and enlarging sky, how stimulating the wonder of the vaguely felt glaciers and mountain-presences around! Oftenest perhaps it is moonlight when the climber starts earliest upon his way; then indeed he beholds glorious scenes and revels in the sight, nor envies his sleeping friends in the valley below. Ah! dearly remembered splendours of full moonshine upon the snow! how gladly we retain the images of you in the very treasury of our hearts! Yet who shall attempt to draw them forth for another, or write down even a faint suggestion of their beauty for those by whom they have never been beheld? Surely at no time are the great snows endowed with more dignity, more of the impressiveness of visible size, more aspect of aloofness, of belonging to another and a nobler world, than when the full moon shines perfectly upon them. And then, too, how the snow-fields glisten over all their wide expanse, yet with a pale effulgence that does not paralyse the eye! What velvet blackness embellishes the shadows! How the rocks are fretted against the snow! How clear are the foregrounds of glacier; how spiritual are the distant peaks; how softly lies the faint light in the deep hollows! Surely Night, the ancient Mother, speaks with a voice which all her children understand. [Illustration: 28. MOONLIGHT IN THE VAL FORMAZZA FROM THE TOSA FALLS.] At such hours and amidst such scenes the mere onlooker oftenest shivers and suffers, so that half the beauty escapes him; but the active mountaineer, keenly awake, with the blood alive within him and a day of hopes ahead, misses no sight that he is capable of seeing, yet dreams, who shall say what visions of beauty that flit before his mind and vanish in swift succession. And then--suddenly--he turns his head and there in the east--always unexpected--is the bed of white that heralds the day. The night is dying. Her rich darks and whites grow pallid. Each moment a layer of darkness peels off. The sky turns blue before one knows it; the rocks grow brown; there is blue in the crevasses, and green upon the swards--all low-toned yet distinct. Faint puffs of warm air come, we know not whence, touch our faces, and are gone. The lantern has been extinguished; we stride out more freely; the day awakens within us also. Now is displayed in all its magnificence the daily drama of the dawn. While the mists yet lie cold and grey in the deep valleys, they glow against the eastern horizon, where all the spectrum is slowly uprolled, more and more fiery beneath, as it tends to red, and cut off below by the jagged outline of countless peaks, looking tiny, away off there on the margin of the world. Low floating cloudlets turn to molten gold. The horizon flames along all its fretted eastern edge, a narrow band of lambent light, a smokeless crimson fire. The belt of colour grows broader; it swamps and dyes the cloudlets crimson. Long pink streamers of soft light strike up from where the sun is presently to appear. The great moment is at hand. All eyes rove around the view. At last some near high peak salutes the day; its summit glowing like a live coal drawn from a furnace. Another catches the light and yet another. The glory spreads downwards, turning from pink to gold, and from gold to pure daylight, and then--lo! the sun himself upon the horizon! a point of blinding light, soon changing to the full round orb. The day has come, and the long shadows gather in their skirts and prepare to flee away. Now comes the climber's most perfect hour. He shares the strength and promise of the young day. The fresh crisp air seems to lift him from the earth. The sense of the very possibility of fatigue vanishes. He rejoices in his might. He looks forward with confidence to no matter what difficulties may lie ahead. The snow is hard and crisp beneath his feet. The ice-crystals merrily crepitate as they break up, when the bonds of frost are withdrawn. And now the patch of rocks, or other convenient resting place, where breakfast is to be taken, is soon attained. Packs are cast off. It is an hour of perfect delight. The heart of the upper regions has been reached. The fair world of snow opens on every side. The valleys and habitable places are all forgotten. The scenery is superb. At such a time and place who would exchange with folks below, be they never so prosperous? It is soon time to be on the way once more. The fulness of the day gradually comes on with all its pains and glories. The sun climbs triumphantly aloft and sheds its burning radiance all around. Foreground details vanish in excess of light, but the distances grow more distinct. What is nearer stands out before what is more remote. The eye ranges afar and feasts upon the widening panorama, which about noon, let us hope, suddenly becomes complete, for we are on the top. No daylight is now too brilliant to reveal all the multitudinous effect of what is spread abroad to be beheld. The burning snowfields are below. The mere foreground of our vision is miles away. We look down into sunlit valleys sprinkled with tiny dots of houses and narrow lines of roads. We gaze afar over ridge beyond ridge, it may be to some wide-stretching plain or ultimate crest of remotest ranges. All swims in light, and we triumph in its very exuberance. Then follows the afternoon of our descent. We plunge into ever-thickening air as we go down. It is penetrated with the dust and flurry of the day. As the hours advance it sheds an ever mellower tone upon the views. Fatigue seems to invade the earth itself as it does our own limbs. We gain the grassy places once more, as the sun begins to lose its towering eminence of place. The rope and all its strenuous suggestions has been discarded, and at length the most toilsome parts of the expedition are over. We can fling ourselves upon the grass by some babbling brook, with the clanging of cattle-bells not far away, and the haunts of men pleasantly adjacent. The peaks we have sought out are not yet very far away. We can still follow the traces of our own footsteps upon their flanks. Their spirit is in us. All that we have so recently seen and felt is still present in our minds, as we gaze with newly instructed eyes upon the places we have visited. [Illustration: 29. A MOUNTAIN PATH, GRINDELWALD] The last walk remains, down through the gathering trees, through new-mown hay-fields, past little farms clustering on the hillside--down and ever down into the embrace of the narrowing earth, which holds out arms of recognition to us, her children and the special votaries of her shrines. When at length the mellow evening light is warm upon the hillsides, and the rich shadows are creeping down upon it, we reach the village where we are to rest. There, as we sit before some hospitable inn, and gaze yet once again back to the heights whence we have come, the sunset fires are lit upon them when the shades of night already fill the valleys. For a moment the topmost summits facing west glow with the gold and fade to the rose that ushered in the day and now glorify its close. The colour is withdrawn. The warmth fades out of all the view. Pallor supervenes, and "layer on layer the night comes on." Such are the normal effects and sequences of a fine Alpine summer day; but days of that sort are rare. Usually what we call "weather" intervenes to break the normal sequence with surprises that should not be unwelcome. I have thus far referred mainly to the drama of the sunshine; but more varied, more fascinating, more adventurous is the drama of the clouds, those mist mountains that come and go, forming ranges loftier than the hills, whiter than the snows, but endowed with the two-fold gifts of inaccessibility and evanescence. Them we can neither climb nor map. Clouds we have with us everywhere, but it is among mountains that we learn to know them, how they form and fade, mount aloft or drift asunder. The mountain clouds have a plainlier realised individuality than those that pass over cities and plains. Their positions and relative altitudes are more easy to fix, their changes more readily perceived. It is not my intention here to analyse at length the characters and forms of clouds from the picturesque point of view. That has been most suggestively and eloquently attempted by Ruskin in various chapters of _Modern Painters_, which every mountain-lover should have read. One correction only of that fine description of mountain-clouds will I venture to make, the point being of some importance. "I believe," wrote Ruskin, "the true cumulus is never seen in a great mountain region, at least never associated with hills. It is always broken up and modified by them.... The quiet, thoroughly defined, infinitely divided and modelled pyramid never develops itself. It would be very grand if one ever saw a great mountain peak breaking through the domed shoulders of a true cumulus; but this I have never seen." Whether it be true that cumulus cloud is never formed in the Alps I cannot say, my own notes not being accessible to me at this moment and my memory at fault; but this I can assert, that, in the heart of the great ranges, Himalayas and Andes, they frequently and magnificently occur. Never shall I forget the piled splendours, the divided and involved intricacies of rounded forms, the stupendous mass of the great towers of white cloud which I have often seen, with their level bases just upon or just above the summits of mountains more than 20,000 feet high, and their sharply outlined crests 15,000 or even 20,000 feet higher. Such clouds are only formed in warm uniformly ascending air currents, undisturbed by variable winds. They never form about peaks, but they form beside or above them. Often in Bolivia have I seen these great towers of mist rise with majestic deliberation behind the long white crest of the Cordillera Real, till they reduced the snowy peaks to mere pigmies at their feet. Then the afternoon wind would take them and bend them over the range like waves about to break. White island masses would sever themselves one by one and, passing the crest of the watershed, would drift away over the high plateau. If cumulus is formed in the Alpine region, its base would doubtless there also lie above the level of the snows, and the form of the clouds would not be realised by an observer in the mountain region. From Turin or Milan, gazing northward, immense masses of cumulus are often seen, but I have never yet been able to discover whether their bases rest on the snows or whether they merely lie above the foothills and lake-district. The clouds that belong to mountains, that arise upon their slopes and crests, and are the vestments they wear in the great ceremonies of Nature, these are of another sort. The climber knows them from within and has a very different sense of their meaning from his who merely watches them from afar off. Mr. Whymper in a well-known passage describes how he spent the best part of two days on the Matterhorn, wrestling with a violent storm. On his arrival at Zermatt, he learned from the inn-keeper that the weather had been fine but for "that small cloud" on the Matterhorn's flank. Such is the difference between being in some clouds and seeing them from below. [Illustration: 30. THE ALETSCHHORN. Clouds gathering at sunset.] Climbers, as a rule, begin their ascents by night, in weather which they at least hope will prove fine. In doubtful weather nights are relatively cloudless, unless it be in valleys. Not infrequently, indeed, a bed of cloud will lie in a valley when all the upper regions are clear. I well remember once starting from Zermatt for an ascent of one of Monte Rosa's peaks at as black a midnight as can be conceived. Not a star shone in the heavy sky. An hour's walking brought us into a thick fog, but we pushed on and up. It lay quite still. Just before dawn we rose above it and could almost feel our passing out through its clearly defined upper surface. We looked abroad over its level surface as a leaping fish may be imagined to see around it the surface of a lake. All above was absolutely clear. The day that followed was radiantly fine and the mist lake presently faded away. Such views of mountains rising out of a level sea of cloud are always felt to be wonderful. Sella's photograph of the Caucasus range thus islanded is the best-known example of that kind of view. It is not uncommon in mountain regions. I have described examples of it in Spitsbergen and the Andes which need not be quoted here. Oftener the climber starts beneath the stars. His first attention is paid to their aspect. If they seem unusually bright and twinkling, he augurs ill of his prospects, but holds on, hoping for the best. Dark sky-islands indicate the presence of clouds here and there. He trusts that the rising sun may clear them away. In due season the dawn breaks, perhaps in unusual and threatening grandeur, the light pouring along "wreathed avenues" of advancing clouds and illuminating with its rich tints the cloud-banners flying from precipitous peaks. Worst of all is it if umbrella clouds seem to float stationary above the tops of rounded snowy summits. Then indeed there is little ground left for hope. These cloud-caps, just lifted off the heads of the mountains to which they belong, consist of vapour in rapid movement and always imply a strong wind. The mist condenses to windward of the summit, blows over it, and dissolves to leeward, thus making the cloud-cap appear stationary, though every particle composing it is in rapid motion. Similar is the internal composition of a cloud-banner, though the movement of its parts is more easily perceived. Oftenest, however, at the hour of dawn there is little wind, and the mists condense lazily, forming, fading, forming again in the most whimsical fashion. Or they eddy in hollow places, and reach forth over depressions uncanny arms, which grasp and wither away and return again as though in doubt what to attack. An hour may pass in this weird performance, and then after all the sun may conquer and the misty battalions be swallowed up. But that is unusual. Generally, after some preliminary skirmishing, the moment comes when they gather themselves together, as by word of command, and, coming on in united force, swallow up the mountain world. This final onrush is often a most magnificent and solemn sight. The gathering squadrons of the sky grow dark and seem to hold the just departed night in their bosoms. Their crests impend. They assume terrific shapes. They acquire an aspect of solidity. They do not so much seem to blot out as to destroy the mountains. Their motion suggests a great momentum. At first too they act in almost perfect silence. There is little movement in the oppressively warm air, and yet the clouds boil and surge as though violently agitated. They join together, neighbour to neighbour, and every moment they grow more dense and climb higher. To left and right, one sees them, behind also and before. The moments now are precious. We take a last view of our surroundings, note the direction we should follow, and try to fix details in our memories, for sight will soon be impossible. Then the clouds themselves are upon us--a puff of mist first, followed by the dense fog. A crepitating sound arises around us; it is the pattering of hard particles of snow on the ground. Presently the flakes grow bigger and fall more softly, feeling clammy on the face. And now probably the wind rises and the temperature is lowered. Each member of our party is whitened over; icicles form on hair and moustache, and the very aspect of men is changed to match the wild surroundings. Under such circumstances the high regions of snow are more impressive than under any other, but climbers must be well-nourished, in good hard condition, and not too fatigued, or they will not appreciate the scene. No one can really know the high Alps who has not been out in a storm at some great elevation. The experience may not be, in fact is not, physically pleasant, but it is morally stimulating in a high degree, and æsthetically grand. Now must a climber call up all his reserves of pluck and determination. He may have literally to fight his way down to a place of shelter. There can be no rest, neither can there be any undue haste. The right way must be found and followed. All that can be seen is close at hand and that small circle must serve for guidance. All must keep moving on with grim persistence, hour after hour. Stimulants are unavailing and food is probably inaccessible. All depends upon reserve stores of health and vigour, and upon moral courage. To give in is treason. Each determines that he for his part will not fail his companions. Mutual reliance must be preserved. [Illustration: 31. THE GROSSER ALETSCH-FIRN FROM CONCORDIA HUT. The Lötschenlücke on the extreme left.] At first the disagreeable details are most keenly felt by contrast, but, when an hour has passed and the conflict is well entered upon, they are forgotten. We become accustomed to our surroundings and can, if we will, observe them with a deliberate interest. How the winds tear the mists about! There is no constant blast of air, but a series of eddying rushes, which come and pass like the units of an army. Each seems to possess an individuality of its own. Each makes its attack and is gone. One smites you in the face; another in the back. Some seem not devoid of humour; they sport with the traveller in a grim way. Others are filled with rage. Others come on as it were reluctantly. The aspect of the foreground rapidly changes. Rocks and stones disappear under a thickening blanket of snow. What was a staircase on the way up is found to be a powdery snow-slope in the forced descent. The new snow is soft like a liquid. It flows into the footprints and blots them out. Can it be that there are places somewhere where it is warm and dry--places with roofs over them and snug chimney corners and hot things to eat and drink? How strange the idea already seems! We belong to another world and feel as though we had always belonged to it. Civilised life is like some dream of a bygone night, and this that we are in is the only reality. It, in its turn, we know, will hereafter seem to have been a dream, but now it is the only fact. Here is the world of ice in the making. This is what snow-fields and glaciers come from. Unpleasant is it? Well perhaps! but it is good to have had such experiences. They develop a man's confidence, employ his powers, and enrich his memory. After all it is the snow regions in their days of storm that I remember best. One tempest that overwhelmed us on the flanks of Mount Sarmiento in Tierra del Fuego--how clearly even its details arise upon the lantern-screen of recollection! We were looking back northward over the Magellan channels towards the southern extremity of the South American continent, and a storm was pouring down thence upon us. "The darkness in the north was truly appalling. It seemed not merely to cover, but to devour the wintry world. The heavens appeared to be falling in solid masses, so dense were the skirts of snow and hail that the advancing cloud-phalanx trailed beneath it. Black islands, leaden waters, pallid snows, and splintered peaks disappeared in a night of tempest, which enveloped us also almost before we had realised that it was at hand. A sudden wind shrieked and whirled around us; hail was flung against our faces, and all the elements raged and rioted together. All landmarks vanished; the snow beneath was no longer distinguishable by the eye from the snow-filled air." Sometimes the wind blows with a fury that is almost irresistible. I have this note of such an experience. "The wind struck us like a solid thing, and we had to lean against it or be overthrown. It lulled for an instant, and we advanced a few yards; then it struck us again, and we gripped the mountain and doubted whether we could hold on. A far milder gale than this would suffice to sweep men from a narrow arête. It was not only strong, but freezing. It dissolved the heat out of us so rapidly that we could almost feel ourselves crystallising like so many Lot's wives. We stood up to it for a minute or two, then rushed back into shelter and took stock of our extremities. My finger-tips had lost all sensation. It was enough." Such raging tumults of the air are not a very common alpine experience, though most climbers have had to encounter them. Sometimes the air is still, or only gently in motion, while dense clouds envelop peak and glacier. Then a great silence reigns, which yet is not like the silence of night. It seems of a denser, more positive sort. Strange sounds punctuate it in times of heavy snow-fall. There are slidings from rocks, dull sunderings of snow-drifts grown too heavy to retain their unstable positions. There are crackings in deep beds of snow, newly formed. Small avalanches of snow fall with a cat-like, velvety movement, more of a flowing than a fall. Stones plunge with a dim thud into snow-drifts. All these sounds are heard, but the moving objects, though perhaps quite near at hand, remain invisible. We feel ourselves to be in the midst of unseen presences and activities, and instinctively picture them as hostile. In the midst of such a silence the first boom of thunder breaking on the ear sounds solemn indeed. It may be a distant discharge, and the next will be nearer. But often the very cloud that envelops us is the thunderer, and the first clap is quite close at hand. If so, it will not so much boom as rattle, re-echoing from the rocks amongst or near which it strikes. It has not come unforeseen. The air has been electrical for some time. We have felt cobwebs upon our faces. Perhaps our ice-axes are hissing, and we may have felt a shock or two from them. With the breaking of the storm comes hail that spatters the rocks and pricks over the snow. The discharges multiply in frequency, and if we are in the heart of the storm we hear them now on one side, now on the other--rattling like the volley-firing of scattered companies. Seldom, at high altitudes, are the individual discharges very violent, though being near at hand they sound loud enough. The mountain is exchanging electricity with the clouds over all its surface at a number of suitable points. Many climbers have been struck by lightning, but few are known to have been killed, though lightning-stroke may have been the cause of mysterious accidents never accounted for. As a rule there is noise enough to produce a great impression; there is a sense of the power and activity of nature's forces; but there is little absolute danger. Very different is the sensation of being in the midst of fine weather clouds, such as are often encountered before sunrise, but dissolve and disappear as the power of the sun increases. I well remember a beautiful experience of the kind upon the Rutor. The night had been overcast; when dawn appeared, the mists only seemed to thicken. We reached the summit crest and felt our way over the other side and down. We knew from the map that a great snow-field was sloping away before us in gentle undulations. "We could not see it, nor indeed could we see anything except a small area of flat ripple-surfaced snow, losing itself in all directions in the delicate sparkling mist, through which the circle of the soaring sun now began to be faintly discerned. With compass and map we determined the direction to be followed, and down we went over admirably firm snow. Seldom have I been in lovelier surroundings than those afforded by the rippled _névé_ and the glittering mist. The air was soft. A perfect silence reigned. Nothing in sight had aspect of solidity; we seemed to be in a world of gossamer and fairy webs. Presently there came an indescribable movement and flickering above us, as though our bright chaos were taking form. Vague and changeful shapes trembled into view and disappeared. Low, flowing light-bands striped the white floor. Wisps of mist danced and eddied around. A faint veil was all that remained, and through it we beheld with bewildered delight all the glory of the Mont Blanc range, from end to end and from base to summit, a vision of bridal beauty. Last of all, the veil was withdrawn and utter clearness reigned all around." Such sudden and unexpected withdrawals of the cloud curtains, such revelations and surprises are amongst the most transcendently beautiful effects that the mountain-climber is privileged to behold. They amply repay hours of fog, and compensate for days of bad weather. But even if the fog remain, blotting out all distant views, it often provides a setting for near objects, which gives them an emphasis amounting to a revelation. Many of my readers must have beheld great sérac towers of ice looming out of mist, and magnified by it into excess of grandeur. Never is an ice-fall so imposing as when traversed in not too dense a fog. What a sense of poise between heaven and earth is received when one is in a steep couloir which vanishes into mist above and below. [Illustration: 32. THUNDERSTORM BREAKING OVER PALLANZA. Sketch made out of window. Dust of the streets swept before it in clouds.] I look back with special pleasure to several days of wandering over a series of snow passes, which had never been traversed before by any member of our party, when we had to feel our way over, through snow-storms and clouds by help only of map and compass. They were easy Tirolese passes, which might have proved monotonous in fine weather, but the prevailing conditions made them intensely interesting and even exciting, for the easiest pass may prove difficult if you miss the actual col. How closely we watched the undulations of the glacier, and how keenly we analysed the formation of the rocks. Every hint of structure was important. None could be neglected. No step could be taken without thought. An ordinary crevassed glacier required careful negotiation. Those occasional rifts in the clouds that made manifest now some isolated point of rock, now some icy wall, now some corniced crest of snow, were a series of framed pictures passed in review. We enjoyed no panoramas, but the mountain detail that was forced upon our close attention was no whit less beautiful. As for the low-level bad weather views, it is seldom that a traveller can bring himself into a mood to regard them sympathetically. We are not seals, and water is not our element. The oncoming of bad weather, beheld from below, is a grievance to the holiday-maker. He may admit that it is accompanied by impressive appearances, but he cannot pretend to appreciate them. It is not till days of rain have followed one another, and disgust has given place to resignation, that he is driven to face the elements and seek for consolation in activity. Clouds lie low and rain is pouring from them, but he must sally forth. Before long he loses sense of discomfort and finds himself entering into the spirit of the day. The pouring clouds are a low roof over his head; their margins rest on the pines, defining the tops of some and half-burying others. Every outline is softened, every form vague. Perhaps a glacier snout looms dimly forth, with all the stones upon it glistening with wet. Everything is wet and all local colours are enhanced. The grass glistens in every blade; so do the flowers, and the pebbles on the foot-path. How sweetly everything smells. All has been washed clean. There are no dusty bushes. Water drips and tinkles everywhere. Little springs arise every few yards; runlets fall down every bank. An infinite number of little treble voices unite in the chorus, and can be heard near at hand alone. Further off they are lost in the great "whish" that fills the air. Surely the clouds must be draining themselves dry! But, no! They form as fast as they fall. One sees them gathering at the edge by the trees. Long stretches of mist lie on the hills below the general level, or move slowly along, "Reach out an arm and creep from pine to pine." Soon he is up amongst them. There it is not so much rain that falls, it is a general dissolution. From such a walk one returns a happier creature. Next day, perhaps, the weather will clear. The sun will shine on a glistening world and the clouds will melt away. Then we see the low-lying fresh snow shining on the green alps, and all the great rock-peaks glittering aloft in a new-shed glory. The sky is unwontedly clear and so definitely blue; the trees and grass so green; the snow so white. The early morning moments of such a day are precious indeed. Diamond rain-drops deck grass and pine-needles. There is radiance upon all the earth and freshness in the air. The discomforts of the past are forgotten. We are rested and eager for movement, and the world summons us forth. Nature, after all, knows best, and he is happiest who yields himself, whether in the mountains or elsewhere, to perfect sympathy with her many moods. CHAPTER VI MOUNTAINS ALL THE YEAR ROUND In the chequer-boards of most men's lives, the squares they can allot to the joys of mountain travel are coincident with summer seasons. Thus most of us cannot know the snow mountains all the year round, but only in their warm-weather garb. It may be claimed that then they are at their best, but such claims, in the case of Nature, are untenable. Nature is never or always at her best. One star may differ from another star in glory, but not in beauty; for beauty is in the eye that beholds, rather than in the thing that is beheld. A particular effect in nature may be more attractive than another to a particular man, but that is not really a measure of the beauty of the effect, but of the capacity of the man. None of us can discover all beauty; none of us can always behold beauty in everything; but all of us together can find beauty everywhere and always in what Nature makes. He that can oftenest discover beauty, and is most continuously conscious of it, is most richly endowed and most to be envied. How often do we hear people say that in their opinion Niagara, or the view from the Gorner Grat, or Mont Blanc, or some other great sight, is disappointing, that it failed to come up to their expectations, that its reputation is ill-deserved, and so forth. Such persons seem to imagine that their opinions are worth something, and that they, or any one, has a say in the matter; whereas the fact is, that the sights of nature may measure men, but that individual men cannot measure them. If a man thinks little of Niagara, that opinion measures him, but not Niagara. All sights of nature are beautiful. All great natural phenomena are greatly beautiful. That is a fundamental fact. Our business is not to question it, but to see the beauty if and when we can. The great mountains therefore are not beautiful at one time, or more beautiful at one time than another. They are beautiful always, and all the year round. They may be more comfortable to live or scramble amongst at some seasons, but he that can render his sense of beauty independent of his sense of comfort may be able to grow equally conscious of mountain beauty at all seasons. It is the opportunity that most of us lack, not the power. The fact that the high Alps are beautiful in winter also was not popularly realised till recently. A few men had faith that such would be the case, and they went to see. They brought back lively accounts of the wonders and glories they had beheld, and so incited others to follow in their steps. The classical first account in English of the high Alps in winter was A. W. Moore's paper in the fourth volume of the _Alpine Journal_, describing a visit to Grindelwald in December 1866, and the passage of the Strahleck and Finsteraarjoch by full mid-winter moonlight. Mid-winter moonlight is doubtless one of the great glories that the summer traveller misses. So bright was it "that the faintest pencil memoranda were legible with ease." The landscape beneath it is not the monochrome picture most of us associate with moonlight. It is rich with subdued colour, most beautiful to see. The full winter moon in the Alps bears to the summer moon, for brightness, the same relation that the equatorial sun does to the sun of our temperate regions. High planted near the zenith, the winter moon floods mountain and valley with a white light that turns snow to silver and hangs a curtain of velvet on every rock-face. [Illustration: 33. THE WETTERHORN. Grindelwald Chalets, flower-clad slopes and sunlit trees.] Who that has been to St. Moritz or Davos in winter does not come home with a new conception of what the clearness of the atmosphere can be? The summer air is like poor glass beside the crystal transparency of winter. Perhaps the effect is to bring distances nearer and thus decrease apparent scale--an effect which the whitening of the foundations of the hills tends to increase; but in return, by what delicacy of detail, what crispness of form, what glitter and brilliancy we are repaid. In course of time we learn to read scale truthfully anew. Another winter glory is the snow drapery of the lower slopes and glaciers below the snow-line. All minor asperities of surface are smoothed away. Flowing lines take the place of broken ones, and large surfaces most delicately modelled predominate. In summer you must climb to the high snow-fields to behold the delicate modelling of which snow is capable on a large scale, but in winter such sights are all around you. To watch the play of sunshine upon them from dawn to dusk, and the even more fascinating appearance they assume under brilliant moonlight, is joy enough for the hungriest eye. Then there are the frozen cascades by every roadside, glittering clustered columns of ice fit for fairies' palaces. One beholds them at almost every turn, for the veriest trickle of water, so it be persistent, suffices to build them up. Nor must we forget to catalogue amongst the greater glories of Alpine winter the snow-laden forests. One day the trees will be burdened down by loads of snow. Another, every sprig and pine-needle will be frosted over by the most delicate incrustation of tiny ice-crystals--a natural lacework of surpassing fascination. When the early sun first shines upon such a scene, which night has prepared to be a revelation to the day, so magnificent a vision is provided that even the dullest perceive something of its beauty, and for a moment forget the trifles of their life. Akin to this glorification of the trees by frost are the glittering "snow-flowers," those charming little groups of crystals that form on the ground in suitable spots under the influence of wind-eddies and other vagaries of the air. They are as pretty as they are short-lived, and possess a quality of rareness that makes them additionally precious. If in winter we lose the blueness of the lakes and the greenness of the hills, are we not more than repaid? What in its way can be more fair than the absolute flatness and unspotted purity of a frozen lake-surface covered thickly by new-fallen snow? It is no joy to skaters and curlers indeed, but for those who have eyes and have taught themselves how to see with them, little time is left for the distractions of mere games. The snow-shoe is the true winter implement, and especially the Norwegian _ski_, which provides the most glorious exercise and makes accessible the most delightful spots. An occasional run down-hill is the by-reward of the skilful, but his main prize is the sights he is privileged to behold. He can enter the heart of forests or ascend large slopes without the toil of sinking into the soft snow, to whose presence they owe the quality of their winter charm. Ski, moreover, grant access with relative comfort to the higher regions, and enable them to be crossed in suitable places at a time when the crevasses of the glaciers are deeply buried or soundly bridged, and when the snowy world sweeps in larger and simpler surfaces away. Some climbers have found pleasure in attaining in winter the summits of high peaks, whence they have beheld great panoramas with a distinctness of distant vision that the summer climber seldom attains. They tell us that the white filling of the valleys and covering of the lower slopes tends to flatten the effect of a mountain scene beheld from above. Whatever the special charm of such expeditions, they cannot be made with frequency. Weather conditions are usually adverse. Short days are a hint to make short expeditions. Thus in winter Nature herself calls attention rather to her own details. She endows with unusual attraction what is near at hand. She sculptures her ornaments on a tiny scale and finishes them with a marvellous elaboration. The wise follow her mood and adapt their eyes to her intentions. The winter months are none too long for them. Indeed they are gone all too soon, and one day, lo! the spring is there and the winter votaries turn and flee. [Illustration: 34. MÄRJELEN ALP. Winter snow on ground. Foot of Eggishorn on left, ridges of Strahlhorner on right.] I have only once spent a portion of the spring in an Alpine region. It is not a comfortable season, but it has its own beauties as great in their kind as those of summer and winter. Now the snow begins to melt, and all the hillsides trickle and run with water. The great silence of winter is past. Nature whispers with a thousand tiny voices, and sings aloud along the valleys and gorges. The hillsides emerge brown from their snowy blanket, but the fresh green soon shoots through and early flowers are swift to put forth. The sense of young life is felt among the mountains as in the plains, for the awakening of the vegetable world is everywhere the same. But the mountains possess spring-time splendours of their own, depending upon the dissolution of the snow. Spring is the great time for avalanches. They fall indeed all the year round, chiefly at high levels, but it is only in the spring that the great avalanches get adrift. Certain great spring avalanches come down with remarkable regularity in particular places, one every year. An avalanche falls at a recognised spot in the neighbourhood of almost every village, which dates from its advent the opening of the spring. Any one who has beheld the descent of one of these giants will not forget the experience, nor will it occur to him to compare such an avalanche with the relatively small ones that tumble among the highest _névé_ regions in the summer. These are the veriest snow-balls compared with those vast discharges. A great spring avalanche is no sudden freak of Nature, but an inevitable occurrence, slowly engendered. The snow that piles up, flake by flake, during the winter months, on what in summer are the grass slopes below the snow-line, gradually becomes unstable as spring melting advances. The mass loses its cohesion, ceases to bind firmly together, and tends to flow downwards. The conformation of the ground decides how it shall fall. If the slopes upon which it lies are narrow, and lead straight to a suitable resting-ground, or if they are of gentle declivity, it may fall in small masses and early come to rest; for the distance to which it is projected depends upon the momentum of a fall, and the momentum depends upon the volume and the slope. But if the snow lies upon large concave slopes, or upon a cirque, then, when the discharge begins, all the snow within the cirque may flow together, and pouring down the bottom like a fluid, may form a great cataract; then tumbling over cliffs and rushing down hollows and through gorges, it will continue its descent till it reaches a valley bottom, flat enough to hold it. There it will pile up into a great cone or "fan," solidifying as it comes to rest, and strongly bridging over the valley torrent. An avalanche of this kind does not fall in a few moments, but may occupy hours in its discharge. I saw several of them falling, in the first days of May 1882, in the neighbourhood of the Simplon road. Near Bérisal I crossed one which had recently come to rest, traversing the road. By its rugged white surface, broken into great protuberances, its solidity, and its general form, it resembled a small glacier. To climb on to it one had to cut steps, so steep were the sides. Higher up I crossed several more such fallen masses, through which gangs of workmen were cutting out the road. Towards the top of the pass the snow was tumbling in smaller masses. Over a hundred little avalanches crossed the road within a couple of hours. Then they stopped. On the Italian side similar conditions obtained, but it was not till I reached Isella that the greatest fall took place, or rather was taking place, for it had begun before I arrived, and it continued after I had passed. There, a narrow gorge, with vertical cliff-sides facing one another, debouches on the main valley. It leads upwards to a great cirque in the hills, a cirque that is a grass-covered alpine pasture in the summer. The avalanche was pouring out through this gorge and piling itself up upon the main valley-floor. How the mass of it was being renewed from behind I could not see. Doubtless all the hill-sides above were shedding their snow, and it was flowing down and crowding into and through the gorge with a continuous flow. As the pressure was relieved below by the outpouring of the avalanche on to the valley floor, more snow came down--snow mixed with slush, and semi-liquid under the great pressure that must have been developed. As the fan was built up, the snow, relieved of strain, hardened into ice-like consistency. It is easy to describe the process that was going forward, but it is not easy to suggest to the reader the grandeur of effect that was produced. The volume of noise was terrific--a noise more massive and continuous than thunder, and no less deep-toned. A low grey cloud roofed in the view and cast over everything a solemn tone. The avalanche, pouring through the massive gateway of the hills and polishing its sides, came forth with an aspect of weight and resistless force that was extraordinarily impressive. Yet Nature did not seem to be acting violently, though her might was plain to see. She appeared to proceed with deliberation. One looked for an end of the snow-stream to come, but it flowed on and on, pulsating but not failing. The pressures that must be developed were easily conceived; correspondingly evident became the strength of the hills that could sustain them as if they had been but the stroking of a hand. Later in the season the traveller often encounters, in deep-lying valleys, the black and shrunken remnants of these mighty avalanches, melted down by summer heats. Little idea can they give him of the splendour of their birth and the white curdled beauty of their surface when they first come to rest. In the nature of things they travel far and fall low, well into the tree-belt, and even down to the chestnut-level on the Italian side. It is a strange sight to see these vast, new-fallen masses lying in their accustomed beds, but surrounded by trees all freshly verdant with the gifts of spring. Yearly each one falls in the same place, falls harmlessly and duly expected. Its coming is welcomed. Its voice is the triumphant shout of the coming season of summer exuberance and fertility. Nature, newly awakened, cries aloud with a great and solemnly joyous cry, and the people dwelling around hear her and arise to their work upon the land. It is not well for a mountain-lover never to have beheld this characteristic awakening, for it is one of the great events of the mountains' year. For the rest, spring in the Alps has many of the qualities of spring everywhere else, which need not detain us, for to say that is to say enough. Characteristically Alpine alone are the passing away of the snow and the phenomena that accompany it. After the avalanches have fallen, steady melting does the rest. Each warm day withdraws the winter blanket somewhat and reveals the earth to the sunshine. Convex slopes melt sooner than concave, steep slopes sooner than flats or gentle inclines. Thus the large uniform winter covering breaks up into islands and stripes of white. Gullies are defined against slopes, which previously were lost in them. The detailed anatomy of the hills is manifested more clearly from day to day. It may be claimed that the effect produced is patchy, and so, judged by spring-time photographs, it appears indeed to be. Never, for photography, are mountains less suitable than in the spring; by some ill-luck the camera seizes upon and magnifies the patchiness of the receding snow. In actual vision the margin of the snow bears a less piebald aspect. Indeed patchiness is not the effect that the eye receives from it. The edge is at once perceived to be melting. The white garb is being withdrawn. That fact is apparent. If one watches the changes from day to day, they will be found most entertaining from the manifestations of form they yield. Moreover, the daily alteration of the colouring of the ground from which snow has recently melted is most remarkable. The transition is from brown to green. Hence the edge of the snow is margined with brown, and that in turn by green--a kind of iris effect which ascends the hillside as the snow withdraws. Finally, spring is the time of spilling waters, of torrents brimful and overflowing, of voluminous cascades, of gurgling brooks everywhere--a time, too, when the waters are bright and crystalline, and when the valleys and lower slopes are as vocal with their song as the upper regions are with the deeper diapason of falling snow. If, amongst all these voices, the winds blow shrilly and the storms not infrequently rage, the effects produced, however uncomfortable they may be to the touch of the comfort-loving body, are essentially harmonious in a grand and glorious fashion. From spring to summer there is no step in Alpine regions. It is merely that as the year advances the level of spring rises. At the edge of the ever-retreating snow it is always spring. Even in August you have but to climb to find it, but it reigns then over a narrow belt and is not a land-encompassing mood. What turns spring into summer for the eye is not easy to indicate. Shall we be far wrong if we say that, in the first instance, it is the flowers? The little venturesome plants of spring, that blossom at the very edge of the withdrawing snow, themselves withdraw when they have smiled upon the world. They are followed by the bright carpet of early summer--the June carpet, which few mountaineers ever behold. It is lovely everywhere--loveliest perhaps in the Maritime Alps, or along the sunny Italian face of the Alpine wall. You must see it before the scythes get to work on the first hay crop, and even before the grass is full grown--a sheet of many colours--not, however, a mere chaos of all kinds of blossoms, but something far more orderly than that. For there is generally some predominant plant at a given spot, luxuriantly blossoming at a particular time, and all the rest do but serve to embroider it. Here indeed may be a sheet of one kind of blossom, there of another. It is as though some one had passed by and tossed fair Persian carpets down in different places, carpets of different design, but all in the same general style. [Illustration: 35. LOWER GLACIER AND GRINDELWALD CHURCH. June 3, 1903, the valley thickly covered with flowers; for four days heavy clouds hung low over peaks and ridges. Only a glimpse such as this to be seen at intervals in the slow swaying fringe of the cloud-curtain.] Even at this period greens are predominant, for the flowers are not to be discovered from a distance. And what greens they are--these shrill verdancies of early summer--the despair of artists, the joy of Nature's friends! Later on they will tone down to a more paintable key, but at first they transcend the powers of paint, having in them something almost of the shine of flame. Their coming is sudden. They descend upon the broad bosom of fertile valleys and the wide skirts of gentle slopes, as the daylight descends when the sun grows high. Yesterday all was brown; to-day the greens have come, exultant, exuberant, with the star-flowers spangled amongst them. Then indeed it is good to be alive. The voice has gone out to the valley--"Arise, shine, for thy light has come"--and the valley responds to the call. With July the full summer is there, and the summer crowd at hand. The longest days are passing. The freshness is wearing off from the valleys. Now heat, dust, and flies drive men aloft. It is the reception period of the high peaks, when they differentiate themselves plainly from the region below, and alone retain the perfect purity of the winter world. In winter the great mountains stretch themselves visibly down to the valleys. Then Mont Blanc begins at Chamonix, the Matterhorn at Zermatt. But in summer the high peaks seem to be planted aloft on the green world. The Matterhorn is reduced to a pyramid standing on the Schwarzsee Alp. Thus in summer, though the actual peaks themselves look larger, they are more removed out of the way. You must mount afar before you come to their apparent foot. You thus acquire the sense of their belonging to a world of their own. In winter snow glories are at your door. In summer you must labour to behold them, and when beheld they are emphasised by contrast with the fertile world you have left. That is why (apart from all questions of comfort and safety) summer climbing is more impressive than winter. It presents more stages, more variety. In winter-time all is winter; but in summer it is summer in the valleys, spring on the alps, and winter above the snow-line; only autumn is not there. Autumn, in fact, is the rarest of the seasons. Its effects are the most evanescent. That is one of its special charms--that, and the tender sadness that pertains to the passing away of things which have flourished and had their day in glory. October in the Alps is a season perhaps more generally delightful in these days than any other period of the year. Then the great summer crowd has gone, and there is room in the caravanserais and on the footpaths. The country-folks have leisure for a word with the wayfarer, and the painful sense of over-pressure is gone. In October the Alps are almost as they used to be in the sixties--a spacious region where a man may find himself alone, or almost alone, in the face of Nature. He cannot now, indeed, heal the scars that the crowd have furrowed upon the face of the earth, nor remove the ugly buildings and defacing embankments that have been raised to dam and form reservoirs or canals for the human flood, but with that exception he can possess the landscape in peace. October, again, is sometimes a month of much fine weather and of skies marvellously clear. If the days are short, they are yet long enough for early risers. Evening and morning are brought within the limits of a normal man's possible activity, so that he may enjoy both the splendour of sunrise and sunset without transgressing the daily hours of healthy wakefulness. The October sun does not climb so far aloft as does the royal monarch of the midsummer sky. If the effulgence of day is thus rendered less overpowering, in return the shadows spread wider and retain a richer colouring in their depths. More modelling is visible upon the hillsides and the snow-fields in the bright hours; there are bluer noontide shadows and perhaps even a bluer sky also. [Illustration: 36. GRINDELWALD LOOKING TOWARDS THE WENGEN ALP. Winter snow on the slopes.] All this is true and characteristic of Alpine autumn, but the most characteristic feature, there as elsewhere, is the fading of vegetation and the flaming colours that accompany it. Not only does the foliage of the trees disclose the change, but the very hillsides blend in harmony with the forests. Berries shine bright on small shrubs and even lurk amongst russet or crimson foliage upon the ground. Plants of all lowly sorts put on a new bright livery, and thus change the character of the foreground. The bright greens vanish; in their place large slopes grow orange and brown. But it is beneath, at lower levels, that the changes are greatest and the autumnal effects most striking. Seek for them in the Rhone valley or round the shores of Thun. There you will find the woods absolutely golden or crimson according to their kind--a colouring at once so rich and so brilliant as to seem almost incredible even to him who, having seen it once, and believing that he remembers it, beholds it again and finds it so far surpassing the wealth of his memory and expectation. To behold the snowy peaks rising into the clear autumnal sky, far away beyond a foreground such as this, is a sight well worth an effort. Would not some of our holiday-makers of the better sort find it pleasant sometimes to change the date of their outing, so as not always to herd with their fellows nor every year to behold Nature under a similar illumination? Just as spring definitely opens with the great avalanches, so winter opens as definitely with the great snow-falls. One day all is clear and bright. The snow-line has retreated to its very highest level. The hard ice of the glacier is revealed far up from the snout. The maximum number of crevasses are open, and the wide-yawning bergschrunds form moats at the foot of all the final snow slopes that lean against the great faces of the peaks. Next morning all is grey and wet and cold. Clouds cover everything; winds rage; large snow-flakes in countless millions fill the air and drive across the ground. The drifts pile up and up, and all the ground is covered, white to the very depths of the valleys. For two or three days or longer the storm rages, and when at last the sun bursts forth again and the clouds withdraw their curtains, lo! the visible world is deeply buried in the white winter garment that will not be withdrawn till spring once more arrives. As a rule the first great snow-fall of winter comes thus definitely upon the Alpine world. Others that follow may be as great or greater in volume, but they only emphasise existing conditions; they do not, as this one does, change the face of Nature. Thus the annual drama of the mountain world is played in its four acts, year after year, with infinite variety in detail and great uniformity in the large features. We talk of the seasons as definite divisions, but we must remember that their progress and succession is an affair not merely of day following day but of moment following moment. It is the steady progress, the gradual, imperceptible advance, that the close observer of natural beauty loves to watch. To-day is not absolutely like yesterday, and will not absolutely resemble to-morrow even though all three prove faultlessly fine. The superficial observer may note no change, but that is because he is superficial. There is always change, and in change the life of things consists. To know mountains truly, means to recognise the changes which pass over them and happen amongst them. A mountain-lover may be compelled to live in some city of the plains, but, if he could, and in so far as mountains are his chief delight, he would live amongst them, not merely in one season but in all. No man, however, is or can be entirely single-minded. We cannot confine our affections to a single category of natural beauty, nor even to Nature alone. We are folk of many interests. Even the most enthusiastic lover of mountains is something more, and fails from the ideal. Mountains must take their share with other interests in the life of any one who cares for them at all. In so far, however, as they are an interest for any of us, it behoves us to make that interest wide and comprehensive, not restricting it to mountains as mere things to climb, nor to mountains of a particular character or at a particular time of year, but allowing it to embrace mountain scenery as a whole and at all seasons. Those of us who can do this, will find that the wider and more varied our experience of and sensitiveness to all varieties of mountain scenery becomes, the more intense will it likewise grow to be at any special moment, and the more keenly will any particular effect of beauty affect our hearts. In mountains, as elsewhere, all seasons of the year are marked by beauties that belong specially to them. Each season prepares for that which is to follow, and every day that passes is a transitional step from the one to the other. Let me commend my fellows of the mountain brotherhood to bear this fact in mind when they are wandering amongst the hills. If they attend not merely to the spectacle of the moment, but to the changes that are daily wrought out before their eyes, they will find their pleasures enlarged and their capacity for enjoyment increased. They will obtain a greater consequent understanding not merely of the aspects and moods of the mountains, but of what I may call their settled character as manifested by the larger mutations of aspect which they undergo in passing through the vicissitudes of the seasons of the year. [Illustration: 37. RIMPFISCHORN AND STRAHLHORN FROM THE RIFFELBERG] CHAPTER VII TYPES OF ALPINE PEAKS In a previous chapter reference has been made to the varied types of scenery which belong to different divisions of the Alpine chain, and the briefest kind of characterisation of those varieties was attempted. But the Alps, and indeed almost all the great snow ranges of the world, possess side by side within a single neighbourhood varieties of peaks sufficiently divergent to be capable of grouping and classification. For example, in the Mont Blanc group, there are domes of snow, needle-points of rock, arêted pyramids, serrated ridges, peaks twinned together, peaks closely grouped in larger number, and other varieties of mountains. In fact, just as whole districts of mountains possess, each one, an individual character due to their geographical position, their local history of uplift and denudation, the materials of which they are formed, and other such factors, so individual peaks for like reasons possess individual character, and conform more or less evidently to one or another well-marked type. That such is the case will be readily admitted. In common talk, indeed, we are accustomed to attribute fancifully to this mountain masculine ruggedness, to that feminine grace, to another qualities of terror. Some mountains attract to themselves a kind of human affection; others repel; yet others bore, or, on the contrary, interest without charming. In the present chapter, therefore, I intend to discuss the characters of mountains, especially of the great Alpine peaks, from this point of view, considering so far as space permits the characters and dispositions of all sorts and conditions of Alps. It will be perceived at once that the treatment of our subject will entirely depend on the point of view from which we regard it. Mountains are not beasts and possess no real characters. It is only we who, with our anthropomorphic tendency, endow them with imaginary qualities belonging actually to ourselves and projected forth from us on to the so-called external world. If mountains are primarily thought of as things to be climbed, we shall characterise them as they react upon the climber. If they are regarded as sights to be beheld, we shall characterise them as they affect our sense of vision. A climber may fancifully figure one mountain as friendly though severe, another as hostile, a third as mean, a fourth as recondite, a fifth as deceitful. Climbers, however, though I hope I may number some of them amongst my readers, are not primarily those for whom this book is written. It is aimed more broadly to interest the mountain-lover of whatever age or sex and whatever agility or endurance. I testify here, not so much of what I know, but of what I have seen and found delightful in the seeing, in hopes to revive recollections of pleasure in others and to suggest the possibility of further joys to the mountain traveller. Pre-eminent, then, to look at, pre-eminent as a mountain vision, one must, I assert, rank the great domes of snow, such as Mont Blanc. The two greatest Alpine mountains assume that form when beheld from characteristic points of view, sufficiently remote, and, of course, it is the apparent form only that here concerns us. A peak may actually be a blade of rock, snow-whitened, and yet may appear to be a dome, as the Lyskamm appears from north and south. It must be ranked amongst domes when so beheld. On these giant masses Nature frequently bestows a measurable pre-eminence, for it is not only in the Alps that they attain loftiest altitudes among their neighbours. Elburz which reigns over the Caucasus is a dome, so is Chimborazo, so likewise Nanga Parbat. But even if they were not actually piled higher than their satellites they would look bigger. A notable instance of the great dignity of effect of a snow dome beheld amongst more rugged and precipitous peaks--peaks, moreover, much loftier than the dome--was forced upon my notice in the Baltoro region of the Mustagh mountains of Kashmir. The Baltoro glacier, most wonderfully situated of all glaciers in the world, is surrounded by the greatest group of high peaks known to exist. A number of them exceed 25,000 feet in altitude, and several are over 27,000 feet. Moreover, most of these great mountains are of bold outline and precipitous structure. There is no deceit about them. They look their height. Some of them are needle-pointed and buttressed by the narrowest rock ridges, set with needle-pointed teeth. It would be imagined that no mountain forms could be more impressive than theirs, as one after another they come within range of the traveller's vision and grow familiar to him during the long days of his creeping advance along their feet. Impressive indeed they are, splendid beyond words, majestic surpassingly. It happens, however, that, amongst them all a solitary exception, there stands a single dome of snow, named by me the Golden Throne. I first beheld it somewhat dramatically, when, after climbing to a high elevation by night, the sun rose behind it, and it was revealed in all its width, flanked on either hand by a long line of jagged and aspiring peaks. They were higher than it--most of them considerably higher, yet beyond all question the dome was the most dignified of them all. It owed something of its dignity and distinction, no doubt, to contrast, to the rarity of its form in that region of splintered aiguilles; but that was not alone the cause. The suavity and continuous curvature of its outline, and the grace of it, as well as its greater breadth and apparent relative volume, made the Golden Throne absolutely, as well as by contrast, more dignified than its bolder neighbours. Had it differed from them only in form it would have prevailed, but it differed more noticeably from them in drapery and colour. Whereas they were of naked rock, it was enveloped in a mantle of purest snow, and the broad white mass (especially later when it shone in the advancing daylight) attained a pre-eminence in brightness and purity for which no ruggedness or precipitancy in the others could compensate. It is a far cry to the Golden Throne, but Mont Blanc is near at hand, and its aspect is familiar to countless people. None will deny that its reputation is pre-eminent among Alps. I claim that that pre-eminence is not solely due to its culminating position in point of size, but that its broad white mass and shining amplitude go a long way towards accounting for it. It would scarcely occur to any one but a climber to depose Mont Blanc from the first place--Mont Blanc, the "monarch of mountains," diademed with snow. As in human architecture the dome is the most dignified and impressive form, so also it is in nature. In Mont Blanc it attains perfection by the noble breadth of its base and adjustment of its buttresses. Whencesoever beheld, from north or south, from far or near, it always appears poised aloft in a dignity as impressive as it is reposeful, the white sheen of its spotless snows pure as the bosom of a summer cloud, but unlike that, gifted with an aspect of adamantine permanence. [Illustration: 38. THE MATTERHORN, TWILIGHT. "The time may come when the Matterhorn shall have passed away, and nothing save a heap of shapeless fragments will mark the spot where the great mountain stood; for, atom by atom, inch by inch, and yard by yard, it yields to forces which nothing can withstand. That time is far distant; and ages hence, generations unborn will gaze upon its awful precipices, and wonder at its unique form. However exalted may be their ideas, and however exaggerated their expectations, none will come to return disappointed!"--WHYMPER. ] Next to Mont Blanc in abiding reputation, the Matterhorn takes rank among Alps by universal consent. We may regard it as the best example of pyramidal mountains. Four-square it stands upon its mighty base, fronting the four cardinal points of the compass, each face divided from its neighbour by a clearly-defined ridge or rock arête. As Mont Blanc the dome, so the Matterhorn in turn displays a form adopted by man for some of his grandest architectural efforts, the pyramids of Egypt. If the dome best expresses the idea of soaring aloft, when seen from without, the pyramid best expresses the idea of eternal repose and endurance without end. Geologists may tell us that even the Matterhorn is a passing phenomenon, that the frosts are daily causing it to disintegrate, and that thousands of tons of rock fall at frequent intervals down its sides. Climbers may describe its near aspect as ruinous, and we may know these statements to be true. None the less the mountain beheld as a whole, from even a moderate distance, seems to belie them. It appears to be from everlasting and to everlasting. It incorporates the ideal of permanence. We conceive it as belonging not to an age but to all time. Were it mathematically four-square, and its faces true planes of even slope, that would be its chief effect, that and the sense of mass and grandeur inseparable from an object of such visibly huge dimensions. But Nature has fashioned it subtly and endowed its faces and ridges with curves most delicate and refined. To its appearance of mass and endurance it adds a grace so exquisite, an uplift so imposing, that these qualities almost take the first place in the impression produced upon the beholder. Seen from the north-east it appears to best advantage. Towards Breuil it shows a more massive front. Its recondite western face, only visible from high snow-fields, displays precipices more appalling and a general aspect of more savage grandeur. But with singular good fortune for the unathletic traveller, it manifests its incomparable grace to perfection towards the easily accessible north-east, and 50,000 people go there annually to worship at its Riffel shrines. They may approach with no more devotional feeling than the average pilgrim manifests at Lourdes, but the fact that they go is homage to the reality of the emotion which many have actually felt in that glorious presence. The poetic brain has exhausted itself in efforts to find comparisons with living creatures whereby to describe it. Best is Ruskin's choice of a rearing horse. Traces of the neck clothed with thunder, of the mane-fringed crest with cloud streamers for hair, even of the sharp contrasting angle of the folded fore-leg, can be traced in the natural composition; but it is rather the might and spirit of the thing--its combination of wildness, force, and grace--that give aptness to this fetch of similitude. In writing of the Matterhorn one can make an assumption that would be impossible with any other mountain:--that most readers can recall a vision of its form to their minds. Let me make that demand upon the present reader. Observe then how beautifully the double curve of the left hand or Théodule ridge, first convex, then concave, is terminated and contrasted with the sudden jags of the shoulder, and then taken up and continued again convex to the summit. How the right-hand or Stockje ridge, convex above, drops with a larger sweep and a more astounding ultimate steepness, to be again interrupted by a lower and more jagged shoulder, and again continued downward by the magnificent white convex curve, which, in its turn drooping into concave, leads the eye away to the broad foundation. No less essential than the outline to the total effect are the two white _névé_ basins that lie below the faces and steepen upwards to ice-slopes leading to crags that have all the appearance of cliffs. The importance to the composition of the third or middle shoulder--_the_ Shoulder _par excellence_ of climbers--should also be insisted on, but space does not here admit a lengthier analysis. The reader will find no difficulty in pursuing the investigation for himself. [Illustration: 39. WEISSHORN AND MATTERHORN FROM FIESCHERALP.] The four-sided pyramid, of which we have chosen the Matterhorn for type, is a rarer form than the three-sided, perhaps the commonest class of fully developed peak. Here again there cannot be a moment's hesitation in the choice of a representative mountain, for of such the Weisshorn is beyond question the finest and most famous in the Alps. What mountain-lover has not beheld it, towering gracefully and superbly aloft before him as he descended the upper reaches of the Rhone valley on some bright August day? Westward it opposes a face of rock and is a less gorgeous object to look upon. But its other two faces with their glacial robe are brilliant under all illuminations. What gives it distinction among the multitude of mountains similarly formed is the grace of its slender and long drawn-out ridges. Each of these sharp arêtes, beheld from most points of view, drops very steeply from the spear-tipped summit; then gradually levels off to a shoulder, and so leads the eye down to the massive foundation that supports the whole. Slenderness above, massive strength below--such is the effective contrast that Nature provides. Another famous peak, the Jungfrau, appears from Interlaken almost as graceful as the Weisshorn; but its beauty is really of another order, and depends far more upon the brilliancy of the curdled surface of the snow, and its division between ice-falls, rocks, and ice-slopes, than upon the outline of the peak itself or the form of its ridges. For pure grace of pyramidal form the Aletschhorn surpasses the Jungfrau, but the better-known peak has advantages of position and of grouping to which we shall presently refer. Pyramidal peaks lend themselves kindly to embellishment by banners of cloud. Often we behold great sheets of white mist waving away from their ridges. The sharp definition and marble-like permanence of the mountain forms an admirable offset to the softness and inconstancy of the cloud, which is not merely ever varying the form of its outlines, but is throughout in constant and often swift motion under the dominion of a furious gale. The sense of violent agitation high aloft thus impressed upon the eye, well associates itself with an idea of rugged resistance proper to high peaks and splintered ridges. The slenderer the pyramid and the sharper its arêtes, so much the better does it serve as flagstaff for a flying cloud. Best of all, however, for this purpose are the rock aiguilles, which never seem quite complete, never fully manifest the astonishing boldness of their structure, except when they are in turn concealed and revealed by mists that form and fade and form again--now cutting them off from all visible connection with the earth and almost seeming to lift them into the heavens, now half-hiding them and half-revealing, now as it were smoking away from their summits like steam from a volcano, now offering a white background to their rugged mass, now overshrouding and empurpling them with shadows stolen from the wardrobe of Night. They lack the dignity of the broader peaks, these needle rocks, and few of them really deserve (save from a climber's standpoint) to be called peaks at all. Generally they are only buttress pinnacles of greater mountain masses. Yet a tall and well-planted aiguille always possesses marked individuality of its own, which more than compensates for lack of volume and altitude. By its form it attracts the attention of the eye away from large but less wonder-evoking mountains. Thus it makes itself the centre of a view and is remembered when its larger neighbours are forgotten. More than any other kind of peak an aiguille depends for effect upon the character of its foundation and the place where it is planted. The Aiguille du Géant is, perhaps, the most remarkable monolith shaft in the Alps, and has attained no little fame. But its fame is due to the difficulty of scrambling up it. For sheer impressiveness of effect from a distance it cannot enter into serious competition with the Aiguille du Dru. The actual summit-shaft of the Dru is not really remarkable for slenderness. Its sides are not the plumb vertical cliffs that the Géant can show. But the foundations of the Dru carry its lines down, and the supporting masses seem expressly piled together for no other purpose than to lift the slender-seeming peak as far aloft as possible. The Dru, moreover, though actually an appanage of the Verte, is so situated as to be seen alone and admirably set off by glacier or wooded foregrounds from several easily accessible and convenient positions. Instead of standing aloof like the Géant, it peers down into the valley and takes an interest in human affairs. It is there to signal the sunset with its flaming beacon, and to glow like a brand from the furnace in the presence of the dawn. The departing traveller turns back to it for a last look, and the returning votary of the Alps is impatient to pass the corner beyond which he well knows that it will come into view. It is one of a class, the aiguilles of Chamonix, but it possesses a marked individuality of aspect and it transcends all its neighbours and rivals. They may be harder to climb, but it _looks_ as precipitous and inaccessible as any, and, after all, the appearance is the essential element for a lover of the picturesque. There is much more that might be said about aiguilles, their value for contrast with other forms, their essentially subordinate, almost parasitic, character, and so forth, but our space has narrow limits and we must pass on. [Illustration: 40. AIGUILLE VERTE AND AIGUILLE DU DRU FROM THE CHAMONIX VALLEY. A well-known group, typical of the Aiguilles of the Mont Blanc chain.] We have considered domes and pyramids in special reference to their outline. But they and all sorts of other mountains have faces as well as bounding ridges, and these faces sometimes take the form of tremendous walls. We may therefore devote a moment's attention to mountain walls, or rather to what we may briefly describe as wall-faced mountains. These great walls are not necessarily, nor indeed often, truly precipitous, but the important point about them is that they look precipitous. They are not walls, but the eye is deceived into believing that they are. The Alps are rich in noble examples of this type. To name only the most famous: there are the Italian fronts of Mont Blanc and Monte Rosa, the Saas front of the Mischabelhörner, and the north face of the Jungfrau. If you stand in a suitable position, facing rather than enfilading any of these great walls, their slope seems practically vertical. Climbers know that they can all be climbed; their instructed eyes can even trace the routes without difficulty. In so far as that knowledge interferes with the imposing impression which ordinary persons derive from the mere look of the thing, it is a misfortune. Yet even the climber can sometimes forget his _métier_, and lose himself in pure contemplation of Nature's splendour. It is nowhere easier so to do than in face of these gigantic walls. Pre-eminent amongst them is, of course, the Macugnaga face of Monte Rosa. Not merely does it excel in unbroken width and continuity of plunge, but its striping by buttress and couloir, its impending masses of sérac, its huge piles of avalanche ruins below, and the frequency of the falls that take place, whose fresh traces are obvious even when they are not beheld in actual descent, all serve to increase the observer's sense of the actual steepness of the face. First beheld from near at hand, the vast size of the thing overwhelms the beholder, and yet this first impression is small compared with the ultimate sense of size which slowly grows within him as he gazes and learns the meaning of the details. His attention will soon be called to the fact that the whole face is ruled with lines. They seem fine, almost like the meshes of a spider's web, but a brief consideration proves that they are the tracks of falling masses--some of avalanches, others of falling stones. They are not fine lines at all, but deep grooves, perhaps ten feet wide and as deep as the height of a man. Realise that fact, as the climber does (in so doing he in his turn has the advantage), and you at once magnify, and may even overmagnify, the scale of the view. [Illustration: 41. BODEN AND GORNER GLACIERS. Monte Rosa from the Schwarzsee. The last gleam of the daylight. The foot of the Riffelhorn on the left.] It is a commonplace to proclaim the exhaustless prodigality of Nature's inventions, which every field of grass sufficiently proves, and yet it always seems to me that these great faces specially exemplify it. How easy, one might imagine, to invent detail for a precipice of ice and rock--but take a blank sheet of paper and try; you will find the task almost hopeless. Then turn to any view of Monte Rosa from Macugnaga and observe how it has been done, and how much, indeed how entirely, the effect of the view depends upon the structure and variety of the wall. The classical point whence the face is seen at its best is the Pizzo Bianco. There is a photograph from it in the eleventh volume of the _Alpine Journal_. Note how essential every detail is to the effect of the whole, and how impossible it would be to invent such a consistent multitude of details. The sky-line is of minor importance; it does not hold the eye. What first attracts it is the great sweeping buttresses that emerge through the snow and carry the attention down by their parallelism. As we look more closely at them we find that they in turn break up into minor groups of parallels, and these again into similar elements; yet with all this general repetition no two details are the same. The aspect of the general structure may be compared to that of a leaf with a number of ribs all obedient to a single law of form. The snow that fills the spaces between the buttresses and overflows them where it can, is no dead covering, but alive like a river. We obtain at first glance, now that we know how to look for it, a sense of its weight and movement. How strange it seems that that movement should not have been observed centuries ago! The flowing of the snow is expressed by all sorts of signs. Here it breaks into cliffs and tumbles; there it pours down in a continuous stream interrupted only by crevasses, which indicate its relative speed at adjacent points; there again, on some small ledge or gentler slope, it lags and piles up. But as a rule it is evidently in haste to get down, and the signs of this haste are a measure of the steepness of the slope. High aloft the plunge seems vertical, and one wonders how any snow can adhere to such uncompromising crags. When the mists are drawn across it, or a bed of clouds lies at its foot, filling the Macugnaga valley as with a white lake, the wall seems yet more cliff-like. It is only when low sunlight strikes it aslant and makes manifest its modelling that a suggestion is given of the actual angle of the slope leading up from the glacier floor below to the giddy crest. Another kind of mountain front, akin to these yet belonging to a class of its own, is the true rock-face. Such may have their ledges and gullies picked out with snow, or even (as in the case of the Meije) a small glacier caught on a shelf, but snow must not predominate, must not even cover a considerable fraction of their surface. Mountains with rock-faces of this kind are, of course, commonest among the secondary groups. Thus there are many in Canton Glarus and thereabouts, yet more among the Dolomites and in all the limestone districts. The west face of the Weisshorn may perhaps be counted a rock-wall, but, if that is excluded, the Grivola is, I think, the biggest example. The Blümlisalp and Breithorn, Altels and the Balmhorn, are other examples. If, however, I were to be compelled to select one such peak as type, I should choose Pelmo or Schlern in the Dolomites, and be content, even though some vaster example were quoted against me. For, after all, it is not the actual scale that matters, but the appearance of scale. I have heard it said that the north-east face of the Zinal Rothhorn is the biggest true cliff in the Alps. It may be, but it does not so appear from any ordinary point of view--the Rothhorn, in fact, seeming insignificant from almost everywhere. These rock fronts must not be looked at from too far away. Unless they subtend a high vertical angle to the vision they produce little effect. But stand beneath them, and what pomp and power they display! You must be near enough to see the details of their structure, and to trace the joints of their masonry, for it is in the recognition of their upbuilding, stone by stone, that their impressiveness consists. That is why a snow-slope drawn down across the edges of their strata is so little to be desired. If by good-luck the successive strata vary somewhat in colour, the cliff will be magnified thereby. To the perception of multiplicity recurrent detail is essential, and that perception involves relative proximity and is helped by familiarity. The oftener you stand beneath such a wall the bigger it appears to grow. It is not a thing that can be painted, still less photographed; for no painter could set down details enough, and the camera will not select the right ones. It is the horizontal details that we want. If the reader will observe how a high tower or other lofty building impresses its scale upon him, he will find it to be by the joints of its masonry, unless indeed he be standing far off and the tower is seen to rise high above the houses of a town whose size is instinctively perceived. Here again the accomplished climber who has actually scrambled up the sheer face of such a cliff and so measured it against his own slow progress and his accumulated fatigue, has an advantage over any mere spectator. This advantage is increased by the fact that he will recognise and know the size of many details of ledge and pitch which he has actually handled and surmounted. Such personal knowledge is the best of all measuring scales. A traveller who cannot attain it must be content with the lesser insight that can be attained by slow examination. In no case is the full effect to be perceived at once. Nature sometimes, as it were, flings herself upon our imaginations and suddenly overpowers us by her excessive grandeur. At other times she seems to say, "It is nothing"; so as to let superficial persons pass by; but just then perhaps we are in the presence of some superlatively great exhibition of her majesty which it requires experience, time, and attention to discover. It should remove any tendency to conceit in those who have travelled far and seen much to remember that, however often they may have beheld and delighted in glorious sights, the best-visioned of them and the most sensitive has missed far more than he has seen. What opportunities he must have had, and how relatively few of them has he utilised! At best he has been but like a traveller in a motor-car, whisking across historic lands, and passing here by an abbey, there through some old town, there again over some historic battle-field, and not suspecting their existence, or not knowing enough to thrill with the rich emotions they would excite in a better-informed mind. It is not the eyes that are lacking, but the knowledge and the time to acquire it. You may scurry along below the cliff of Pelmo without a flutter of the heart. But wander half a day beneath it, examine its details, watch the sunlight playing on its ledges, and the shadows in the gullies that cut them, a sense of its grandeur will invade your consciousness, and the memory of that will remain with you till you turn childish with old age and others know that you have lived too long. [Illustration: 42. THE BREITHORN FROM SCHWARZ SEE.] Whatever the dignity of these great walls, when suitably beheld, the peaks they belong to, if their summit crests are long and flat, are not comparable for individual beauty of form with the snow domes or the ridged pyramids. They have, however, an importance and perform a function of their own in any large mountain panorama of which they form a part. Before me as I write there chances to lie Donkin's photograph of the view from the New Weissthor, looking down the Gorner glacier. The pyramid of the Matterhorn is on the right; the wall of the Breithorn is in the midst; the curdled snow-face of the Lyskamm is near at hand on the left. It is not by any means a perfect natural composition, yet it does fix the attention, and a moment's thought shows that it does so by the marked contrast between the forms of the Breithorn and the Cervin. Blot either of them out and the character of the view is changed. I well remember standing, one very clear day, on the summit of a relatively high peak in the icy heart of Spitsbergen and surveying a vast panorama. The peaks in it being all actually small (though not appearing so) and the area of the panorama very large, the multitude of peaks in sight was numerically much greater than in any Alpine panorama, not excluding even that from Mont Blanc. In one direction the mountains happened to be all of one character. Each was similar in form to its neighbour. Some distance further round was another group formed of peaks as various as are the Alps. It was at once obvious how much the variety added to the picturesqueness. The same lesson can be learnt from the top of Monte Viso. Look southward and you will behold, ridge behind similar ridge, a remarkable uniformity. Face northward and round to the east, the effect is one of infinite variety. Such variety, contrast of walled peak with pyramid, of pyramid with dome, here thronged together, there sundered by some wide stretch of lower elevation, entertains and stimulates the observer's mind. Sometimes the repetition of a form with only slight change has the value of emphasis, or, as in the case of minor ridges dividing couloirs or side glaciers, it binds the composition together and forms a kind of warp and woof for Nature's detailed embroidery. The value of repetition is instinctively felt by most in the case of a pair of peaks, standing side by side and visibly linked together by some high connecting ridge, or apparently linked by what seems to be a ridge but is really produced by foreshortening. They are frequently named "the Twins." A notable instance of such a pair is the Dom and Täschhorn. Stand anywhere commanding a view down the Zermatt valley, where you can see this pair of peaks defining it on the right, and the Weisshorn's delicate and single pyramid opposed to them on the left, and you will at once recognise how much the great pair and the single peak gain by contrast with one another. Or climb (I should now say take the train) to the Gorner Grat and look abroad to the south. How much less effective would be the panorama if the two long walls of the Breithorn and Lyskamm had a third similar wall between them instead of the coupled domes named Castor and Pollux. [Illustration: 43. THE LYSKAMM. From the Riffelberg. Gorner glacier below.] It would be easy to continue this fanciful classification of Alps and discussion of types for another fifty pages, but it would serve no useful purpose. Long before this the reader has probably been objecting that it is an unscientific and incomplete classification, and that most peaks could be made to enter all the categories if regarded from suitable standpoints. Such, in fact, may be the case. My object in thus writing has merely been to suggest cross-routes and byways for the memories, fancies, and future observations of my readers. The mountains for us who love them are the playthings of our fancy. We may do with them what we please. They excite in us the sense of beauty, and we try to tell of the emotions we have felt in their presence. Those emotions quickened by them, how we know not, in fact arise in us. We are free to make of them what we please, to give them any kind of play. They are then bound by no scientific laws. A mountain may be a chunk of granite heaved up by I know not what play of forces and carved out by a perfectly orderly denudation; but to me, if I please, it is a Maiden, an Ogre, a Golden Throne. I can endow it with a character, and reckon up friends and foes to it amongst its neighbours. Or I can call it a fairy palace, and people it with sprites and dancing creatures of gossamer clothed in the dawn. No one can say me nay. Now and again, perhaps, I may whisper my dream to a sympathetic friend--but not often. For the most part we keep such heart-frolics of a happy hour in the inaccessible places of their origin. Brother climber! we have secrets of our own, you and I--secrets that we never told to one another, even when we stood side by side together on the mountain-top. But there was a thrill within each of us, was there not? and each knew that with the other it was well. CHAPTER VIII PASSES A peak is primarily a thing to be looked at. It was only after the aspect of peaks had smitten the imagination of men that the desire to climb them arose. The climbing impulse is subordinate to the eye's delight. A pass, on the other hand, is a thing to be climbed and looked from, but only in a minor degree to be looked at. It is an experience rather than a sight. Few passes indeed are striking objects in a view. The Col Dolent, the Güssfeldtsattel, the Col du Lion, and a few more are imposing when you approach the foot of their final slopes, but it would be difficult to distinguish between such slopes and a similar mountain face. The fact that the slope leads to a notch or saddle in the sky-line does not give it dignity; that comes to it from its own character as a slope, and would be the same if it led to any other kind of sky-line. Passes, therefore, in and for themselves, are not conspicuously striking and beautiful elements in any great mountain panorama, and do not call for discussion by us from that point of view. As experiences, however, they take another rank. I have long been prepared to maintain their general superiority to peaks in that respect. Passes generally lead through finer scenery than is commanded from the flank of a peak. A peak climbed rewards you with a panorama which no pass can offer; but, that excepted, the average pass is superior to the average peak for the scenery it reveals, and in the nature of things it must be. In climbing a peak, unless you are going up an arête, you normally have a steep slope rising straight in front of you. A few square yards of rocks or snow fill most of your vision as you look ahead. If you raise your eyes up the slope, you see it in its least impressive form, foreshortened into a mere belt. The real view is behind you, and you must turn round to behold it. That involves standing still and may mean delay. But in traversing a pass you normally ascend the bottom of a glacier valley, and the fine views are ahead and on both hands. The valley is not likely to be so narrow that you are not far enough away from its two sides, or at least one of them, to be able to behold the slope as a whole, from bottom to top, and not unduly foreshortened. Of course this general character of pass-routes is subject to infinite variation. The final slope is often steep, and the ascent of it will then be like the ascent of a mountain face; but, broadly speaking, it must be obvious that passes offer better chances for enjoying continuous fine scenery than peaks, and experience proves it. Pass-traversing, to me, however, and doubtless to many others, seems to possess more elements of romance than peak-climbing; for this reason--to climb a peak is to make an expedition, but to cross a pass is to travel. In the one case you normally return to the spot whence you set out; in the other you go from the known to the unknown, from the visible to what is beyond. The peak, which is before you when you set out to climb it, is only explained, not revealed, as you ascend; but every pass is a revelation: it takes you over into another region. You leave one area behind and you enter another; you come down amongst new people and into fresh surroundings. You shut out all that was familiar yesterday and open up another world. This is true of all passing over; it is of course especially true when you are making a new pass for the first time. Then you have to find the way down as well as the way up, and the interest is sustained to the last moment. It has been my good-fortune to have had opportunities of climbing many new peaks and crossing several new passes--one of them the longest mountain-glacier pass in the world. Beyond all question the passes have been more interesting and exciting than the peaks. When you reach the summit of your peak the excitement suddenly ends; on the top of a pass it only culminates. The long pass to which I have above referred took about a fortnight to reach from the highest habitations. We could see the saddle ahead all the time, and we slowly drew nearer to it. The wonder increased as to what we should find on the other side. Whither should we be led on? Where should we come out? What difficulties might bar our progress? Not till the very moment when we topped the ascent and stood upon the col could any of these questions begin to be answered. Nor could any of them be fully answered till the week of descent had been actually accomplished. But the first sight over, the first glimpse into the new world, that was worth toiling for--that, and the last long regretful look back down the valley up which we had come, whose details had fastened themselves durably upon our memories. [Illustration: 44. THE ROAD FROM VITZNAU TO GERSAU. The _Obere nase_ corner. Pilatus group in the distance.] What the travelling explorer in previously untraversed places feels so keenly is, after all, only a slightly stronger form of the emotion that every pass affords to every climber who traverses it for the first time. He awaits the arrival at the summit for the moment of supreme revelation. He has the same slow development of desire to see over; the same sudden burst of illumination at the top; the same regretful look back; the same pleasurable anticipation of novel experiences awaiting him on the descent. He too leaves one world and comes into another; leaves if it be but the home of a night in exchange for untried quarters. It is this similarity between ordinary Alpine climbing and new exploration that gives to the former one of its greatest charms. The fact that a thing is new to us suffices. It is almost, perhaps quite, as good to behold for the first time what we have heard speech of, as to behold what no one has ever beheld before. We shall find friends to converse and share memories with about the one; we are liable to be considered bores if we talk too much about the other. The explorer writes his book and then dwells with his memories alone, but the Alpine traveller lays up a store of experiences and reminiscences, the pleasure of which he can share with a goodly number of friends, old and young. Passes, like peaks, admit of classification. The first and most beautiful is the long snow pass, the kind of pass which is reached by ascending one long glacier, and from which the descent leads down another long glacier, so that the point of departure is as widely separated as possible from the point of arrival, and the divergence of scenery between the two extremities most pronounced. These may be called the great snow highways. The longest snow highway-pass, and to my thinking one of the finest in the Alps, leads right through the heart of the Bernese Oberland from the Lötschen valley at one end to the Grimsel at the other. It is really not one pass but a succession of three, for three ridges have to be crossed--which, however, only increases its interest. It leads through snow scenery of superlative pomp and extent, and reveals that scenery in the most fascinating manner, continually opening out and presently again closing up the wildest vistas, and always providing new interests and fresh culminations. Bietschhorn, Aletschhorn, Jungfrau, Finsteraarhorn, not to mention other less important peaks, in turn dominate the view, and one glacier after another opens out a vision of remote blue valleys and lower ranges. I am aware that this long traverse does not oppose to the climber the smallest real difficulty from end to end, and that it is what is commonly described as "a mere snow pound." It calls for endurance and that is all. Unless the climber counts scenery first among the attractions of the way, he will be well advised to select some other expedition. He who does so count it will agree with me that this is _par excellence_ "the" pass of the Central Alps. It lacks only one element of charm: it brings the traveller down into the same kind of scenery as that from which he started. A similar remark may be made on the Strahleck, which is likewise a glorious snow highway. Both passes, it may be observed, are eminently suited for ski experts to traverse in winter, under suitable conditions of weather and equipment. To find the long snow pass in its most romantic form one must look for it in a region where a great mountain range divides districts of strongly contrasted scenic character. There can be no doubt whither we should turn. The great range that gazes southward over Italy and northward into Switzerland perfectly fulfils the conditions. This culminates along the watershed south of Zermatt, which place is therefore indicated as the starting-point at one end. Of the long snow passes leading southward from Zermatt, the Lysjoch undoubtedly takes first place for magnificence of scenery throughout the whole length of its route. Gymnastic climbers may ask, Why not the Sesiajoch? On the north its route coincides with that of the Lysjoch, but on the south they diverge, and the easier route lies through finer if less catastrophic scenery. The Sesiajoch plunges down a great wall, and the view does not vary for a long time. The Lysjoch leads down one of the loveliest glacier valleys in Europe and affords endless variety. There is really no comparison between the two. We may therefore select the Lysjoch as type of the noblest kind of Alpine pass. Consider what wealth of interest it supplies to those who traverse it from Zermatt at one end to Gressoney at the other; for to enjoy a pass properly it should be followed from village to village throughout its full length, and not merely from hut to hut. The modern method of zigzagging across the crest of a chain without descending far below the snow-line, taking one pass one day and another the next, is, I am aware, not without fascinations, to which who has not succumbed? but it is not the best way to enjoy scenery, for it lacks the enforcing emphasis which the exchange of levels yields. It is of the essence of such a pass as the Lysjoch that it leads you from the foot of a great glacier, up through its whole length to its head, and then from the head of another glacier down to its foot. It thus traces a definite and natural succession of the features of a glacier. It is like following the course of a river from mouth to source, or passing through the progress of the seasons of a year. From step to step there is a succession of related features, each being another stage of the one before and of the one next to follow. Thus there is a growth of interest. What you behold is not a mere succession of unrelated vistas. Each foreground in turn implies all that has been passed and all that is yet to come on the upward way. True, convenience generally dictates that you shall not actually enter upon a glacier at its extreme foot, and mount right up it to its head. There is probably better going for part of the way along the bank. But the glacier is commonly close at hand and in full view most of the time, so that you become familiar with it at all points of its course. To ascend it is to advance through stages of increasing glory and purity. First you have its shabby moraine-strewn extremity; then its cleaner surface and open white crevasses. Higher up they turn continually bluer and the ice grows still whiter. The glacier widens; the slopes that border it become less grassy. You are leaving the habitable, profitable world behind, and approaching the clean undevelopable lands, which man may visit but where he must not dwell. The naked crags stand forth on either hand, furrowed with snow couloirs, and clothed with white raiment. Now you come to the snow-covered surface of the glacier itself. Blue-looking pools of water may be seen here and there. The snow becomes purer as you advance. There are no more dust-patches or groups of rocks interrupting the clean surface. Higher up, the glacier breaks into bolder forms as it pours down over steeper and more rugged slopes. The séracs tower aloft, fantastic in form and unstable in position. Great crevasses marvellously coloured in their depths yawn all about. You wind your way amongst them, creeping over snow-bridges and under impending walls and pinnacles of ice, all decked with sparkling icicles. Finally, you emerge on to some gentler-sloping, wide-expanding field of spotless snow, that only a gentle undulation diversifies with the most delicately displayed modelling. All around are steep slopes of snow or ice, cliffs of newly-riven rock, avalanche tracks and heaps of ruin. The details of the high peaks can be distinguished, their overhanging cornices, their furrowed sides. Ahead, and not so far away, is now the pass--a broad opening between great heaped-up domes of snow, perhaps with crests of rock cutting through. The slope grows easier. At last the ground is level, and a distant view opens before you as behind. You are on the top. The ascent has been marked, as a morning's work should be, by steady growth of interest. The descent, though it merely reverses the order of events and succession of interests, is not a simple inversion of the experiences of the ascent. It would be if you descended backwards, facing the pass, but such is not the human method of going. You now face downwards, and have before you the blue valley, the distant lower ranges, and perhaps some fragment of the broad lowlands in view, whereas in going up you look at the heights. The valleys promise rest and refreshment to your growing fatigue. The way becomes less laborious as you descend. You leave the snow behind gladly. The first flowers welcome you. And now as you quit the ice and traverse the high meadows the steady increase of fertility is delightful to observe. You enter the tree-level through a fringe of skimpy and wind-beaten scouts. The timber becomes finer as you advance. After all, this fertile earth is the place for man. Down you go into a new valley, the torrent hurrying and tumbling beside you. You come to a poor village and then to one more thriving. Fruit-trees begin to find place, and then chestnuts. How delightful it is to come down to the chestnut-level! It is then no far cry to the figs and the Italian lakes, and all the luxury of north Italian nature--its rich atmosphere, its colour, its suave forms, and picturesque surprises. [Illustration: 45. AMSTEG IN THE REUSSTHAL. On the St. Gotthard Railway. Entrance to the Windgelle Tunnel above the last house on right of picture.] To cross thus and through such stages from the austere Swiss valleys to Italian frolic and ease, is to enjoy one of the greatest pleasures. You can do it by going over a peak, but clearly peaks are not natural passage-ways. They do not suggest themselves for traverse, whereas passes do. The whole idea of a peak is a provocation to the climber to get to the top. A pass invites him to come over; it calls from valley to valley. Who would ever think of going to a col and then returning in his tracks to the starting-point unless misfortune compelled him? The suggestion is absurd. Passes are the natural gateways of the hills--at first the easiest and lowest gaps; next the best gaps that could be found from valley to valley; lastly, any notch between two peaks, even if they are twin-culminating summits of a single mountain. Indeed, provided the point of crossing is a notch, so that, when you stand in it, you see a peak rising on either hand of you, you have the feeling that you are going over a pass--that the wall Nature has erected in your way has been overcome; and that feeling is the thing. The broad portals of the great mountain highways offer, as I have said, and obviously must offer, scenery of the grandest and most logically consistent type along all the way; but there are passes of other kinds richly endowed with power to please. I would choose next, as a delightful type, the most opposed in character to the broad snow col,--I refer to those range-traversing routes which lead over steep mountain-walls. Such on a great scale for the Alps are the Col du Lion, the Domjoch, and the Col de Miage. I think, however, that the classical pass of this kind is the Triftjoch. It will at all events perfectly serve as an example of the rest. Seeing that, by definition, the final slope of all such passes is a steep wall, that wall, dropping from the watershed, must be at the end of some deep glacial recess. Herein lies the distinguishing feature of the way. The lower part of the route will resemble the lower part of any other pass, but ultimately somewhere in the _névé_ region the traveller is led into a deeply embayed cirque. The snow-field may and often does lie almost level at the foot of the wall, perhaps above some final ice-fall which it has been difficult to surmount. These high _névé_ basins that look so lake-like and restful in the heart of the hills are always lovely. Imposing precipices rise around them, and in fact feed them with showers of avalanches on active days. But in fine summer weather the avalanches have all fallen. The surrounding walls are like a defensive fortress, towering so high and steeply, and excluding the world and all its vicissitudes and violences. It is only a seeming, for nowhere, in fact, do storms eddy and surge with more violence than in these theatres of the mountains. But seeming is the very substance of beauty, and all the fine-weather aspect of these places is suggestive of peace. The further you advance the more completely are you enclosed. Sometimes a bend in the hollow may actually so shut you in, that no glimpse of the lower regions is to be seen in any direction. Such isolation is delightful for a while. Besides yourselves there is no other trace to be found of the existence of the human race, or of its ever having existed; you might be on the surface of the moon and discover nothing more indifferent to mankind and their motions. A few hours of sunshine will blot out every sign of your passing. This entire cleanness and invulnerability is specially delightful to men who have grown up in crowded cities, where, save sometimes in the sky, the very reverse is the case, and nothing is visible that does not imply the handiwork of man. The final climb is like all wall-climbing, and commands no view unless you can turn round; but so much the more does the last step tell, the step that lifts your eyes above the crest and suddenly displays to you the great vista on the other side. In peak-climbing, the views to right and left rapidly develop and approach as you near the top; it is only in the ascent of these wall-ended passes that the view is kept back to the last, and then suddenly revealed. In the case of the Triftjoch, as you climb to it from Zermatt, the result is even more than usually impressive; for what bursts upon your vision, right opposite to you, on the far side of a splendid and vast circle of snow-field, is the whole pyramid of the Dent Blanche, from base to summit, with its finest side turned towards you. For the view thus to burst upon the traveller with overwhelming suddenness, the steepness of the wall of ascent must be continued to the very top. If it rounds off for the last few feet, as sometimes happens, the effect is spoiled. The Triftjoch view is one of the best arranged, because the gap you pass through is so narrow, and the distance is beheld as it were in a frame of rocks, which form a foreground. Most saddles of the kind are wider. Then the view lacks foreground and is no better than part of a mountain-top panorama. The narrow gaps are the ones to look for. They can be found all over the Alps, but not usually along the crest of the main ranges. [Illustration: 46. THE DENT BLANCHE FROM THE RIFFELBERG. July 22, 1903. The Dent Blanche and all the other peaks mostly engaged in powdering their heads behind a curtain of cloud. The water in foreground is not a lake, merely a pond of rain-water.] There is, however, a great charm attached to many passes across minor ridges. They enable an expedition to be made, out and back, from a single centre, with variety of scenery all the way--up one side valley and down another. The side valleys often deserve more attention than they get. A climber's natural tendency is to go for the big expeditions--the highest mountains and the greatest passes. It is worth observing that the greater the scale on which mountains are built, the more widely are the main features separated. Minor peaks and lower ridges have their different members nearer together. Juxtaposition often produces admirable results, and may educate the eye to look for effects on a great scale which have once been observed in little. After all, variety is the great thing,--variety and the emphasis that contrast gives to beauty of different kinds. It is so easy to grow accustomed, so easy to become dull to an effect that is constantly before the eyes. How tired of ourselves, and one of another, we should become, if we were not always growing older! In the mountains, if we would have our sense of their beauty ever fresh, our appreciation of it ever keener and keener, we should alter our point of view: exchanging great for small, arid magnificence for fertile attractiveness, snow for rock, peak for pass, alp for valley. We should beware of specialisation. Why climb only aiguilles? Why scramble up nothing but rock-faces? There may be breadth or narrowness even in our play. We are likely to manifest in life as a whole the qualities that we show in sport. Why not make play react on life? A highway-pass penetrates a range by help of a corridor, a wall-pass leads right over a cliff. These are the two most definitely marked types of col. We might feel ourselves compelled to assign most cols to one type or the other, if we allowed our freedom to be restrained by the bondage of scientific definition. There is, however, a kind of pass which I prefer to capture for a group by itself, though no descriptive name for it occurs to me,--I mean passes like the Weissthor or the Col du Géant, which are approached by regular snow highways on one side, and fall very rapidly on the other. They and their like are always popular, and there are many of them. Their chief general characteristic is the contrast that must strike every one between the ascent and the descent, on one side and on the other, and between the views in opposite directions from the col. This side, you look down a glacier valley with a broad white foreground limited by a mountain avenue, along which some great glacier flows, winding away. That side, a cliff plunges from your feet, and such foreground as there may be consists of the nearest mountains before you. Thus the near view fixes your attention in one direction, the remote distance in the other. One is essentially a view among mountains, the other an outlook over the wide earth. One impresses by its wildness, the other by its extent. You keep facing about, and, each time you turn, the contrast of scenery enforces the charm of either outlook. Obviously the right way to enjoy such a pass to most advantage is to ascend by the gentler slope and to go down the cliff. It is not the easiest way for the climber, who is likely to prefer to mount the cliff and descend the slope. The technically and æsthetically best are here at variance. In ascending by the highway side the fine view is always before you, but if you go up the cliff nothing faces you but a few acres of snow and rock. On the contrary, when you descend the cliff, the uninteresting outlook is at your back and the fine view in front all the way. The crest of some passes of this sort, notably of the Weissthor, is a point of vantage for enfilading a great mountain face. Usually one looks up or down such faces, or, being actually upon them, can only look a short distance to right or left. But from the crest of a suitable pass you may see the great curtain of ice and rocks edgewise, and the view has an impressiveness of its own. Those who have seen Niagara, or any wide waterfall of considerable height, will remember how fine it is to stand and look along the edge of it. Fronting it, you obtain a sense of its width; below it, you feel its force and volume; but in profile its grace is its leading quality. So is it with a wide mountain-wall. It is not enough to see it from below, or from over against. It must also be looked along. Then its surface modelling, its outsets and insets, its ribs and gullies, the meandering as well as the slope of its front become apparent. Few great walls of this kind do not grandly curve round. They are most impressive when that curvature is apparent. Once thus beheld, a wall takes on a new meaning when seen again from some more common standpoint. It no longer looks flat. Its bays and buttresses become perceptible to the trained eye, which is thus better enabled to appreciate the complexities of form and the true architecture of any other mountain-wall afterwards encountered. There remains but one more type of pass that appeals for special mention before our space is exhausted. It is the Couloir Pass, a col led up to by a narrow snow-or ice-filled gully. The Col du Mont Dolent and the Col du Lion are the grandest examples of the type, which however is not an uncommon one. For me these passes always possess singular charm. They are really a subdivision of the wall-pass group, but they arouse emotions altogether their own. Once in the couloir you are completely isolated, almost as though perched in the air. A wall of rocks close at hand shuts you in on either side. The steep slope rises in front. Behind, you look straight away to some far distance with nothing to interrupt the vision. So indeed you do from the face of a wall or cliff, but the effect is greatly enhanced by your enclosure on either hand. The contrast between those near rocks to left and right and the absolute openness behind makes the steep drop of the slope appear much steeper than it is. Perhaps you may be compelled to remain for hours in the narrow gully. So much the more striking becomes the view revealed at the top and the sudden sense of being in the open. It has been implied that the couloir has to be ascended, for such is usually the choice, and sometimes the only wise choice; but it is far more delightful to descend one, with the view in front all the way and the valley bottom slowly approaching. Never is the depth beneath better appreciated than under such circumstances. [Illustration: 47. THE VILLAGE OF SOLDIMO, AT THE ENTRANCE OF THE VAL MAGGIA.] I have thus far been referring to passes from the climber's point of view, as leading from one mountain centre to another. Truly, however, the whole of a pass is the route through a mountain region from plain to plain. Few mountaineers nowadays ever cross a range in that way except by train, and yet it is one of the most delightful experiences. Motor-cars will enable us to enjoy such traverses by road, when the Swiss have learnt the wisdom of granting free passage across the Alps to any kind of vehicle. It is only when a range of mountains is approached from the plain that its mass and geographical value as a dividing wall can be felt. Arriving by train among mountains is a very different thing, for you can see nothing from a train unless you are the engine-driver--all revealing views being necessarily ahead. Afoot there is usually some definite point, immediately perceptible, where you first come in contact with the slope. You enter the mouth of a valley; the hills reach forth their arms to embrace you, and you consciously enter a new world. Beside you is now a riotous river on the one hand and a steepening slope on the other. It is not long before you know that you have begun to ascend. The flatness of the valley's mouth presently changes into a gentle slope. At first the fertility of the plain accompanies you into the hills, but the fields grow smaller, the villages may be cramped for space and forced to adapt themselves to difficult ground, attaining a new picturesqueness in the process. Thus for long miles, hour after hour, and, in large mountain regions, day after day, the character of the scenery slowly changes. The mountains grow bigger; vegetation varies with level and aspect; Nature grows more austere, and therewith more magnificent. You traverse some vast defile, like the gorge of Gondo perhaps, where road and river find passage beneath opposite cliffs, water-worn and of imposing height. You enter secluded basins, where the valley widens to close again; you pass round the margin of lakes that hold the hill-tops, as it were, in their depths. And always the flanking heights grow greater, and their tops, when visible, further and further away. Side valleys radiate, leading around romantic corners to invisible fastnesses. The slope of the main valley steepens again. You reach the foot of the forest region, the snouts of glaciers begin to appear, and high aloft the snows look down upon you. Now you traverse the last village and approach the foot of the glacier that fills your valley's head. You mount beside it through the tree-belt and out on to the grassy alp, then up that to the region of broken rocks and stones, and so to the margin of the snow. It is only the last stage of your traverse which now arrives, but that last stage is the beginning and end of the mere climber's pass. To you it means much more--it is the crest of the great range that you have been so long penetrating to these its uttermost recesses. The final wall is before you, the great white wall that looked so ethereal, so cloud-like, when first beheld from afar. You toil up it, stand on the crest, and look abroad over the world of mountains. Then down to the stones, to the grass, to the trees, the high village, and the valley road. So onward again by the roaring torrent, down the ever more fertile, more luxuriant valley, till you come to the low hills and the wide flat stretches that at last lead you out on to the plain once more. [Illustration: 48. FLÜELEN AT END OF LAKE OF URI, SOUTH ARM OF LAKE OF LUCERNE. The pyramid of the Bristenstock in the background. Föhn wind blowing.] A long traverse of that kind is a real pass, a whole pass; nothing else is more than a fragment--a choice fragment it may be, but still a part and not the whole. The old mountaineers, such as John Ball, used to take their passes in this complete form. So did the old coach-travellers like John Ruskin in his early days. Now mountaineers scorn to waste time on so lengthy an experience and to remain for so long at low levels. It is not their way. They have continual business aloft. They leave to motorists that kind of expedition. What good-fortune, then, that motor-cars should have been invented in time to provide such possible delights for climbers when their days of activity are done. CHAPTER IX GLACIERS Incidentally, in the course of the preceding chapters, glaciers have been frequently referred to, but they form so prominent a feature in Alpine scenery as to demand a chapter alone. For, in fact, it is the glaciers that most of us think about when we turn our minds to the Alps. Minor ranges have walls of rock as precipitous and grand, gullies as difficult to climb, valleys as beautiful and even as profound as the Alps. Other European ranges are for a longer or shorter part of the year snow-covered, and often deeply snow-covered, so as to present snow-arêtes, cornices, couloirs, and snow-slopes that might almost have been stolen from the highest regions of so-called eternal snow. The Pyrenees, if exception be made of one or two small glaciers of no importance, are practically a range of this sort. They possess fascinations, and great fascinations, but lacking glaciers they lack what every traveller amongst them must feel to be the essential element of greatness. Where glaciers exist the mountains are of the grand style. A small Spitsbergen peak draped and surrounded by glaciers has a more imposing effect than a great tropical hill, three times as big, which lacks glaciers. Snow that vanishes away before it is a year old is generally feeble-looking stuff. It is only snow with a history, snow that has weathered twenty hot summers, that really tells in a view. The first is a mere inert covering of the ground; the second is a mighty and moving agent. In short, the one is dead; the other is alive. A sheet of snow, lying where it fell, is amorphous. It might be twice the size or half the size and any single square yard of it would be the same. But a glacier, the moving accumulation of a score or scores of winter snow-falls, is a unit, and all its parts imply the rest. Increase or diminish the area and you must needs change every detail, just as the whole body of a man is modified when he begins to grow stout or to waste away. It is not often that you can see the whole of a glacier in a single view, unless it be a very small glacier. Generally you see only a part; but, to one who knows, that part implies the whole. When you see a man's leg you know that there is the rest of him round the corner; from the attitude of what is visible it is often possible to infer much about what is hidden. So, too, is it with a glacier. The more familiar a man is with glacier phenomena, the more certainly can he infer from the known to the unknown. How easy it is with a little practice to tell at a glance whether a bit of white beheld aloft is part of a glacier or merely a bed of winter snow that will presently disappear. The one is modelled by its own motion; the other merely borrows its modelling from the ground on which it lies inertly. The sense of motion, unity, and life--it is when these are instinctively perceived in glaciers that a view of snow-mountains begins to possess its true significance. Before it had been discovered that glaciers move, people used to call them frightful, terrible, and so forth. Ignorance blinded men's eyes to the beauty that was actually in sight. Not knowing how to look, they could not see it. What forests, grass, and flowers are to the lower regions, that glaciers are to the higher--they are the vitalising element. Hence the importance to the mountain-lover of learning to know glaciers and familiarising himself with their structure, their ways, and their moods. It is easy enough to declare that every form and movement of a glacier is determined by the action of definite forces--so perhaps are all the ways and doings of men. But we pretend that they are not, and talk of our whims and moods, and may take the same liberty of speech about glaciers. Every climber knows that there are glaciers of all sorts and characters, and every mountain traveller knows that they behave differently in different climates and latitudes. In the Arctic regions they flow faster and spread more widely. They have a more viscous appearance to the eye. They bulge and swell at the lower end, so that no one would ever have invented the name "snout" for the termination of an Arctic ice-stream. Moreover they break very readily into crevasses, even upon gentlest inclines in their lower course, whilst high up they seem less ready to form ice-falls than in the Alps. Glaciers in Norway vary from the Arctic to the temperate character as you go from north to south. The glaciers of Lyngen resemble those of Greenland. The glaciers of Jotunheim are almost Alpine--more than Alpine, indeed, in the development of their glorious ice-cascades, but less than Arctic in the outreach of their lower extremities. The glaciers of the Tropics, again, present peculiarities of their own, due to the fact that the ice evaporates rather than melts. Thus their surfaces are dry and almost granitic in aspect. Their towering séracs seldom fall. Avalanches are much rarer than one would expect. Glacier streams are insignificant. Thus it is in the Bolivian Andes and thus also in the regions of Kenya and Ruwenzori. In the great Asiatic mountain territory there are glaciers of many types, corresponding to the great variety of climates. Those of Sikkim seem to be almost of the tropical character. Those of the Mustagh are of the temperate sort; and there are many intermediate varieties. [Illustration: 49. FURGGEN GLACIER ICEFALL. Furggjoch at top of picture.] Alpine glaciers are of the medium type, lying as they do half-way between the Arctic and tropical extremes. They have not the rapid flow of the Arctic nor the dry rigidity of the tropical sort. Their walls are not silent as in the Central Andes, nor thundered over by continual avalanches like those of the upper Baltoro. They are of medium size also. In a single day almost any of them may be ascended from snout to snow-field, and descended again. To explore their remotest recesses no elaborately equipped expedition is required. Yet they are large enough to be imposing, and penetrate deep enough into the heart of the hills to isolate their votaries completely from the world of human habitation. It is to this medium quality that the Alps owe much of their charm. This, too, it is that makes them an almost perfect mountain play-ground. Were they but a little smaller, how much they would lose that is most precious! Were they larger, how many persons that now can afford the cost and the strength to explore them would have to linger at their gates wistfully looking in. In area, too, they are large enough for grandeur and yet small enough for easy access. No part of them is beyond the range of a summer holiday, yet a commanding view of them is as apparently limitless as is the view from the greatest Asiatic peaks which, thus far, have been climbed. They are the only range of snow-mountains in the world thus blessed with moderation. It is for this reason that the Alpine climber so soon acquires an understanding of glaciers as units. A novice, after a single year's Alpine experience, can talk easily and with understanding of all the parts of a glacier. It takes twenty seasons to know them well, but the foundations of knowledge can be laid in one. The modern tendency amongst climbers is to devote their main attention to rock-scrambling; but those who have spent the best years of their life amongst mountains, generally end by giving their hearts to glaciers and the high regions of snow. The best advice that can be given to a young climber is, "Learn to know glaciers." They offer the strongest contrast to the ordinary surroundings of life. They present the most varied phenomena. They most readily impress the imagination. They are the vital element, the living inhabitants of the high world. [Illustration: 50. THE GLETSCHERHORN FROM THE PAVILION, HOTEL CATHREIN, CLOSE TO CONCORDIA HUT. One of the finest situations for views of the ice-world where no climbing is required.] If elsewhere I have praised the charms of contrast, of passing from low to high, from fertile to barren, let me here exalt another method. Who that has tried it will not agree that it is likewise well, sometimes, to hide oneself in the very heart of the upper snows, and there dwell for a while apart from the haunts of men? Formerly this was difficult to accomplish, but now, in the Alps at any rate, it is easy; for well-found high-level huts are many. Such, for instance, is the Becher Refuge, planted in the midst of the Tirolese Übelthal glacier, or the Kürsinger Hut, on the north slope of the Gross Venediger. Settled in either of these, you are in the midst of the high snowy world. The _névés_ are within a stone's throw, and the final peaks may be gained by a morning's walk. The Concordia Hut (now Hôtel, I believe) is similarly situated; whilst the hut on the top of the Signal Kuppe of Monte Rosa is yet more highly elevated. It is easy to spend a day or two in any of these huts, and so to pass before the eyes the whole daily drama as it is played upon the heights. So easy is it, that one wonders why more mountain-lovers do not avail themselves of the opportunity. The drawback, of course, is that such a hut is a centre of human activity. You forsake the hordes of men below, only to join a colony above. Solitude in these places is not to be had except in bad weather. There is one way, and one only, by which fully to experience the long emotion of a dweller in the heights: it is to camp out. Few, indeed, are they who have tried it in the Alps. Some have slept in a tent on the mountain-side before a great climb; but they are fewer now than a score of years ago. It is not, however, to such brief lodging I refer; but to a settlement made and victualled for several days. Mr. Whymper, I believe, is one of the few English climbers who has spent many days together with a tent at high altitudes in the Alps, and he has not published any notice of his experiences. It is a thing I have long wished to do, knowing so well the charms of such life in other mountain regions. From a high-planted camp you can climb if you must, but you can also enjoy yourself without climbing. To awake on a fine morning in the midst of the snow-fields and see the coming of day at leisure, with no preparations to be made for immediate departure; then to watch the sun climb aloft and flood the depths of the valleys with its glory; to spend the whole day at leisure in the vicinity of your tent, strolling now to look into some bergschrund, now to scramble on to some neighbouring point of rock, returning at intervals to dine, or read some pleasant book, or to sketch in the shadow of the tent;--that is the way to let the mountain-glory sink in. My climbing days on the heights have left me pleasant memories enough, but the high-level days of idleness have been more delightful, even when they were days of storm and driving snow. [Illustration: 51. THE TRUGBERG. Looking up the Aletsch glacier from corner of Märjelen See.] To be in the midst of a storm at a high altitude is a wonderful experience, which all climbers pass through sooner or later; but it is an uncomfortable experience. When you are camping-out high up you can enjoy a storm far more easily. I have sat warmly in my sleeping-bag and looked out for hours through a chink of the tent-door, fascinated to watch the whirling of the snow and to listen to the wild music of the gale. It is not the fine weather alone that is fair. There is a yet grander glory in the storms. What can be more superb than to watch the oncoming of such a visitant, to see the white valleys and dark precipices swallowed up in the night of its embrace, to feel the power of its might and the volume of its onrush, and to see and feel all this with the sense of security such as a limpet may be conceived to feel in the presence of waves breaking upon it? Who would not wish to spend a few hours in the Eddystone Lighthouse in the midst of a December gale? That would surely be worth while; like standing beneath the Falls of Niagara. Equally wonderful is it when the winds are still and a white fog envelops your little camp. Then you know what it is like to be alone. Above, around, and below all is impalpable whiteness. You might be floating in the air on a bit of snow-carpet for all the eye can tell you to the contrary. Never is silence more emphatic, not even in the darkest hour of the night. The ear strains with listening and hears only the pulsations of the heart, till some distant falling stone or rumbling avalanche, some crack of a new-forming crevasse, some slight shifting of a near snow-bed, sends a shiver through the air. And then, perhaps, there is a writhing in the mist and shortly forms emerge. You cannot tell at first whether they are tiny objects near at hand or remote masses. Under such circumstances I have mistaken a little fragment of paper drifting along the snow for a polar bear! Presently avenues of clearness open up to close again. Finally, the mist grows thin and glittering, the sunshine penetrates it, there is a moment of scorching heat, and lo! all is clear, and the great world around is perfectly revealed. [Illustration: 52. PALLANZA--SUNSET.] What beauty there is in the great snow-fields that wearied waders through their soft envelope are in no condition to appreciate! For to be seen at their grandest they must be seen in the full glare of mid-daylight, when details are swallowed up in radiant, all-enveloping splendour. Every one knows the glory of overpowering sound. For that orchestras are enlarged and choruses increased in number. Who that has heard the full-throated music of ten thousand men, singing as one, will forget the majesty of that voluminous sonorance? The thunder of great guns is used, by common consent, to express the salutations of a people. What is true of sound is also true of light. Great views are ennobled by the splendour of full sunshine. There is an indescribable charm about desert sunrises and sunsets, but the glory of the desert is greatest at noon when the sunshine seems to swallow up the world and almost to hide it in excess of brightness. As with the deserts so is it with the snow-fields. When the eye can barely suffer to rest on them, they are most impressive. If there be specks of dust upon the snow, they disappear then from vision. With the brightness comes perfect purity, and the very idea of possible contamination vanishes away. Reference has been made above to the beauty of linear form presented by many mountains projected against the sky. The great snow-fields have a beauty of surface form, a delicacy and perfection of modelling, far more remarkable. The graceful outline of a rock-peak, such as the Matterhorn, is, after all, a conception based upon a fact. The actual outline is a line elaborately jagged, which the eye converts into a continuous curve by purposely neglecting to observe the small indentations. But the curvature of a _névé_ is often apparently perfect. Its slight imperfections are too small for the eye to see even when they are looked for. Where it curves over, the outline of its edge is as delicate as any line that can be fashioned by the most elaborate artifice. No razor's edge is apparently more true. So also are the surfaces, in the perfection of their rise and fall. Not more perfect are the heavings of the last dying swell on a calming tropical ocean. But the swelling of the snows is still, and can be watched from dawn to eve with the incredibly delicate shades upon it that change with the hours yet never grow coarse, only towards the day's end they become blue and bluer, till the pink lights of sunset melt against them before the pallor of night comes on. [Illustration: 53. KRANZBERG--ROTTHALHORN--AND JUNGFRAU: SUNSET.] The details of the snow-fields are few, except when the surface is forced to break up by submerged inequalities of the glacier's bed. Then _névé_ ice-falls are formed, which are far more majestic than the ice-falls of the middle region (such as that of the Col du Géant). The high ice-falls are always deeply covered with recent snow, and the broken white mantle upon the tumbled chaos produces mysterious hollows and gives rise to long fringes of glittering icicles not elsewhere in summer to be seen. To gaze into a crevasse in such a situation is to look into a veritable fairy's grotto, where the recesses are bluer and the walls more white than the memory ever avails to recall, and where the icicles seem to be hung for the very purpose of sublime decoration. Glimpses of such sights are often granted to the mere climber as he hastily scrambles over a bergschrund by an insecure snow-bridge; but he has no time to stop for half an hour and let his fancy play truant in the depths. To do that, one must be living aloft, with all the day to spend as one pleases, no peak to attain and return from, within short time-limits, and no companions to say "Hurry up." Perhaps these pages may have the good fortune to inspire some mountain-lover with the wish to camp out aloft. A suggestion may, therefore, not be out of place. Let the intending high-level resident choose the situation of his camp with care. It must be out of the way of excursionists, or he will be invaded by continual visitors, who will expect entertainment and will thus deplete his stores and spoil his solitude. It ought not, however, to be difficult of access, or the problem of revictualling will be complicated and expensive. Such a camp should consist of two tents--one of them for guides or porters. The traveller's tent should be solid, and should possess a double roof or fly, so that it may be occupied with comfort in the hot hours of the day. It should be so firmly planted that no gale can overthrow it. Its furniture should be sufficient for comfort. Do not plan to move on from day to day, but settle down for a week or more at one spot, where there are rocks for a tent platform, and short scrambles that can be safely undertaken alone. Let the snow-field be near also, a snow-field that can be traversed on _ski_, and do not forget to take the _ski_ with you, nor fear that you will not be able to use them on fairly level ground without previous practice. Keep a man with you to fetch water and do the rough cooking, so that all your time may be your own to enjoy to the full a rare opportunity which may not come again. The middle region of the glaciers is the region best known to the votaries of the Alps, because it is the most accessible from the popular hotels. This middle region may be defined as limited by the snow-line above and the tree-level below. It is therefore larger towards the end of the season as the snow-line is pushed up by the melting of the winter snows. On the Aletsch glacier it roughly corresponds with the stretch between the Belalp and the Concordia; on the Gorner glacier with the corresponding stretch between the Riffelhorn and the foot of Monte Rosa. Its characteristic features are the open crevasses and the flowing or standing water on the surface of the ice. This is the place to come to for glacier picnics. It is the paradise of the moderate walker or the superannuated mountaineer. It is a safe region for the experienced to wander over alone, and for the inexperienced to visit with experts. You can start late and be back early. You need not venture forth before the weather has declared its intentions. Hence it is the popular glacier belt, and its beauties are best known and most widely appreciated. If it lacks the aloofness and romance of the _névés_, it possesses ample charms of its own. The impressive silence of the heights is here replaced by a chorus of the voices of many waters. The large simplicity and sweeping forms of the snow-fields give way here to a multiplicity of detailed forms that require time to appreciate and understand. Every step in this area yields a new wonder, a fresh incident, another surprise. All around is continual change as you go along. There is no end to the features that demand and reward your attention. No wonder that glacier wandering at this level should be so popular an amusement. What is its principal and characteristic charm? Undoubtedly the water, and the phenomena to which it gives rise. To begin with, there are the streams, small and great. The little trickles, that creep between the lumps of the uneven surface and deepen the furrow dividing them. They flow and unite together like the veins of a leaf, thus giving rise to larger arteries, and these by their union to yet larger. Thus the main drainage torrents are formed, which, on great Arctic and Himalayan glaciers, become veritable rivers, impossible to be leapt over or forded. The beds of these torrents are blue in colour and like transparent glass in aspect--a lovely contrast with the general surface of the glacier. For that is made white by the innumerable fissures that penetrate its surface, due to the dissolvent effect of the sun's heat, from which the icy water protects the bed of a stream. It is a favourite pastime to sit beside such a torrent and watch the water flow by between its white banks, one in bright sunshine, the other, perhaps, in shadow, with the blue ribbon of transparent ice between them and crystalline water scampering along with an aspect of joy in freedom. But there is a grim fate in store for it not far ahead. It must make haste to laugh in the sunshine while it can, and to display its short-lived clearness. Next time we see it, it will be thick and unclean with sediment, and far below in the valleys where men live and work. Little, however, does it seem to care as it hurries and dances along, and throws up its little glittering, splashing hands into the air. We follow it downward, and soon hear a musical booming not far away, like the note of a deep organ pipe. It is a _moulin_ or pot-hole, a cylindrical perforation of the glacier into which the torrent leaps, and where it disappears, to flow thenceforward in darkness along the rocky bed of the glacier, till it reappears at the snout into the open valley. Even lovelier than the streams are the pools on the surface of a glacier, when they have a clean floor unsoiled by moraine or sandy deposit. These pools are sometimes of large dimensions. They, too, have blue basins with white edges. Looked down upon from a distance, they appear like great sapphire eyes gazing at the heavens. Seldom, if ever, in the Alps are such pools found in the _névé_ region; to behold them there, one must go to Arctic glaciers, of which they form one of the chief glories. If the lakes on the Gorner glacier do not equal those for purity or perfection of contrast between untainted blue and unsullied white, they are none the less most lovely. Sometimes a lake may be found not on but beside a glacier, where the ice forms one bank and the mountain another. Such are the Märjelen See by the Great Aletsch, and the little-visited lake at the west foot of Monte Rosa. On these you may see floating or stranded masses of ice, and perchance find one that has recently turned over, displaying its blue part that was before submerged. [Illustration: 54. MÄRJELEN SEE AND GREAT ALETSCH GLACIER. Winter ice not yet melted on the lake.] Now and again, if you look for them, you will find crevasses filled with water, whose depth renders up a yet bluer tone than can elsewhere be met with in the regions of ice. Perhaps, at one end the crevasse will be roofed over, and there you may gaze into the deep shadow and find the blue deepen almost to black. If you drop in a stone, you may hear the bubbles come rippling up and the wavelets lapping against the sides. If the roof be thin enough, a hole may be made in it with the ice-axe, and a beam of sunshine admitted which will increase the scale of the harmony in blue. Well do I remember one glorious pool of water, roofed over with a dome of ice, through which the sunshine glimmered. At one side was a natural portal, at the other a window. Two or three white blocks of ice floated on the water, and its uneven depths were of all tones from sky-blue to black; but that was in Spitsbergen, where glacier details are far lovelier than the Alps can show. But the middle glacier region, the region of what is fantastically called the "dry glacier," presents other charms than those of water. Note, for example, the brilliance of its surface and the peculiarity of its texture. It consists of an infinite multitude of loosely compacted rounded fragments of ice with a little water soaking down between them. If you watch it closely, you will see that the moving water makes a shimmering in the cracks between the ice-fragments. You will also observe that the blue of the solid ice below the skin of fragments appears dimly through the white, and the least tap with an ice-axe to scrape away the surface reveals it clearly. Each little fragment of ice has a separate glitter of its own, so that the whole surface sparkles with a frosted radiance. It is not the same at dawn after a cold night, for then there is no water between the fragments, but all is hard and solid. No sooner, however, does the sun shine upon them, than the bonds are released and the ice-crystals begin to break up with a gentle tinkling sound and little flashes of light reflected from tiny wet mirror-surfaces. One can spend hours watching these small phenomena as happily as gazing upon the great mountains themselves. Size is a relative term. The biggest mountain in relation to the earth is no greater than is one of these small ice-fragments in relation to a glacier. Reduce the scale in imagination and the smallest object may be endowed with grandeur, for all such conceptions are subjective. The open crevasses that are never far away on the dry glacier are full of beauties. It is not easy to tire of peering down into them. Sometimes one may be found into which a man armed with an ice-axe may effect a descent. He will not stay there long, for the depths are cold. Once I was able not only to descend into a crevasse but to follow it beyond its open part into the very substance of the glacier. It was a weird place, good to see but not good to remain in, and I was glad to return to sunshine very soon. The moraines and scattered stones that are frequently encountered on the dry glacier are more interesting than beautiful. It is well to make the acquaintance of the medial moraines and to scramble over them, first for the wider view that one gets from the top, and next in order to realise their dimensions, always larger than one expects. Seen from a distance medial moraines look smaller than they are. The eye must be educated to realise their true dimensions. When that has been accomplished, the great scale of the glacier that carries them can be felt, but not before. There is generally a breeze blowing over a dry glacier, so that when the pleasant luncheon-hour arrives, a sheltered spot must be sought out, one open to the sun and protected against the breeze, with good water near at hand, and stones of convenient dimensions for seats and tables. Experienced wanderers will detect such spots far sooner than novices. It is with them as with good camping grounds: they are not easy to identify at a glance, but they are well worth hunting out. So also is it with points suitable for photography. A dry glacier is full of details for a camera, and yet how few good photographs does one see taken at this level among the mountains, unless they be distant views. Nowhere are there better foregrounds to be discovered; yet when they are looked for, how hard it is to find them. The composition is generally faulty in the inexperienced amateur's picture. But those who are experienced in the art seem to find suitable foregrounds everywhere. It is the result of much taking thought. Generally it happens that the return from a day's glacier wandering leads up the hillside along the margin, so that as we ascend, the area of our adventures spreads itself out below, and the eye can range over the whole of it at once. We look for the place where we lunched, for the broad streams with difficulty crossed, for the large pools we looked down into. They are not often discoverable. What looked so important near at hand has shrunk to an insignificant unidentifiable detail. The river is one of hundreds of the same kind. The pools are innumerable. The moraine stretches along for miles, and one of its mounds seems like another. We thus begin to realise the size of the great icy expanse. Our track over it has revealed but little of the multitude of sights there are to see. We have but glanced at a few samples out of countless thousands. Were we to return on the morrow we could not retrace our steps, nor find again the objects we saw to-day. For a moment the grand scale of the glacier imposes itself upon us, but before night has gone we shall have forgotten it. Only by coming again and yet again does it gradually sink into our understandings and become a part of the habit of thought with which we approach the Alps. CHAPTER X ALPINE PASTURES It is to be feared that the reader, whose persistence has availed to carry him thus far through the adventure of this book, may bring an accusation against me, on the ground that each form and type of scenery, as in its turn it has come to be discussed, has been described in language of too superlative praise, as though it and it alone were pre-eminent above all other Alpine forms and types. Let me forthwith confess that the accusation is well founded; for the fact is that, whether the attention be turned upon peaks of rock or domes of snow, upon cliffs or aiguilles, upon snow-fields or ice-falls, upon passes, alps, or valleys, the kind under immediate consideration always seems the finest, the central type and the most beautiful. We quit the valleys for the high snows in search of beauty. From the heights we return to the valleys on the same quest. Everywhere we may find it, and to find it is all we need ask; for it is like pure gold, whereof no fragment is intrinsically more precious than another. Each new-found nugget seems for the moment best of all. [Illustration: 55. THE CASTLE OF ZÄHRINGEN-KYBURG, THUN.] Beauty is not the prerogative of any zone or level of the mountains more than of any other. It is of different kinds in different regions, but not of different degrees. Some kinds may appeal to one man more than other kinds, but these in their turn will be preferred by a man of different disposition, and neither can boast that his taste is superior. Youthful vigour may find the keen consciousness of beauty most readily arising after difficulties have been overcome. Age may feel its sense of beauty deadened by toil. In neither case is the power of appreciation to be regarded as a test of the quality of the beauty perceived; it is merely an indication of the character of the person perceiving it. The normal Alpine climber is more sensitive to the beauty of the high regions than to the beauty of low levels. Nor is the fact surprising. He values that which he wins by toil, as is the natural habit of man. Yet he will by no means deny that there are beauties of the valleys and the middle regions, though he may freely confess that they appeal to him less powerfully. But even he, lying upon some high pasture or in the borders of a wood on some off-day, when the sun shines brightly and the peaks that he knows and loves look down upon him through a clear atmosphere, will realise consciously enough the fascination of the scene. The beauty of the middle region, however, stands in need of no apology, of no lengthy recommendation, for this is the region which the ordinary traveller most frequents and specially associates with his Alpine ramblings. The valleys are the home of the tripper; the alpine pastures, of the tourist; the snows, of the climber. Each class perhaps looks down upon the one below, but each is well rewarded and may rest content with what it receives. The grassy region between the belt of forest and the snows is known in Switzerland as the alps or high pastures, and it is from these "alps" that the great mountain range of Central Europe takes its name. An alp is essentially a summer grazing ground. It is the locality of cattle and horses, sheep and goats. A high Alpine village without an alp is an exceptional place. The normal village needs an alp for its equipment as much as it needs fields and woodland. The fact that there is an alp for summer grazing enables the grass lands at lower levels to be used as hay-fields; thus a supply of winter feed for the cattle is procured. Hay is also cut on some of the lower alps, but that is an exceptional use. The easily accessible alps are grazed by cattle. Highest alps whither cattle cannot go, or where frequent precipices surround the beasts with danger, are reserved for sheep and goats. Goat-alps are sometimes islands in the midst of glaciers, as, for instance, those at the foot of the Breithorn and the Twins along the south side of the main Gorner Glacier. Oftenest the alps grazed by sheep and goats are high up in the immediate vicinity of the snow-line, little patches of grass in a wilderness of rocks, or broken up by precipices. Some great grassy places at the ordinary cattle-alp level are so isolated by rock-walls that cattle cannot be taken to them with safety. Large flocks of sheep will then be found there. Such, for example, is the Muttenalp above Thierfehd in the Tödi district, which is grazed by some 1500 or 2000 sheep. A single shepherd looks after them, and is almost entirely cut off from the lower world throughout the long summer months. The alp in question lies in a hollow of the hills, with terraced slopes rising like an amphitheatre from a grassy hollow, only accessible from below by a giddy path. There would be grass enough here for many cattle if the path could be cheaply improved. Nothing in the Alps is more lonely and forlorn in aspect than are these high shepherds' huts. They are always wretchedly built. The lads or men that occupy them are the poorest of their village and the worst clad. In an alp where cheese is made there is plenty of work to fill every hour of the day; but a shepherd who lives aloft and does not have to drive his flock back to the village every day, finds time hanging heavily on his hands, and acquires a forlorn expression that matches his attire, his surroundings, and the miserable weather which so often envelops him. Those of us who climbed among out-of-the-way parts of the Alps in the seventies or earlier often had to take shelter for the night in shepherds' huts, and very uncomfortable they were. But modern climbers hardly know that such refuges exist. One such hut I well remember at the head of the Ridnaunthal in Tirol. Now there are no less than three luxurious climbers' huts built beside or near the glacier further up. The old shepherd's hut has fallen to decay. Only a fragment of one of its walls was left when I passed the place recently. Modern comforts, however, are not all clear gain. To sleep a night in the old upper Agels alp was not a comfortable experience, but it had its recompenses. The rough stone-built cabin was perfectly in harmony of aspect with its surroundings, as a club-hut is not. Built out of the stones that lay around, its crannies stuffed with moss, its roof formed of slabs and sods, it seemed a part of the mountain landscape, a natural growth rather than an artificial structure. A philosopher, ignorant of the conditions of life there, might have argued that the hut had been invested with an intentional protective coloration and form. The hut was hard to find, hard even to see when you were looking straight that way. It stood in a gorge upon a sloping grassy shelf, clutching a dark rock-cliff, as though it feared to slide down and tumble over into the roaring torrent. There was another dark cliff over against it, and the gorge curved round, so that you could not see far, either up or down. Everywhere the dark rock-cliffs shut it in, and only the minimum of sky was visible overhead, as it were poised on cliffs. There was always a bitter wind blowing when I was there, and always the river roaring, and its spray rising to the door of the hut like a wet cloud. The entry was by a low and narrow door, and there was a tiny window beside it. A little passage or track led from the door down the room to the fire at the far end, where cheese was made of goat's milk. On one side of the passage was a bed of hay, retained by a board. On the other were some shelves fastened against the wall. The door did not fit, and the walls were full of holes through which the wind whistled. It was indeed a wretched shelter; but we slept well enough within it, rolled up in our wraps. The hospitality of the simple peasant was as hearty, his welcome as warm, as his means were exiguous. No one sleeps in these goat-herd huts any more. Climbers have provided better accommodation for themselves, but in so doing they have lost that intimate touch with the life of the mountain-dwellers which a former generation learned to enjoy. When now we speak of alps, it is the cattle alps that are generally intended and understood. These cattle alps are of all sizes and descriptions, large and small, relatively high planted or relatively low. Some, like Moser's alp above Randa, belong to an individual and afford grazing only for a few beasts; but most are the property of the commune and are worked co-operatively for the benefit of all the cattle-owners who may wish to send their cows aloft to graze. Most alps are divided into two levels, a lower and a higher. The cattle are driven to the lower alp for the beginning and end of the summer season, to the higher for the middle weeks. Every such alp must be supplied with the necessary buildings for the accommodation of the herdsmen and cheese-makers, and generally for the cattle also, though in some parts of Switzerland the cattle are left out in the open throughout the whole summer season. Pigs are usually kept at a cattle alp to consume the refuse of the whey. An old woman once told me that pigs are "the fourth child of milk," the other three being butter, sérac, and cheese. What with the coming and going of the cattle, the pigs, and the herdsmen, the milking at dawn and eve, and the cheese-making that follows, a cattle alp is a very busy place. Some are better equipped than others, but in almost all one finds a shake-down on hay, a fire, and good shelter against all possible inclemencies of the weather. The immediate neighbourhood of the huts is liable to be dirty, especially when there are pigs, and at certain seasons there is a plague of flies in the hot hours of sunshine. But, as a rule, these discomforts infest only a very small area, and it is enough to pass beyond that to escape them. Now that the throng of climbers is so great near the fashionable centres, cattle alps are unsuited to accommodate them, and club-huts or even hotels have been built for their service. Yet even now a climber who quits the beaten track often has an opportunity of spending a night under the conditions which were universal in the days of the Alpine explorers. To climb the mountains without associating with the folk whose lives are passed upon their lower slopes is to lose half the pleasure of mountaineering, as I shall attempt to prove in the next chapter. Valley-life is not widely different from life in the plains. It is the life on the alps that is characteristic of the mountain-dweller. There the peasant learns sureness of foot. There he grows familiar with the aspect of the high peaks and the glaciers. There, as the years pass by, he becomes differentiated from the man of the plains. No one can really acquire the mountain-spirit who has had no contact with the people of the alps. That spirit does not reside in the club-huts, one of which is already in telephonic communication with a Stock Exchange--a foretaste of what the future will bring to others. The great charm and recreative power of mountain-wandering arose from the fact that the climber cut himself off from the life of the Cities of the Plain and exchanged it for the life of the hillside. He came into communication with another set of men, with other habits, other ideals. Each year that passes in the Alps makes that change less considerable and by so much the less salutary. [Illustration: 56. CHALETS AND CHURCH. RIEDERALP.] The crowd of holiday visitors to Switzerland tends to settle in the high pasture region more than was the habit thirty years ago. Formerly hotels flourished in the valley-bottoms, in villages or close to them. Now they are built with ever-increasing frequency upon the alps. The Riffel and Mürren led the way. Such hotels now exist by dozens, and more are built every year. Round Zermatt there are smaller or larger inns, about 3000 feet higher than the village, in many directions. But to live in one of these high hotels is yet to live the normal life of hotel-frequenting man. The scenery is changed, but not the human medium. It is the inevitable consequence of Alpine vulgarisation which drives the true lover of nature and of the freedom of simple life further afield. To know what the high pastures are really like, what kind of a foreground they naturally provide for an outlook on the world of mountains, you must not go to the modern Triftalp inn or the Schwarz See, but rather to such unspoiled places as the alps of Veglia or of By, both glorious expanses of wide pasturage, which no crowd as yet has attempted to invade, or is likely to attempt, thanks to their situations, remote from the great tripping highways. There you may obtain simple accommodation for a few fine days, and wander as you please over the undulating meadows, with no sound to break the stillness save the rustling of the breeze, the laughter of the waters, and the musical clang of cow-bells more or less remote. It would be easy to divide the alps into many classes and to discourse of their characters from many points of view, but there are two main kinds of high pastures, differentiated from one another by their situations, which will naturally occur to every lover of mountains. One kind covers the floor and lower slopes of some high-planted valley; the other lies on some open shelf or convex curving mountain-knee. The first sort is recondite; the other displays itself to the world and commands extensive views. The impression they produce is very different. One is wild and gloomy; the other gay and brilliant. One has to be sought; the other summons you from afar. [Illustration: 57. EVENING IN ZERMATT. The promenade after dinner--a scene more reminiscent of Earl's Court than the "heart of the Alpine world."] The high grassy valleys are not so common as the knees, nor do I at this moment recall one of them that is likely to be known by the general run of my readers, though there are plenty scattered about in all sorts of corners of the Alpine range. Perhaps the Täsch alp will do for type, though compared with many it is relatively open and accessible. There are better examples near the Dent du Midi, which may be more widely known than I imagine. The ascent to such an alp may lie straight up the valley, first through the forest, afterwards through glades and grassy openings, often of singular loveliness. At last you come to the stunted and scattered outliers of the forest, pathetic trees all crooked and misformed, bending away from the habitual wind and stretching forth angular arms after it as it hurries by. When these are left behind, the open grass-land spreads before and around you, seamed with radiating paths, that start away as with a most definite intention, but soon divide and subdivide, leading in fact nowhither. If it is early in the season and you are ahead of the cattle, the grass may be relatively tall and the flowers countless in number and variety. You will wade not ankle-but knee-deep in them, and the air will be filled with delicious perfume. Then indeed it is good to wander at this level. It is essentially the level for wandering. You may go as well in one direction as another. The views are in every direction and from every place. There are no points to ascend, no goals to reach. Now it is a fold of the ground, some little hollow with a pool, that attracts the eye; now it is an outcrop of rock; now some gap ahead filled by a snow-peak; now some downward vista of forest or valley. Anywhere you may find entertainment. Anywhere you may be tempted to sit down and gaze around. [Illustration: 58. BERN FROM THE NORTH-WEST. Spire of Cathedral against the dimly seen mountains of the Bernese Oberland.] The higher you go the shorter becomes the grass, but it is all the more succulent. As the season advances the flowers fade. But the alp nevertheless retains its charm. The kind of alp now specially under consideration, the hollow sequestered high pasture, is often round some corner, cut off from distant and especially from downward views. Perhaps a portion of a snowy peak can be seen over a shoulder of the surrounding foreground. Oftenest even the snows are shut out, and the vision is limited by enclosing slopes or walls of shattered rock, where snow lies late in chinks and crannies. Such places have a wild and at first sight a forbidding aspect. But we grow to appreciate them and find delight in them as the novelty wears off. They have the dignity, the solemnity of solitude. Such elements of beauty as they possess are simple. They do not overwhelm the imagination by imposing shapes, nor astonish and puzzle it by complexities of colouring. Such places are best seen in dull weather when distant views are not to be had, and the eye has to take its pleasure in gazing upon what is near at hand. Then the brown rocks emerging from the grass and embroidered with lichens have their chance. In some places, where water habitually trickles over them, they are quite black and glossy. After all, there is variety enough of colour to be found about them, if one takes the trouble to look. Moreover, how much entertainment is to be found in the really intricate modelling of the grass-covered surfaces. Far different are they from mere low level fields which long ploughing has invested with a continuous curvature like that of a _névé_ basin. The grassy alps possess a complex accidentation of form. They bend and curve with an exhaustless variety. They burst, as it were like a breaking wave, against the rocks that perforate the grass. How many shelves and islands grass covers among the rocks! What picturesque corners it makes! What sheltered nooks! What attractive camping grounds! What charming sites for picnics, aloof from the ways of the crowd! In these remote and solitary places it is charming to while away the hours of an idle day, seeing nothing that has name or fame, following no track, accomplishing no expedition, no walk even that can be identified, yet finding everywhere something to look at, some entertainment for the disencumbered mind. It is, however, the high and open alps, lying on the slopes or laps of the great hills, that are the favourite places with visitors of all sorts. Here the variety is so great, the opportunities of enjoyment are so many, the possible beauties so multitudinous, that it is almost impossible to indicate them in a brief space. Who that has climbed much, or merely wandered much, through Alpine regions has not an exhaustless store of memories of these open, far-commanding alps? What a variety of reminiscences arise when the thoughts are turned towards this belt of the mountains! It forms a stage in the ascent and again in the descent of every peak and pass; and it is the special arena for the "off-day." [Illustration: 59. LOOKING DOWN THE VAL FORMAZZA FROM TOSA.] My own keenest enjoyments of the open alps are associated with two examples, not, I fear, very widely known--the Fontanella alp above Valtournanche, and the alp over which one descends from Rutor towards La Thuille. Both may be described as staged or terraced alps. They lie on a series of shelves, separated from one another by walls or steep descents. For aught I know, they may be dull to ascend; but to descend they are of marvellous beauty. This beauty is greatly enhanced by the waters that fall in cascades from step to step, and lie in pools, or race along over the successive flats. The waters and the meadows form foreground to the loveliest distances. There are undulations and slopes of green in front; green slopes to right and left; and then the sight leaps across a blue valley to the opposite woods and upper hillsides crowned with rocky crests, above which other ridges rise and peaks appear, till far away soars some snowy giant into the serene sky. In the descent we must turn this way and that--now facing a waterfall, now going down some recondite gully, now down some outward-looking slope. And always, presently, comes the flat meadow on a lower shelf, and the call to tarry upon it and look back at the waterfall, or sit beside the torrent, or watch the reflections in a quiet pool. There are several examples of these lovely staged alps in Ticino, as you go down from the Basodino towards Bignasco. Wherever you find them they are fascinating. They always seem greener on the flats than any other alp. Their picturesqueness has in it an element of the scenic. The arrangement seems to have been made for effect. There is another kind of far-commanding open alp, that all mountaineers must often have enjoyed. It is a long, relatively narrow slope or level of high pasture that lies horizontally between two cliffs or rocky belts. Such an alp lies above Zermatt to the south-westward, along the foot of the Unter Gabelhorn, round which it curves, so that as you walk along it your direction gradually changes from about south to west. It begins high up on the flank of the Zermatt valley, and it is carried round into the valley of Z'mutt, always at the same high level. There is no lovelier walk in that fine neighbourhood than this; for the foreground is always a slope dropping away to an invisible cliff at your feet, so that the eye constantly enjoys a delightful visual leap across the neighbouring valley to the great pyramid of the Matterhorn, or the more distant snowy range that ends in Monte Rosa. [Illustration: 60. IN THE VAL BAVONA. River Bed filled by avalanche. Basodino in the distance.] The extent and development of the alpine belt vary greatly, not merely in different regions, but in different parts of the same region. On descending some mountains, rocky débris are found to cover a large area of undulating ground, and then the grass slopes plunge steeply to the forest, and are quickly traversed. On others the grass reaches high and undulates slowly down, so that you may be walking over it for hours before you reach the trees. These lazily sloping alps are most charming when rightly used and approached, though to the climber, eager to gain the snowy heights, their extent may seem tedious, especially when they have to be traversed in the dark. There are some magnificent alps along the north side of the Rhone valley above Sierre. The slopes that support them rise rapidly from the valley with an equal and continuous slant. When those are surmounted there comes a great area of undulating land which begins amongst the trees but soon opens out to the sky and stretches far back towards Wildhorn, Wildstrubel, and the rest. On these great alps there lie many small lakes, and all the alpine region hereabouts is very diversified, and filled with foregrounds of all characters and kinds of picturesqueness--and then what distant views they have to set off, for across the Rhone valley to the southward is all the splendour and extent of the Pennine range, with Mischabel or Weisshorn standing out in front in overpowering magnificence. Perhaps we shall be held justified in claiming that the views from the region of the high pastures are their chief charm, rather than the nearer views upon them. Certain it is that most of the great peaks are best seen from the alpine level, and that the favourite views of them, the characteristically memorable and popularly best remembered views, are from alps. Such is the view of Mont Blanc from the Flégère, of the Matterhorn from the Riffel alp, of the Weisshorn from the Täsch alp, of the Mischabelhörner from above Saas-Fée. The spectator stands high enough and not too high; he can be near enough at this level and yet not too near. The mountain still retains its individuality, its existence separate from its neighbours, and yet can be seen as a whole. A little nearer and it begins to disclose the details of its structure, whilst its mass fills a larger area than can be embraced at a glance. A little further away and the mountain is only beheld as one of several, part of a larger mass, a component element of another effect. From the alpine level you look down as well as up. The depth beneath and the height above may be, or appear to be, approximately equal. Moreover, the distance to which the sight penetrates, the area over which it ranges, bears some moderate proportion to the size of the mountain-masses included in it. In the view from a high peak, visible distances are so great, the area embraced is so vast, the peaks visible appear to be so countless, that each of them may shrink into individual insignificance. It is the multitude of peaks rather than the mass of any, their abundance rather than the form of any, that causes the overwhelming impression upon the spectator. But in views from the alpine level there is a greater simplicity and a no less effective moderation. The mountains in sight are few, and of them one is sure to be most prominently placed, one will be central if not unique; and that mountain, in the typical view from an alp, will be seen from base to summit, not merely its superstructure of rock and snow, but its wide foundation also, reaching down into the depths of the valley and spreading broadly with all needful amplitude. It is not thus that mountains are beheld from the valleys. As you traverse the whole Vispthal from Visp to Zermatt, you do indeed behold the summits of most of the great flanking peaks from successive points on the valley floor, yet it is only the expert who can recognise them, or tell which white fragment far aloft is the top of a great mountain and which are the mere shoulders of lower buttressing ridges. The knees of the hills hide their breasts and generally also their hoary heads from the view of one who passes along at their feet. If you would behold a great mountain as a whole, it is from the knees or the grassy lap of some other that you must look. Foreshortened foundations are then withdrawn; each component part of the whole vast structure takes its proper place and is seen to fulfil its own function. Buttresses stand forward and widen out below; high valleys can be traced into the heart of the mass; minor peaks are duly subordinated. The mountain, in fact, can be seen as a whole. It is thus you behold the Mischabel from the alp at the base of the Weisshorn or the Fletschhorn; thus the Matterhorn from the Riffelalp; thus the Jungfrau from Mürren. A true instinct has selected and made such points of view famous. [Illustration: 61. IN THE VAL D'AOSTA. The Mont Blanc group of mountains hidden in clouds.] We have left ourselves little space to discuss the value of the high pastures as an element in the mountain landscape, parts of the scene to be looked at, not positions to gaze from. That their value in this respect also is very great must be obvious enough, for in most mountain views the grassy belt fills the largest part. Of course it is not the most impressive. We look at the mountains, or at some mountain, some glacier, waterfall, or cliff, and make it the centre of our observation. As a rule, however, except when we stand in the midst of the snowy world, the mountain that is centrally gazed at does not occupy so large a part of the field of view as is filled by the grassy expanse at its foot. The grassy alp, in fact, generally bears to a mountain the relation that the background does to a Madonna in a picture. Or we may say that alp and sky are the fabric on which the mountain is embroidered. In many parts of the world the grassy belt is absent from the ranges, and its loss is greatly felt. Peaks rising out of slopes of débris and sand have a grandeur of their own, but it is not the normal grandeur of the Alps. In some other ranges the tree-level leads at once to rocks and snow. It is the merit of the Alps that a broad belt of delicately modelled grass-land almost invariably intervenes between forest and snow. This grassy belt covers the wide substructure of the peaks. Above it is the realm of frost, of split rock and jagged forms. But as soon as the grass-level is reached suave outlines and rounded surfaces, broadening as they descend, take the place of the accidented forms above. The value of the contrast will be apparent to all. Small and very correct little models of the Matterhorn in bronze are sold for letter-weights, in which the culminating pyramid alone is given, planted on a rectangular stone plinth. They are interesting mementoes. But compare one of them with a view of the mountain as seen from the Riffelalp, rising above the long bulging grass-covered slopes that descend almost to Zermatt, and you will at once realise how important an element in the general impressiveness of the mountain are those lower slopes, and that not merely for their form but for their rich coloration. The green of the alps is the true key-note of Swiss colour. To it all the rest are subordinate. By contrast with it, rather than with the remote transparence of the air-submerged rocks, the snows manifest their whiteness and the sky its blue. From season to season of the year it changes its tint, between the shrill green of opening spring and the amber of autumn. It changes likewise from hour to hour beneath the varied slanting of the sunshine. How velvet-dark seems the alpine belt at night when the moon is high! Even in the twilight you cannot tell that these slopes are grass-covered, till "Under the opening eye-lids of the morn" "the high lawns appear." At first the sunshine lies upon them in patches, like carpets of gold on a rich green floor. The sunlit area increases as the gold itself changes into green, whilst the dominant note of colour rises in the scale. Long before mid-day the broad belt attains its unity of effect, and divides the dark forests and deep valleys from the radiant heights. Most of us, who delight in mountain scenery, praise this peak or that, this broken glacier, wide-spreading snow-field, or intricacy of splintered ridges, forgetting that it is often the unobtrusive, tenderly modelled alps below, that endow these high eminences with half their charm. The beauty of a scene depends upon the harmony of all its parts. It is well sometimes to fix attention on those that seldom insist upon it for themselves. NOTE TO PAGE 229.--Mr. Coolidge informs me that the Muttenalp belongs, not to the Thierfehd, but to Brigels in the Grisons, and is reached over the Kisten Pass. That is why the path down to the Linththal is so bad. CHAPTER XI THE HUMAN INTEREST It has often occurred to me, when travelling over glaciers and among mountains, seldom or never before visited by men, how much the impression they produce upon a first spectator loses by lacking the human interest. Of course some stray huntsman or dumb and forgotten native may have been there before, but if the fact is unknown to us, it is as though he had not existed. When climbing Illimani, the great Bolivian mountain, the human interest accompanied us up the lower slopes. Here were old fields, old irrigation channels, even ancient ruined huts. Higher up we still had the memory of former adventurers to keep our hearts warm; but when we had forced the great rock-cliff that guards the peak, and were upon the upper snow-field, we were, so far as we knew, in an unvisited world. There did indeed exist an ancient tradition that once, long long ago, an Aymara Indian had gone aloft, seeking the abode of the gods, and that having found it, he was taken by the gods to themselves and never returned to his people; but the tale was too slender a thread to form a sensible connection between us and the world of bygone humanity. The climb took us over one high peak, then across a great snow-field and up the highest peak. We revisited and rested on the lower peak in the descent. While there resting, I dropped my hand on the rock beside me, and snatched it away, feeling something soft and clammy, a kind of texture instinctively perceived to be strange at such a place. Looking to see what the substance was, I found it to be a fragment of goat-hair rope, such as the Indians of the Bolivian plateau have used from time immemorial. Instantly the old legend was recalled to my remembrance. It was true! The Indian had actually been here where I was sitting. Here he rested. Hence he looked abroad over the country of his birth--probably his last long look on any view in this world; for he never returned, and must presently have lost his life in some hidden crevasse. The thought of that nameless one animated the scene, and enriched the emotions we experienced with a new interest. I thought now of how he had felt with this great prospect spread abroad before him. I wondered whether his gods had appeared to him, whether he had beheld visions and dreamed dreams, and what those visions were like. There beneath him he had perhaps gazed for the last time on his birthplace, and identified the little hut that was his home. Did he know that he would never return? Did he think about his friends so far below and wonder whether they were looking up towards him? Did he promise himself great future fame in his tribe? Did he dream that they would identify him with the very gods? For the remainder of our resting-time the whole view was animated by thoughts of this man. It is the best instance I can cite of the value of a human interest in giving sentiment to a mountain scene. The same lesson was taught me by the Spitsbergen mountains, amongst which I spent two long summer seasons. The coast of Spitsbergen is rich with the tales and traditions of human achievement and suffering. Few places have been the scene of tragedies so numerous and so long drawn out. In few have more dramatic adventures occurred and more varied enterprises been undertaken. But the interior of Spitsbergen, and especially its mountain ranges, had scarcely been penetrated before. The mountains beyond reach of the shore were unclimbed, with one exception. The landscapes were unknown to man. It was necessary to spend some time in these solitary places to realise how much they lost by this aloofness. No peak possessed name or history. None had ever been the centre of any one's landscape. None had measured mid-day for any toiler, or served as reckoning point for the close of his labour. No villagers had ever imagined those Arctic glaciers as the home of any gods or the paradise of any heroes. They had never found their way into ancient tale or legend. They had never been worshipped or sung by man, historic or pre-historic. They were just elemental lumps of the earth, with no more human sentiment attached to them than to any dozen stones you may gather off a heap and make mountains of in your imagination. Pick up any fragment of rock you please and place it upon your table. Look closely at it and persuade yourself that it is not six inches but 20,000 feet high. On that assumption search for routes up it. Examine its faces and its ridges, its cracks and its gullies. You will be able to climb about it in a day-dream, to have accidents upon it, to succeed or to fail in various ascents. But who will care to "hear tell" of your proceedings? And yet, apart from geographical and geological considerations, which are in fact historical, any casual mountain is no more interesting in its essence than your stone. There are hundreds of thousands of mountains in the world. What intrinsic interest has one of them more than another, from a climber's point of view, except in two respects, the difficulty of the climb and the human interest? But the difficulty is of no account, for if that is what you want you can find it on Scafell, and need not wander to seek it. No! it is above all the human interest that ennobles a peak and makes the ascent of it desirable. It is to climb an elevation that men have seen; to climb a peak that has been named, that has been looked at for centuries by the inhabitants at its base, that travellers have passed by and observed, that has a place in the knowledge and memory of men. If there were a great mountain in full view of London or Rome, how much more interesting it would be to climb than some nameless lump in Central Asia, like K2, that was never within view of any abode of men. This was one of the main attractions of the unclimbed Alps to early explorers of the high levels. Mont Blanc was known of old. How many generations of men had looked from Thun at the Oberland giants and told stories about them. How much the famed devils and dragons added to the fascination of the Matterhorn. The Alps had looked down upon the march of armies and the flux of peoples for uncounted thousands of years. Their solitudes were peopled by the dreams of all the generations that had passed by them or dwelt amongst them. The subliminal consciousness that this was so, counted for much in the strong attraction that drew the pioneers aloft. The pioneers in their turn have richly endowed the Alps with a further human interest. Why do so many people want to climb the Matterhorn? It is not a better climb than the Dent Blanche. The reason is because of the stronger human interest that the Matterhorn evokes. All who have any knowledge of Alpine history have read the story of the long siege, the triumphant conquest, and the dramatic tragedies of which the Matterhorn has been the scene. It is the fascination of those memories that draws men to the peak, and makes the climbing of it seem so desirable an adventure to so many people. Thus also is it, more or less, all over the Alps. Each peak now has its story. Each ascent has been made before and described. Wherever we go now we find and recognise the traces of our predecessors. Here is an old tent-platform; we know who built it and when. This is the site of such an accident; that crag turned back such a party on such an occasion. The memory of bygone climbers is everywhere. It peoples the solitudes and humanises the waste places. These memories will grow mellower as they deepen into the past. The best stories will become classical, and the scenes of them will be endowed with a prestige far beyond any that now attaches to them. A very dull person looks interesting when beheld down a vista of several centuries. The memory of the first climbers of the great Alpine peaks will remain among the mountains to a far-distant future. I daresay my Illimani Indian was a crack-brained semi-civilised person, but I would sooner see him than a living Cabinet Minister. I can never think about his peak without recalling him. So is it with the bays of Spitsbergen. The whale-fishers were no doubt a coarse lot of quarrelsome seamen, who stank of blubber most disgustingly; and yet if I could call Mr. William Heley from his grave, and hear how he emptied out the Dutchmen on one occasion and they emptied him out on another; if I could get him to show me his huts where they stood, and could hear him yarn about the fishery, how entertaining that would be, and how gladly would I exchange the morning newspaper for such talk. We cannot in fact recall these men, but in fancy we can and do. It is because we possess and exercise this power of fancy that the mountains, which have been in past times the scene of human activity and life, are so much more interesting to wander amongst, except from a purely scientific and adventurous point of view, than those which have not. What is true of bygone individuals is no less true of bygone peoples. Valleys that have been long inhabited and the high pastures that have been frequented of old are far more pleasant to visit than valleys that have scarcely beheld the face of man. We were made conscious of this difference in the Mustagh mountains of high Kashmir. There the secluded fastness of Hunza-Nagar is the home of an ancient civilisation. The gently sloping floor of the valley is divided into terraced fields, supported by cyclopean walls that might be as old as Mycenæ itself. The villages are built upon their own ruins, who can say to how great a foundation depth? The paths are worn deeply into the ground. The Raja's castle, dominating his little capital, has a venerable aspect, and if not actually old, incorporates an ancient type. There are little ruins by the roadside and carvings upon the rocks. Where-ever you look, the marks of long frequentation are to be traced. Moreover, the people themselves bear the imprint of surrounding nature upon them. Their action in movement, their way of life, their adaptation to their environment--all imply old habit and deep-rooted tradition. The valley in which they are enclosed is the world to them. Its every feature has entered into their habits of thought. The surrounding mountains are a part of their existence, and borrow from man in turn a reflected glow of traditional interest. From this man-impregnated valley we presently passed over the mountains to the valley of Braldu, descending upon the highest village. Above that poverty-stricken place the traces of man were few. There were faintly marked tracks; there were even a few small ruined huts; but all that these indicated was the occasional passage of hunters or the brief visits of shepherds or gold-washers. Once the glacier was reached, the last of these traces was left behind. It was impossible not to feel the contrast between this region and peopled Hunza. The scenery was not less, was even more stupendous, but the human interest was lacking. There were few named spots, and hardly a remembered tradition. The scenery to the natives with us was not the home of their fathers, but the elemental earth. It might have been fetched from the other side of the moon, for all they had to tell about it. Two recorded parties had preceded us for a certain distance up this valley, and their ghosts alone peopled the solitude, but not a trace had they left upon the surface of the ground discoverable by us. If we had found even the remnants of one of their encampments, it would have animated the surroundings with the memory of man; but we saw none. The lack was a vacuum, an intellectual hunger, continuously felt. [Illustration: 62. CHÂTILLON, VAL D'AOSTA.] Few mountain regions in the world, outside of the Arctic and Antarctic solitudes, are thus denuded of human interest. The mountains of the Old World and the New have been inhabited over a large part of their valley-area; but often the inhabitants have been people about whom little is known. It is one of the great charms of the Alps that they have long been the home of a fine group of peoples. "Your country," I once remarked to a citizen of a South American Republic, "ought to be the Switzerland of South America." "I will make it so," he replied, "if you will fill it for me with the Swiss." Throughout the large Alpine area various races have dwelt and dwell at the present time. The character of the population changes from valley to valley, and there is no small variety, not merely in dialects, but even in languages. There is a similar variety in habits, in domestic architecture, in costume, and in bearing. Much of these differences in the character of the inhabitants we are wont to impute in our thoughts to the mountain districts themselves. When we talk of the charms of the Italian Alps, are we not thinking of the attractiveness of the people, and the picturesqueness of their abodes and places of worship, as much as of the luxuriance of the valleys, the sparkling of the waters, and the mere beauty of the hills? The spirit of the people seems to infuse itself into our memory of the mountains about them, as much as the character of the mountains has affected the nature and disposition of the people. Which, I wonder, borrows most from the other--the Lake of Lucerne from the old Tell legend, or the legends from the landscape of the lake? An essential part of the human interest in the Alps grows out of the length of time through which history has concerned herself with them. The history of the Alpine valleys has only been written, or begun to be written, in recent years. Early visitors to Zermatt no doubt were conscious of the deep impress made by man upon the valley landscape, but they could not interpret, as we now can, the meaning of much that they saw. But when the local archives were searched and the traditions written down, when it was realised that the life now being lived by the peasantry was in all essentials the same life that had been lived by their ancestors for hundreds of years, ancestors bearing the same names and owning the same properties that are still borne and owned by their living descendants, what an increase of interest that gave to a place. [Illustration: 63. A CORNER OF THE TOWN OF ALTDORF. The traditional scene of William Tell's exploits. Here Gessler ruled and the shooting of the apple took place. A place of patriotic pilgrimage of the youthful Swiss.] The old tales about the village deep in Tiefenmatten, about the pilgrimage that used to cross the Col d'Hérens, about the frequented routes over Theodul and Weissthor--does it not add a new charm to the places themselves to hear them told? Who is not interested to remember, when standing on the Theodul pass, that Roman coins have been found there? Climbers have taken fully as much interest in the question of where the Old Weissthor route lay as in actually climbing the passes. I well remember the keen delight that came to me when I discovered that a pass I had crossed, as I supposed for the first time, between the Fillarkuppe and the Jägerhorn, was in fact the real Old Weissthor itself, a well-known mountain-route centuries ago. To rediscover an old track like that is far more delightful than to invent and carry through some entirely new expedition. Correspondingly with the future as with the past--to make an expedition for the first time that others will often repeat is a lasting source of pleasure; but to make one that no sane person ever repeats or is likely to repeat is poor fun. I have had many opportunities of making new expeditions in the Alps and elsewhere, and have availed myself of a few; but none ever gave me the continuing satisfaction that I derive from the Wellenkuppe near Zermatt, a mountain that I invented, climbed, and baptized, and that immediately became and has since remained a most popular scramble.[2] [Footnote 2: Its summit had previously been touched by some unrecorded route by Lord Francis Douglas, in an attempt to climb the Gabelhorn; but for twenty years no one had thought of the peak, which had no name.] Some part of the popularity of the ascent of Mont Blanc from Chamonix is due to the fact that the mountain is the highest in the Alps; part is due to the fascinating beauty of the ice and snow scenery passed through; but far the greatest attraction is the long and interesting history of the climb. No one, I suppose, ascends Mont Blanc without a thought of Balmat and De Saussure, and at least some dim consciousness of the number of early climbers who mounted by the way he takes, and felt all the strange emotions and high excitements they so naively recorded. What would the Tödi be if robbed of the memory of Placidus à Spescha? Even a Mont Ventoux can attain dignity and importance by association with so great a man as Petrarch. It is, however, to the passes rather than to the peaks of the Alps that history clings. Allusion has been made to the Weissthor and the Theodul, and many other minor passes similarly recorded might be mentioned; but it is the great passes, the deep depressions in the main range, that are chiefly memorable from the historical standpoint. Modern climbers unwisely neglect these great routes, or confine themselves to such as are tunnelled. John Ball and his contemporaries made a point of knowing as many main passes as they could. It was their pride to be able to say, not that they had climbed so many peaks, but that they had traversed the Alpine chain by so many great passes. Old literature is therefore fuller of accounts of the historic passes than are most present-day volumes, which regard them as a subject outworn. To mention the historic passes is to call up the name of Hannibal. Here is no place to revive that old discussion as to the situation of Hannibal's pass. Historians have not yet entirely convinced one another on the matter. But if a general certainty had been arrived at, if we could feel perfectly sure that Hannibal and his host had actually trod a particular route, it cannot be denied that that route would be well worth following, book in hand, for its historic interest alone. Some, perhaps many, of my readers will have traversed the Great St. Bernard, the Summus Penninus of antiquity. Few who have done so will have been oblivious, as they went, of the many great men in whose steps they were treading. Celts, Romans, Saracens, mediæval warriors, statesmen, saints, bishops, and monks streamed in their day across this col. Here passed Charles the Great and other Holy Roman Emperors, Lanfranc too, and the saintly Anselm in all the fervour of his young enthusiasm. The reader will forgive me for quoting once again Bishop Stubbs' translation of the letter of a Canterbury monk describing his passage of the pass in February 1188:-- "Pardon me for not writing. I have been on the Mount of Jove; on the one hand looking up to the heavens of the mountains, on the other shuddering at the hell of the valleys, feeling myself so much nearer heaven that I was more sure that my prayer would be heard. 'Lord,' I said, 'restore me to my brethren, that I may tell them, that they come not into this place of torment.' Place of torment indeed, where the marble pavement of the stony ground is ice alone, and you cannot set your foot safely; where, strange to say, although it is so slippery that you cannot stand, the death (into which there is every facility for a fall) is certain death. I put my hand in my scrip, that I might scratch out a syllable or two to your sincerity--lo, I found my ink-bottle filled with a dry mass of ice; my fingers too refused to write; my beard was stiff with frost, and my breath congealed into a long icicle. I could not write the news I wished." [Illustration: 64. PONTE BROLLA. Over the Maggia, near its junction with the Melezza, looking up the Val Centavalli.] Mr. Coolidge, in that store of Alpine learning, his book entitled _Swiss Travel and Swiss Guide-Books_, reminds us that the first known guide-book was written for the crowd of pilgrims crossing this same pass, by no less unlikely a person than the Abbot of Thingör in Iceland, about 1154. There was a building on the pass before the year 812. A century later the Little St. Bernard was similarly provided. The Simplon was thus equipped before 1235, the St. Gotthard before 1331, and the Grimsel before 1479. Modern Swiss travellers may not be aware of these facts in detail, but it is impossible for any intelligent man to frequent the Alps and not become conscious of the antiquity of the relation between man and the mountains. Sometimes traces of visibly ancient ways are encountered, as on the Albrun pass, for instance, or the Monte Moro. The sight of such a fragment of old paved way instantly carries the mind back into the past, and animates the route as with a ghostly procession. Thus, too, I found it in Bolivia and Chile, where remnants of the old paved Inca road, that traversed a large part of the continent from north to south, are often to be met with. The sentimental value of such relics is incalculable. They, as it were, hypnotise the mind and induce a mood in which we see the nature that surrounds us in a new way. They remove from the traveller the sense of isolation, and form a link between him and the countless generations that have gone before. He shares with them the toil of the way, and looks abroad on the scenes that they beheld. Still more interesting and rich in a historic sense are the Brenner and other passes over the Eastern Alps, which are known to have been important trade-routes in the age of bronze. Over them successive immigrant waves of humanity poured into Italy. Over them at a later date passed emperors with their armies. No route bears the evidence of its rich historical associations more visibly than the Brenner. An aura of antiquity rests upon its villages. Its many castles, its ancient churches, its noble village streets, its countless monuments, all tell the same tale. I never can cross the Brenner without having Albrecht Dürer by my side, who four times made the transit, sketch-book in hand, and whose careful and beautiful drawings of some of the views still exist in perfect preservation. [Illustration: 65. IN THE VAL D'AOSTA.] The presence of man, not as a traveller through the Alps, but as a long-settled resident there, deriving his subsistence from the soil, is an important scenic factor in yet another respect. The difference in aspect between a well-peopled mountain region and one sparsely or not at all inhabited is more striking to the eye than the inexperienced might be prepared to expect. The amount of landscape modelling that one man can effect in a lifetime is small, but a community of men, working generation after generation for many centuries, can effect much. The trained eye can perceive the effect almost everywhere in the Alps; the untrained must learn to look for it. Take, for example, such a well-known large grassy area as the slope descending from the Matterhorn to the Zermatt valley, between the Gorner glacier on one side and the Zmutt glacier on the other. If man had not laboured for centuries on that slope, it would be ragged with fallen and protruding stones. The grass upon it would be rough and uneven, or entirely replaced by stunted rhododendron, juniper, or the like bushes. Now it is all smoothed and tended. The loose stones are gathered into walls, bordering the mule-paths or supporting the lower edges of the fields. Earth has been carried on to bare patches. Little hay-huts and other farm-buildings are planted about on suitably protected places. The grass is mown to a velvety fineness of texture. Irrigation channels are led in all suitable directions, and the glacier dust deposited along their beds has raised long grassy mounds, which in process of time have sometimes grown to a height of two or three feet. More important still, in smoothing off asperities and giving a rounded curvature to the general surface, is the continual deposit of the same dust which this artificially distributed glacier-water lays down all over the meadows. There results a suavity of outline, a delicacy of modelling, and a fine quality of grassy surface, which change the aspect of the whole slope, even when beheld from a great distance, so that it would be impossible to mistake it for a slope correspondingly situated in any uninhabited or uncultivated mountain region in the world. [Illustration: 66. IN THE WOODS OF CHAMONIX.] What is true of the middle pastures is likewise true of the forests. Virgin hill-forests, such as one may see in the southern part of the Argentine or Chile, are very different in appearance from an Alpine wood, whether seen from far or near. Man, as we know only too well, has not treated mountain-forests wisely, and he is suffering the consequence to-day. But apart from cases of forest removal and the consequent changes of scenery thereby caused, the alteration in appearance produced by good forest management is very noticeable. Alpine woods have a gardened aspect. The mere sight of them is eloquent of the presence and activity of man, who here also has left unmistakable traces of his activity drawn broadly over every Alpine landscape. In the regulation of streams and rivers, again, the hand of man makes its long, slowly acting presence felt in the Alps. Gaze from the Riffelhorn down the St. Niklausthal, and notice how mainly of human determination are all the minor forms of the valley-floor. It is easy to compare with a photograph of that well-known view one, say, of the Bush Valley in British Columbia, which has been revealed to us by the explorations of Professor Norman Collie and his friends. Such a comparison manifests, as no words can, the great effect upon valley scenery on a large scale produced by the activity of man. It is only high aloft, close to and all above the snow-line, that man's energies have not availed to change the landscape. He has built a few huts there, but they are insignificant. He cannot turn a glacier from its course, nor can he dam it back in the event of its pleasing to advance. The great cliffs and débris slopes, the reservoirs of snow, the rivers of ice--these giant phenomena of the heights are beyond his governance, even if any material advantage tempted him to try meddling with them. The most he can do is to blast some small tunnel in ice or rock to control the outflow of a gathering of water, that might otherwise discharge itself with violence and work destruction far below. [Illustration: 67. IN A GARDEN AT LOCARNO. Last gleam of the sunset on the hills above Lago Maggiore.] It is the great good fortune of the Alps, beyond all other snowy ranges, to possess both the region of utterly untamed nature above, and a larger area of humanly modified land below. A normal Alpine view includes parts of both regions. Looking up from beneath, you have the gardened world for foreground and the wild world for distance. Looking down from above the reverse is the case. The contrast is always charming. What more beautiful setting for a snow mountain can be conceived than that which surrounds the Jungfrau as beheld from near Interlaken? How pleasant it is, when resting at some fine noontide hour on the summit of a lofty peak, to look abroad over the peopled Italian plain, or down into some deep valley, dotted with farms and villages, with here and there a white church standing in the midst of châlets. It is only the works of modern man, his huge caravanserais, his railway stations, and his accurately engineered roads, that are wholly hateful--blots on the landscape defiling and degrading it. Let us hope that these hideous intruders are not destined to a long existence. It is not likely, much though we may desire it, that in our time the tide of touristdom will abandon the Alps. It has come to stay. It will increase rather than diminish. But with the advance of civilisation perhaps its manners and tastes will improve, and it may, at some far distant time, come to demand a kind of housing that will not utterly destroy the very beauty which it blindly travels to seek. CHAPTER XII VOLCANOES To the purely Alpine traveller, Volcanoes are not a matter of interest, because there does not exist a single volcano in the Alps, nor, so far as I am aware, even the ruins of one. Volcanic rocks there may be, but we are not concerned with rocks except in so far as mountains are built out of them. To the mountain-lover, however, in the broad sense--and it is for such I am writing--volcanoes are as interesting as any other definite type of peak, and I therefore propose to devote this chapter to a consideration of them from the picturesque and climbing point of view. For the European traveller there are volcanoes enough, both active and extinct, and that without going to Iceland. Most people have seen Vesuvius. Etna and Stromboli are frequently passed, and the former is not unfrequently climbed. Auvergne is a good place for a holiday. If ordinary tourists knew how well the volcanic Eifel repay a visit, they would oftener turn aside to them. Teneriffe is on the list of mountains most people hope some day to see. In my own mind, when volcanoes are mentioned, there always rises first the reminiscence of the great mountains in South Bolivia and Northern Chile, with their stately grandeur of scale and grace of outline. Every one who has climbed Vesuvius has some idea of the nature of volcano climbing. It is by no means the best sort, and the Alps as a play-ground are none the worse for lacking it. From a climber's rather than a petrologist's point of view, volcanic rocks are liable to seem both very hard and very brittle. They fracture with an astonishingly sharp edge, which cuts, like a knife, the fingers and clothes of the climber. Notwithstanding their apparent hardness, which seems to promise for them an unusual durability, they crack up with great rapidity under the action of frost or of blows, and rapidly subdivide into small angular debris. The smoothness of the fractured surfaces, when fresh, reduces the friction between the fragments much below that normal to the debris of ordinary rocks, so that slopes of volcanic debris are very unstable. The foot sinks into them, almost as into sand, and they cut the boots and gaiters to pieces. To run down such a slope is pleasant enough, but to wade up it is the worst kind of purgatory, provocative too of more sins of language than it can possibly purge in the time. The novice at volcano-climbing approaches his mountain with a light heart. However big it may be, it looks easy, and he promises himself a rapid ascent. The lower slopes of volcanoes are frequently most fertile, so that the first stages of the ascent may be along umbrageous paths or through vineyards and olive gardens. Ultimately the naked mountain has to be tackled, and then troubles begin, and they are the same all the world over. All that a volcano produces is toilsome for the foot of man. The slope continuously steepens. The disintegrated lava or the volcanic ash are alike disagreeable. The mountain is sure to be voted a fraud from the climber's point of view. Even Aconcagua, greatest of all volcanoes, is as rotten as the rest. There is hardly a firm crag on its mighty face. [Illustration: 68. PILATUS AND LAKE OF LUCERNE FROM THE SLOPES OF THE RIGI.] It follows that volcanoes are peaks of an unstable character. They are upstarts by nature, and they are easily pulled down. Among mountains they are the most short-lived. In their decay they lack the dignity of a peak of crystalline rock, that fights against disintegration and resists to the last, holding forth to the sky its splintered crags like passionately protesting hands. There is no protest in a volcano. It yields willingly to decay. The debris of its upper rocks flow down its face almost like water. They grind together into dust and are blown away by the winds. The old moraines of Aconcagua ultimately turn into sand dunes. Yet these mushroom monsters are not without their compensations. When active they enjoy a magnificence of public advertisement that no other kind of peak, even when it is the scene of a particularly ghastly accident, can ever hope to rival. They grow in height, or are blown to perdition, amidst earthquakes and terrific thunders. Lightnings flicker about them like the dartings of a serpent's tongue. The storm-clouds that envelop snowy peaks are nothing to the monstrous piles of smoke and darkness that wreathe the brows of an erupting volcano. Blasts of fire shoot from them, and for glaciers, their sides are flooded with molten lava. Few of us can hope to see such sights in the fulness of their glory. When the mountain is full-grown, and its days of activity are done, for a while it reigns, a figure of perfect grace, a very queen for elegance and beauty of form. Who that has ever seen Vesuvius can deny this fact. Probably no snowy peaks in the world are more absolutely perfect in form than the white-clad giant volcanoes of Kamchatka, or, on a smaller scale, the peerless Fuji of Japan. The outline of the cone, gently rising from the foot, and then steepening in its incomparable logarithmic curve, is the gracefullest that nature produces on a large scale. Even the effulgent domes of the greatest cumulous clouds that, on a faultless summer afternoon, soar into the clearest blue sky, are not to be compared with volcanoes at their best. These have the aspect of works of art, made, as it were, expressly to incorporate an idea of beauty. They possess the symmetry of a fine crystal, but at the same time, a grace far beyond what is possible to any crystalline form. And then, how they soar! How their beautiful heads seem almost to float in the blue! How symmetrically the mists gather about their summits! At one time the base will vanish in the bright opacity of the lower air, and the top will be seen in sharp distinctness, like a floating island in the sky. At another, the summit will fade away, and the shadowed base will fill the vision with its purple solidity. And always there hangs about a volcano the memory of its fire-begetting, and the suspicion that all may not yet be over. It is, as it were, an inscribed finger-post, warning us of the molten core within. It is at once a memorial and a monition to those that dwell beneath it. It is the witness of past and the herald of future convulsions; yet, being such, it is itself in form the peacefullest and tenderest in nature. No woman's robe droops more delicately over her bosom than droops the once molten drapery of a volcano. Its aspect bears a double and opposed suggestiveness. Such are volcanoes in the day of their perfection, before the denuding forces have made inroads on the symmetry of their form. [Illustration: 69. MONTREUX, LAKE OF GENEVA.] Yet even then it is not well to approach them too closely, unless you would have the sense of their beauty supplanted by a different kind of emotion. The nearer you approach a snow-mountain, such as Mont Blanc, and the more intimately you penetrate its white recesses, and acquaint yourself with its details of crevasse and sérac, the more conscious are you of the perfection of its finish and the loveliness of its details. It is not so with a volcano at any time of its career. When it is newly fashioned and the lava streams are still in movement and smoking upon its sides, and the cinders and ashes of its recent ejection are piled upon it, to approach them is to behold sights more provocative of horror than of admiration. They appal, they create astonishment, but they do not attract. Cast your eye over the remarkable series of photographs by Dr. Tempest Anderson, published under the title "Volcanic Studies," and you will have ample proof of this. Consider the Icelandic gorges, the outer crater of Teneriffe, or the views of recent volcanic energies displayed in St. Vincent--the mud-rivers, the sand-strewn valleys; here is enough to interest and more than enough to appal, but the kind of beauty associated with a distant view of a volcano is absent. There is no grace, no charm, none of the sweet feminine outline which makes volcanoes the queens and fair ladies among hills. But when all the dramatic stage of their existence is over, and the fires are out and the earth around has ceased from quaking; when trees have gathered over the lava torrents and rich vegetation has covered up cinders and ash; when the sulphurous vents are become sapphire pools of clear water overshadowed by foliage, and all the ghastly details of tragedy are covered up by the splendid garments of tropical vegetation; then you may approach and ascend if you please, but it will not be as a climber, for the climber is one who seeks the naked places of the earth, and does not wander for choice in grassy dells and tree-embosomed shades. He, however, who should converse about volcanoes and say no more than this, would leave a most false impression upon his hearers, for Nature always provides compensations for her sincere and humble lovers, and even in the barest volcano she has not failed. The very rapidity with which they yield to destructive forces leads to results not discoverable in stronger and more resolute peaks. Frost, winter, and snow breach their sides with exceeding facility. Torrents dig gullies into them. The very winds blow their substance away. Hence it comes that a volcano in active process of destruction often provides detailed scenery of astonishing grandeur and boldness. Its vertical-walled gullies, its cliffs, its castellated ridges are like none other. There is no aspect of durability about them, no signs of hoary antiquity, none of the dignity that belongs to archæan rocks. They are visibly in rapid decay, yet, for all that and even because of it, they are strangely imposing with a sort of rococo grandeur. If the Meije and Ushba are Romanesque, if the Matterhorn, Masherbrum, and Siniolkum are Gothic, we may describe the world's shattered volcanoes as Flamboyant. They boast a greater and more unusual variety of forms, a multiplicity of details that bewilders. The spiry exuberance of Milan Cathedral can be paralleled in the neighbourhood of Aconcagua. Nowhere are buttresses more emphatic, points of rock in perilous precipitance of decay more plentiful, cliffs more abrupt, the skeleton of the mountains more nakedly displayed. Yet better deserving of note is the brilliancy and variety of the colouring by which volcanic rocks are often characterised. The local colouring of Alpine rocks is seldom rich. The Dolomites indeed have a reputation for the richness of their tints, but it is mainly derived from the sunrise and sunset colouring which they reflect so brilliantly that it almost seems to proceed from them. The general effect of Alpine rocks is some variety of grey or brown, the tone of which is deepened by contrast with the snows. Except in volcanic districts, it is only in Spitsbergen, and at one or two spots in the Himalayas, that I have observed the local colouring of the rocks to form a prominent factor in the beauty of a mountain view. There indeed the red and yellow sandstones display their rich tints with great effect, so that the colour, shining over the wide expanses of Arctic glacier and snow-field, becomes a main element, and reduces the forms of the peaks to a secondary consideration. Yet in Spitsbergen this only happens in a relatively small area, within Kings Bay. In volcanic districts, however, the colouring of the rocks is almost always remarkable. It seems as though Nature had emptied her whole palette upon them. Hardly any tint, from white to black, is missing. Other mountains depend for their colour upon the atmosphere. These are independent of that source. Their own colour is predominant. All they ask for is transparent air and bright sunshine to display them. Their combination is so unusual, their chord so unlike any to which we are accustomed in ordinary natural surroundings, that they cannot fail to be the chief element in the view. That is why photographs of volcanic scenery convey an impression so different from actual sight. The normal blues, greens, and browns of the temperate habitable regions; the black, greys, and whites of the snowy world; the blue sea, white sand, and red cliffs of a Devonian coast: such chords of colour are usual; the eye expects them. Even a tropical landscape, except for its occasional blazes of blossom, belongs to the same category. Autumnal glories, first of golden harvest, later of iridescent foliage, are an accustomed sight. But all these schemes of colour belong to a wholly different category from that which volcanic rock-masses display. They bring together, combine, and contrast a whole series of unusual tints. Their purples are not the purples which we elsewhere know. Their greens are not the greens of vegetation. Their yellows are not the yellows of a blossoming field or a fading forest. Were I to catalogue in a list the colours I have seen in a volcanic panorama, it would little serve, for it is not the names that count but the special significance of each, and that is not capable of brief statement. Such a scene as I am recalling astonishes by the multitude and close juxtaposition of an apparently countless number of coloured strata. It looks as though Nature had kept changing her mind and staining each successive ejection with a different tint. Sometimes there comes a considerable thickness of a certain coloured rock, but above and below it thin strata will succeed of all sorts of colours. If such a series of deposits is intersected by a cliff, its face will be ruled across by a polychrome multitude of bands. Oftenest, however, the whole mass will be riven into gullies and weathered into pinnacles of all heights and varieties. Or short cliffs and elbows will alternate with slopes of debris. In such cases any sense of order in the succession of colours may be lost. A blue pinnacle will stand before a yellow one, and that beside a red with a green top. In one buttress purple may predominate, in another grey, in a third orange. The effect on slopes of debris is often most peculiar. Naturally they derive their tint from that of the rocks above, out of whose fragments they are formed. If those rocks are a mass of a single colour, such will be the tint of the debris slope. But if they be fed by the splintered fragments of two different beds, as for example one red, the other yellow, the slope below will be a kind of orange, varying in tone according to the supply of the two ingredients. Sometimes a slope will be, let us say, purple throughout its upper portion till it comes down to a point where white rocks emerge. Below them it will be streaked as by splashes of whitewash. In the floor of a valley, where all these ingredients mix together in sandy intimacy, the general tone will be of a light neutral tint, the colour being destroyed by the intimacy of the mixture, the minuteness of the fractures, and the multiplicity of the incidence and reflection of light. Where there is snow aloft its melting will enforce the local colour of the rocks or debris over which it flows. Similar will be the effect of a spring bursting out of the hillside. These waters will themselves be brilliantly stained, and if they chance to flow over a bed of snow, they will stain it in their turn. I have seen a blood-red area of snow produced in this fashion. The reader may not derive from the foregoing description an idea of any effect produced by the reality save strangeness. One should be a landscape-painter of remarkable skill to convey any other. But the actual effect in nature, when the first shock of strangeness has worn off, is an effect of remarkable beauty. The colours in their great variety and multitude do in fact harmonise and agree together. Being fashioned in one work-shop, the work-shop of Nature, the self-same that fashions the eyes and intelligences of men and implants in them the idea of beauty as part of nature's law, they do not appear chaotic or inharmonious to the natural man. On the contrary they are bonded together and informed by the sense of a common origin, a common purpose, and a common meaning. When this unity is felt and perceived by the eye, not only do the forms, for all their jagged and splintered multiplicity, harmonise into compositions of remarkable grandeur, but their rich and varied colouring ennobles and distinguishes those forms. Views of this kind affect the imagination and impress themselves upon the memory more than most. Amongst the many wide vistas or actual panoramas which a mountain-climber of a few years' experience must have seen, he will doubtless freely admit that there are few which he can recall to his memory with any completeness. The first he ever saw overwhelmed him with their intricate elaboration. Later on, when he knew better what to look for, his susceptibility to impression was already lessened. The same is likely to be true of valley views. How many of them can we conjure up in any detail? The Matterhorn from Zermatt, Mont Blanc from Chamonix, and a few other similarly well-known prospects we know by heart; but of how many valley views, that we have only beheld once or during a short interval, can we form a visual image in our minds. My own experience leads me to conclude, though without making any allowance for a possibly large personal equation, that desert views are more memorable than those in which fertility predominates. Various views in the naked Indus valley are firmly fixed in my mind, though none of them were more than briefly beheld. The same is true of the scenery in the desert volcanic regions with which I am acquainted: the neighbourhood of Arequipa in Peru, parts of the provinces of Oruro and Potosi in Bolivia, the surroundings of the volcanoes of Ascotan in Chile, and of Aconcagua in the Argentine. In all these districts the scenery I beheld remains photographed in my memory with exceptional vividness, not merely its strangeness but its beauty, and the element in the scenery most vividly memorable is the element of colour. In fact both colour and forms are strange to an eye accustomed to look upon the fertile and normally habitable regions of the earth. This is true not merely of the mountains themselves and their constituent parts but of all their surroundings. I have never looked down upon the boiling interior of an active volcano, such as travellers to Hawaii are privileged to behold on the top of Mauna Loa. That must be a sight passing wonderful. Nor have I ever beheld an erupting volcano from near at hand. But I have seen enough in the volcanic districts of South America to realise the marvels and fascinations they contain. Let me be forgiven for quoting one or two passages from my book on the Bolivian Andes, which were written when the impressions were fresh, though not a detail of them has yet escaped me. Near Ollague, on the Chile-Bolivian frontier, is an active volcano. It was puffing steam in white jets from its top when I passed. All the hills and ground beneath, utterly bare of vegetation, were red or yellow in colour, or of white ashes dotted over with black cinders. Proceeding southward for some 200 kilometres, this kind of scenery continued. We wandered in and out among volcanoes, lava-streams, and great level sheets of white saline deposit, like frozen lakes covered with snow. Most of the volcanoes were extinct, but some retained the perfection of their form--wide, infinitely graceful cones outlined by a pure unbroken curve against the clear sky. The surface of the hills was often coloured in the most brilliant fashion imaginable. The combinations of the rich colours and strange forms rising beyond, and apparently out of, the large, flat, greyish-white surface of the saline deposits were most beautiful. One white imitation lake was framed in a margin of black volcanic dust and cinders, merging upward into grey sand. White dust-spouts were dancing on its white floor. A riven hill near by revealed streaks of blood-red, chrome yellow, and I know not what other bright colours. Presently came the smoking volcano San Pedro, with a smaller cone at its foot, from which there stretched to a distance of two or three miles a flow of lava, long cold, but looking as it lies on the sandy desert as though newly poured out. It resembled a glacier with steep sides and snout much crevassed and all covered with black moraine. With this strange product of volcanic convulsion for foreground, the sunburnt and silent desert stretching around, and volcanoes great and small rising behind, San Pedro's head smoking over all, I thought I had never beheld a more weird and uncanny scene. Yet it was beautiful, beyond all question beautiful to a high degree. If a man could be transported to the surface of the Moon, say somewhere near Aristarcus or Gassendi, such, I imagine, might be the kind of landscape that would salute his eyes. [Illustration: 70. AFTER THE SUNSET. From the Schänzli, Bern.] Over against these mountains there rose on the other side of the valley a polychrome hill, the Cerro Colorado, covered, they say, with magnetic sand, which leaps into the air and flies about in sheets and masses when a thunderstorm comes near--to the very natural horror of the local Indians. At such times, amidst the roar of thunder and the electric flashes, surrounded by a desert shaken by earthquakes and dotted over by cinders, and with this dancing fiend of a hill close at hand, ignorant people may be pardoned for imagining themselves possessed by a horde of rioting devils. Not far away is the blood-red cañon of the Rio Loa, 360 feet deep. I stood at the edge of this profound meandering trench at an hour when the low westering sun struck full on one face of it and a dark shadow fell from the other. With this sanguinary hollow at my feet, I looked across a great flat plain towards countless volcanic hills, many of them perfectly symmetrical in form, shining in the mellow evening light. The sunset is the time to enjoy to the fullest this clean lunar landscape, enriched by the world's fair atmosphere, when the shadows are stealing across the flat and climbing the opposite crimson hills, whence they seem to drive the colour up to the soft still clouds, where it fades away in the purple pomp of oncoming night. Is it possible, I wonder, by any words to convey to the reader the least notion of this sort of scenery? Picture to yourself a lake the size of Zug, or Annecy, or Orta. It is not a lake for all its flatness and the aspect of its shores, but a flat plain of salt, white as snow. Its banks and surroundings are not green, but wide-spreading sand, that stretches away and yet away till it vanishes perhaps into trembling mirage. Black spots are dotted all about as though newly scattered from some enormous pepper-pot. They are ashes. You can scarcely believe they are yet cold from the fire, that ejected them, however, ages ago. Yellow, crimson, green slopes rise nearer or farther away to form stately cones or ruined lumps of the crude earth. Alas! the picture is not paintable by me. Beheld, it smites the eye with a single indelible impression. Described, it is a mere succession of details and fragments, and there is no verbal lightning-stroke that will avail to smite them for an instant into simultaneous visibility. Strictly speaking, what has been written above has no place in an Alpine book. Yet the interest of the Alps to me, or of any range of mountains, lies in the fact that they are a specimen range, that they resemble more or less other ranges from Arctics to Tropics, that they are examples of one large category of mundane phenomena. To understand the position and character of Alpine scenery in the scenery of mountains, we must consider what the Alps lack as well as what they possess. Every range of mountains, indeed, has its own special and purely local elements of character, but outside of them it likewise possesses many more in common with other ranges. The experienced Alpine climber will find himself, if not at home, at all events not far from home in the mountains of Spitsbergen, Greenland, or the Antarctic, in the Caucasus, the Himalayas, the Canadian Rockies; even in the snowy Cordillera of tropical Bolivia, or in the African groups of Kenya and Ruwenzori. The only kind of mountains, so far as I know, that will be wholly strange to him, and at first sight almost wholly incomprehensible, are the desert volcanoes. It has been for the purpose of bringing this fact clearly before his mind that I have felt myself justified in devoting a brief space to the character of such volcanic scenery. 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39695	----	[Illustration: ANCIENT SWISS LAKE DWELLINGS, ZURICH LAKE. (_From Design by Dr. F. Keller._)] The Story of the Nations THE STORY OF SWITZERLAND BY LINA HUG AND RICHARD STEAD NEW YORK G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS London: T. FISHER UNWIN 1890 COPYRIGHT, 1890 BY G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS _Entered at Stationer's Hall, London_ BY T. FISHER UNWIN Press of G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS New York THE STORY OF THE NATIONS 12MO, ILLUSTRATED. PER VOL., $1.50 THE EARLIER VOLUMES ARE THE STORY OF GREECE. By Prof. JAS. A. HARRISON THE STORY OF ROME. By ARTHUR GILMAN THE STORY OF THE JEWS. By Prof. JAS. K. HOSMER THE STORY OF CHALDEA. By Z. A. RAGOZIN THE STORY OF GERMANY. By S. BARING-GOULD THE STORY OF NORWAY. By Prof. H. H. BOYESEN THE STORY OF SPAIN. By E. E. and SUSAN HALE THE STORY OF HUNGARY. By Prof. A. VÁMBÉRY THE STORY OF CARTHAGE. By Prof. ALFRED J. CHURCH THE STORY OF THE SARACENS. By ARTHUR GILMAN THE STORY OF THE MOORS IN SPAIN. By STANLEY LANE-POOLE THE STORY OF THE NORMANS. By SARAH O. JEWETT THE STORY OF PERSIA. By S. G. W. BENJAMIN THE STORY OF ANCIENT EGYPT. By GEO. RAWLINSON THE STORY OF ALEXANDER'S EMPIRE. By Prof. J. P. MAHAFFY THE STORY OF ASSYRIA. By Z. A. RAGOZIN THE STORY OF IRELAND. By Hon. EMILY LAWLESS THE STORY OF THE GOTHS. By HENRY BRADLEY THE STORY OF TURKEY. BY STANLEY LANE-POOLE THE STORY OF MEDIA, BABYLON, AND PERSIA. BY Z. A. RAGOZIN THE STORY OF MEDIÆVAL FRANCE. By GUSTAVE MASSON THE STORY OF MEXICO. By SUSAN HALE THE STORY OF HOLLAND. By JAMES E. THOROLD ROGERS THE STORY OF PHOENICIA. By GEORGE RAWLINSON THE STORY OF THE HANSA TOWNS. By HELEN ZIMMERN THE STORY OF EARLY BRITAIN. By Prof. ALFRED J. CHURCH THE STORY OF THE BARBARY CORSAIRS. By STANLEY LANE-POOLE THE STORY OF RUSSIA. By W. R. MORFILL. THE STORY OF THE JEWS UNDER ROME. By W. D. MORRISON. THE STORY OF SCOTLAND. By JAMES MACKINTOSH. For prospectus of the series see end of this volume G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS, NEW YORK AND LONDON RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO PROFESSOR GEORG VON WYSS AND PROFESSOR G. MEYER VON KNONAU PREFACE. For many reasons, some of which are obvious to the least thoughtful, the history of Switzerland is peculiarly interesting, and not least so to English-speaking peoples. In the first place, the "playground of Europe" is every year visited by large numbers of British and Americans, some of whom indeed are familiar with almost every corner of it. Then to the Anglo-Saxon race the grand spectacle of a handful of freemen nobly struggling for and maintaining their freedom, often amidst enormous difficulties, and against appalling odds, cannot but be heart-stirring. To the citizen of the great American republic a study of the constitution of the little European republic should bring both interest and profit--a constitution resembling in many points that of his own country, and yet in many other respects so different. And few readers, of whatever nationality, can, we think, peruse this story without a feeling of admiration for a gallant people who have fought against oppression as the Swiss have fought, who have loved freedom as they have loved it, and who have performed the well-nigh incredible feats of arms the Switzers have performed. And as Sir Francis O. Adams and Mr. Cunningham well point out in their recently published work on the Swiss Confederation, as a study in constitutional history, the value of the story of the development of the Confederation can hardly be over-estimated. Few of the existing accounts of Swiss history which have appeared in the English language go back beyond the year 1291 A.D., the date of the earliest Swiss League, and of course Switzerland as a nation cannot boast of an earlier origin. But surely some account should be given of the previous history of the men who founded the League. For a country which has been occupied at different periods by lakemen, Helvetians, and Romans; where Alamanni, Burgundians, and Franks have played their parts; where Charlemagne lived and ruled, and Charles the Bold fought; where the great families of the Zaerings, the Kyburgs, and Savoy struggled; and whence the now mighty house of Habsburg sprang (and domineered)--all this before 1291--a country with such a story to tell of its earlier times, we say, should not have that story left untold. Accordingly in this volume the history of the period before the formation of the Confederation has been dwelt upon at some little length. It should be mentioned, too, that in view of the very general interest caused by the remarkable discovery of the Swiss lake settlements a few years ago, a chapter has been devoted to the subject. Mindful, however, of the superior importance of the formation and progress of the Confederation, an endeavour has been made to trace that progress step by step, showing how men differing in race, in language, in creed, and in mode of life, combined to resist the common enemy, and to build up the compact little state, we now see playing its part on the European stage. The whole teaching of the history of the country may be summed up in Mr. Coolidge's words, in his "History of the Swiss Confederation" (p. 65). "Swiss history teaches us, all the way through, that Swiss liberty has been won by a close union of many small states." And Mr. Coolidge adds an opinion that "it will be best preserved by the same means, and not by obliterating all local peculiarities, nowhere so striking, nowhere so historically important as in Switzerland." It remains to add a few words as to the authorities consulted by the writers of this little volume. The standard Swiss histories have naturally been largely used, such as those of Dr. Carl Dändliker, Dierauer, Vulliemin, Daguet, Strickler, Vögelin, and Weber ("Universal History"). Amongst other histories and miscellaneous writings--essays, pamphlets, and what not--may be mentioned those of Dr. Ferdinand Keller, Wartmann, Heer, Heierli, Von Arx, Mommsen, Burkhardt, Morel, Marquardt, Dahn, Büdinger, Secretan, Von Wyss, Meyer von Knonau, Schweizer, Finsler, Roget, Bächtold, Marcmonnier, Rambert, Hettner, Scherer, Roquette, Freytag, Pestalozzi, Schulze, and Kern. Amongst the English works consulted are Freeman's writings, the Letters of the Parker Society, Adams and Cunningham's "Swiss Confederation," Coolidge's reprint from the "Encyclopædia Britannica" of the article on the "History of the Swiss Confederation," Bryce's "Holy Roman Empire," &c. The authors are indebted for most kind and valuable assistance to several eminent Swiss scholars. To Prof. Georg von Wyss and Prof. Meyer von Knonau special thanks are due, whilst Prof. Kesselring, Herr J. Heierli, and others, have shown much helpful interest in the progress of the work. They also owe many thanks to Dr. Imhoof, who has most kindly furnished them with casts from his famous collection of coins; and to the eminent sculptors, Vela and Lanz, who have given permission to use photographs of their latest works for illustration purposes. ZURICH and FOLKESTONE, _July, 1890_. CONTENTS. PAGE PREFACE ix TABLE OF CANTONS xiii TABLE SHOWING NAMES, AREAS, AND POPULATIONS OF CANTONS xxiv I. THE LAKE DWELLERS 1-12 Discovery of Lake Settlements--Dr. Ferdinand Keller's explorations--Three distinct epochs--Daily life of the Lakemen--Lake Settlements in East Yorkshire. II. THE HELVETIANS 13-28 Extent of their territory--Their government and mode of life--Orgetorix--Divico beats the Roman forces--Cæsar routs Helvetians--Vercingetorix--Valisians--Rhætians. III. HELVETIA UNDER THE ROMANS 29-43 Cæsar's mode of dealing with Helvetia--Augustus--Helvetia incorporated into Gaul--Vespasian--Alamanni and Burgundians--Christianity introduced. IV. THE ANCESTORS OF THE SWISS NATION 44-57 The Huns and their ravages--Alamanni--Burgundians--"The Nibelungenlied"--The Franks subdue both Alamanni and Burgundians--Irish monks preach in Switzerland. V. THE CAROLINGIANS--CHARLEMAGNE 58-70 Pepin le Bref--Charlemagne--His connection with Zurich. VI. THE KINGDOM OF BURGUNDY; THE DUCHY OF SWABIA; AND THE GERMAN EMPIRE 71-82 Division of Charlemagne's territory into three--Rudolf the Guelf--Swabian Dukes--Genealogical tables. VII. BURGUNDY AND SWABIA UNDER THE GERMAN EMPERORS 85-94 Bertha, the "Spinning Queen"--Her son Conrad--Helvetia in close connection with Germany--Henry III.--Struggle with the Papal power. VIII. THE REIGN OF THE HOUSE OF ZAERINGEN 95-100 Their origin--Freiburg and other towns founded--Bern founded--Defeated by Savoy--The Crusades. IX. THE HOUSES OF KYBURG, SAVOY, AND HABSBURG 101-117 Fall of the Zaerings--Kyburg dynasty--Growth of Feudalism--The Hohenstaufen--Savoy--Rise of the Habsburgs--Rudolf. X. THE CONFEDERATION, OR EIDGENOSSENSCHAFT 118-130 The Forest Cantons--The Oath on the Rütli--Rudolf oppresses the Waldstätten--Tell and the apple--Investigation as to the facts relating to the foundation of the League. XI. THE BATTLE OF MORGARTEN 131-137 Attempt on Zurich by the Habsburgs--Albrecht--Gathering of the Wald peoples--Austrian defeat. XII. THE LEAGUE OF THE EIGHT STATES 139-146 Lucerne joins the League--Zurich follows--War with Austria--Glarus attached to the League as an inferior or protected State--Zug joins the Union--Bern. XIII. ZURICH AN EXAMPLE OF A SWISS TOWN IN THE MIDDLE AGES 147-157 Abbey Church of our Lady--Influence of the Lady Abbess--Citizens in three classes--They gradually gain freedom--Trade of the city--Zurich a literary centre--Uprising of the working classes--A new constitution. XIV. BERN CRUSHES THE NOBILITY: GREAT VICTORY OF LAUPEN 158-166 Bern of a military bent--Forms a West Swiss Union--Siege of Solothurn--Bern opposes the Habsburgs--Acquires Laupen--Victory at Laupen--League of the Eight States completed. XV. THE BATTLES OF SEMPACH AND NAEFELS 167-178 Opposition to Austria--Leopold III., Character of--His plans--Defeat and death at Sempach--Winkelried--Battle of Naefels. XVI. HOW SWITZERLAND CAME TO HAVE SUBJECT LANDS 179-189 Acquisition of surrounding territories desirable--Appenzell--Valais--Graubünden--Aargau--Quarrels with Milan. XVII. WAR BETWEEN ZURICH AND SCHWYZ 190-199 Dispute concerning Toggenburg lands--Stüssi of Zurich and Von Reding of Schwyz--Zurich worsted--Makes alliance with Austria--France joins the alliance--Battle of St. Jacques. XVIII. BURGUNDIAN WARS 200-216 Charles the Bold--Louis XI. of France--Causes which led to the war--Policy of Bern--Commencement of hostilities--Battle of Grandson--Morat--Siege of Nancy and death of Charles. XIX. MEETING AT STANZ, &C. 217-229 Prestige gained by the League--Disputes respecting the admission of Freiburg and Solothurn--Diet at Stanz--Nicolas von der Flüe--Covenant of Stanz--Waldmann--His execution. XX. THE LEAGUE OF THE THIRTEEN CANTONS COMPLETED 230-242 Maximilian--Swabian War--Separation of Switzerland from the Empire--Basel joins the League--Schaffhausen--Appenzell--Italian wars--Siege of Novara--Battle of Marignano--St. Gall. XXI. THE GREAT COUNCILS, LANDSGEMEINDE, AND DIET, &C. 243-253 Two kinds of Canton--Constitution of Bern and of Zurich--Landsgemeinde--Tagsatzung--Intellectual and literary life. XXII. THE REFORMATION IN GERMAN SWITZERLAND 254-268 Zwingli--His early life--His desire for a reformation--Appointed to Zurich--A national Reformed Church established--Spread of the new faith--The Kappeler Milchsuppe--Disputes between Luther and Zwingli--Second quarrel with the Forest--Zwingli killed. XXIII. THE REFORMATION IN WEST SWITZERLAND 269-278 Political condition of Vaud and Geneva--Charles III. and Geneva--The "Ladle Squires"--Bonivard thrown into Chillon--Reformed faith preached in French Switzerland by Farel--Treaty of St. Julien--Operations in Savoy. XXIV. GENEVA AND CALVIN 279-290 Calvin--His "Institutes"--His Confession of Faith--Banishment from Geneva--His return--The _Consistoire_--The "Children of Geneva"--Servetus burnt--The Academy founded--Calvin's death. XXV. THE CATHOLIC REACTION 291-302 _Droit d'asile_--Pfyffer--Carlo Borromeo, Archbishop of Milan--Borromean League--Protestants driven from Locarno--Switzerland an asylum for religious refugees--Effect of Swiss Reformation on England--Revival of learning--Escalade of Geneva. XXVI. THE ARISTOCRATIC PERIOD 303-314 Thirty Years' War--Graubünden and its difficulties--Massacre in Valtellina--Rohan--Jenatsch--Peasants' Revolt--Treaty with France. XXVII. POLITICAL MATTERS IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 315-323 Aristocracy and plebeians--French League--Massacre at Greifensee--Davel's plot--Bern--Its three castes--Constitutional struggles in Geneva--Affray in Neuchâtel. XXVIII. SWITZERLAND AND THE RENAISSANCE: INFLUENCE OF VOLTAIRE AND ROUSSEAU 324-342 Voltaire--Residence at Ferney--No special influence on Geneva--Rousseau--Madame de Staël--Swiss savants--Zurich a Poets' Corner--Breitinger, Bodmer, Haller, Klopstock, &c.--Pestalozzi--Lavater--The Helvetic Society. XXIX. THE FRENCH REVOLUTION AND SWITZERLAND 343-359 Swiss Guards massacred in Paris--Insurrection of Stäfa--Treaty of Campo Formio--The Paris Helvetic Club--The "Lemanic Republic"--Surrender of Bern--Helvetic Republic proclaimed--Opposition by Schwyz, Stanz, &c. XXX. THE "ONE AND UNDIVIDED HELVETIC REPUBLIC" 357-368 A levy ordered by France--Franco-Helvetic alliance--Austrian occupation--Russian occupation--Battle of Zurich--Suwarow's extraordinary marches--Heavy French requisitions--Rengger and Stapfer,--Centralists and Federalists--Napoleon as mediator. XXXI. THE MEDIATION ACT AND NAPOLEON 369-381 Conference in Paris on Swiss matters--Mediation Act signed--The Bockenkrieg--Six new cantons formed--Material and intellectual progress--Extinction of Diet--The "Long Diet"--Congress of Vienna--Completion of twenty-two cantons. XXXII. SWITZERLAND UNDER THE CONSTITUTION OF 1815-48 382-394 Dissatisfaction with results of Vienna Congress--The French revolution of 1830--The "Day of Uster"--The Siebner Concordat--Catholic League--Progress of education--Political refugees in Switzerland--Louis Philippe--Louis Napoleon--Disturbances in Zurich by the Anti-Nationalists--The Sonderbund War. XXXIII. UNDER THE CONSTITUTION OF 1848 395-407 New Federal Constitution--Federal Assembly--Federal Council--Federal Tribunal--Powers of the individual cantons--Military service--Neuchâtel troubles--Federal Pact amended--The Initiative--The Referendum. XXXIV. INDUSTRY, COMMERCE, RAILWAYS, EDUCATION. THE "RIGHT OF ASYLUM" 408-421 Extent of trade--Exports and imports--Railways--Education--Keller the poet--The Geneva Convention--International Postal Union--International Labour Congress--Switzerland as a political asylum--Franco-German War--Summary of population statistics. GENEALOGICAL TABLES 83, 84 INDEX 423 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE LAKE DWELLINGS, ZURICH LAKE, FROM A DESIGN BY DR. FERDINAND KELLER _Frontispiece_ MAP, SHOWING LAKE SETTLEMENTS AROUND ZURICH LAKE, BY MR. HEIERLI 2 (1) DECORATION ON SWORD HILT; (2 AND 3), STONE CELTS FOUND IN SWISS LAKE DWELLINGS (COPIED BY PERMISSION FROM "HARPER'S MAGAZINE") 4 (1) VESSEL; (2) SPECIMENS OF WOVEN FABRICS FOUND IN SWISS LAKE DWELLINGS (COPIED BY PERMISSION FROM "HARPER'S MAGAZINE") 7 SPECIMENS OF POTTERY FOUND IN SWISS LAKE DWELLINGS (COPIED BY PERMISSION FROM "HARPER'S MAGAZINE") 10 JOHANNISSTEIN, WITH RUINS OF CASTLE OF "HOHENRHÆTIA," NEAR THUSIS, GRAUBÜNDEN 16 HOUSE (FORMERLY CHAPEL) IN ROMAUNSH STYLE, AT SCHULS, LOWER ENGADINE, GRAUBÜNDEN 27 SILVER COIN, VERCINGETORIX (DR. IMHOOF, WINTERTHUR) 29 GOLD COIN, VESPASIAN [VESPASIANUS IMPERATOR-AETERNITAS] (DR. IMHOOF) 34 GOLD COIN OF SIXTEENTH CENTURY [ST. FELIX, ST. REGULA-SANCTUS CAROLUS] (DR. IMHOOF) 42 THE EIGER 52 GREAT MINSTER AND WASSERKIRCHE, ZURICH (APPENZELLER, ZURICH) 67 FURKA PASS 79 CATHEDRAL (EXTERIOR), LAUSANNE 92 CHÂTEAU DE VUFFLENS, VAUD (FOURTEENTH CENTURY) 102 BRONZE FIGURES FROM MAXIMILIAN MONUMENT, INNSBRUCK (ARTHUR OF THE ROUND TABLE, BRITAIN; THEODOBERT, DUKE OF BURGUNDY; ERNEST, DUKE OF AUSTRIA; THEODORIC, KING OF THE OSTROGOTHS) 106 THE OLD HABSBURG CASTLE, CANTON AARGAU 112 THALER OF THE THREE CANTONS (URI, SCHWYZ, AND UNTERWALDEN) 120 MAP OF OLD SWITZERLAND 138 UPPER FALL OF THE REICHENBACH (MEYRINGEN) 160 PORCH OF BERN MINSTER, WITH STATUE OF RUDOLF VON ERLACH 165 WINKELRIED'S MONUMENT, STANZ 174 ARMS OF URI 189 ST. JACQUES MONUMENT, BASEL, BY SCHLÖTH 196 ARMS OF SCHWYZ 198 ELIZABETH, WIFE OF ALBERT II.; MARIA OF BURGUNDY; ELEANOR OF PORTUGAL; KUNIGUNDE, SISTER OF MAXIMILIAN (FROM MAXIMILIAN MONUMENT, INNSBRUCK) 201 MAP OF GRANDSON 210 OLD WEAPONS AND ARMOUR IN ZURICH ARSENAL 214 INNER COURT OF THE ABBEY OF OUR LADY. LUTH CHAPTER OF ZURICH 220 ARMS OF UNTERWALDEN 229 MARBLE RELIEVI, MAXIMILIAN MONUMENT, INNSBRUCK 231 CITY WALLS OF MURTEN 235 CUSTOM-HOUSE, FREIBURG 240 SARNEN, BERN 244 CITY WALLS, LUCERNE 246 ULRICH ZWINGLI 256 MINSTER, BERN 270 THALER OF 1564 (ST. GALL) 289 HIGH ALTAR, CHUR CATHEDRAL 306 ROUSSEAU 329 PESTALOZZI 330 HALLER 333 LAVATER 340 THE LION OF LUCERNE 344 LA HARPE 348 REDING 354 DILIGENCE CROSSING THE SIMPLON PASS 362 INTERLAKEN, FROM THE FELSENEGG 386 POLYTECHNIKUM AT ZURICH 397 VIEW OF SION 404 LAW COURTS AT LAUSANNE 407 "VICTIMS OF THE WORK," ST. GOTHARD TUNNEL, FROM A BAS-RELIEF BY VELA (BY SPECIAL PERMISSION OF SCULPTOR) 411 PORTRAIT OF GOTFRIED KELLER, THE POET 413 INTERIOR OF LAUSANNE CATHEDRAL 419 TABLE SHOWING NAMES (GERMAN AND FRENCH), AREAS, AND POPULATIONS OF CANTONS. ----------------------------+------------------------+---------+------------- | | Area in| Population German Name. | French Name. | Square |(approximate) | | Miles. |Dec. 1, 1888. ----------------------------+------------------------+---------+------------- 1. Aargau |Argovie | 543 | 193,000 2. Appenzell | Appenzell | | {Ausser Rhoden | {Rhodes Extérieures| 100 | 54,000 {Inner Rhoden | {Rhodes Intérieures| 60 | 13,000 3. Basel Stadt |Bâle-Ville | 14 | 74,000 " Land | " Campagne | 163 | 62,000 4. Bern |Berne | 2,660 | 539,000 5. Freiburg |Fribourg | 644 | 119,000 6. St. Gallen |St. Gall | 779 | 229,000 7. Genf |Genève (Geneva) | 109 | 107,000 8. Glarus |Glaris | 267 | 33,000 9. Graubünden |Grisons | 2,774 | 96,000 10. Luzern |Lucerne | 579 | 135,000 11. Neuenburg |Neuchâtel | 312 | 109,000 12. Schaffhausen |Schaffhouse | 116 | 37,000 13. Schwyz |Schwyz (Schwytz) | 351 | 50,000 14. Solothurn |Soleure | 303 | 85,000 15. Tessin |Tessin (Italian, Ticino)| 1,095 | 127,000 16. Thurgau |Thurgovie | 381 | 105,000 17. Unterwalden {Obdem Wald |Unterwalden {Le Haut | 183 | 15,000 {Mid dem " | {Le Bas | 112 | 12,000 18. Uri |Uri | 415 | 17,000 19. Wallis |Valais | 2,026 | 102,000 20. Waadt |Vaud | 1,244 | 251,000 21. Zug |Zoug | 92 | 23,000 22. Zürich |Zurich | 665 | 332,000 ----------------------------+------------------------+---------+------------- Total | 15,987 |2,920,723[1] +---------+------------- FOOTNOTES: [1] This grand total of the population, on Dec. 1, 1888, is taken from the provisional Census Tables issued by the Swiss Government in 1889. THE STORY OF SWITZERLAND. I. THE LAKE DWELLERS. Who first lived in this country of ours? What and what manner of men were they who first settled on its virgin soil and made it "home"? These questions naturally present themselves every now and then to most thoughtful people. And the man with any pretensions to culture feels an interest in the history of other countries besides his own. But however interesting these questions as to primary colonizations may be, they are usually exactly the most difficult of answer that the history of a country presents. Now and then indeed we may know tolerably well the story of some early Greek immigration, or we may possess full accounts of the modern settlement of a Pitcairn Island; but in far the greater number of instances we can but dimly surmise or rashly guess who and what were the earliest inhabitants of any given region. MAP SHOWING THE CHIEF LAKE SETTLEMENTS IN OR NEAR LAKE ZURICH, By Prof. T. Heierli, Zurich. In the case of Switzerland, however, we are particularly fortunate. "Every schoolboy" has heard of the wonderful discoveries made on the shores of the beautiful Swiss lakes during the last few years, and the same schoolboy even understands, if somewhat hazily, the importance attaching to these discoveries. Nevertheless, some short account of the earliest inhabitants of the rugged Helvetia must occupy this first chapter. And to the general reader some little information as to what was found, and how it was found, on the lake shores, may not come amiss. In the winter of 1853, the waters of Zurich lake sank so low that a wide stretch of mud was laid bare along the shores. The people of Meilen, a large village some twelve miles from the town of Zurich, took advantage of this unusual state of things to effect certain improvements, and during the operations the workmen's tools struck against some obstacles, which proved to be great wooden props, or piles. These piles, the tops of which were but a few inches below the surface of the mud, were found to be planted in rows and squares, and the number of them seemed to be enormous. And then there were picked out of the mud large numbers of bones, antlers, weapons, implements of various kinds, and what not. Dr. Ferdinand Keller, a great authority on Helvetian antiquities, was sent from Zurich to examine the spot, and he pronounced it to be a lake settlement, probably of some very ancient Celtic tribe. Many marks of a prehistoric occupation had previously been found, but hitherto no traces of dwellings. Naturally the news of this important discovery of lake habitations caused a great sensation, and gave a great impulse to archæological studies. Dr. Keller called these early settlers _Pfahl-bauer_, or pile-builders, from their peculiar mode of building their houses. [Illustration: (1) DECORATION ON SWORD HILT; (2 AND 3) STONE CELTS, FOUND IN SWISS LAKE DWELLINGS. (_Copied by permission from "Harper's Magazine."_)] During the course of the last thirty years, over two hundred of these aquatic villages have been discovered--on the shores of the lakes of Constance, Geneva, Zurich, Neuchâtel, Bienne, Morat, and other smaller lakes, and on certain rivers and swampy spots which had once been lakes or quasi-lakes. The Alpine lakes, however, with their steep and often inaccessible banks, show no trace of lake settlements. The lake dwellings are mostly[2] placed on piles driven some 10 feet into the bed of the lake, and as many as thirty or forty thousand of these piles have been found in a single settlement. The houses themselves were made of hurdlework, and thatched with straw or rushes. Layers of wattles and clay alternating formed the floors, and the walls seem to have been rendered more weather-proof by a covering of clay, or else of bulrushes or straw. A railing of wickerwork ran round each hut, partly no doubt to keep off the wash of the lake, and partly as a protection to the children. Light bridges, or gangways easily moved, connected the huts with each other and with the shore. Each house contained two rooms at least, and some of the dwellings measured as much as 27 feet by 22 feet. Hearthstones blackened by fire often remain to show where the kitchens had been. Mats of bast, straw, and reeds abound in the settlements, and show that the lakemen had their notions of cosiness and comfort. Large crescent-shaped talismans, carved on one side, were hung over the entrances to the huts, showing pretty clearly that the moon-goddess was worshipped. The prehistoric collections in the public museums at Zurich, Berne, Bienne, Neuchâtel, and Geneva, not to speak of private collections, are very extensive and very fine, containing tools, handsome weapons, knives of most exquisite shape and carving, women's ornaments, some of them of the most elegant kind. A "lady of the lake" in full dress would seem to have made an imposing show. An undergarment of fine linen was girded at the waist by a broad belt of inlaid or embossed bronze work. Over the shoulders was thrown a woollen cloak fastened with bronze clasps, or pins, whilst neck, arms, and ankles were decked with a great store of trinkets--necklaces, anklets, bracelets, rings, spangles, and so forth. The whole was set off by a diadem of long pins with large heads beautifully chiselled, and inlaid with beads of metal or glass, these pins being stuck through a sort of leathern fillet which bound up the hair. So beautiful are some of the trinkets, that imitations of them in gold are in request by the ladies of to-day. [Illustration: (1) VESSEL; (2) SPECIMENS OF WOVEN FABRICS FOUND IN SWISS LAKE DWELLINGS. (_Copied by permission from "Harper's Magazine."_)] It is curious to find that one of the most extensive lake colonies in Switzerland is situated in and spread over the vast marshes of Robenhausen (Zurich) which once formed part of Lake Pfäffikon. The visitor who is not deterred by the inconvenience of a descent into a damp and muddy pit some 11 feet deep, where excavations are still being carried on, finds himself facing three successive settlements, one above another, and all belonging to the remote stone age. Between the successive settlements are layers of turf, some 3 feet thick, the growth of many centuries. The turf itself is covered by a stratum of sticky matter, 4 inches thick. In this are numbers of relics embedded, both destructible and indestructible objects being perfectly well preserved, the former kept from decay through having been charred by fire. The late Professor Heer discovered and analysed remains of more than a hundred different kinds of plants. Grains, and even whole ears of wheat and barley, seeds of strawberries and raspberries, dried apples, textile fabrics, implements, hatchets of nephrite--this mineral and the Oriental cereals show clearly enough that the lakemen traded with the East, though no doubt through the Mediterranean peoples--spinning-wheels, corn-squeezers, floorings, fragmentary walls--all these are found in plenty, in each of the three layers. The topmost settlement, however, contains no destructible matters, such as corn, fruits, &c. This is to be accounted for by the fact that the two lower settlements were destroyed by fire, and the uppermost one by the growth of the turf, or by the rising marshes. In the latter case there was no friendly action of fire to preserve the various objects. The scholar's mind is at once carried back to the account given by Herodotus of Thrakian lake-dwellers.[3] The people of this tribe, he tells us, built their houses over water, so as to gain facilities for fishing. They used to let down baskets through trapdoors in the floors of their huts, and these baskets rapidly filled with all kinds of fish that had gathered around, tempted by the droppings of food. Though the lakemen depended chiefly on the water for their supply of food, yet they were hunters, and great tillers of the ground as well as fishermen. They grew wheat and barley, and kept horses, cattle, sheep, and goats. The women spun flax and wool, and wove them into fabrics for clothing. Their crockery was at first of a very primitive description, being made of black clay, and showing but little finish or artistic design. But the children were not forgotten, for they were supplied with tiny mugs and cups.[4] [Illustration: SPECIMENS OF POTTERY FOUND IN SWISS LAKE DWELLINGS. (_Copied by permission from "Harper's Magazine."_)] With regard to the date when the immigration of lakemen began the savants are hopelessly at variance. Nor do they agree any better as to the dates of the stone and bronze epochs into which the history of the lake settlements divides itself. But as in some of the marshy stations these two epochs reach on to the age of iron, it is assumed by many authorities that the lake dwellers lived on to historical times. This is particularly shown in the alluvial soil and marshes between the lakes of Neuchâtel and Bienne, Préfargier being one of the chief stations, where settlements belonging to the stone, bronze, and iron ages are found ranged one above another in chronological order. In the topmost stratum or colony, the lakemen's wares are found mingling pell-mell with iron and bronze objects of Helvetian and Roman make, a fact sufficient, probably, to show that the lake dwellers associated with historical peoples. It would be useless as well as tedious to set forth at length all the theories prevailing as to the origin and age of the lake dwellings. Suffice it to say that, by some authorities, the commencement of the stone period is placed at six thousand, and by others at three thousand years before the Christian era, the latter being probably nearest the truth. As to the age of bronze, we may safely assign it to 1100-1000 B.C., for Professor Heer proves conclusively that the time of Homer--the Greek age of bronze--was contemporary with the bronze epoch of the lakemen.[5] The Lake period would seem to have drawn to a close about 600-700 B.C., when the age of bronze was superseded by that of iron. According to the most painstaking investigations made by Mr. Heierli, of Zurich, now the greatest authority on the subject in Switzerland, the lakemen left their watery settlements about the date just given, and began to fix their habitations on _terra firma_. Various tombs already found on land would bear witness to this change. When these peculiar people had once come on shore to live they would be gradually absorbed into neighbouring and succeeding races, no doubt into some of the Celtic tribes, and most likely into the Helvetian peoples. Thus they have their part, however small it may be, in the history of the Swiss nation. It must be added that the Pfahl-bauer are no longer held to have been a Celtic people, but are thought to have belonged to some previous race, though which has not as yet been ascertained. But enough has been written on the subject, perhaps. Yet, on the other hand, it would have been impossible to pass over the lakemen in silence, especially now when the important discoveries of similar lake settlements in East Yorkshire have drawn to the subject the attention of all intelligent English-speaking people.[6] FOOTNOTES: [2] There are two distinct kinds of settlement, but we are here dealing with the first or earlier kind. [3] Herod, v. 16. [4] The lake tribes of the bronze age, however, not only understood the use of copper and bronze, but were far more proficient in the arts than their predecessors. Some of the textile fabrics found are of the most complicated weaving, and some of the bronze articles are of most exquisite chiselling, though these were probably imported from Italy, with which country the lake dwellers would seem to have had considerable traffic. The earliest specimens of pottery are usually ornamented by mere rude nail scratchings, but those of the bronze period have had their straight lines and curves made by a graving tool. In fact, the later tribes had become lovers of art for its own sake, and even the smallest articles of manufacture were decorated with designs of more or less elaboration and finish. [5] The products of the soil seem to have been the same amongst the lakemen as amongst Homer's people. Both knew barley and wheat, and neither of them knew rye. In their mode of dressing and preparing barley for food the two peoples concurred. It was not made into bread, but roasted to bring off the husk. And roasted barley is still a favourite article of diet in the Lower Engadine. The Greeks ate it at their sacrifices, and always took supplies of it when starting on a journey. So Telemachus asks his old nurse Eurykleia to fill his goat skin with roasted barley when he sets out in search of his father. And young Greek brides were required to complete the stock of household belongings by providing on their marriage day a roasting vessel for barley. [6] Those who wish to see pretty well all that can be said on the matter should read the valuable article in _The Westminster Review_, for June, 1887. II. THE HELVETIANS. The history of a country often includes the history of many peoples, for history is a stage on which nations and peoples figure like individual characters, playing their parts and making their exits, others stepping into their places. And so the Swiss soil has been trodden by many possessors--Celts, Rhætians, Alamanni, Burgundians, Franks. These have all made their mark upon and contributed to the history of the Swiss nation, and must all figure in the earlier portions of our story. Dim are the glimpses we catch of the early condition of the Helvetians, but the mist that enshrouds this people clears, though slowly, at the end of the second century before Christ, when they came into close contact with the Romans who chronicled their deeds. The Helvetians themselves, indeed, though not ignorant of the art of writing, were far too much occupied in warfare to be painstaking annalists. At the Celto-Roman period of which we are treating, Helvetia comprised all the territory lying between Mount Jura, Lake Geneva, and Lake Constance, with the exception of Basle, which included Graubünden, and reached into St. Gall and Glarus. It was parcelled out amongst many tribes, even as it is in our own day. The Helvetians, who had previously occupied all the land between the Rhine and the Main, had been driven south by the advancing Germans, and had colonized the fertile plains and the lower hill grounds of Switzerland, leaving to others the more difficult Alpine regions. They split into four tribes, of which we know the names of three--the Tigurini, Toygeni, and Verbigeni. The first named seem to have settled about Lake Morat, with Aventicum (Avenches) as their capital. Basle was the seat of the Rauraci; to the west of Neuchâtel was that of the Sequani; whilst Geneva belonged to the wild Allobroges. The Valais[7] district was inhabited by four different clans, and was known as the "Poenine valley," on account of the worship of Poeninus on the Great St. Bernard, where was a temple to the deity. In the Ticino were the Lepontines, a Ligurian tribe whose name still lingers in "Lepontine Alps." The mountain fastnesses of the Grisons (Graubünden) were held by the hardy Rhætians, a Tuscan tribe, who, once overcome by the Romans, speedily adopted their speech and customs. Romansh, a corrupt Latin, holds its own to this day in the higher and remoter valleys of that canton. All these tribes, except the two last mentioned, belonged to the great and martial family of the Celts, and of them all the wealthiest, the most valiant, and the most conspicuous were the Helvetians.[8] Of the life and disposition of these Helvetians we know but little, but no doubt they bore the general stamp of the Celts. They managed the javelin more skilfully than the plough, and to their personal courage it is rather than to their skill in tactics that they owe their reputation as great warriors. But in course of time their character was greatly modified, and, owing probably to their secluded position, they settled down into more peaceful habits, and rose to wealth and honour, combining with their great powers a certain amount of culture. They practised the art of writing, having adopted the Greek alphabet, and gold, which was possibly found in their rivers, circulated freely amongst them. To judge from the relics found in Helvetian tumuli the Helvetians were fond of luxuries in the way of ornaments and fine armour, and they excelled in the art of working metals, especially bronze. They had made some progress in agriculture, and in the construction of their houses, and more especially of the walls that guarded their towns, which struck the Romans by their neatness and practicalness. Nor would this be to be wondered at if the old legends could be trusted, which tell us that Hercules himself taught the Helvetians to build, and likewise gave them their laws; an allusion, no doubt, to the fact that culture came to them from the east, from the peoples around the Mediterranean. Besides many hamlets, they had founded no fewer than four hundred villages and twelve towns, and seem to have been well able to select for their settlements the most picturesque and convenient spots. For many of their place-names have come down to us, in some cases but little changed. Thus of colonies we have Zuricum (Zurich), Salodurum (Soleure), Vindonissa (Windisch), Lousonium (Lausanne), and Geneva; of rivers navigable or otherwise useful, Rhine, Rhone, Aar, Reuss, Thur; of mountains, Jura and perhaps Camor. Disliking the hardships of Alpine life the Helvetians left the giant mountains to a sturdier race. [Illustration: JOHANNISSTEIN, WITH RUINS OF CASTLE OF "HOHENRHÆTIA," NEAR THUSIS, GRAUBÜNDEN. (_From a Photograph._)] The nature of their political code was republican, yet it was largely tinctured with elements of an aristocratic kind. Their nobles were wealthy landed proprietors, with numerous vassals, attendants, and slaves. In case their lord was impeached these retainers would take his part before the popular tribunal. The case of Orgetorix may be cited. He was a dynastic leader, and head over one hundred valley settlements; his name appears on Helvetian silver coins as Orcitrix. He was brought to trial on a charge of aspiring to the kingship, and no fewer than a thousand followers appeared at the court to clear him, but _vox populi vox dei_, and the popular vote prevailed. Orgetorix was sentenced to die by fire, a punishment awarded to all who encroached upon the popular rights. Their form of religion was most probably that common to all the Celts, Druidical worship. Invested with power, civil and spiritual, the Druids held absolute sway over the superstitious Celtic tribes. Proud as the Celts were of their independence, they yet were incapable of governing themselves because of the perpetual dissensions amongst the tribes; and they were overawed by the intellectual superiority of a priesthood that professed all the sciences of the age--medicine, astrology, soothsaying, necromancy--and had taken into its hands the education of the young. The common people were mere blind devotees, and rendered unquestioning obedience to the decrees of the Druids. Druidism was, in fact, the only power which could move the whole Celtic race, and could knit together the Celts of the Thames and those of the Garonne and Rhone, when they met at the great yearly convocation at Chartres, then the "Metropolis of the Earth." Human sacrifice was one of the most cruel and revolting features of the Druidical religion. The Celts were a peculiarly gifted people, though differing greatly from the contemporary Greeks and Romans. They had been a governing race before the Romans appeared on the stage, and wrested from them the leading part. They had overrun the whole world, so to speak, casting about for a fixed home, and spread as far as the British Isles, making Gaul their religious and political centre, and settled down into more peaceful habits. Driven by excess of population, or their unquenchable thirst for war, or simply their nomadic habits--one cannot otherwise account for their retrogression--they migrated eastwards whence they came--to Italy, Greece, and Asia Minor--demanding territory, and striking terror into every nation they approached by their warlike habits. They knocked at the gates of Rome, and the Galatians were conspicuous by their atrocities.[9] Brilliant qualities and great national faults had been their peculiar characteristics. Quick-witted they were, highly intelligent, ingenious, frank, versatile; attaching much value to _gloire_, and _esprit_; susceptible of and accessible to every impression, skilled handicraftsmen; but inclined to be vain, boastful, and fickle-minded, averse to order and discipline, and lacking in perseverance and moral energy. This, according to both ancient and modern writers, was their character. They failed to create a united empire, and to resist their deadly enemy, Rome. What they did excel in was fighting. Dressed in gaudy costume--wide tunic, bright plaid, and toga embroidered with silver and gold--the Celtic noble would fight by preference in single combat, to show off to personal advantage, but in the brunt of battle he threw away his clothing to fight unimpeded. Bituitus, king of the Arverni, attired in magnificent style, mounts his silver chariot, and, preceded by a harper and a pack of hounds, goes to meet Cæsar in battle, and win his respect and admiration. The Helvetians were peaceful neighbours to Italy so long as they did not come into direct contact with the Romans, but on the Rhine they were engaged in daily feuds with the German tribes, who had driven them from their settlements in the Black Forest, and had continued their raids beyond the river. For the sake of plunder, or from mere restless habits, the Germans had left their northern homes on the Baltic and North Seas, the Cimbri, and their brethren, the Teutons and others, and were slowly moving southward, repelling or being in turn repelled. The most daring crossed the Rhine, and made their way straight through the lands of the Belgians and Helvetians towards the South, thereby anticipating the great dislocation of peoples which was to take place but five hundred years later, when the Roman Empire, sapped at the root, crumbled to pieces, unable longer to resist the tide of barbarian invasion. On one of these expeditions the Cimbri, giving a glowing account of sunny Gaul, and the booty to be obtained there, were joined by the Helvetian Tigurini, whose leader was the young and fiery Divico (B.C. 107). They started with the intention of founding a new home in the province of the Nitiobroges in Southern Gaul; but when they had reached that territory they were suddenly stopped on the banks of the Garonne by a Roman army under the consul Cassius and his lieutenant Piso. But, little impressed by the military fame of the Romans, the Tigurini, lying in ambush, gave battle to the forces of great Rome, and utterly routed them at Agen, on the Garonne, between Bordeaux and Toulouse. It was a brilliant victory; both the Roman leaders and the greater part of their men were slain, and the rest begged for their lives. The proud Romans were under the humiliating necessity of giving hostages and passing under the yoke--a stain on the Roman honour not to be forgotten; but the victors, being anything but diplomats, knew no better use to make of their splendid victory than to wander about for a time and then go home again. A few years later (102 and 101 B.C.) the Tigurini, Toygeni, Cimbri, and Teutons joined their forces on a last expedition southwards. The expedition ended in the destruction of these German tribes. The Toygeni perished in the fearful carnage at Aquæ Sextiæ, and the Cimbri later on at Vercellæ. When the Tigurini heard of this last-mentioned disaster they returned home. Cæsar had been appointed governor of the Province (Provence) which extended to Geneva, the very door of Helvetia; on the Rhine the Germans continued to make their terrible inroads. Thus there was but little scope for the stirring Helvetians, and the soil afforded but a scanty supply of food; so they turned their eyes wistfully in the direction of fair Gaul. Meeting in council they decided on a general migration, leaving their country to whoever might like to take it. Then rose up Orgetorix, one of their wealthiest nobles, and supported the plan, volunteering to secure a free passage through the neighbouring provinces of the Allobroges and Ædui. The 28th of March, B.C. 58, was the day fixed for the departure, and Geneva was to be the meeting-place; thence they were to proceed through the territory of the Allobroges. For two years previously they were to get ready their provisions, and to collect carts, horses, and oxen, but before the period had expired Orgetorix was accused of treason, and being unable to clear himself, put an end to his own life to escape public obloquy. This episode made no difference in the general plan. The Helvetians, indeed, insisted on its being carried out. Setting fire to their towns and villages to prevent men from returning, they started on their adventurous journey on that spring morn of 58 B.C. Cæsar's figures seem very large, but, if he is to be trusted, the tribes numbered some 368,000 men, of which 263,000 were Helvetians, the rest being neighbours of theirs. But 93,000 were capable of bearing arms. A curious yet thrilling sight must have been that motley caravan of prodigious proportions--ten thousand carts drawn by forty thousand oxen, carrying women, children, and the old men; riders and armour-bearers alongside, toiling painfully through woods and fords, and up and down rugged hills; behind the emigrants the smoking and smouldering ruins of the homes they were leaving with but little regret. Yet they were no mere adventurers, but looked forward with swelling hearts to a brighter time and a more prosperous home. Arriving at Geneva they found the bridge over the Rhone broken up by Cæsar's order. Cæsar was, in truth, a factor they had not reckoned upon, and, after useless attempts to make headway, they turned their steps towards Mount Jura, and whilst they were toiling over the steep and rugged Pas de l'Ecluse, Cæsar returned to Italy to gather together his legions. Returning to Gaul he arrived just in time to see the Helvetians cross the Arar (Saône) with the utmost difficulty. The Tigurini were the last to cross. And on them Cæsar fell and cut them down, thus avenging the death of Piso--the great-grandfather of Cæsar's wife--and wiping out the stain on the honour of the Roman arms. His legions crossed the Saône in twenty-four hours, and this performance so excited the admiration of the Helvetians, who had themselves taken twenty days to cross, that they condescended to send legates to treat with Cæsar for a free passage. They promised him that they would do no harm to any one if he would comply with the request, but threatened that if he should intercept them he might have to see something of their ancient bravery. No threats or entreaties were of avail, however, with such a man as Cæsar, who, smiling at their naïve simplicity, asked them to gives hostages as a sign of confirmation of their promise. "Hostages!" cried Divico, the hero of of Agen, in a rage, "the Helvetians are not accustomed to give hostages; they have been taught by their fathers to receive hostages, and this the Romans must well remember." So saying he walked away. The Helvetians continued their march, Cæsar following at a distance, watching for an opportunity of attacking them. At Bibracte, an important city of Gaul (now Mont Beuvray), west of Autun in Burgundy, the opportunity offered itself. Cæsar seized a hill and posted his troops there, and charged the enemy with his cavalry. The Helvetians fiercely repulsed the attack, and poured on the Roman front, but were quite unable to stand against the showers of the Roman pila, which often penetrated several shields at once, and thus fastened them together so that they could not be disentangled. Disconcerted by this unexpected result, the Helvetians were soon discomfited by the sharp attack with swords which instantly followed. Retiring for a while to a hill close by, the barbarians again drew up in battle order, and again descended to combat. Long and fierce was the struggle which followed; the Helvetians fighting like lions till the evening, never once turning their backs on the enemy. This is Cæsar's own report. But barbarian heroism was no match for the regular, well-organized, and highly-trained Roman army, and once more driven back, they withdrew to the hill where had been left their wives and children with the baggage. From this place they ventured to make a last resistance, and they drew up their carts in the form of a deep square, leaving room in the middle for the non-combatants and the baggage. Then mounting their extemporized fort--the so-called Wagenburg--the Helvetian men commenced the fray, even their women and children hurling javelins at the enemy. Not till midnight did the Romans seize and enter on the rude rampart, and when they did the clashing of arms had ceased. All the valiant defenders lay slain at their feet, and the spirit of bold independence of the Helvetians was crushed for ever. After this fearful disaster the rest of the emigrants, to the number of 110,000, continued their march through Gaul, but lacking both food and capable leaders, and being moreover ill-used by the Gauls, they sent to Cæsar for help. He demanded hostages, and ordered them to return home and rebuild their towns and villages. And, further, he supplied them with food for the journey, and requested the Allobroges to do the same when the Helvetians should arrive in their province. Cæsar admits that this apparent generosity on his part was dictated not by compassion, but by policy. It was to his interest that these barbarians should re-occupy Helvetia, because they would keep watch on the Rhine, and prevent the irruption of the Germans into the country. In their condition now, he calls the Helvetians ASSOCIATES (_foederati_), and not SUBJECTS, and leaves them their own constitution, and, to some extent, their freedom. But they did not relish this forced friendship, which was indeed more like bondage; and when the Celts of Gaul rose in revolt under the noble and beloved Vercingetorix, who had been a friend of Cæsar, they joined their brethren (52 B.C.), and were again vanquished. On the defeat of the Helvetians at Bibracte followed that of the Valisians, in 57 B.C. To establish a direct communication between Central Gaul and Italy, Cæsar took those same measures which Napoleon I. employed long afterwards; he conquered the Valais (by his lieutenant Galba), that he might secure the passage of the Great St. Bernard. A splendid road was formed over Mount Poeninus, and a temple erected to Jupiter Poeninus, where the traveller left votive tablets as a thanksgiving offering after a fortunate ascent. The subjugation of Rhætia was delayed for more than a generation. To guard the empire against the Eastern hordes; against the mountain robbers of Graubünden and the Tyrol, who descended into the valleys of the Po, ravaging the country as far as Milan, and no doubt liberally paying back in their own coin, the Romans who had made from time to time such havoc in the Alpine homes--to guard against these, and the wild Vindelicians of Bavaria, Augustus sent the two imperial princes to reduce them to subjection. Drusus marched into the Tyrol, whilst Tiberius advanced on Lake Constance, where even the Rhætian women engaged in the conflict, and, in default of missiles, hurled their sucking children into the face of the conquerors, through sheer exasperation. Their savage courage availed them nothing, however; the incursions from the East were repressed; and once the Rhætians were overcome, they became the most useful of auxiliaries to the Roman army. Horace's ode to Drusus alludes to the Rhætian campaign. The Rhæto-Roman inhabitants of Graubünden--for they still occupy the high valleys of the Engadine and of the Vorder-Rhine--present much interest in point of language and antiquities. The sturdy Rhætians belonged to the art-loving Etruscan race, whose proficiency in the _amphora-technic_ we so highly value. An old legend calls their ancestor Rætus a Tuscan. And not without show of reason, says Mommsen, for the early dwellers of Graubünden and the Tyrol were Tuscans, and spoke a dialect agreeing with that of the district of Mantua, a Tuscan colony in the time of Livy. In Graubünden and Ticino were found, some thirty years ago, stones bearing inscriptions in that dialect. The Rhætians may have dropped behind in these Alpine regions on the immigration of Etruscans into the valleys of the Po; or, they may just as likely have fled there on the advent of the Celts, when that warlike race seized on the fertile plains of the river, and drove the Etruscans from their home southward and northward. Be that as it may, however, it is certain that the Rhætians, once blended with the Romans, have preserved the Latin tongue and customs to this day, for Romaunsh a corrupt Latin, with no doubt some admixture of Tuscan, is still spoken by more than one-third of the population of the Grisons. [Illustration: HOUSE (FORMERLY CHAPLE) IN THE ROMAUNSH STYLE, AT SCHULS, LOWER ENGADINE, GRAUBÜNDEN. (_After a Photograph by Guler_.)] FOOTNOTES: [7] Valais (German, _Wallis_) means valley, and is so called from its being a long narrow dale or vale hemmed in by lofty mountains. [8] Mommsen, "Roman History," vol. ii. p. 166. [9] "Story of Alexander's Empire," by Mahaffy, p. 79. III. HELVETIA UNDER THE ROMANS. [Illustration: SILVER COIN, VERCINGETORIX. (_Dr. Imhoof, Winterthur._)] On the surrender of the noble Vercingetorix, a valiant knight, but no statesman--he delivered himself up to Cæsar, trusting in his generosity on the plea of former friendship, and died a prisoner of Rome--the war with Gaul was virtually at an end. The sporadic risings that followed lacked the spirit of union, and led to no results of any consequence. During the seven years of his governorship in Gaul (58-51 B.C.), Cæsar had completed the subjection of the entire country, with the exception of the province of Narbonensis, whose conquest was of more ancient date. He followed up his victories, and secured their results by organizing a line of secure defences on the northern boundary of Gaul, along the Rhine, creating thereby a new system of open defences--defences offensive, so to speak--which he sketched out with full details, and made Gaul herself a bulwark against the inroads of the aggressive Germans. To secure peace and voluntary submission, he also regulated the internal affairs of the new province, leaving her, however, most of her old national institutions, hoping by conciliatory measures to gradually bring her under Roman influences, and win her to side with Rome. But it was left to others to carry out his plans, the Emperor Augustus being the first to put them into practice; for civil war was again threatening Italy, and Cæsar returned home to carry on his great contest with Pompey for supremacy in the State. Although Cæsar's plans were but a sketch they were faithfully carried out, and the Gallic conquest proved to be more, and aimed higher, than the mere subjection of the Celts. Cæsar was not only a great general, but also a far-seeing politician. He had clearly understood that the barbarian Germans might well prove more than a match for the Greek-Latin world if they came into close contact with it. His defeat of Ariovistus, who was on the point of forming a German kingdom in Gaul, and his wise measures of defence, kept the barbarian hordes at bay for centuries, and thus there was ample time given for the Greek-Latin culture to take root throughout the West. It happened consequently that when Rome could no longer offer any serious resistance, and the Germans poured into her lands, the people of the West were already Romanized, and those of Gaul, Britain, and Spain, became the medium of transmitting to the Germans the spirit of classicism, by which they would otherwise have hardly been affected; and those nations became the connecting link between the classical age and the German era which absorbed its high-wrought culture. If Alexander may be said to have spread Hellenism over the East; Cæsar may be taken to have done as much, and indeed vastly more for the West, for it is owing to him, though we can scarcely realize the fact in our day, that the German race is imbued with the spirit of classical antiquity. The fall of Cæsar, and the state of anarchy that followed again, delayed the work of pacification, and Helvetia was left to take care of herself. But when Augustus was firmly seated on the imperial throne, he resumed the task which had been bequeathed to him. The organization of Gaul was chiefly his work, and it required an energetic yet moderate policy. The old Narbonensis district, which had long been moulded into a Roman province, was placed under senatorial control. New Gaul, or Gallia Comata (_Gaule Chevelue_), as the whole territory was called which Cæsar had conquered, was submitted to imperial authority, and treated more adequately in accordance with the ancient constitutions of the various tribes. To facilitate taxation and administration New Gaul was divided into three provinces, each ruled by a Roman governor. Of these three provinces, one was Belgica, extending from the Seine and the mouth of the Rhine to Lake Constance, thus including Helvetia proper. Belgica, on account of its size, was subdivided into three commands, in one of which, that of Upper Germany, Helvetia found itself placed. Thus we find Helvetia incorporated with Gaul. The political capital of the Tres Galliæ, or Three Gauls, was Lugdunum (Lyons), owing to its central position, and it seems to have been a very important city. Here Drusus had raised an altar to his imperial father, Augustus, and the Genius of the City. Here met the representatives of the sixty-four Gallic states (including those of the Helvetians and the Rauraci) on the anniversary of the emperor. Here, too, was the seat of the Gallic Diet; and here, in the amphitheatre, took place rhetorical contests, the Celts holding eloquence in high honour. Eastern Switzerland, that is, Graubünden, and the land around Lake Wallenstatt, as far as Lake Constance, was joined with Rhætia, which likewise included, amongst other districts, the Tyrol and Southern Bavaria. The whole of this territory was ruled by a governor residing at Augusta Vindelicorum (Augsburg). The Valais district was joined to some part of Savoy, and ruled by the procurator of the Poenine Alps. Ticino does not concern us here, as it remained a portion of Italy down to the sixteenth century. Yet though thus arbitrarily made a part of Gaul, Helvetia formed a province of itself, and had its own history and kept its own constitution, thanks to Cæsar's wise and generous policy, by which he provided that the Celts should not be interfered with in their method of governing by tribes (_pagi_ or _civitates_), nor in their constitution, so long as it did not clash with the Roman laws. When Cæsar had defeated the Helvetians he sent them back to rebuild their old homes, and they re-occupied their ancient territory, with the exception of that portion which stretches from Fort l'Ecluse to Geneva and Aubonne, and borders on Mount Jura. This portion was wrenched away and given to the Equestrian Julian colony settled at Noviodunum (Nyon) on Geneva lake, to keep the passes of the mountain (43 B.C.). The Jura range separated Helvetia from the territory of the Rauraci, where another veteran colony was about the same time established as a safeguard for the Rhine, to check the incursions of the Germans. The Colonia Rauracorum was afterwards called Augusta Rauracorum in honour of the emperor. The colonists of these two settlements were mostly Romans, or had been admitted to Roman citizenship, and occupied a different position from the inhabitants of the country generally, for they were allowed Roman privileges and favours--exemption from taxation most likely amongst others--but, on the other hand, they were entirely dependent on the Roman Government. The laborious investigations of the learned Mommsen and Charles Morel go to show that the Helvetians were mildly treated by their masters. They had been received into the Roman pale as friends (_foederati_), and as such lived on favourable terms with these, and enjoyed as high a degree of liberty and autonomy as was compatible with their position as Roman subjects. The Rhætians had been taken from their country; the Helvetii, on the contrary, had been sent back home and entrusted with the guardianship of the Rhine, merely being required to furnish a contingent for service abroad. They were allowed to maintain garrisons of their own--that of Tenedo on the Rhine, for instance--to build forts, to raise militia in case of war. And, as has before been mentioned, their religious worship was not interfered with, nor their traditional division into _pagi_, or tribes, and they were allowed a national representative at the Gallic capital, Lyons. Helvetia took the rank of a state (_Civitas Helvetiorum_), its chief seat (_chef-lieu_) being Aventicum, which was also the centre of government. So long as Helvetia conformed to the regulations imposed by the imperial government she was allowed to manage her own local affairs. Latin was made the official language, though the native tongue was not prohibited. [Illustration: GOLD COIN, VESPASIAN (VESPASIANUS IMPERATOR-AETERNITAS). (_By Dr. Imhoof, Winterthur._)] A.D. 69-79. Under Vespasian, however, a great change took place. Thanks to the munificence of that emperor, who had a great liking for Aventicum, this city lost its Celtic character, and was made a splendid city after the Italian type. He had sent there his befriended and faithful Flavian colony of the Helvetians to live, giving her the lengthy title of Colonia Pia Flavia Constans Emerita Helvetiorum Foederata in return for services, for she had staunchly supported his party against Vitellius when the latter contended with Galba for the imperial throne. The inhabitants most likely received the Latin Right (_Droit Latin_), or were considered Roman citizens, and as such were more intimately connected with Rome, and had to submit to closer control. Her institutions were assimilated to those of Italian towns. She had a senate, a council of decuriones, city magistrates, a _præfectus operum publicorum_ (or special officer to attend to the construction of public buildings), Augustan flamens, or priests, and so forth. Notwithstanding the overwhelming importance of Aventicum, a certain amount of self-government was left to the country districts, towns, and villages (_vici_). The inhabitants of Vindonissa (Windisch), Aquæ (Baden), Eburodunum (Yverdon), Salodurum (Soleure), erected public buildings of their own accord. The towns of the Valais, Octodurum (Martigny), Sedunum (Sion), &c., had their own city council and municipal officers, and received the Latin Right. In the case of the Helvetians, those of the capital and those of the provinces equally enjoyed that Right; whereas, with Augusta Rauracorum, the case was different, only the colonists within the walled cities being granted the like standing and liberties. On the whole it may be said that, though Helvetia kept many of her own peculiarities, and some of her ancient liberties, she submitted to Rome, and was greatly influenced by the advanced civilization of the empire. The Helvetians, indeed, underwent that change of speech and character, which split them into two nations, French and Germans. One of the chief factors contributing to the Roman colonization of Helvetia was the military occupation of its northern frontier, though this occupation weighed heavily on the country. The great object of Rome was to keep back the Germans, who were for ever threatening to break into the empire. Vindonissa was one of the military headquarters, and its selection for the purpose was justified by its excellent position, situated as it was on an elevated neck of land, washed by three navigable rivers, the Aare, Reuss, and Limmat, and at the junction of the two great roads connecting East and West Helvetia with Italy. A capital system of roads, too, was planned all over the country. There would no doubt often be but little love lost between the Helvetians and the soldiery in occupation. Tacitus ("Annals") tells of one bloody episode. After the death of the madman hero, the twenty-first legion, surnamed _Rapax_, or Rapacious, no doubt for good reasons, was quartered at Vindonissa. Cæcina, a violent man, lieutenant of Vitellius, then commander of the Rhine army, marched into Helvetia to proclaim Vitellius emperor. But the Helvetians supported his opponent Galba, not knowing that he had just been murdered, and fell upon the messengers of Cæcina, and put them in prison, after first seizing their letters. The lieutenant enraged at this affront laid waste the neighbouring Aquæ (Baden near Zurich), a flourishing watering-place much frequented for its amusements, Tacitus tells us. Calling in the Rhætian cohorts, he drove them to the Boetzberg, and cut them down by thousands in the woods and fastnesses of Mount Jura; then, ravaging the country as he went, Cæcina marched on to Aventicum, which at once surrendered. Alpinus, a notable leader, was put to death, and the rest were left to the clemency of Vitellius. However, the Roman soldiery demanded the destruction of the nation, but Claudius Cossus, a Helvetian of great eloquence, moving them to tears by his touching words, they changed their minds, and begged that the Helvetians might be set at liberty. However this military occupation was, after sixty years of duration, drawing to a close. Under Domitian and Trajan all the land between Strasburg and Augsburg, as far as the Main, was conquered and annexed to the Roman Empire. An artificial rampart was formed across country from the mouth of the Main to Regensburg on the Danube, and the military cordon was removed from the Swiss frontier to the new boundary line. Helvetia, now no longer the rendezvous of the Roman legionaries, quietly settled into a Roman province, where the language, customs, art, and learning of Rome were soon to be adopted. If the military stations were starting-points of the new culture, it was the more peaceful immigrants who introduced agriculture, commerce, and wealth, or, at any rate, caused it to make progress. Gradually the Helvetians amalgamated with the Romans, adopting even their religion. Horticulture and vine-culture were introduced. A Roman farmer grew vines on a patch of ground near Cully, on Lake Geneva, and on an inscribed stone (dug up at St. Prex) begs Bacchus (_Liber Pater Cocliensis_) to bless the vintage. He little anticipated that his plantation would be the ancestor, as it were, of the famous La Côte, now so highly valued. Wherever the art-loving Roman fixed his abode he built his house, with the wonderful Roman masonry, and furnished it with all the luxury and art his refined taste suggested. Thus the country gradually assumed a Roman aspect. Many towns and _vici_, or village settlements, sprang up or increased in importance under Roman influence--Zurich, Aquæ (Baden near Zurich), Kloten, Vindonissa, and others.[10] Yet the eastern portion of the country could not compete in the matter of fine buildings with the western cantons. Indeed, in the eastern districts the Helvetian influence was never predominated over by the Latin influence, and the Helvetians clung to their native speech despite the Latin tongue being the official language. But it was the mild and sunny west which most attracted the foreigner, as it still does. Wealthy Romans settled in great numbers between Mount Jura and the Pennine ranges. Every nook and corner of the Canton Vaud bears even down to our days the stamp of Roman civilization. The shores and sunny slopes of Geneva lake were strewn with villas, and the woody strip of land between Villeneuve and Lausanne and Geneva was almost as much in request for country seats by the great amongst the Romans as that delightful stretch of coast on the Bay of Naples, from Posilippo to Pozzuoli and Baiæ, where Cicero and Virgil, and many Romans of lesser mark, had their _villegiatures_. But the most remarkable place, whether for art, learning, or opulence, was Aventicum, the Helvetian capital. Of this town some mention has been made above, and, did space permit, a full description might well be given of this truly magnificent and truly Roman city. Its theatre, academy, senate-house, courts, palaces, baths, triumphal arches, and private buildings were wonderful. Am. Marcellinus, the Roman writer, who saw Aventicum shortly after its partial destruction by the Alamanni, greatly admired its palace's and temples, even in their semi-ruinous condition. The city next in beauty and size was Augusta Rauracorum (Basel Augst), where the ruins of a vast amphitheatre still command our wondering admiration. But this period of grandeur was followed by the gradual downfall of the empire, which was already rotten at the core. The degenerate Romans of the later times were unable to stand against the attacks of the more vigorous Germans. The story is too long to tell in detail, but a few points may be briefly noted. In 264 A.D. the Alamanni swept through the country on their way to Gaul, levelling Augusta Rauracorum with the ground, and considerably injuring Aventicum. At the end of the third century the Romans relinquished their rampart between the Rhine and the Danube, and fell back upon the old military frontier of the first century. Helvetia thus underwent a second military occupation. Yet the prestige of Rome was gone. In 305 A.D. the Alamanni again overran Helvetia, and completed the ruin of Aventicum. Weaker and weaker grew the Roman power, and when the Goths pressed into Italy the imperial troops were entirely withdrawn from Helvetia. As for the Helvetians themselves, they were quite unable to offer any resistance, and when the Alamanni once more burst into the land (406 A.D.), they were able to secure entire possession of the eastern portions. The Burgundians, another German tribe, followed suit, and in 443 A.D. fixed themselves in West Helvetia. The inaccessible fastnesses of Graubünden alone remained untouched by the tide of German invasion, which effected such changes in the neighbouring districts. At this period of worldly grandeur and internal decay, occurs another historical event of the greatest importance, the rise of Christianity, containing the vital elements necessary for bringing about the spiritual regeneration of the world. The social and political decomposition throughout the empire, the cruel tyranny of the sovereigns, the decrepitude of the state and its institutions, the growing indifference to the national religion, which showed itself in the facile adoption of, or rather adaptation to, the Eastern forms of worship--the adoption of the deities Isis and Mithra, for example--all these and many other things unnecessary to mention, were unmistakable signs that Roman rule was drawing to its close, and they also prepared the way for the reception of the new doctrine. The belief in one God of mercy and love; of one Saviour, the Redeemer of the world; of a future life,--were startling but good tidings to the poor and oppressed, and made their influence felt also on the rich and cultivated, who saw in Christianity a tolerance, benevolence, human love, loftiness of principle and moral perfection which had not been attained by the creeds of antiquity. The passionate ardour and force of conviction amongst the Christians was such that they faced suffering and death rather than abjure their tenets or desist from preaching them to others. The accounts of the introduction of Christianity into Switzerland are mostly legendary, yet it is generally believed that it was not the work of special missionaries. It is more likely that the new faith came to the land as part and parcel of the Roman culture. Indeed this is now the opinion most generally received. The military operations of the empire required continual changes of locality on the part of the troops; thus we find Egyptian, Numidian, and Spanish soldiers quartered on the Rhine and the Danube, and such as they would most probably be the first to bring in the new faith. At first the Roman authorities looked upon Christians as state rebels, and fierce persecutions followed. The oldest Christian legend of this country tells of such a conflict between the state officials and the Christians, and no doubt contains some admixture of truth, as many of these stories do. A legion levied at Thebes in Egypt--hence called the _Thebaïde_--was sent to Cologne to take the place of troops required to quell a rising in Britain. Coming to the Valais, they were required by the Emperor Maximian to sacrifice to the heathen gods (A.D. 280-300), but being mostly Christians they refused, and were massacred with their chief, Mauritius. Some, however, escaped for the time, but were called upon to receive the martyr's crown later on, and in other places. Two such, Ursus and Victor, came to Soleure with sixty-six companions, and were put to death by order of Hirtæus, the Roman governor. Two others, Felix and his sister Regula, reached Zurich, where their successful conversions irritated Decius, who put them to the rack, and then beheaded them. Yet, wonderful to tell, the legend goes on, they seized their heads that had fallen, and, walking with them to the top of a hill close by, buried themselves, bodies and heads too. This wonderful feat was an exact counterpart of that reported to have been performed also by Ursus and Victor at Soleure. Felix and Regula became the patron saints of Zurich, and play a conspicuous part in its local history. Tradition says that Charlemagne himself in later days erected a minster on their burial spot. Thus, as ever, the blood of martyrs became the seed of the Church. [Illustration: GOLD COIN OF SIXTEENTH CENTURY (ST. FELIX, ST. REGULA-SANCTUS CAROLUS). (_By Dr. Imhoof, Winterthur._)] The Roman towns Geneva, St Maurice, Augusta Rauracorum, Aventicum, Vindonissa, and Curia had been episcopal sees since the third century, though some of these sees were in process of time removed to other places. Thus, Augusta, Vindonissa, and St. Maurice were removed to Basel, Constance, and Sion respectively. FOOTNOTES: [10] We know little of them, most likely they were but _vici_ (village settlements). Aquæ alone we know from Tacitus was a city-like watering-place; Kloten had handsome villas, but what it was we do not know. IV. THE ANCESTORS OF THE SWISS NATION. _THE ALAMANNI; BURGUNDIANS; FRANKS; MEROVINGIANS._ The fifth century was remarkable for what may be called the dislocation of the peoples of Europe--the migrations of the Germans into the Roman Empire, and, mightiest movement of all, the irruption of the Huns under their terrible king Attila, the "Scourge of God." The mere sight of the hideous Asiatics filled men with horror. Never afoot, but ever on their ill-shaped but rapid steeds, to whose backs they seemed as if they were glued, and on which they lived well-nigh day and night, it seemed as if man and horse had grown into one being. Their large heads ill-matched their meagre bodies; their tawny faces with deep-set eyes and high, protruding cheek-bones made them resemble rough-cut figures in stone rather than human beings. The Goths regarded them as the offspring of spirits of the desert and of witches. These masses of Asiatic barbarism, which had burst into Europe, stayed for awhile in Hungary, but soon rolled towards the West, dislodging all the peoples with whom they came in contact. Marching to the Rhine, they drove the Burgundians from their settlements in the district of Worms, a land so rich in song and saga, and entered Gaul to found a new kingdom. But the doom of the Huns was at hand, for Aëtius the Roman general, and the last defender of the empire, defeated them, A.D. 451, in a truly gigantic battle on the Catalaunian Plain, in the Champagne country. The slaughter was so terrible that the saying went abroad that the river ran high with the blood of 300,000 men. But it was clear that the tottering empire could not defend itself against a whole world in commotion. The time had come when Rome was to leave the stage of history. The great German nation was forming. It would be tedious and profitless to mention all the German tribes beyond the Rhine and Danube, a well-nigh endless list of names, impossible to remember. Besides, the petty tribes and clans gradually formed alliances with each other for greater security, and, dropping their ancient names, took collective ones more familiar to our ears--Saxons, Franks, Thuringi, Burgundians, Alamanni, and Bavarians. Of these the Alamanni and the Burgundians are those from whom the Swiss are descended, and thus Switzerland, like England, has to look back to Germany as its ancestral home. The tall, fair-haired, true-hearted Alamanni for whom Caracalla had such an admiration that to be like them he wore a red wig, are said to have been descendants of the Semnones, who had migrated from Lusatia on the Spree (in Silesia) to the Main. The name Alamanni is generally held by the learned to be derived from _alah_, a temple-grove, and implies a combination of various tribes, "the people of the Divine grove." The Suevi, of whom the Semnones were the most conspicuous tribe, had a sacred grove in the district of the Spree, where they met for worship. In the fifth century we find the Alamanni occupying the district from the Main to the Black Forest, East Helvetia, and Alsatia as far as the Vosges. When this formidable horde took possession of Eastern Helvetia they found but little trouble from the Celto-Roman population, who, thinned by previous invasions, and unaccustomed to fighting, could offer no serious resistance, and sank into slaves and servants. The towns were laid in ruins, the country ravaged, and all culture trodden under foot. It seemed as if "the hand on the dial of history had been put back by centuries,"[11] and civilization had once more to begin her work. They outnumbered the natives, and were not absorbed by them, but on the contrary on the half-decayed stock of the Roman province the Alamanni were grafted as a true German people, retaining their old language, institutions, and mode of living. The Alamanni did not at once develop into a civilized and cultivated people, but retained their fondness for war and hunting, and other characteristics of their ancient life. Their grand and majestic woods had stamped themselves on the intrepid, dauntless spirits, whose deep subjectiveness and truthful natures contrasts strongly with the polished artfulness of the Romans. For the mighty aspects of nature--forest, mountain, sea--play their part in moulding the character of a nation. And their impenetrable woods had influenced the destinies of the Germans in the early periods of their history--had saved them from the Roman yoke, the labyrinths of swamp and river, defying even the forces of the well-nigh all-powerful empire. Then, too, when hard fighting was afoot, and men had burnt their homesteads before the advance of the foe, the vast forest formed a safe retreat for women and children. The original house, by the way, was a mere wooden tent on four posts, and could be carried off on carts that fitted underneath. The next stage was a hut in the style of the Swiss mountain-shed, but it was still movable--was, in fact, a chattel the more to be taken along on their wanderings.[12] Their mode of settling in their new country was curious enough, though the early settlement of England was very similar in character. Disliking walled towns of the Roman fashion, the Germans felt their freedom of movement impeded and their minds oppressed by living within the prison-like fortifications of strong cities. But loving seclusion and independence, nevertheless, they built extensive farmsteads, where each man was his own master. To the homestead were added fields, meadows, and an extensive farmyard; the whole hedged about so as to keep the owner aloof from his neighbours. Each farmer pitched his tent wherever "spring or mead, or sylvan wood tempted him," reports Tacitus. This liking for seclusion on the part of the Germans is well shown in the case of Zurich, for at one time the canton had three thousand farm homesteads, as against a hundred hamlets and twelve villages. The mode of partitioning the land shows democratic features. It was divided amongst the community according to the size of families and herds of cattle, but one large plot was left for the common use. The large _Allmend_, or common, supplied wood for the community, and there, too, might feed every man's flocks and herds. The nobleman as such had no domains specially set apart for him, his position and privileges were honorary. He might be chosen as a high officer of a district, or even a duke, or leader of the army, in time of war. Payment for such services was unknown. Money was scarce, and indeed its use was mainly taught them by the Romans. Not only did flocks and herds form their chief wealth, but were the standard of value, each article being estimated as worth so much in cattle. Society was from the very first sharply and clearly divided into two great classes--the landowners and the bondsmen--the "free and the unfree." The former class was again split into "lesser men," "middle men," and "first men," or Athelinge (Adelige), these last named being of noble blood, and owners of most land and the greatest number of slaves and cattle. The "unfree" were either _Hoerige_ that belonged to the estate they tilled, and might be sold with it, or slaves who could call nothing their own, for whatever they saved fell to their lord at their death, if he so willed. A shire or large district was subdivided into hundreds. The whole of the free men met on some hallowed spot, under some sacred tree, with their priests and leaders. Here, besides performing religious exercises, they discussed war and peace, dispensed justice, chose their officers of state, and their leader if war was imminent. War and jurisdiction were the whole, or well-nigh the whole, of public life at that early stage. The popular assemblies, done away with by the feudal system, revived later on in the form of the famous "Landsgemeinde" of the forest district, which are still in use in some of the cantons. Blood money, or _wergild_, was exacted from wrong-doers as in Saxon times in England. The tariff drawn up for bodily injuries reveals the mercenary and brawling temper of a semi-civilized people. At the time they settled in Switzerland the Alamanni were heathens, and worshipped nature-deities--in groves, near springs, or mountains--the names of some of which we still trace in the names of the days of the week. Their religion, which was that common to all Germany, reveals the German mind--full of reverie, deep thoughtfulness, and wild romantic fancy that leads to a tragical issue. Like most heathen people the Alamanni clothed their gods in their own flesh and blood. Woden and his attendant deities, shield-maidens--Freyr and Freya, the king and queen of the elves--dwarfs, giants, spirits--all these are well known to us, and are indeed the charm of the fairy tales of our youth. The bright spirits, the _Asen_, war against the spirit of darkness, the giants, and lose ground, for they have broken the treaties made with them. The Asen are the benevolent powers of nature, spring sunshine, and fertilizing rain, and live in bright palaces, in Walhalla, and receive the dead; the evil spirits are the sterile rock, the icy winter, the raging sea, the destructive fire. Thor destroys the rocks with his Hammer, pounding them to earth that man may grow corn. The giants scale the sky to defy the gods for assisting mankind, but Heimdallr stands watching on the rainbow-bridge that leads to Asgard--the garden of the _Asen_--and prevents their entrance. But the gods themselves are stained with guilt, and in a fight with the Giants before the gates of Walhalla, they utterly destroy each other. The columns of heaven and the rainbow-bridge break down, the universe is destroyed and the downfall of the gods is complete. But the heathen Germans could not bear the notion of entire annihilation, so in a sort of epilogue the great tragedy is followed by the dawn of brighter and better times, the gods recover their former innocence, when they used to play with golden dice without knowing the value of gold.[13] The _Götterdämmerung_, the Divine Dawn, has broken, and a new epoch has set in for gods and men. One of Wagner's musical dramas is, as is well known, founded on these myths. . To turn to the Burgundians. They became the neighbours of the Alamanni in Helvetia about 443 A.D., after a severe defeat by the Huns. This great battle is pictured with great power in the "Nibelungenlied." The Burgundians play a conspicuous part in that grand old epic. A wonderful blending it is of heroic myth, beautiful romance, and historic sagas attaching to the great heroes of the early Middle Ages--Theodoric the Great, Gunther of Burgundy, Attila, King of the Huns. If space permitted, the whole story might well be told, but in this place let one feat be cited as an example. Siegfried, the Dragon-slayer, a demigod, invulnerable, like Achilles, except in one place, and who could make himself invisible, woos the sweet and lovely maid of Worms. As "invisible champion," he assists her brother Gunther in his combat with the warlike Brunhilde, Queen of the North, whom Gunther wishes to obtain to wife. After years of happy married life the Queen of Worms fell to a quarrel with the Queen of Xanten on a question of precedence, and the gallant Siegfried falls a victim to Brunhilde's hatred, and her intrigue with Hagen. To avenge his death, the disconsolate widow marries the powerful Attila, and engages in a terrible battle with the Burgundians. In this battle she and her own kindred were slain. Attila and Dietrich of Verona (Theodoric the Great) are saved, however. Aëtius gave to the Burgundians as a settlement Sabaudia (Savoy), on condition that they should protect Gaul and Italy from the incursions of the Alamanni. One-third of the lands and homesteads were made over to them by the Romans, and later two-thirds were yielded. Gradually the Burgundians advanced in the interior of Helvetia, Vaud, Valais, and Fribourg, and into Southern Gaul. They occupied indeed all the territory from the Vosges to the Alps and the Mediterranean. They lived on friendly terms with the previous settlers, differing considerably in character from the Alamanni. Less numerous, less vigorous, and more pliant, they were unable to Germanize the West, as the Alamanni did the East, yet were strong enough to infuse new vital force into the enervated Roman populations. A readily cultivable race the Burgundians availed themselves of the Roman civilization and advancement, and gradually blended with the previous settlers--chiefly of Latin origin--to form a new people. Thus through Roman influence and German grafting--with two distinct German grafts--two nationalities sprang up in Switzerland, and we find, as in our own day, the Germans in the north-east, and the French in the south-west. [Illustration: EIGER IN THE BERNESE OBERLAND.] The Roman influence over the Burgundians was greatly increased by the policy of King Gundobad (A.D. 500). He had visited Italy, and had been greatly taken with Roman institutions. There is still extant a letter of his in which he begs of Theodoric the Great a sun- or water-dial which he had seen at his Court. Gundobad's code of laws was a blending of Roman legislation with German jurisdiction. He introduced the Latin speech and chronology officially, and gave the Romans equal rights and an equal standing with the German population. Religious differences arising--the Burgundians were Arians--and conflicts ensuing between king and people, the Franks took advantage of the turmoils to bring the subjects of Gundobad under their sway. There was no love lost between the Alamanni and their neighbours, the Burgundians; indeed the national antipathy for each other was great, but the Frankish domination did more than anything else towards bringing about a union between the hostile peoples. The reports they have left as to the character of the Franks are not flattering. They said that the Franks were capable of breaking an oath with a smiling face, and a saying ran, "Take a Frank for a friend, but never for a neighbour." Clovis, the Frankish king, had waded to the throne through the blood of his own kin. He was, however, the first to take more extended views in politics, and planned a united German kingdom after the type of the Roman Empire. To his vast scheme the Alamanni fell the first victims. A great battle was fought in which they suffered defeat. Clovis had vowed that he would embrace Christianity if he should prevail against the Alamannic Odin. Victory falling to his side, Clovis and his nobles were baptized. His conversion was a great triumph for the Church, and furnished the Merovingian kings with a pretext for the conquest of the Arian Germans, who had been led astray from the orthodox faith. To crown the work and enhance his greatness in the eyes of his Roman and German subjects, the imperial purple, and the title of Roman Patricius was bestowed on Clovis by the Greek emperor. The subjection of Burgundy was brought about in the following reign, under Sigismund, who had been guilty of the murder of his son by the desire of the stepmother. He fled to St. Maurice, which he endowed so richly that it gave shelter to upwards of five hundred monks. However, his piety did not bring him victory, for the Burgundians were defeated by the Franks at Autun in 532, and Sigismund and his family were hurled down a well. In the same year Chur-Rhætia was yielded to the Franks by the Goths, who required their help against the East. Rhætia, which had escaped the German invasion, had fallen to the share of the Goths of Italy, and had enjoyed the protection and munificence of their glorious king, Theodoric the Great. He defended her against her neighbours as a forepost of Italy, but left intact the Roman institutions. Thus had Helvetia been formed into a Frankish dependency; not a vestige was left of the very name Helvetia. Yet the Frankish rule was more nominal than real. Counts were appointed to govern shires and hundreds, and, being royal governors, were elected by, and dependent on, the Frankish kings. Jurisdiction, military command, summoning to war, raising of taxes--fishing, hunting, coinage, had become royal prerogatives--and the farmers kicked against the impositions--these were the functions of the governing counts. None the less the Burgundians retained their king or patricius, and the Alamanni remained under the sway of their own duke, to whom alone they gave allegiance. Chur-Rhætia was particularly privileged. It was ruled by a royal governor, who was supreme judge, count, and _præses_, and the dignity remained for one hundred and fifty years in one powerful and wealthy native family called the Victoriden, who held likewise the ecclesiastical livings. On its extinction in 766, Bishop Tello, the last of the family, bestowed the immense wealth on the religious-houses of Disentis and Chur. The promotion of Christianity, and the staunch support given by the Merovingian kings to the Church, were perhaps the greatest benefits resulting from the Frankish rule. Knowing the Church to be the sole means by which in that benighted age culture could be spread and civilization extended, those monarchs availed themselves of her services, and bestowed upon her in return great wealth and high prerogatives. Churches and religious-houses sprang up one could hardly tell how. In French Switzerland there were founded the bishoprics of Geneva, Lausanne, and Sion; and in the eastern half of the country those of Basel, Vindonissa (removed to Constance in the sixth century), and Chur. St. Maurice, benefited, as we have seen, by Sigismund, was a flourishing abbey town. Yet many of the Alamanni held tenaciously to their old gods, and their holy shrines and idols stood side by side with the Cross; even Christians invoked Woden, for fear he should be offended by their neglect. The further amalgamation of heathenism and Christianity was most effectually stopped by--curious to say--a caravan of Irish monks. In fact, later tradition attributed to these monks the foundation of religious-houses, to a number which modern investigation has shown to have been greatly exaggerated. Ireland, which had so far escaped the struggle with the great Teutonic race, had given all her energies to the promotion of the new faith, and ever since the fourth century Christianity had wonderfully flourished in the island. Filled with missionary ardour, the Irish Columban conceived an intense desire to conquer Gaul and Germany, and in 610 set out on his wanderings with a staff of twelve companions. Equipped with "knotty sticks," a leather vial, a travelling pouch, a relic case, and with a spare pair of boots hung round the neck, "tatooed," wearing long waving hair,[14] the adventurous band arrived in Gaul, and founded monasteries in the Vosges district. However, they offended Queen Brunhilde by their frankness, and had to depart. Proceeding to Eastern Helvetia, they arrived at Zurich, but at length finding nothing more to do there, as we may suppose, they proceeded to Tuggen, on the Upper Zurich lake. Here they saw people engaged in an oblation of beer to the national gods. Moved with holy anger, the monks upset the vessel, and flung the idols into the lake, and won many to Christianity. We cannot here follow them in their devoted labours. Columban passed on into Italy, but left his disciple Gallus in the neighbourhood of Lake Constance. Hence sprang up the famous monastery bearing his name. FOOTNOTES: [11] Green's "Smaller History of England," p. 42. [12] Dahn, "Urgeschichte der Römanish-germanischen Völker." [13] Dahn [14] Professor Rahn. V. THE CAROLINGIANS--CHARLEMAGNE. Under the last Merovingian kings, whose character is sufficiently attested by the name of _Fainéants_--sluggards--Alamannia and Burgundy struggled to shake off the Frankish yoke. Now the wealth and power of those weak kings were passing from them to their "Mayors of the Palace." Charles Martel, one of these "Mayors," defeated the Alamanni in a great battle (A.D. 730), and Carlomann, Charlemagne's brother, had a number of Alamannic grandees put to the sword, and their lands confiscated (A.D. 746). Charles Martel remained simple "Mayor of the Palace," but Pepin le Bref had himself crowned king, at St. Denis, by Stephen II., in 751, rewarding the Pope for this great service by the gift of a tract of land around the Holy City. By this _coup d'état_ were established both the Carolingian dynasty and the temporal power of the Pope--well-nigh convertible terms. The new dynasty greatly fostered religion, and furthered the work begun by the Irish and Anglo-Saxon monks. St. Gall's cell became an abbey church and monastic school; St. Leodegar's at Lucerne was incorporated with the abbey of Murbach in Alsatia; and on the bank of the Limmat at Zurich arose a college of prebends. Pepin le Bref was succeeded by his son, Charles the Great, or Charlemagne, as he is usually called (768-814). For nearly half a century this talented, powerful, and lofty-minded sovereign swayed the destinies of Europe with unflagging zeal, ever bearing in mind the responsibilities of his exalted position. He ruled over a vast domain, stretching from the Ebro in Spain to the Theiss in Hungary, and from Denmark to the Tiber. Saxons, Sclavonians, Avars, Lombards, and Arabs, were subject to his rule. His Court was a great intellectual centre, whence enlightenment spread to every part of his dominions. Charlemagne was great as a general, as a statesman, as a politician; he was a painstaking economist, and his humanity, and his other virtues secured for him the noble title of "Father of Europe." A brilliant figure in a benighted age, which shed its light on after times. No wonder mediæval fancy lingered fondly on his memory; and around his name gathered song and saga and legend. Charlemagne is a special favourite with the Swiss; indeed, of all the German rulers who have held sway over them, he is the one whose memory is most dear; and Switzerland has done at least her share in helping to swell the mass of legend and fiction respecting him. The impulse he gave to education in this country was alone sufficient to endear his memory to the Swiss. Basel, Geneva, Chur, and Sion, benefited by his wise administration, and Zurich quite particularly exalts him, calling him the "Fountain of her intellectual life," during the Middle Ages. It is impossible as it is unnecessary to give at length in this volume, the history of this long and brilliant reign. A few points may suffice to indicate the character of Charlemagne, and to throw some light on the times, and the condition of the country. The ambition of the Franks to found an empire after the fashion of Rome was practically realized when Charlemagne was crowned Emperor of the West by Hadrian in A.D. 800. Yet Charles aimed less at mere outward grandeur than at the establishment of a spiritual kingdom on earth, and a kingdom that should embrace all his people in one Christian Church, upheld by a strong and well-organized state-commonwealth. The union of Church and State, yet giving the preponderance to the latter, was Charlemagne's leading idea, and well-nigh summed up his religious and political creed. The strong religious bent of this "priestly king" was revealed at the very beginning of his reign, when he took upon himself the mission of "Defender of the Holy Church, and _Coadjutor of the Apostolic See_"[15] thus claiming, with the concurrence of the Primate, the spiritual guidance of his realm. Hadrian's congenial nature and tendencies helped to bring about this union. Yet in this matter Charles but conformed to the policy of his ancestors, and to the spirit of the age, an age remarkable for acts of piety and devotion. And the history of Switzerland is for that period rather a history of the religious movements of the time than a political chronicle. For in those early stages the Church was proportionally far more important than in our own times. _Then_ she was the sole, or almost the sole, centre of intellect, of art, of letters, and represented the ideal side of life in an illiterate age. Despite her defects the Church was a blessing to mankind. Helvetian lands had entirely lost their political independence. During this reign, the vigorous government of the monarch frustrated every attempt at insurrection, and in the end both Alamanni and Burgundians began to feel the benefits arising from the existence of a wise and firm administration. To curb their power the sovereign abolished the dignities of the mighty dukes, and parcelled out the land into smaller shires (than the old county divisions), and placed over these counts as royal governors with judicial power. The people no longer appeared _in corpore_ at the shire-motes, but were represented at the lesser court by _Schoeffen_, or reeves. These reeves had to bring in the verdict; if they could not agree, trial-by-ordeal was resorted to. Twice a year Charles assembled his nobles and bishops to receive their reports, and to frame laws, which were, however, submitted to the people, that is, the "freeholders" at the "real thing," when they met in May. For the control of the shire administration, and to give the people a means of appealing more directly to the king's justice, he appointed a special commission of spiritual and temporal officers (_missi dominici_). Charlemagne's legislation, it hardly needs to be said, was highly favourable to the Church, and tended to increase her wealth largely. He allotted to her tithes of the produce of the soil, and the people of their own free will overwhelmed the ecclesiastical and monastic institutions with offerings of lands and money. In the eighth century the monastery of St. Gall already possessed 160,000 acres of land, which had been bestowed by pious donors, whilst the twelve hundred deeds-of-gift found amongst the old abbey documents testify to the zeal of the givers. Religious establishments became the largest landowners in the country, and vassalage and the feudal system sprang up. Under the territorial subdivision Switzerland fell into the shires of Thurgau, Aargau, Genevagau, Waldgau (Vaud), &c., far larger than at present, whence are derived the names of various cantons as we have them now. Some of the Swiss would seem to have shared in Charlemagne's military glory. The "Monk of St. Gall,"[16] recently identified with Notker Balbulus (the Stammerer), the popular biographer of Charlemagne, tells in bombastic style the feats of an Alamannic hero from Thurgau. This mediæval Hercules--Eishere the Giant by name--had accompanied the emperor against the Avars, and after his return, reported that they had "mowed down the enemy like grass," and that he himself had "strung on his lance some six or eight pigmy toads of Bohemians as if they were larks, then carried them hither and thither, not knowing what they were grumbling out"! Notker, the chronicler, had in his youth heard the story of the military exploits of Charlemagne, from an old Thurgau soldier who had followed the emperor in his wars. And when Charles III. was on a visit to St. Gall in 883, he was so delighted with the monk's lively chat about the matchless emperor, that he requested him to write down his recollections of his illustrious ancestor. To this monkish chronicler we owe so many of the pleasant stories of Charlemagne current among us.[17] Interesting and touching are the traits we constantly meet with in the glimpses we get of the Court and private life of the emperor. His daughters were not allowed to marry because he could not bear separation from them. Hatto of Basel, the most illustrious of his elder bishops, often inveighed against the monarch's weaknesses, yet Charlemagne not only bore the bishop's censures, but sent him on a highly honourable mission to the Court of Constantinople, and chose him as one of the witnesses to his last will. The emperor's friendship with Pope Hadrian was quite remarkable, and, in spite of many differences, was deep and lasting. On hearing the news of Hadrian's death, Charlemagne burst into tears, and eulogized him in the most flattering terms. The emperor's management of his royal estates was in the highest degree prudent, skilful, energetic, and in every way admirable. To his property he gave the closest and most constant inspection, down to the very eggs produced on his farms. He gathered round him scholars, artists, and teachers, from Italy and Greece, and a Court school was opened by Alcuin, the Anglo-Saxon scholar--the English were then the most cultured of the German peoples--and a body of English pupils followed him to France. Alcuin became the friend, and in matters educational the counsellor, of Charlemagne, by whom he was entrusted with the revision of the Bible. Warnfried Paulus Diaconus, the famous Lombard writer, was ordered to compile a collection of homilies from the Fathers. Copies of both these remarkable manuscripts--Bible and Homilies--were presented to the church of Zurich, and one, the beautiful Alcuin Bible, is still extant and among its literary treasures. Thronging the learned circle whose poetic centre was Charles himself, with his wife and daughters, and two sisters, were Einhard the German, the confidant and biographer of the emperor; Augilhard, the knightly poet; the Goth Theobald, Bishop of Orleans, a scholar and man of the world; as well as many another illustrious man. Charlemagne's two sisters were nuns, and one of them, Gisela, was the great friend of Alcuin.[18] Charlemagne was fond of visiting and occasionally teaching in his Court school. He took great interest in the progress of his scholars, praising the diligent and admonishing the indolent. The "Monk" informs us that on one occasion finding the compositions of the poorer boys praiseworthy, whilst those of the young nobles were unsatisfactory, the emperor rose up in anger and warned these latter youths that their high birth and fine manners should not screen them from punishment if they did not get rid of their laziness. Then, turning to the poor but meritorious youths, he highly commended them, and exhorted them to be always thus diligent, promising them rewards and preferment if they continued in their good course. Charlemagne indeed gained imperishable glory by his educational efforts, through which a foundation was laid for after ages. Full of the conviction that religion and learning were essential to happiness, he yearned to spread education amongst his people, and made it the chief object of his later years. All parents ought, he says, "to send their boys to school, and let them abide there till they are well informed," a principle only imperfectly understood and acted upon even in our own day. This ideal side of his complex activity lifts him far above the other rulers of the Middle Ages. To our mind there is but one who bears comparison with him for greatness of character and lofty aims--Alfred the Great, of Wessex. Clerical colleges, and secular schools attached to them, sprang up all over the country, and the knowledge of the Scriptures, hitherto confined to the clergy, was freely placed before the people. The bishops were charged by the emperor to take care that the priests were "well qualified as religious teachers." Theobald enjoins his clergy to open schools and "teach the children with love, and to accept no fees but what the parents choose to give." Such was the emperor's educational zeal, that he ordains whipping and deprivation of food even for men and women if they do not know by heart the Confession of Faith and the Lord's Prayer, and are not able to repeat them in Latin to the priests. Yet he makes allowances for the dunces who are permitted to learn and repeat these exercises in their own illiterate language. He admonishes the monks to learn better grammar, and get rid of their uncouth modes of speech. He strongly reprimands a choirboy whose wrong notes grate on his delicate ear. Amongst the bishops of Switzerland, Hatto of Basel, and Remedius of Chur-Rhætia, were Charlemagne's chief supporters and lawgivers in their own dioceses. The latter prelate was a great friend of Alcuin, and held a brilliant Court with many vassals. The power of these theocratic governors was very great. It may be mentioned, as an example of this, that Remedius decreed that persons guilty of sacrilege should be covered with hot tar and made to ride thus on a donkey through the villages. The emperor's protection to church and school foundations was exercised in many cases in Switzerland. According to tradition, Sion was enriched with landed property; and to St. Maurice was presented a fine onyx cup adorned with beautiful Greek _relievi_, still amongst the treasures of that church. Zurich attributes her oldest churches and schools to the emperor's bounty. To him she is said to owe her minster, bearing his name and statue; the Chorherrenstift, or College of Canons, and the Carolinum, a clerical school for prebends or canons, which developed in 1832 into the University and Gymnasium respectively, and finally the Wasserkirche, a chapel by the riverside, on the spot where the martyrs Felix and Regula once suffered. [Illustration: GREAT MINSTER AND WASSERKIRCHE, ZURICH. (_Appenzeller, Zurich._)] Zurich was indeed, according to tradition, a favourite residence of the great monarch, and his mansion is said to have been the Haus zum Loch (hole or cavern), standing on a steep incline near the minster. Connected with this is a charming legend which reflects the character for justice he had gained amongst the people. This story may also serve as an example, the only one our space will permit us to give, of the abundant store of legend collected around the memory of Charlemagne. There was a chapel on the riverside where he had placed a bell for people to ring if they wished to appeal to justice. One day as he was at dinner with his queen this bell began to ring. None of the servants could inform him what was the matter. The bell rang a second time, and then a third. On this the emperor rose from the table, saying, "I am sure there is some poor man you don't wish me to see." So saying, he walked down the hill to the chapel, where, hanging to the bell rope, he found a large snake. The reptile crept down, moved towards him, and wagged her tail to pay her respects. Then going on in front she led Charlemagne to a tuft of nettles, and his servants examining the spot found a large toad sitting on the eggs in the serpent's nest. At once, grasping the meaning of this appeal, he sat him down in his chair of justice and passed sentence that the toad should be killed and quartered. The next day at dinner time the snake appeared in the passage, frightening the attendants grievously. However, Charles quieted them, and said, "God is wonderful, and we cannot know the meaning of this." The snake entered the hall, climbed on the table, and, beckoning the emperor to remove the lid of his golden goblet, dropped into it a beautiful jewel. Then, descending from the table, she bowed to the royal couple, and disappeared. Charles held this to be a good omen, and resolved never to part with the jewel. The moral is obvious. Charlemagne was so just, and his reputation for equity so widespread, that even the lower animals appealed to him, and not in vain. According to another version, the stone exerted attraction like a loadstone, for where it was dropped the emperor could not leave the place. But Archbishop Turpin had dropped it into the springs of Aachen, and hence Charlemagne no more quitted that royal residence. It would be impossible in our space, even if it were interesting to the general reader, to enter into the discussions respecting Charlemagne's foundations in and visits to Zurich. Two things, however, come out clearly; first (thanks to the labours of the learned historian, Professor Georg von Wyss), that tradition is not entirely unworthy of trust, as there is documentary evidence still extant to prove that Charlemagne reformed the College (Chorherrenstift); second, that he kept up a close connection with the city, whether he actually resided there or not. No doubt this exaltation of Charlemagne's merits is an expression of the attachment felt for his person, and of the admiration for his marvellous educational efforts. His grandson, Louis the German, founded the Abbey of our Lady, in 853, on the site of an old convent erected to the memory of the patron saints of Zurich. Louis erected this new abbey in order to give a more brilliant church preferment to his daughter, Hildgard, Lady Principal of a small convent at Wurzburg. This Princess Abbess received the sole right of jurisdiction, and the convent rose rapidly, and with it extended the city commonwealth. (We shall show in a later chapter how this female government checked the growth of political power in that city, and yet was the making of her.) FOOTNOTES: [15] See Büdinger, "Von den Anfangen des Schulzwanges," Zurich, 1865, p. 10. [16] Professor Bächtold, "History of German Literature in Switzerland," Frauenfeld, 1887. [17] Professor Bächtold, "History of German Literature in Switzerland," Frauenfeld, 1887. [18] See Gustav Freytag's charming "Pictures of the Middle Ages." VI. THE KINGDOM OF BURGUNDY; THE DUCHY OF SWABIA; AND THE GERMAN EMPIRE. (843-1100.) The death of the great emperor brought this realm into utter confusion, the whole fabric of his wise and firm administration falling to pieces. All the heterogeneous and often refractory elements which his stern rule had kept in check burst their bounds and gained full play during the reigns of his descendants, who grew weaker and weaker, though with here and there an exception. The pretensions of the Church, which Charlemagne's own protection and fostering care had, so to speak, ushered in and strengthened; the struggles of eminent families and dynastic houses for sovereignty in the absence of one central and undisputed power; the increase of the immunities and the growth of feudalism--all these were serious difficulties for the coming rulers to cope with. Louis the Pious, the only surviving son of Charlemagne, and heir to his crown, was clearly quite unfit to cope with these difficulties satisfactorily. The untimely distribution of the crown lands insisted on by the imperious Judith, his second wife, in favour of her own son, and the protracted struggles between the imperial princes, steeped the realm in intestine wars, and in the end led to its dissolution. It is impossible in this short sketch to follow to his tragical end this unworthy son of a great father. The treaty of Verdun (843) settled the bloody conflicts, but split the empire into three new dominions; the East Frankish realm devolving on Louis the German: the West Frankish kingdom falling to Charles the Bald; and the middle district, including Italy and the strip of land between the two first divisions just mentioned, and comprising Provence, Burgundy, Lorraine, and the Netherlands. This last realm fell to Lothair. The treaty of Verdun, to which the French and German States trace their origin, also effected the most sweeping changes in Helvetia, and altered greatly its political aspect. The country was rent into two halves, East Switzerland, forming the Aare, with Chur-Rhætia, being incorporated with the East Frankish kingdom; and West Helvetia and the Valais with Lorraine or the middle kingdom. This naturally tended to revive the national antagonism between the two Helvetias. Freed from the iron hand which had crushed all attempts at insurrection, the peoples began again their struggles for the recovery of national independence and separate rule, and thence came the restoration of the kingdom of Burgundy and the Duchy of Alamannia, or Swabia.[19] Burgundy was the first to make sure of her national freedom. On the death of Lothair in 855 his kingdom fell to pieces. Count Boso, of Vienna, his relative, founded the kingdom of Burgundy _without_ Helvetia, 879 (Provence or Arles--_Arelatisches Reich_). After fruitless attempts by various Burgundian nobles to establish their sovereignty _within_ Helvetia, a renowned nobleman, Rudolf, of the illustrious house of the Guelfs, set up as a pretender to Swiss Burgundy, after the precedent of Count Boso. Rudolf possessed vast estates in Swabia, on Lake Constance. He had sworn allegiance to Charles III. (the "Stout"), who, weak as he was, had, strange to say, once more united the Empire under his sceptre. On his death, in 888, Rudolf the Guelf was crowned king at St. Maurice, the venerable abbey-town in the Low-Valais, by a large assembly of Burgundian bishops and nobles. Thus was established the Helvetian kingdom of Upper or New Burgundy (_Burgundia transjurans_), which seems to have extended into Lorraine and Savoy. In 933 both Burgundies were united. Rudolf not only maintained his independence against the aggressive spirit of intruding neighbours, but carried his victories into East Helvetia, as far as Lake Zurich, and on his death in 912 his crown passed without opposition to his son Rudolf II. This king had inherited his father's great abilities and restless habits, which engaged him in numerous wars. His greatest martial achievement was the defeat of the Hungarians, who were making their fearful inroads into Europe. In East Helvetia, however, his advance was checked by Burkhard I., Duke of Alamannia, who routed him at Winterthur, near Zurich, in 919. Led no doubt by their mutual admiration for each other's prowess, and by common political interests, they made peace and contracted a lasting friendship. To seal the union between the two Helvetias, Burkhard gave his lovely daughter, Bertha, in marriage to the Burgundian king, and gave her as dowry the land between the Aare and the Reuss, the district for which he had been contending. He even followed Rudolf on his expedition to Italy, and fell in a skirmish whilst succouring his son-in-law. But Rudolf was unable to maintain the authority of his Italian crown, and exchanged his claim to Lombardy for the kingdom of Lower Burgundy (Provence) in 933; this arrangement was, however, much contested. When not engaged in wars he assisted his queen in her good works. The Burgundian kings as yet had no fixed residence, and moved from place to place on their royal estates--to Lausanne, Payerne, Yverdon, Solothurn, or Lake Thun. When making these rounds Rudolf loved to do as the judges of Israel of old--to seat himself under the shade of a fine oak and deal out justice to whoever might come near and appeal to him. Yet the memory of this good king is almost eclipsed by the glory of his wife, the famous "Spinning Queen," and her wisdom and ministry amongst the poor. Things went less pleasantly with the Alamanni. Their efforts to restore separate or self-government--the passionate yearning for national independence innate in the German tribes has done much to bring about the division of the German Empire into its many kingdoms, principalities, and duchies--met with far steadier and more violent opposition than was the case with the Burgundians. Under the pacific rule of Louis the German (843-876) the Alamanni enjoyed the benefits of his peaceful tendencies, and we hear of no attempts at insurrection. This sensible and practical monarch left to East Helvetia the "remembrance of him in good works." Two things brought him into close relations with this country--his founding of the Abbey of our Lady at Zurich, where he installed his daughters Hildegard and Bertha, as has been stated before; and his benefactions to St. Gall, which he freed from the overlordship of Constance. Indeed, the chronicler of this latter institution, Notker, _Monachus S. Gallensis_, would seem to have been fascinated by his personal charms and affable manners. Promoted to the position of an independent abbey, owing allegiance to none but the king himself, and enriched by continual grants of land on the part of pious donors, St. Gall developed into a flourishing monastic commonwealth. The peaceful colony of thrifty and studious monks--Benedictines they were--who, like their Irish founder, combined manual labour with learned contemplation, earnest study, and literary skill--form a society quite unique in its way. The holy men "conjure into their cells the departed spirits of classical antiquity,"[20] and hold free intercourse with them; given to ecclesiastical learning, whilst not neglectful of profane studies, these learned and high-bred scholars constitute a truly mediæval university. Their life and character is vividly set before us by their chroniclers. Arnulf of Kaernthen (887-899), grandson of Louis, kept up a close connection with St. Gall, through his chaplain, Solomon III., its abbot. He governed the East Frankish kingdom with firmness and great ability. The military glory of the Carolingians seemed to be restored when he defeated the Normans brilliantly at Loewen on the river Dyle. Unfortunately this vigorous ruler died after a short reign, leaving his crown to his only son, Louis "the Child," then only six years of age. Through the reign of this sickly prince (900-911) the country was torn by party struggles, and the invasions of the Hungarians increased the distresses of the time. Contemporary writers seem hardly able to express the horror they felt at the very sight of the Asiatics, who appeared even loathsome to them. Arnulf was reproached with having launched them upon Europe when he led them against his enemies, the Mæhren; whilst Charlemagne's policy had been altogether opposed to this, he having shut them in by raising gigantic walls on the Danube against the Avars. These were followers of the Huns of the fifth century, and resembled them by their savage warfare and indescribable habits. "Woe to the realm whose king is a child," writes Solomon III. to a befriended bishop; "all are at variance, count and vassals, shire and boundary neighbours; the towns rise in rebellion, the laws are trampled under foot, and we are at the mercy of the savage hordes." Such was the condition of the country at the opening of the tenth century. Solomon, who wrote these lamentations, was himself a powerful political ruler no less than a Church potentate. Next to Archbishop Hatto, of Mayence, who governed during the minority of Louis, Solomon was the most influential man at the German Court, and wielded its destinies after Hatto's death. This high-born Churchman, educated as a secular priest at St. Gall, became secretary, chaplain, and chancellor, at the German Court, and enjoyed the friendship of four successive monarchs. Promoted by Arnulf to the Abbey of St. Gall in 890, and shortly afterwards to the see of Constance, he thus combined the dignities of the two rival institutions. Subtle, versatile, and indefatigable, this high ecclesiastic was the most consummate courtier and man of the world. Handsome and magnificent, he captivated his hearers in the council by the clearness of his argument and his ready wit; and melted the people to tears by his eloquence in the pulpit. His leadership at St. Gall promoted the magnificence of the abbey, and formed it into a prominent literary and political centre. It was, however, robbed of its ascetic character, Solomon being wanting in genuine piety, for one thing. The absolute rule of this powerful prelate greatly checked the national risings of the Swabian leaders, for he strenuously maintained the oneness of Church and State. Conrad I. (911-919), the last of the East Frankish kings, gave all his energies to the one aim of strengthening and solidifying his rule by the suppression or abolition of the dukedoms, which he saw undermined the power of the sovereign. Relying on the support of the clergy, he was strongly influenced by Solomon's insinuations when he put forth his bloody measures against the Swabian pretenders. During the reign of Louis the Child the state of anarchy had begotten numerous national risings, which led to the establishment of the Bavarian, Frankish, and Saxon duchies. At its very close a similar attempt was ventured upon in Alamannia. Burkhard, Marquis of Chur-Rhætia, afterwards Graubünden, one of the most eminent of the Swabian grandees, put forward claims to the duchy. His sons were banished, and, it was whispered, by Solomon's machinations (911). Yet all this was no check on the aspirations of the two brothers, Erchanger and Bertold, brothers-in-law to the king, who aspired to the Duchy of Swabia. They, too, fell victims to the policy of the prelate, whose hatred was intensified when they laid hands on his person to arrest him. Conrad called a Synod to assist him, and heavy punishment was awarded the pretenders. However, the king had them beheaded, no doubt to please his chancellor. [Illustration: THE FURKA PASS.] The cruel fate of the two made a deep impression on the people. Next year, when Burkhard, son of the unfortunate marquis, returned to his country whence he had fled--for he had joined in the rising of the two brothers, and had been summoned before the Synod--he was unanimously elected by the nobility and people (917). It was no small mortification to both king and bishop to have their designs thus thwarted, the principle they had so vigorously opposed being carried out. The annals of St. Gall bear witness to the fact that Solomon was implicated in the murders, for though usually exalting his merits, they report that the mighty prelate repented of his cruel actions, since he wandered as a pilgrim to Rome, contrite, weeping and lamenting, to do penance for his sins. Conrad I., at the close of his reign, acknowledged that his policy had been a mistaken one by giving the crown to his most powerful antagonist, the Saxon leader, Duke Henry, whose power he had striven to abrogate. Henry I., called "the Fowler" and the "City Founder" (919-936), was the first German ruler who erected a true German kingdom. With quick discernment he founded the authority of the Crown on the union of the tribes, by reconciling their leaders and enforcing their submission through the ascendency of his own powerful Saxon tribe. Binding them by oath of fealty without detracting from their honour, he met with no opposition. His son, Otho I., the "Great," obtained the imperial crown in Rome, and increased the greatness of his new kingdom. Thus we find East Helvetia with Chur-Rhætia forming part of Alamannia, and presently the whole country was absorbed into, and its destinies bound up with, the vast empire. Burkhard I., assuming the title of "Duke of Alamannia by Divine Right," bent to Henry's royal supremacy with little objection, no doubt feeling it a safeguard to his own position. His successors likewise held to Germany, and were faithful adherents of the emperors, who in their turn strove to knit Swabia more closely with the empire. This alliance was highly valued by them; they had to pass through Chur-Rhætia on their expeditions to Italy; the Alamanni were famous for their prowess; and their religious institutions, St. Gall, Rheinau, and Reichenau, were famous centres of culture. Swabia became a highly valuable fief to be granted at the pleasure of the emperors. On the death of Burkhard, who fell in a skirmish whilst accompanying his son-in-law, Rudolf of Burgundy, to the south, as we have seen above, the duchy devolved on the son of Otho I., and then on Burkhard II. of Chur-Rhætia. He never swerved from his policy of holding to the empire, and his marriage with Otho's niece, whose beauty and courage and literary skill were celebrated in ballad and chronicle, drew the union still closer. On her husband's death, Hadwig inherited the title and his estates, but the duchy was granted to a friend of Otho II. She retired to her favourite residence, her manor on Mount Hohentwiel, near Lake Constance, where she lived in deep seclusion till her death in 994. A good Greek scholar and fond of learning, she invited young Ekkehard II. of St. Gall to her castle, and made him her chaplain and her tutor in classical studies. Hadwig is the central figure in Scheffel's brilliant novel "Ekkehard," which glows with life and sparkling humour, and is a fanciful rendering of the amusing narratives contained in the St. Gall annals. The chronicler and the poet combining have produced an immortal work, and shed a lasting glory on the cloisters of St. Gall. Another famous monastic institution that sprung up about this time, _i.e._, under the Saxon emperor Otto, and obtained, like Loretto, European fame as a place of pilgrimage, was that of Einsiedeln, in Canton Schwyz. In 1024 the Duchy of Swabia was vested in Ernest II., stepson of the Emperor Conrad II. of the Salic dynasty. A fierce struggle arose on the question of the succession to the Burgundian throne. Ernest claimed through his mother, and Conrad through his wife, niece to Rudolf III. Seeing his hopes frustrated Ernest, with his friend Werner of Kyburg, and his party, fell upon the imperial troops, and bloody frays occurred. Ernest was imprisoned, and the manor of Kyburg besieged; but both friends escaped, and again combined in new opposition to Conrad. In order to break their union, the emperor promised his son installation in Burgundy if he would deliver up his friend. But this was indignantly refused, the struggle began anew, and the gallant youths fell in a skirmish in 1030. Ernest was long a chief figure in mediæval heroic poetry. GENEALOGICAL TABLES. I. THE CARLOWINGIANS (so far as they concern this history). Charles Martel, 741. | +-----------------+--------------+ | | Carlomann. Pippin the Short, 768. | +-------------------------------+-------+ | | Charlemagne, 814. Carlomann, 771. | +------+---------+----------------------------+ | | | Charles, 811. Pippin, 810. Louis the Pious, 840= (1) Irmengare. (2) Judith. | | +---------------------+------------------+-----+ Charles the Bald, 877. | | | Lothair I., 855. Pippin, 838. Louis the German, 876. | | +---+----------+--------------+ +----+---------+----------+ | | | | | | Louis II. Lothair II. Charles of Provence. Carlomann, Louis, Charles III., 875. 867. 880. 882. 888. | | Irmengard=Count Boso of Burgundy. Arnulf of Kaernthur, 899 (natural son). | Louis the Child, 911. II. DESCENT OF THE SAXON EMPERORS. Lindolf (made Duke of part of Savoy by Louis the German). | Duke Otto, 912. | Henry I., 936 (the "Fowler"). | +-------------------------------------------+ | | Otto I., 973. (the "Great"). Henry of Bavaria. | | +----------------------------+ Henry the Quarrelsome (of Bavaria), 995. | | | | Lindolf, Lintgarde. Otto II., | Duke of Swabia. Emperor, 983. Henry II., Emperor, 1024. | Otto II., Emperor, 1002. * * * * * III. Salic (Frankish) Emperors. Conrad II., 1038 (great grandson of Lintgarde). | Henry III., 1038-1056. | Henry IV., 1056-1106. | Henry V., 1106-1125. (The Hohenstaufen follow.) FOOTNOTES: [19] It is perhaps preferable to use the word _Swabia_ instead of _Alamannia_ so often. Freeman in his essay on the Holy Empire speaks of the Swabian Emperors, the Hohenstaufen. [20] Dierauer. VII. BURGUNDY AND SWABIA UNDER THE GERMAN EMPERORS. To return to the kingdom of Burgundy. Rudolf had greatly extended his dominions; in 919 he added to them the land between the Aare and the Reuss, and in 933 Lower Burgundy, which he had obtained in exchange for the Italian crown. The kingdom now comprised West Switzerland, Provence, Dauphiné, and Franche Comté. During the king's absence on military expeditions, and during the minority of Conrad, Bertha, the "Spinning Queen," held the reins of government. She is represented on the seal of the document founding the convent of Payerne--one of her authenticated foundations--with the spinning wheel, and the words _Bertha humilis regina_ below. This Alpine queen, called by the French Swiss the "Mother of their liberties," was a model of industry and economy. Like Charlemagne, she was an excellent housekeeper, and even knew how many eggs had been laid on her estates. Humble in bearing, yet firm and strong, this lady fortified the country against the invasions of the Hungarians and Saracens. The gap between the Alps and Mount Jura was strengthened by a line of towers still to be seen, though crumbling from age, at Neuchâtel, La Molière, Moudon, Gourze. These towers were almost inaccessible, and possessed thick walls, narrow windows, and doors which, being ten feet above the ground, could only be got at by means of ladders. At the first signal of alarm, seigneur and peasantry hurried to these strongholds carrying with them whatever they were able; when they had entered, the ladders were drawn in, and there the people remained till the wild hurricane of savagery had blown over. Gradually the Burgundians rallied as regular troops to meet the hordes in open battle. Herself always busy, Bertha hated idleness, and wherever she went she was to be found spinning, even on the road. Who has not heard of the humble and graceful queen, riding on her palfrey, spindle in hand, going from house to house, visiting castle, convent, farm, homestead, and hut, doing deeds of piety and benevolence? Once, when the Queen of Payerne, as she was often called, was on her circuits of inspection she met with a peasant girl keeping her flocks, and spinning. Delighted with the girl's industry, she gave her a handsome present. Next day all the ladies of her suite appeared before her with spindles in their hands. Smiling at the sight, she said, "My ladies, the young peasant girl, like Jacob, has been the first to receive the blessing." Space will not allow us to dwell longer on the memory of the "Spinning Queen" which is most dear to the French Swiss. It should be added, however, that the Burgundian traditions respecting this queen are doubtless mixed with mythological elements. In the German religious myths, Bertha (_Berchta_, _Perahta_,) means what is bright and pure and orderly: she is the Goddess of Fertility, and the Mother of the Earth, and bestows rich blessings on mankind. On the death of his father, which had left him a mere child, Bertha's son Conrad had been educated at the Court of Otho the Great. Fearing that Burgundy might become the prey of aggressive neighbours, the emperor stepped in and made himself protector of the queen, and tutor to the children, and naturally exerted much influence on the country. Conrad, coming of age, ruled wisely, and for more than half a century (937-993), Burgundy flourished. His beautiful sister Adelheid was first Queen of Italy, but after Lothair's untimely death, became Empress of Germany, Otho I. wishing to unite Italy with his own empire, making her his wife. The reign of Rudolf III. (993-1032) was greatly harmful to the country, which was fast declining in prestige and prosperity. Better fitted for the cloister than for the throne, he lavished his wealth and estates on the clergy, with the view of enlisting their help against the encroaching feudal vassals. In the end, indeed, he was so reduced that he was compelled to live on alms from his priests. His own incapacities drove him to seek protection from the empire. Having no children, he appointed his nephew, the Emperor Henry II., heir to his kingdom, and even during his own lifetime he arranged to give up the reigns of government to Henry. The opposition of the Burgundian nobles and the emperor's death prevented this shameful arrangement from actually coming into force. The next emperor, Conrad II., prosecuted the claim against his stepson, Ernest II., as has been told above, and was crowned king at the Cluniacensian convent, founded by Bertha at Payerne, (1033). His elevation to the Burgundian throne was confirmed in the following year by a brilliant assembly of Burgundian, German, and Italian bishops and nobles, at Geneva. Shortly before his death in 1038, he had his son Henry installed in the kingdom, and the oath of fealty to him was taken by the Burgundian nobles at the Diet of Solothurn. Switzerland was thus very closely allied with the empire; Henry III. holding the reins of government as King of Burgundy and Duke of Alamannia or Swabia. This third amalgamation with the empire told more lastingly and influentially on the country than either the Roman or the Frankish rule had done; to a great extent it stamped on the people the German character and spirit. These external changes, these shifting scenes, these various masters and systems of government, naturally affected the internal condition of the country as well. Of the social life of the country, however, we know very little. The chroniclers of the period are monks, or noble ecclesiastics who wrote of, and for their own class, and the people did not enter into their concerns. But the political changes were very great. The Frankish county administrations fell into disuse through the increase of immunities granted to royal and ecclesiastical foundations, by which they were exempted from obedience to the county officers. The counts themselves, who had formerly held office at the sovereign's pleasure, gradually made their dignities into hereditary fiefs, which became family property in wealthy and powerful houses. Thus, at the close of the ninth and the beginning of the tenth century we already find in Switzerland a number of counts, such as the Nellenburger, in Zurichgau; the Lenzburger, in Aargau; the Burkharde, in Chur-Rhætia; the Kyburger, at Winterthur, near Zurich. The greatest changes, however, were effected by the growth of feudalism, which had arisen indeed under Charlemagne, but had to some extent been checked by him. Feudalism outgrew all other systems, and entirely disarranged the social scale. The free peasantry shrank to a small number, and there sprang up a martial nobility of high functionaries, who held offices in the army or courts of justice, and exerted much influence. On the native soil, on the very meeting-places where the old German people had assembled to deal with civil and judicial matters, eminent men founded families which grew into reigning houses. These men, combining political discernment with military ability and experience, rose above their fellows, and assumed the highest offices. The distresses, the dissensions, the intestine wars, and particularly the invasions by savage hordes, drove people to seek the protection of powerful lords, even at the risk of losing their own independence. In most cases the people became "unfree," or serfs. Society thus was divided into distinct classes; the old German democracy gave place to a highly aristocratic order, the nobility ruling over the people. Thus, we find Switzerland, like other European countries, struggling through her age of feudalism, and centuries must yet pass before she succeeds in establishing a system of government which alone will suit her peculiar character. At that stage of history the welfare of the country depended to a great extent on the personal character of the imperial sovereigns. They visited Swabia and Burgundy, enforcing order and discipline, holding diets at important places, and assigning prerogatives to secular and religious foundations. In truth, these imperial visits promoted greatly the development of rising cities. Of the German emperors none came so often to Switzerland as the powerful Salic ruler, Henry III. When he left Burgundy--he was often at Basel and Solothurn--the people felt, says a contemporary writer, as if the sun had gone down. Henry II. and Henry III. held imperial diets at Zurich, and the latter used to reside there for weeks together, and lavished privileges and gifts on her religious foundations. He promoted festivals in the royal palace (Pfalz), in the Lindencourt; and Zurich was the meeting-place for his Burgundian and Italian subjects, the capital of Swabia, and residence of the Swabian dukes, where they here established their mint. His wise administration tended greatly to destroy all political difference and hostile feeling between the two Helvetias. This national concord (1057-77) was still further strengthened by the rule of Rudolf of Rheinfelden, who for twenty years swayed the destinies of the country as "Rector of Burgundy" and Duke of Alamannia. The regal and ducal power had been bestowed upon him by the Empress Agnes, on the death of Henry III., whose son-in-law he was. Rudolf was from the manor of Rheinfelden, near Basel, and was a distant connection of the Burgundian royal family. He held vast estates on Geneva lake, and in Swabia, and thus met with no opposition on the part of the nobility of Burgundy. But this long period of peace was suddenly and sadly interrupted by a terrible catastrophe which fell upon the empire; the fierce antagonism which arose between Gregory VII. and Henry IV. The emperor was unwilling to submit to the excessive encroachments of the Church, or, rather the Pontiff, on his prerogatives, and like William I. of England, entirely repudiated the Pope's claims, and tried to check his encroachments. The "Conqueror" indeed had gained so much power that the Pope could not issue excommunications against English subjects except by William's permission, but Henry IV. fell a victim to the Interdict. Never was sovereign more humiliated by the Papal power, nor more humiliated himself to escape the terrible punishment, for interdicts were fearful weapons in the hands of the Pontiffs of the Middle Ages. The story of this long struggle--how the emperor failed to carry his point--his wanderings across the Alps in the depth of winter--his submission at Canossa--for all this, full of thrilling interest as it is, the reader must be referred to the history of Germany. [Illustration: CATHEDRAL OF LAUSANNE.] On the deposition of Henry, our Rudolf of Rheinfelden was elected king by the opposing party, and was thence called the Popish king (Pfaffenkönig); thus Switzerland, it is almost needless to say, was drawn into the struggle and convulsed by intestine wars. The bishops of Lausanne, Geneva, and Basel; the seigneurs of Grandson and Neuchâtel, clung to the emperor; the counts of Geneva and Toggenburg, the houses of Habsburg, Kyburg, and Savoy, and the clergy of Alamannia and Chur-Rhætia sided with the new king. St. Gall rallied round its valiant abbot, Ulrich III., to uphold the cause of Henry. The wars were continued with alternate successes and reverses on each side, till the death of Rudolf in 1080 on the Grona, near Leipzig, it was said by the hand of Godefroi de Bouillon, the famous crusader, who fought on the side of Henry. The intensity of bitter feeling gradually abated. Henry even tried to establish his royal authority in Burgundy, but in Alamannia new quarrels broke out on the question of the succession to the duchy. Two native Swabian dukes contended for the duchy, Frederick von Staufen, grandfather of Frederick Barbarossa, the ancestor of the illustrious dynasty, and Duke Bertold von Zaeringen, brother-in-law and heir to the estates of the son of the late Rudolf of Rheinfelden, who died shortly after his father. The differences were settled by a diet at Mayence, in 1097, and Frederick von Staufen, son-in-law to Henry, who had staunchly upheld and fought for the imperial cause in the Popish quarrels, was invested with the Swabian duchy. Yet his power on the Swiss side of the Rhine was more nominal than real, and it was exerted by Bertold II. of Zaeringen, who received in compensation for the loss of the duchy the ducal title, and the _Reichsvogtei Zürich_ (a kind of prefecture), together with the royal prerogatives over the secular and religious institutions of the city. For Zurich was then the noblest and most conspicuous town in Swabia, as Bishop Otto von Freysingen, the most prominent historian of the Middle Ages, asserts. This severance of Swiss Alamannia, and particularly of the imperial prefecture of Zurich, from the empire tended greatly to bring about the gradual political separation. Under the Zaeringer came again a long period of comparative peace. VIII. THE REIGN OF THE HOUSE OF ZAERINGEN. (1050-1218.) The rule of the Dukes of Zaeringen ushered in a long period of comparative peace (1100-1218), which improved the social and material condition of the people. Yet this time of peace was every now and again interrupted in the west by feuds with the Burgundian nobles. This Swabian family took their name from the ancestral manor of Zaeringen, near Freiburg, in the Breisgau (Black Forest). The vast estates they had derived from the House of Rheinfelden on its extinction reached from Lake Geneva to the rivers Aare and Emme, and gave them a dominant position in the country at the opening of the twelfth century. Burgundy had been slowly falling away from the empire during its internal dissensions and its conflicts with the Papacy. But on the death of Count William IV., who was assassinated by his own people in 1127, the Emperor Lothair drew that province more closely to his realm, by bestowing the regency of it on his adherent, Conrad of Zaeringen. Conrad's position was, however, violently contested by Rainald III., a relative of the murdered count. The Burgundian nobles rallied round him, and made a desperate stand against German interference, and he maintained his independence in the Franche Comté, as the district was subsequently called. When Frederick Barbarossa married Beatrix, the daughter and heiress of Rainald, he claimed the Burgundian territory, and came into conflict with the Zaeringer. Berchtold IV. obtained the position of suzerain over the sees of Geneva, Lausanne, and Sion, and by this division Swiss Burgundy was being lopped off from its appendage beyond Mount Jura. The insubordinate prelates joined with secular princes to upset the German rule. To guard against these protracted struggles, and to increase their own influence in the country, the Zaeringer resorted to a means which does them great credit, and which won for them the affection of the people. They began to found towns, as they had done in Germany, or to raise settlements into fortified cities, and granted them extensive liberties. The lesser nobles and the common people found shelter in these walled towns against the over-bearing amongst the high nobility; trade and industry began to thrive, and these city commonwealths rose to a flourishing condition, and became a source of wealth as well as a staunch support to their founders. Bertold or Berchtold IV. (1152-1186) planned a whole strategical line of strongholds in the west, as a check on the nobles; and in 1177 he founded the free city of Freiburg on his own estates. The situation, on a high plateau above the Saane, was on the line of demarcation between the French and German tongues. To this new town he granted a charter of liberties similar to that granted to its sister foundation of the same name in the Breisgau. Berchtold V. (1186-1218) followed in the steps of his father. He founded and fortified Burgdorf, Moudon, Yverdon, Laupen, Murten, Gümminen, Thun. These towns he founded to be not only places of military strength, but also centres of industry and trade, which should increase the prosperity of his people. But he had, however, to stand against the heavy opposition of the Burgundian nobles. As he was preparing to set out on a crusade with Frederick Barbarossa they rose in arms. Hastening back, he defeated the refractory rebels, both at Avenches and in the Grindelwald valley, in 1191, and immediately after his victories he resumed his strategical projects. On a promontory washed by the Aare, and on imperial crown lands, he raised a new citadel, to which he gave the name of Bern, in memory of Dietrich of Berne (Verona), a favourite hero of Alamannic mediæval poetry.[21] The lesser nobles of the neighbourhood, as well as the humbler people, poured into Bern for shelter, and, receiving a most liberal charter, these burgesses rapidly rose to wealth and power. Being built on imperial land, Bern took from the first a higher standing than the sister town, Freiburg. These city foundations form a chief corner-stone in the fabric of Swiss liberties. Attaining political independence, the towns held their own against aggressors. To effect their deliverance from oppression, they united with kindred communities or with powerful princes, and thus began the system of offensive and defensive alliances. A new enemy arose in the West, and Berchtold V. was defeated by Count Thomas of Savoy (1211), who encroached on Vaud, and seized Moudon. Yet the Zaeringer steadily and successfully strengthened their hold over the country, and obtained the most complete independence. And, indeed, the moment seemed drawing near when Switzerland was to be shaped into a durable monarchical state. However, she was spared that fate--from which no patriotic act of any national hero could probably have rescued her--by a natural, yet providential, event, the extinction of the ducal family. For in 1218 Berchtold V. died, leaving no issue. This century is eminently an age of religious movements. And, although our space will not permit us to enter into full details, yet it is impossible to pass over the great religious revival which centred in the Crusades, that is, so far as that movement touches Switzerland. On the 10th of December, in the year 1146, a most touching scene might have been witnessed in the minster of Schaffhausen. The Alamannic people were thronging the church to listen to a glowing sermon from a French Cistercian monk, Bernard de Clairvaux. Vividly depicting the distress of the Christians in Palestine, he invited his hearers to join the second crusade. France was ready, he said, but the House of Hohenstaufen was still wavering. His captivating manner, his noble earnestness, and the elegance and flow of his language--though it was but half understood by the masses--stirred the audience to bursts of enthusiasm. "Your land is fertile," were the concluding words of the monk, "and the world is filled with the reputation of your valour. Ye soldiers of Christ, arise! and hurl down the enemies of the Cross!" Laying his hands on the blind and lame, says the half-legendary story, he restored to them eyesight or the use of limbs, and, strewing crosses amongst the crowds, left the church. The people, in a state of ecstatic fervour, beat their breasts, and, shedding tears, broke into a shout of "Kyrie eleison, the saints are with us!"[22] On the 15th of the same month Bernard preached at Zurich, and on Christmas Day at Speyer, before Conrad III., whom he won for the crusade. His fervent exhortations seem to have found willing ears, too, in the country. Schaffhausen and Einsiedeln took an active share in the work. We hear of almost countless numbers of spiritual and secular princes, nobles, knights, and lesser people who joined in the crusade. The counts of Montfort, Kyburg, Habsburg, Zaeringen, and Neuchâtel, and bishops and abbots started for the East. Contemporary writers bewail the loss of so many of the best and bravest of South Germany who died in Palestine. The holy orders of the Knights of St. John, of the Teutonic order, and the Knights-Templars raised their aristocratic institutions in this country; new orders of monastic foundations sprang up, which we cannot here dwell upon. Amongst these new orders were that of Mendicant Friars, though it is worthy of note that these played no such part in Switzerland as they did in England. Yet the Burgundian or western portion of the country plunged more deeply into the movement than did the eastern part. German enthusiasm was but slowly won by French religious ecstasy, which had to a great extent started the Crusades. Still the age was filled with religious and romantic frenzy. Not the mere practical aims of conquest or gain it was that stirred men's minds, but the mystical elements of the movement, and the grand, novel, and indeed fabulous sights that were to be witnessed; and the old love of wandering and adventure revived, and drove men to the East. By a happy coincidence the effect of Bernard's sermons was lessened to some extent in this country by the previous teachings of another enthusiast of a far different stamp. The intrepid Italian reformer, Arnold of Brescia, had for some time preached at Zurich and Constance, sowing the seeds of heresy. Boldly attacking the abuses of the Church, and advocating the return to the simplicity of the apostolic teaching, he invited people to no longer lavish wealth on Church institutions. Arnold fell a victim to his advanced religious and political views, but his teachings took hold of the people of the Alpine districts. To his influence may safely be attributed the staunch resistance to Papal aggressiveness shown in the thirteenth century by the people of Zurich and of the Forest Cantons. FOOTNOTES: [21] See Nibelungen. [22] Prof. Bächtold, "Sermon Literature in Switzerland." IX. THE HOUSES OF KYBURG, SAVOY, AND HABSBURG. (1218-1273.) We are nearing the period of their history most dear to the Swiss, the period when the Eidgenossenschaft is forming, but before reaching it we have still to make our way as best we can through a short era of chaotic feudalism and political confusion generally, preceding the great struggle for Swiss independence. On the extinction of the House of Zaeringen Switzerland fell a prey to the designs of vassal princes who had started into eminence on her soil, and now contended for supremacy over her. The realm of the Zaeringen sovereigns fell to pieces, the Swiss portions with Freiburg, Burgdorf, Thun, going to a native prince, Ulrich, Count of Kyburg, brother-in-law of Berchtold V.; the Swabian portions to a German relative. Thus Switzerland was cut off from Swabia. The crown lands he had held in Swiss Burgundy, and likewise the royal prerogative, fell to the empire, and the Vice-regency, being vested by Frederick II. in his younger son, Henry, became gradually nominal and at length died out. In this way all vassal princes in the west, and all the territorial lordships and free cities, such as Bern, Solothurn, Morat, Laupen, Gümminen, which were built on crown lands, and had been subjected to the Zaerings, were now held directly from the emperor. Zurich was likewise restored to the empire. By this time most of these places had become virtually independent. [Illustration: CHÂTEAU DE VUFFLENS, VAUD. (_Fourteenth Century._)] Switzerland reflects most faithfully the feudal and political condition of the empire at large. It was torn into an almost countless number of spiritual and secular territorial sovereignties. Taking advantage of the state of distraction prevailing throughout the realm, Church prelates, religious foundations, the greater and lesser nobles, and even the thriving burgesses of great city commonwealths, all strove to erect their lands into petty independent dominions. The bishops assumed temporal power in their own dioceses; the religious-houses, owing to their "rich immunities," enjoyed almost perfect freedom. The peasantry had dwindled into small bodies of men, and in the place of the Frankish county-officers (counts) a martial nobility had sprung up, and, grasping the public functions and dignities, had turned these offices into freeholds independent of the sovereign. Henceforward they assumed the names of the feudal manors they held, and began to raise _chateaux-forts_ on commanding or picturesque spots. As many as two hundred territorial rulers held their feudal sway in Switzerland. To give even the names of these would be not only useless but absurd, yet they had their share in the political development of the country. In the Low Valais the counts of Savoy had obtained a footing, and were moreover advancing into Vaud. Vaud was at that time governed by a host of more or less important nobles, such as the barons of Grandson, Cossonay, Blonay, &c., and was contended for by the bishops of Lausanne and Geneva, and the counts of the latter town, whilst the counts of Greyerz governed in the districts of the Saane, and those of Neuchâtel in the lake districts of the Jura. Little Burgundy, with Solothurn as capital, fell to the counts of Buchegg. One of the wealthiest and most ancient of the native families was that of Lenzburg, whose counts held sway in Aargau, Zurichgau, and the Forest Cantons, and were governors of famous religious-houses. One of the counts of Lenzburg, Ulrich IX., was an intimate friend and a minister of Frederick Barbarossa, and on the extinction of the rule of these counts, their heritage fell to the Habsburgs, and gave that family a great lift in the early days of their rise. In the east we meet with the famous House of Kyburg, to which belonged young Werner, the friend of Ernest II. of Swabia. Their ancestral manor house near Winterthur is still in good condition. They had numerous vassals and followers. In Zurichgau the barons of Regensberg and others, and the counts of Rapperswyl were harassing the people. The most powerful nobles in the east were the abbots of St. Gall, who governed part of St. Gall and Appenzell, and the counts of Toggenburg, and in Chur-Rhætia and the Rhine districts the counts of Montfort and Werdenberg. This sufficiently shows how feudalism had grown apace in Switzerland, and what a hard struggle the people had to hold their own against the impositions of princes and nobles. How feudalism had arisen has been already shown in the previous chapter. To find some explanation of this rapid growth and the distracted state that followed in its train we must turn for a moment to the empire. Owing no doubt to the loftiness of the imperial dignity--for the emperors were indisputably the greatest of the civilized monarchs--the vassal princes rose to far greater independence in the empire than in other countries. Yet the possession of the imperial crown was in the end the weakening of royalty. Henry III. had raised the empire to its pinnacle of greatness, and the imperial dignity increased the prestige of the German name, and surrounded the German monarch with a halo of glory and even reverence. But the engagements abroad, the campaigns in Italy, the struggles with the Pontiffs, and the close attention required to be paid to Italian affairs, kept the emperors away from duties and cares nearer home. The Italian claims and titles, in fact, proved in the long run injurious to German interests. Frederick I., Barbarossa, had indeed, by his just and powerful rule, forced his insubordinate vassals into submission, but it was far different with his grandson, the brilliant Frederick II. (1215-50). Born in Italy and brought up to love the land of his birth, Naples and Sicily, more than his fatherland, Frederick II. was more Southerner than Teuton. He gave Southern Italy a model administration, but allowed Germany to be weakened by a divided internal government. And though we cannot but admire the unflinching spirit with which this "wonder of the world" carried on his unequal struggle with the Papacy, yet it is clear that the conflict which sealed the doom of his own family was equally ruinous to the empire.[23] [Illustration: BRONZE FIGURES FROM THE MAXIMILIAN MONUMENT AT INNSBRUCK.] During the interregnum (1254-73) Germany was without an actual ruler, although two foreign princes had been elected as its sovereigns. One of these never even showed his face in Germany, and the other, Richard of Cornwall, could not make sure his ascendency in the country, notwithstanding all the money he lavished in the attempt. This was the unhappy time of the _Faustrecht_--the name indicates its character--when the right of the strong hand (fist) alone was of avail. The empire lost its prestige, and it slowly dissolved into a loose confederacy of some five thousand larger or smaller states and fragments of states, each struggling for independence. Most eminent amongst the crowd of nobles on Swiss soil aiming at their personal exaltation were the counts of the great Houses of Kyburg, Savoy, and Habsburg. Taking advantage of the general state of misgovernment or want of government, they systematically planned the aggrandisement of their own families, whether by conquest, purchase, or unjust encroachment. Yet there was opposition from the city burgesses, who, seeing their liberties in danger, felt the love of freedom roused in their breasts. The powerful Kyburger, the mightiest Swiss nobles, were the first to threaten the liberties of the people. Count Ulrich was reckoned one of the wealthiest princes throughout Swabia. By clever policy he had arranged the union of his son Hartmann (the elder) with Margaretha of Savoy. Ulrich's daughter, too, was married to Albrecht of Habsburg, and became the mother of Rudolf, the German king. He upheld the cause of Frederick II., and his elder son, Werner, went with him on his crusade where he was carried off by the plague, leaving one son, Hartmann the Younger. Their territories, after they had inherited the Zaeringen estates, reached from Lake Constance to Swiss Burgundy. Both the elder and the younger Hartmann encroached without scruple on the crown lands adjoining their estates, whilst Frederick II. was engaged in his struggle with the Church. In this emergency Bern and Murten, whose independence was at stake, followed suit, and resorted to means which would be a precedent in the future struggles for Swiss freedom. They joined in an offensive and defensive union with the Kyburg city, Freiburg, with Lucerne and the Bishop of Sion (1243). Bern had always adhered closely to the Hohenstaufen, and when Hartmann ventured on an open attack in 1255, that city applied to the empire for help. Unable to obtain support, however, both Bern and Murten placed themselves under the patronage of Count Peter of Savoy, who was already at variance with Kyburg, and a peace was arranged. Peter of Savoy, "the second Charlemagne" as he was styled, was a most remarkable man, and a striking figure amongst the Savoy princes. Being the fourth of seven brothers he had been placed in the Church by his father, Count Thomas. However, on the death of the father Peter doffed his priestly robes, married the heiress of Faucigny, and added that province and Chablais to his territories, and set up as guardian of his brothers. Like his father he had constantly his mind on Vaud, and the daily feuds amongst its leaderless swarm of nobles facilitated the conquest. Castles were erected to further his object; and Chillon, which to-day gives us an excellent idea of what a fine feudal castle was in mediæval days, became his princely residence, having indeed been, to a great extent, built by him. Invited to the Court of England by his niece Eleanor, he spent the greater part of his life abroad, gathering in the service of Henry III. men and money. These he used to achieve the acquisition of Vaud, to which he every now and then returned to overthrow his enemies. In England he occupied a high position in the Council, was knighted, and had titles and honours lavished on him; the palace of the Savoy in the Strand bears witness to his magnificence. Many of the nobles in his train, such as De la Porte, Grandson, Flechère, married Englishwomen, and hence arose the family names of Porter, Grandison, Fletcher. Possessing an iron will, and thoroughly versed in diplomacy, Peter of Savoy finally annexed Vaud, partly by conquest and partly by agreement. In truth, the whole nobility lay at his feet ready to do him homage and acknowledge him as lord paramount. The German government sanctioned his protectorate of Bern and Morat, and Richard of Cornwall his conquests in the Bernese Highlands. Thus West Switzerland became the portion of a Savoy prince, and in the place of the ancient kingdom of Upper Burgundy arose a feudal sovereignty. However, order, discipline, and wise organization were the fruits of Peter's rule. And his generous nature, his chivalrous spirit, and his love of justice and good government, won for him the affection of his people, and the title of Le Petit, or Le Second, Charlemagne. Presently the Kyburg domains in Eastern Switzerland devolved on him, the male line having died out in 1264--the elder Hartmann leaving no children, and the younger but one daughter, Anna, a minor. But when Peter attempted to take possession of the inheritance in the name of his sister, Margaretha of Savoy, he found himself in conflict with a rival claimant of superior strength, Rudolf, of Habsburg. This prince confiscated the whole of the lands of Hartmann the Elder, regardless of the claims of the widow, Margaretha. There was no mistaking the meaning of this, and war broke out between Savoy and Habsburg. Rudolf invited the whole of the nobles of the west to rise against Count Peter. He was engaged in East Switzerland when the Burgundian lords proceeded to besiege Chillon, in 1266. Peter himself was at war in the Valais. He suddenly returned, and at dead of night fell upon the enemy. He found them asleep, and some eighty nobles, barons, counts, seigneurs, and followers fell into his hands. These he conducted into the castle of Chillon, but instead of treating them as prisoners, entertained them at a banquet. Thus Peter became once more master of the west. Bern by a "writ of submission" regained from the House of Savoy the freedom it had forfeited on a previous occasion.[24] Rudolf signed a peace at Morat, and obtained the Kyburg heritage with the exception of the lands settled on the Dowager Countess. On the death of the "Conqueror of Vaud," which occurred soon after, the sovereignty passed to his brother Philip, a man of far inferior stamp. French Switzerland, save Geneva, gradually became a loose confederation of petty states, and their languishing political life led to their gradual amalgamation with the Eastern Republics. The most dangerous champion enters the lists when the great Habsburg prince seizes on the reins of government in Switzerland. In its early stages the rule of the Habsburger is closely linked with, and is indeed the incitement to, the national movement or rising, if such a word may be applied in the case of a people just forming. The famous Habsburg family was of right noble and ancient lineage. Whether they sprang from Swiss soil (Aargau), or had their origin in Alsacia, is not quite settled. As a matter of fact, they were a Swabian family who possessed vast estates in both those countries. Their estates, ("Eigen," allods or freeholds) with Windisch, Brugg Nurri, lay at the junction of the Aare and Reuss, in Aargau. Originally they dwelt in the castle of Altenburg, near Brugg, and subsequently in their manor of Habsburg, on the Wülpelsberg,[25] a little hill overlooking the ancient Vindonissa. Numerous other castles they held as time went on. [Illustration: THE OLD HABSBURG CASTLE (CANTON AARGAU).] Rudolf der Alte (the Old) is the first of the ancestors of whom we know much. He accompanied Frederick II. on his campaigns, and that great emperor stood godfather to his son Rudolf, who was later on to wear his royal crown. On his death the dynasty split into two branches, Habsburg-Austria (senior), and Habsburg-Laufenburg Aargau (junior), the heads being respectively Albrecht the Wise and Rudolf the Silent, his sons. Each of these branches followed its own separate policy, the junior holding to the Papacy. Albrecht cleverly contrived to marry Heilwig of Kyburg, hoping thus to inherit the estates of her childless brother, Hartmann the elder. He died, it was rumoured, whilst engaged in one of the crusades, and his estates passed to his sons, of whom, however, but one survived, our Rudolf of Habsburg. This man within the space of thirty years made his family one of the mightiest in the empire. Rudolf inherited from his father the family estate on the Aare, with Habsburg Castle. Besides this, he succeeded to various titles and lands, to the lordship of several towns in the Aargau, to the prefecture (_Vogtei_) over the religious-houses of Säckingen and Muri, to the landgraviate of Alsacia, and so forth. Though but one-and-twenty when his father died, Rudolf at once displayed great energy, as well as firmness and caution. In the struggle with the Papacy he held to the Staufen. It mattered little to him that his estates were under an interdict, and himself excommunicated. He held faithfully to the illustrious dynasty, and accompanied its last representative, Conradin, across the Alps, to Verona, in 1267. On the death of Conradin on the scaffold at Naples, and the consequent extinction of the Staufen line, Rudolf veered gradually round to the side of the Pope. Rudolf was highly popular with the peasantry, winning their hearts by his affability, simple habits, and kindly good-nature. His tall and slender person, thin face, and aquiline nose, were striking features, and not easily forgotten when once seen. He had been known to mend with his own hands, after a campaign, the old grey coat he usually wore, and this was but a typical act of his. And the proud opposition he offered to a plundering nobility quite won for him the confidence of the people. The great cities stood on good terms with him, and sought his friendship and aid. Thus did the Alsacian towns seek his help against the bishops of Strasburg; Zurich against the barons of Regensberg and Toggenburg. On many an occasion did he render remarkable service in this way, of which one instance must suffice. The barons of Regensberg had a castle on the Uto, a mountain towering above Zurich, and from thence often sent men to waylay and rob the citizens who chanced to pass that way. Rudolf hit on a crafty device. Riding up the Uetliberg with thirty men of Zurich, he placed behind each man a companion, and so came to the gate of the castle. The garrison despising a band apparently so small, rushed out of the gates upon them. But great was their terror when suddenly the men riding behind appeared in sight, and, taking to flight, they left the castle at the mercy of the strange attacking party. The place was levelled with the ground. Rudolf was asked by a body of free men of Uri to be their umpire in a dispute, and he actually sat in judgment on the matter, under the linden at Altorf, a fact which bears witness to his popularity amongst the people. Yet, with many amiable qualities, Rudolf was covetous, ambitious, and violent. Bent on raising his family to greatness, he reveals a most mercenary spirit, and shows himself unscrupulous in the pursuit of gain. It has been shown above, how he had seized the Kyburg lands; he also made himself guardian of Anna of Kyburg, and when she came of age, united her to his cousin, Eberhard of Habsburg. Thus was founded the new House of Kyburg-Burgdorf. He obtained from them Anna's heritage in the Aargau, besides Zug, Art, Willisan, Sempach, &c., as well as lands in the Forest Cantons. He was one of those chieftains who profited immensely by the distraction during the interregnum. Whilst engaged in storming Basel, whose bishop had encroached on the Alsacian territories, the news was brought to Rudolf (October 1, 1273) that he had been elected King of Germany, at Frankfort, and, raising the siege, he at once proceeded to his coronation at Aix-la-Chapelle. Rudolf's influence greatly altered the policy of Germany. He made his peace with Gregory X. at Lausanne in 1275, and entered into a close alliance with him. Thus an end was put to the unfortunate quarrels with the Papal power, and the German king was set at liberty to follow his own ambitions, aims, and plans. He resigned all claim to Italy, and so far also to the imperial dignity, which had once been of such splendour, and had indeed been almost equivalent to the government of the whole world. Sober, cautious, and matter-of-fact as he was, Rudolf cared not for merely ideal greatness, and devoted himself to following more practical aims. The empire had been impoverished by the late crisis, and by the different calamities which had befallen it; and the German princes had risen to positions of defiant independence. Seeing beforehand that the authority of the crown must be founded on the wealth and hereditary possessions of the sovereign, Rudolf made the aggrandisement of his family the chief object of his career. Fortune's favourite he seemed indeed to be, and gained a great victory over his opponent to the throne, Ottokar of Bohemia (1278), and secured from him the Duchy of Austria, with Steyermark. This he vested as a new possession in his own family. Notwithstanding the extension of his power eastward, he likewise continued his aggressive policy in Switzerland. He forced from Philip of Savoy the cession of Payerne, Murten, &c., and waged war with Bern, which held to Savoy, refusing to pay the royal taxes (1279). Making ample use of his exalted position and unlimited power, he lost no opportunity of buying up princes and religious-houses in pecuniary difficulties. He compelled the Abbots of St. Gall, Alrich of Güttingen, and William of Montfort, to cede to him lands and farms, forcing on them as steward a worthless fellow who was a devoted adherent of the Habsburgs. When the male line of Rapperswyl died out, the fiefs which should have passed to the Abbey of St. Gall, he gave to his own sons. And, taking advantage of the pecuniary straits of the monastery of Nurbach, he obtained by one means or another Lucerne, which belonged to the abbey, as well as numerous farms reaching into the Forest Cantons. The stewardship of Einsiedeln and Pfäffers likewise fell to his share. Many more instances might be given to show how Rudolf's clever and unscrupulous scheming extended his power all over the midlands and the eastern districts, and how grievously his heavy hand was felt throughout the country. Yet the famous Habsburgs, able, warlike, and energetic as they were, met with one obstacle to their progress which they were unable to remove, and against which all their plans came to nought---the love of freedom innate in the Swiss peoples. FOOTNOTES: [23] For more complete account of the Hohenstaufen see Freeman's "Holy Roman Empire," Frederick I., II. [24] The story runs that Peter allowed the town to ask a favour in return for past services, and the witty men of Bern at once begged for the restitution of their lost liberty. Henceforth Peter was regarded as the benefactor and second founder of the city. [25] Tradition says that one of their ancestors, Radbot, hunting in the Aargau, lost his favourite hawk, and found it sitting on the ridge of the Wülpelsberg. Being delighted with the view, Radbot built a castle there, and called it _Hawk Castle_, Habichtsburg, or Habsburg. X. THE CONFEDERATION, OR EIDGENOSSENSCHAFT. (1231-1291.) In the present chapter we have to attempt the task of separating truth from fiction, at all times, perhaps, a difficult, and often an impossible, undertaking, in matters of history. This chapter indeed splits itself naturally into _Wahrheit_ and _Dichtung_. Fortunately the stories of Tell and the three Eidgenossen are everywhere well known, and will need but little description at our hands. A lake of exquisite beauty extends between the Forest Cantons, and, so to speak, links them together, the whole forming a singularly picturesque stretch of country. Separated from the sister cantons and from the outside world, each of these little states formed a world of its own. The lake was the common outlet, and the rallying-point for the peoples of the secluded valleys. The various armlets into which it branches, like the districts which lie about them, have each their peculiar charm. Of these cantons Unterwalden has a pastoral character, and attracts attention by its beautiful verdure--velvety slopes, green meads, clusters of nut-trees in the lower parts, orchards of fruit trees, the country dotted everywhere with sunburnt huts, forming a _tout ensemble_ truly idyllic. Schwyz is a canton of similar natural appearance, with green pastures and somewhat gentler slopes, but broad terraces with their red cottages line the valley. Above the chief town of the same name, which nestles at the head of the dale it commands, shining, dazzlingly white with its snug whitewashed houses, rise to the sky the torn but imposing pyramids of the two Myten. Uri is _par excellence_ the highland district amongst the three little states. Towering mountains and inaccessible rocks hem in a strip of water, and give that wondrous hue which makes the charm of Uri lake. The inhabitants are of the Alpine mould. Sinewy, robust, quick, shrewd, they are persevering, fearless, bold, and self-reliant; they are yet simple in their habits, artless in manner, pious, and strongly conservative, each people having however its own characteristic points of difference. Ever exposed to danger, their struggles with nature for the supply of their daily wants have increased their strength of body, brought out their mettle, and quickened their natural intelligence. Thus it was not the love of innovation, or even of reform, that led them to form their "League of Perpetual Alliance," in 1291. They entered into the Confederation but to check the aggressions of the Habsburgers. Such is the district and such the race from which arose the three famed Eidgenossen, Walter Fürst von Attinghausen, Werner Staufacher, and Arnold von Melchthal, who, on the "Rütli," swore a solemn oath to save their country from rulers shameless as they were cruel. [Illustration: THALER OF THREE CANTONS--URI, SCHWYZ, AND UNTERWALDEN [SANCTUS MARTINUS EPISCOPUS]. (_By Dr. Imhoof._)] Tradition reports that King Albrecht, son of Rudolf (1298-1308), greatly oppressed the three Waldstätten, doing his best to reduce the people to the condition of bondmen. To the various stewards or bailiffs whom he set over them, he gave strict orders to keep well in check the people of the Forest Cantons. These overseers grew into covetous and cruel tyrants, who taxed, fined, imprisoned, and reviled the unfortunate inhabitants. To complain to the monarch was useless, as he refused to listen. One of these stewards, or lieutenant-governors, was Gessler, and a particularly haughty and spiteful governor he was. Passing on one occasion through Steinen (Schwyz), he was struck by the sight of a fine stone-built house, and filled with envy he inquired of Werner Staufacher, who happened to be the owner, whose it was. Fearing the governor's anger the wealthy proprietor replied cautiously, "The holding is the king's, your grace's, and mine." "Can we suffer the peasantry to live in such fine houses?" exclaimed Gessler, scornfully, as he rode away. Landenberg, another of these "unjust stewards," at Sarnen, being informed that a rich farmer in the Melchi (Unterwalden), had a fine pair of oxen, sent his man for them. Young Arnold, of Melchthal, the son of the farmer, was standing by when the animals were being unyoked, and, enraged at the sight, raised his stick, and struck the governor's servant a blow, breaking one of his fingers. But being afraid of the governor's wrath, young Arnold fled. So Landenberg seized the old father, brought him to his castle, and had his eyes put out. Werner Staufacher was consumed by secret grief, and his wife, guessing what was on his mind, gave him such counsel that, nerving himself to action, he went over to Uri and Unterwalden to look for kindred spirits and fellow-sufferers. At the house of Walter Fürst, of Attinghausen (Uri), he met with the young man from the Melchi, to whom he was able to tell the sad news that the old father had been blinded by Landenberg. Here the three patriots unburdened to each other their sorrowing hearts, and vowed a vow to free their country from oppressors, and restore its ancient liberties. Gradually opening their plans to their kindred and friends, they arranged nightly meetings on the Rütli, a secluded Alpine mead above the Mytenstein, on Uri lake. Meeting in small bands so as not to excite suspicion, they deliberated as to how best their deliverance might be effected. On the night of the 17th of November, 1307, Walter Fürst, Arnold of Melchthal, and Werner Staufacher, met on the Rütli, each taking with him ten intimate associates. Their hearts swelling with love for their country and hatred against tyranny, these three-and-thirty men solemnly pledged their lives for each other and for their fatherland. Raising their right hands towards heaven the three leaders took God and the saints to witness that their solemn alliance was made in the spirit--"One for all, and all for one." At that moment the sun shot his first rays across the mountain-tops, kindling in the hearts of these earnest men the hopes of success. In the meantime a very remarkable event had happened at the town of Altorf in Uri. Gessler had placed a hat on a pole in the market-place, with strict orders that passers-by should do it reverence, for he wished to test their obedience. William Tell scorned this piece of over-bearing tyranny, and proudly marched past without making obeisance to the hat. He was seized, and Gessler riding up, demanded why he had disobeyed the order. "From thoughtlessness," he replied, "for if I were witty my name were not Tell." The governor, in a fury, ordered Tell to shoot an apple from the head of his son, for Gessler knew Tell to be a most skilful archer, and, moreover, to have fine children. Tell's entreaties that some other form of punishment should be substituted, for this were of no avail. Pierced to the heart the archer took two arrows, and, placing one in his quiver, took aim with the other, and cleft the apple. Foiled in his design, Gessler inquired the meaning of the second arrow. Tell hesitated, but on being assured that his life would be spared, instantly replied, "Had I injured my child, this second shaft should not have missed thy heart." "Good!" exclaimed the enraged governor, "I have promised thee thy life, but I will throw thee into a dungeon where neither sun nor moon shall shine on thee." Tell was chained, and placed in a barge, his bow and arrow being put at his back. As they rowed towards Axenstein, suddenly their arose a fearful storm, and the crew fearing they would be lost, suggested that Tell, an expert boatman, should save them. Gessler had him unbound, and he steered towards Axenberg, where there was a natural landing-stage formed by a flat rock--_Tellenplatte_. Seizing his bow and arrows he flung the boat against the rock, and leapt ashore, leaving its occupants to their fate. Woe betide him, however, should the governor escape death on the lake! Tell hurried on to Schwyz, and thence to the "hollow way" near Kusnach, through which Gessler must come if he returned to his castle. Hiding in the thicket lining the road, Tell waited, and presently seeing the tyrant riding past, took aim, and shot him through the heart. Gessler's last words were, "This is Tell's shaft." Thus runs the old story. The question naturally arises, What of all this is truth, and what fiction? just as it will in the case of Winkelried and others. The question is easier to ask than to answer, at least in the very limited space at our disposal. The truth is, this question has been for half a century the subject of controversy always lively, often passionate and violent. Some authorities are for making a clean sweep of all traditional annals, and all semi-mythical national heroes. Others, no less able and conscientious, and no less learned, have re-admitted tradition to investigation, and have made it their special care to pick out the historical grain from the chaff of fiction. It is impossible within the limits of our space to discuss the merits of the numerous chronicles, and popular songs and plays, in which the traditions of the Tell period are preserved. Suffice it to say, that the "White Book of Sarnen" (1470), naïve and artless as is its tone, is the most trustworthy; that of the "Swiss Herodotus," the patriotic Tschudi (1570), the most fascinating and most skilfully penned. The work of the latter is mainly a series of gleanings from the "White Book," together with additional pictures from Tschudi's own pencil. He combined and supplied dates and minor details, and cast the whole in a mould apparently so historical that it became an authority for Joh von Müller, the great Swiss historian of the eighteenth century. And the immortal Schiller deeply stirred by the grand epic, produced his magnificent drama, "William Tell." It hardly needs to be said in these days that whilst no one thinks of taking these beautiful old-world stories literally, yet few of us would care to toss them contemptuously and entirely on one side. Truly they have a meaning, if not exactly that which was once accepted. In the present instance they represent and illustrate a long epoch during which a high-spirited people were engaged in establishing a confederation, and maintaining it against a powerful enemy--one long effort to secure emancipation from Habsburg tyranny--an epoch which opened with the acquisition of a charter of liberties for Uri in 1231, and closed with the brilliant victory of Morgarten in 1315. It remains now to show briefly what may be considered the authentic history of the period, that is, the history as found in authentic documents. And first, it is clearly absurd to suppose that the three Forest Cantons sprang suddenly into existence as democracies. Feudalism had spread its net over the Waldstätten as elsewhere in Switzerland and Europe generally. But the inborn love of freedom amongst the "freemen" of the three cantons was intensified by two things, the secluded Alpine life and the tyranny and aggressiveness of the Habsburgs. The inhabitants of the Forest were Alamanni, who, in the seventh century, had moved into the higher Alpine regions, the immigration into those regions being greatly promoted by a decree of Charlemagne, that whoever should cultivate land there with his own hands should be the owner thereof. But besides these farmer freemen, land was taken up by religious-houses, and by the secular grandees, who claimed the soil cultivated by their serfs, bondsmen, and dependants of all kinds. By the bounty of Louis the German, the "Gotteshausleute" (God's-house-people), had become of great importance in Uri; in 853 that monarch had bestowed his royal lands in Uri, with everything appertaining thereto, on the Abbey of our Lady at Zurich, an abbey founded for his daughters. Beneath the mild rule of these royal ladies the inhabitants had acquired great independence, and had shared with their mistress the high privilege of the "Reichsfreiheit," which saved their lands from being mortgaged, or from falling under the power of vassal princes. Besides the Lady Abbess, there were other proprietors in Uri--the Maison Dieu of Wettingen, the barons of Rapperswyl, and other high-born or noble families, and, lastly, a body of "freemen." This scattered and various society was knit into one close boundary-association by the possession of the "Almend," a stretch of land common to all, according to the old German custom--to free and unfree, rich and poor, noble and serf, who were brought together in council for deliberation. These assemblies gave rise to the political gatherings of the "Landsgemeinde." Now by a decree of the Emperor Frederick II., Uri was severed from the jurisdiction of Zurich Abbey in 1218, and placed under the control of Habsburg, who had succeeded to the governorship of Zurichgau, a district which then included the three Forest states. "Reichsfreiheit" was lost, and the inhabitants, fearing their state would fall into the hands of the Habsburgs, applied for protection from Henry, son of Frederick II., then at variance with the Habsburg family. He complied with their request, and on the 26th of May, 1231, granted them a charter of liberties, restored "Reichsfreiheit," and received them into the pale of the empire. Uri was now under the direct control of the monarch, and the local authority was vested in an _Ammann_ chosen from the native families. An imperial representative appeared twice a year in the country to hold his half-yearly sessions, and to collect the imperial taxes. When Rudolf of Habsburg rose to the imperial throne, he recognized fully the validity of the Uri charter. However a charter was but little check on the monarchical tyranny, and we find the country exasperated by Rudolf's grinding taxation. The inhabitants of Schwyz were no less bold, resolute, and energetic, than those of Uri, and no less averse to falling into the hands of the Habsburgs. Here the freemen predominated, and owned the largest portion of the country. There is not space to tell of their long quarrel with the monks of Einsiedeln respecting some forest lands. Suffice it to say that, after a stout stand for their rights, they were ordered to share the _corpus delicti_, the forest, with their opponents. During the quarrels between Rome and the Hohenstaufen, Schwyz staunchly upheld the cause of Frederick II., but the wavering policy of Rudolf of the junior line, Habsburg-Laufenburg, was a strong temptation to separate themselves from him (1239). They sent letters, messengers, and most likely auxiliaries, to Frederick, when he was besieging Faënza with the view of recovering the Lombard cities, and begged for the protection of the empire. Frederick expressed his gratification that the freemen of Schwyz should voluntarily place themselves under his protection, and sent them a charter similar to that of Uri (1240)--to "his faithful men"--by which they obtained the "Reichsfreiheit," and an assurance that they should not be severed from the empire. A very few years later we hear of the first federal union of which we have any certain knowledge. The great quarrel between the emperor and the Pope, and the flight of the latter to Lyons, had set Europe on fire. Schwyz took up arms to defend the founder of its liberties, and entered into an alliance with Uri and Unterwalden--and even Lucerne--to throw off the yoke of the younger Habsburg line. War raged fiercely in the valleys of the Forest and by Lake Lucerne, till the Popish party was brought to bay, and the overseer driven from the Habsburg castle. We do not know the result of this insurrection; it closed no doubt with the death of Rudolf and Frederick in 1249-50. It is to this period of the insurrection doubtless that the stories of Tell, the oath on the Rütli, &c., apply most clearly. They are reminiscences probably of some forgotten episodes of the campaigns. Had the annalists connected the stories with these times instead of with the reign of Albrecht, their validity could hardly have been contested. When Rudolf III. of Habsburg-Austria became emperor, and had bought from the younger branch of his house the estates and titles in the Waldstätten, he drew Schwyz most closely to his family. He refused to confirm Frederick's charter on the plea that that monarch had been excommunicated. The magistrates were officers of his own; he gathered the taxes in his own name, and, in 1278, assigned them as dowry to the English bride of his favourite son, Hartmann. Schwyz did not feel comfortable under all this, and stood on its guard. Unterwalden[26], the lowland district of the Forest, was politically quite behind the times. It was exceedingly fertile, and was much in request, and in the thirteenth century was parcelled out amongst religious-houses, great nobles, and lesser freemen. The Habsburgs being not only the greatest proprietors, but also stewards of the religious-houses, naturally held sovereign sway. It was only by the aid of friendly neighbours indeed that Unterwalden could hold its own against such powerful masters, and of all its neighbours the men of Schwyz were not only the best organized, politically, but the most energetic and far-seeing. That the Schwyzers took the lead in the emancipation of the district is pretty clear from the name that was given to the newly-formed state by surrounding lands, and by the Austrians after the battle of Morgarten. The death of Rudolf in 1291 was good news to the men of the Forest, and all their pent-up hopes of the recovery of their ancient rights once more burst forth. Yet dreading new dangers from new governors, they took measures of precaution. Within a fortnight of Rudolf's death the three districts of Uri, Schwyz, and Unterwalden had entered into a perpetual league or defensive alliance (_Ewiger Bund_), a renewal no doubt of a previous pact, probably that of 1246. They may have met on the Rütli to swear the solemn oath which was to bind them into a confederation, _à perpetuité_. The various acts of agreement were drawn up in Latin, and the document--the Magna Charta of the Eidgenossenschaft--treasured up at Schwyz, is held in veneration by the whole Swiss nation. It bears an essentially conservative character, and witnesses to the thought and consideration given to the matter, no less than to the strong sense of equity and clear judgment of the contracting parties. Amongst other things it enjoins that every one shall obey and serve his master according to his standing; that no judge shall be appointed who has bought his office with gold, nor unless he be a native; that if quarrels shall arise between the Eidgenossen (_inter aliquos conspiratos_), the more sensible shall settle the differences, and if the one party does not submit, the opposition shall decide in the matter. To the document were affixed the seals of the three countries as a guarantee of its authenticity. FOOTNOTES: [26] Unterwalden is parted into two unequal halves by a mountain range running from the Titlis to the Buochser Horn, with the wood of Kerns in its centre. The districts on both sides have thence taken the names of Ob and Nidwalden, above and below the wood. XI. THE BATTLE OF MORGARTEN. (1315.) The primary object of the Perpetual League was to secure for the three Waldstätten that safety which the empire, with its fluctuating fortunes and condition, failed to ensure. Rich and mighty cities in Germany and Italy had joined in alliance with similar intent, but whilst these alliances had come to nought, the simple peasants of the Forest, hardened by continual struggles, had developed into a power before which even the Habsburgs were of no avail; for, gifted with striking political understanding and far-sightedness, these born diplomatists knew how to turn the tide of events to their own advantage. As an additional security, they entered within a few weeks into an alliance with Zurich and the Anti-Habsburg coalition that had sprung up in East Switzerland when Adolf of Nassau was chosen successor to King Rudolf in preference to his son Albert, whose absolutism was dreaded by all. The Zurich forces attacked Winterthur, a Habsburg town, but owing to the absence of reinforcements sustained a severe defeat (1292). Taking advantage of their heavy losses, Duke Albert laid siege to the imperial city of Zurich. Great was his dismay, however, when from his camp he saw a formidable force drawn up in battle array on the Lindenhof, an eminence within the city. The armour-bearers, their helmets, shields, and lances glittering in the sun, appeared to the foe to indicate an overwhelming force, and Albert made his peace with the remarkable city. This was gladly accepted, as well it might be, for it is said that the dazzling array seen by Albert consisted of the Amazons of the place, to wit, the women of the town, who had lit on this stratagem to save their city. King Adolf guaranteed the "liberties" of Uri and Schwyz in 1297; but on his death in the following year, in battle against his rival, Albert of Habsburg, these were again at stake--for charters had to be submitted to the sovereign's pleasure at every new accession--and in fact were never acknowledged by the succeeding king. As the object of the Habsburgs was to join the Waldstätten to their Austrian possessions, their policy was naturally to oppose the freedom of the district. It was a fact highly favourable to Swiss interests that the German monarchy was elective; for the princes and prince-electors, with their personal and selfish aims, shut out the mighty Habsburg dynasty, whenever candidates presented themselves whom they considered more likely to favour their views. On such grounds Adolf of Nassau was elected, as was also Henry of Lützelburg later on. Albrecht was not the cruel, taciturn, tyrant Swiss chroniclers and historians have pictured him. They have, in fact, confounded him with previous rulers, chiefly of the junior Habsburg line. Albrecht was bent on the aggrandizement of his house, but, if anything, less selfishly so than his father Rudolf III. He was, however, no friend of Swiss liberties, and, had he lived longer, would doubtless have checked any efforts on the part of the Swiss to gain greater freedom. But he was cut off in the very prime of life, by his nephew and ward, John of Swabia, who believed himself defrauded of his heritage. With John were other young Swiss nobles--Von Eschenbach, Von Balm, Von Wart, &c.; and by these Albrecht was stabbed, within sight of his ancestral manor, Habsburg, as he was on a journey to meet his queen, Elizabeth. He sank to the ground, and expired in the lap of a poor woman (1308). The assassins got clear away, excepting Wart. A terrible vengeance was taken on him, and on the friends and connections of the fugitives, however innocent. A thousand victims perished, by order of the bloody Elizabeth. On the spot where her husband had fallen the queen built the Monastery of Königsfelden (King's Field), a place which afterwards attained great fame and splendour. The stained windows of the church still in existence, are masterpieces of Swiss work, showing all the exquisite finish of the fourteenth century, and testifying to the former magnificence of the abbey. Once again the Habsburgs were passed over, and Henry VII. became King of Germany. To him Unterwalden owes its charter, which placed the three small states on an equal footing politically. However, he died in Italy when going to receive the imperial crown--it is thought by poison. On his decease the opposing parties elected two sovereigns, Louis of Bavaria, and Frederick the Handsome, of Austria, son of Albrecht. During a short interregnum, which occurred after the death of Henry VII., Schwyz began hostilities against the Abbey of Einsiedeln, of which the Habsburgs were stewards. This greatly vexed Frederick, and his annoyance was increased by finding that the Forest generally sided with his rival. Goaded beyond bearing, Frederick determined to deal a crushing blow against the rebellious Forest states, and, late in the autumn of 1315, hostile operations commenced. We are now in our story on the eve of the famous battle of Morgarten, which is justly regarded by the Swiss as one of the noblest of the many noble episodes in their stirring history. There is not a civilized nation in the world to which the name of Morgarten is not familiar. Both parties prepared for war. The Wald Cantons fortified such parts of their district as offered no sufficient security, and placed troops at the entrance to the valley. Duke Leopold, a younger brother of the king, a great champion, and eager for combat, undertook the command of the campaign, with much dash and self-reliance. He gathered a considerable army together on the shortest notice, the Aargau towns, with Lucerne and Winterthur, and even Zurich, sending troops, whilst the nobility espoused his cause, and rallied to his standard at Zug. In order to divide the forces of the enemy the leader ordered a section of the army, under Count Otto of Strassberg, to break into Unterwalden by the Brünig Pass. Leopold himself commanded the main force, and directed his principal charge against Schwyz, which was particularly obnoxious to him. Of the two roads leading from Zug to Schwyz, he chose--probably from ignorance--the one which was the more difficult, and strategically the less promising. On the 15th of November, the day before the feast of St. Othmar, he brought his cavalry to Ægeri, and thence moved in a heedless fashion along the eastern bank of that lake, taking no care either to watch the enemy or to reconnoitre his ground. Amongst his baggage was a cartload of ropes, with which he intended to fasten together the cattle he expected to seize. Hurried on by the nobles, and himself eager for the fray, he neglected even the most elementary measures of precaution, which, indeed, he deemed quite unnecessary when marching against mere peasants. His _cortège_ resembled a hunting party rather than an army expecting serious warfare. Reaching the hamlet of Haselmatt, the troops began slowly to ascend the steep and frozen slopes of Morgarten, in the direction of Schornen. Soon they were hemmed in by lake and mountain, when, without a moment's warning, there came pouring down upon the dense masses of horsemen huge stones, pieces of rock, and trunks of trees. Dire confusion followed at once. This unexpected avalanche had been hurled down upon them by a handful of men posted on the mountain ridge, and well informed respecting the movement of the Austrians. Presently the main body of the men from Schwyz and Uri appeared behind Schornen, and like a whirlwind rushed down the hill on the terrified and bewildered foe, who were caught in the narrow pass of Morgarten, as in a net. It was quite impossible to ward off such an attack as that. Then the Eidgenossen began to mow down the Austrians with their terrible weapon the halberd, an invention of their own. A confused scramble and a terrified _mêlée_ ensued, in which it was at once seen that the foe must succumb, utterly disorganized as they were, and well-nigh helpless through terror. Many in sheer despair rushed into the lake. Soon lay scattered over the wintry field the "flower of knighthood," amongst them the counts of Kyburg and Toggenburg, and other Swiss nobles. Leopold himself had a narrow escape, and hurried back to Winterthur, "looking," says Friar John of that place, an eye-witness, "like death, and quite distracted." Otto of Strassberg, hearing of the disaster, retreated with such rapidity that he died overcome by the physical efforts he had made. "Throughout the country the sounds of joy and glory were changed into wails of lamentation and woe." Such was the ever-memorable battle of Morgarten. As to the number of men who fell on that day, the accounts vary hopelessly, and we do not venture to give any figures. The infantry probably fled, and had no share in the encounter. Such was the first proof the young Confederation gave of their mettle and skill in warfare. The battle has been called the Swiss Thermopylæ, but it was more fortunate in its results than that of the Greeks. It confirmed the national spirit of resistance to the house of Habsburg, and commenced a whole series of brilliant victories, which for two centuries increased the glory, as they improved the military skill of the Swiss nation. In humbleness and in a spirit of true devotion, the victors fell to thanking God on the battlefield for their rescue, and they instituted a day of thanksgiving to be observed as year after year it should come round. On the 9th of December in the same year (1315) the Eidgenossen proceeded to Brunnen, to renew by oath, and enlarge by some additional paragraphs, the treaty or league of 1291, and this for nearly five hundred years remained the fundamental code of agreement between the three Waldstätten. The Forest Cantons, having grown into three independent republics, claimed each separate administration or autonomy. The idea of a federal union thus started by the Forest men gradually grew in favour with neighbouring commonwealths struggling for independence; and these, so attracted, slowly clustered round the Forest Cantons, to form a bulwark against a common foe. [Illustration: MAP OF OLD SWITZERLAND.] XII. THE LEAGUE OF THE EIGHT STATES. (1332-68.) One by one the Swiss lands were reached by the breeze of freedom blowing from the Forest Cantons after the great victory of Morgarten. Yet it was only very gradually and in small groups that the other districts entered within the pale of the Eidgenossenschaft. Eight states made up the nucleus for some time; indeed, till after the Burgundian wars, in 1481, they jealously kept out all intruders. In fact, the confederate states looked on outsiders merely as "connections," or subjects, and associated with them on no other footing. It is a somewhat startling and unusual thing to find republics ruling over subject lands, yet in this case the result was to knit the whole more closely together in after centuries. In the fourteenth century the union was of the loosest kind; alliances wavered, and politics were swayed by separate ends. The other commonwealths, in joining themselves with the Forest states, had no notion of giving up their individual life, but were wishful to create a body powerful enough to secure independence against the aggressions of Austria; and at the price of continued struggle, and steady perseverance no less admirable, they achieved that object. Attracted by common interests as a near neighbour, and being moreover the mart of the Forest Cantons, Lucerne was the first to be drawn into the union. This town had acquired great independence under the mild rule of the famous Murbach Abbey. But in 1291 the convent, having got into financial straits, had sold the town to the Habsburgs. Finding but little liberty under their new rulers, the men of Lucerne formed in 1332 with the Forest the union of the four Waldstätten,[27] with the view of shaking off the Austrian yoke. Lucerne was bound by treaty not to league herself with outsiders without the consent of the Forest Cantons. In 1351 Zurich followed suit. Her clever and powerful burgomaster, Brun, was keenly desirous of raising her to greatness. He was less regardful of the interests of the Eidgenossen, and indeed had strong leanings towards Austria and the empire, as affording a wider scope for ambitious politics. Consequently he would not permit her superior position as an imperial free city, nor her foreign and commercial relations, to be injured by submission to the Forest control, and he carried a clause which left her free to join in any other alliances she choose, provided that with the Waldstätten was not broken. He also bound the Forest states by treaty, to secure to Zurich its own constitution. The documents connected with this alliance show that the five states formed a power quite ready to cope with Austria. And well for them that they were so ready. Louis of Bavaria, the protector of the Forest Cantons, was dead, and his successor on the German throne was Charles IV., son of the famous blind King of Bohemia, who fell so bravely at Cressy. To maintain his authority Charles fell back on the friendship of Austria, and to win the favour of Albrecht (the "Wise," or "Lame"), he nullified all the measures which Louis had enacted against Austria, measures which had destroyed the power of that country in the Waldstätten. The destruction of Rapperswyl[28] (Zurich), and the union between Zurich and the other four states were regarded by the Habsburgs as a challenge, and gave rise to a long-protracted war, marked rather by feats of diplomacy on the part of Austria than by feats of arms. Albrecht was desirous of having a reckoning with the Eidgenossen generally, yet for the present he confined his attacks to Zurich, their strongest outpost. The assault by sixteen thousand men in 1351 was stoutly opposed, and collapsed suddenly by proffers of peace. Queen Agnes of Königsfelden, the duke's sister, was called in as umpire, and Brun temporizing with Austria to save his town, a verdict was passed so injurious to the people of the Forest, that they refused the mediation of this "wondrously shrewd and quick woman," who had for these thirty years swayed the Habsburg politics, and the quarrel broke out anew. The Zurcher now assumed the offensive, and defeated the Austrians at Tätwil, being led by Roger Manesse, the grandson of the amateur poet. They then marched on Glarus, and conquered that valley in November, 1351. Clarona, like Lucerne, had drifted from beneath the spiritual rule, and had fallen under that of the Habsburgs, much to her dislike. An old chronicler reports that "the Glarner were well disposed towards the Eidgenossen," and it is not difficult to believe that they consented willingly to be conquered, for in the spring of the next year they utterly defeated the Austrian forces under Count Stadion, who had returned with the intention of recovering the country if possible. The union of the Glarner with the Confederates was fixed by a treaty, on June 4, 1352, but, curious to relate, they were received as inferiors or _protégés_ (Schutzort) and not as equals. The Confederates no doubt reasoned that the acquisition of the valley, with its open villages, offered no adequate advantages for the extra risks to which it exposed them. Zug was the next to be brought into the union. The very situation of Zug, surrounded as it was by the federal territory, rendered it quite necessary that that state should be brought into the fold of the Eidgenossen. The country districts surrendered at the approach of the federal forces, but the town of Zug offered a stout resistance. However, the townsmen heard nothing from Albrecht, much less received any help from him, and yielded on June 27, 1352. Thanks to the greater security she offered, Zug was admitted as a full member. In July, 1352, Albrecht renewed his attack on Zurich, with an army double the one first brought against her, Bern, Basel, Strasburg, Solothurn, and Constance, being bound by treaty, sending troops. But this second venture likewise miscarried, after stout opposition and much wasteful ravaging. This plan of storming an imperial city was unpopular amongst the neighbouring towns, and Eberhard "the Quarrelsome," who held the chief command in the place of the lame duke, displeased with the secret negotiations, left the camp, and the army was dissolved. Again the Austrians resorted to diplomatic machinations, and recovered by the pen what they had failed to keep by the sword. The treaty, or rather truce, of Brandenburg, so called from its author, reinstated the Habsburger in their Forest possessions. Glarus and Zug were compelled to give up their union with the Eidgenossen, and, like Lucerne, to return to the Habsburg rule. Nevertheless, though complying outwardly, the states still maintained their friendly _liaisons_. And the league of the five states remained intact, and was indeed strengthened by the alliance of Bern with the Waldstätten, with which she had been more closely connected ever since the great battle of Laupen, where the Forest men had proved such staunch and useful friends. The treaty is dated March 6, 1353. Albrecht was dissatisfied with the results of the last truce, and renewed the hostilities in the spring of 1353. Prevailing on Charles IV. to intervene that monarch twice visited Zurich, and held interviews with her representatives, and those of the Waldstätten. Yet it was evident his purpose was to give every advantage to Austria. The citizens trusting that his mediation would be just, received him with "imposing pomp and great honours." But their high hopes were soon dashed. Influenced by the Austrian counsellors about him, Charles strongly upheld the old Habsburg claims, and on his second visit even denied the validity of the ancient charters of the Forest, and requested the Eidgenossen to dissolve their union. Naturally, the Confederates were unwilling to throw away the results of a century's hard struggling, and, insisting on their unchangeable and undeniable rights, they simply answered that his "views were incomprehensible to them." Charles at once returned to Nürnberg, and thence sent to Zurich his declaration of war. Albrecht, who had bought and rebuilt Rapperswyl, assembled there his forces, and laid waste the borders of the lake. The king fixed his camp at Regensberg; and thence the two pushed forward and formed a junction at Küsnacht. Their united forces, estimated at fifty thousand, formed the most formidable and magnificent army seen that century. Ravaging the lovely vineyard slopes, laments a contemporary annalist, they marched on Zurich, and, in spite of the sallies of the Zurcher to avert such a fate, completely encircled the town. Entirely cut off from all supplies, the inhabitants had no hope of holding out for any length of time, especially against a foe ten times more numerous. But at the most critical moment the place was saved by a stratagem. For suddenly the imperial banner was seen floating over the citadel. The burgesses (or their leader Brun) had hoisted it up as a declaration that they were the subjects of the Holy Roman Empire, and meant no disobedience to the king. The incident made a deep impression on the enemy, and Charles at once suspended the siege. Thus for the third time foiled Albrecht retired in high dudgeon to Baden, and thence began to indulge in mere petty warfare. As for the king, he betook himself to Prague, there to enrich the Domkirche with the numerous relics and antiquities he had delightedly amassed during his stay in Swiss lands. This king was the founder of Bohemia's greatness, and of the splendour of its capital. On his return from Italy as Roman emperor he concluded a peace at Regensburg, in July, 1355, and the war came to an end. The result, as in the case of the previous war, had been injurious to the interests of the Confederation. Glarus and Zug remained excluded from the League, and the Habsburgs retained their lands in the Forest. The only thing left was the union of the six states. Zurich had borne the burden of the war for the last four years, and, unless she wished to forfeit her very existence, was compelled to have peace at any price. And as she was completely exhausted, and yet was made the surety for the Waldstätten, the Eidgenossen submitted to the harsh conditions imposed. In 1358 Albrecht died, and was succeeded by his enterprising son, Rudolf IV. This ruler made it his special object to extend his power on the Upper Zurich lake. Rapperswyl was fortified and enlarged, and the famous wooden bridge across the lake was built--not for pilgrims wandering to Einsiedeln, as common report had it, but--to connect the territories he had conquered, or was expecting to conquer. Besides, he wished to cut off Zurich from the direct route to, and trade with, Italy, and from the Forest. But in 1360 died the all-powerful Brun, who had ever sympathised with Austria; and, in 1364, the old Queen Agnes (the widowed queen of Hungary), who had resided for twenty years at Königsfelden. Rudolf likewise died about the same time, and with their decease the Austrian spell was broken, and the hold of the Habsburgs on Zurich for a while loosened. Charles, now unfriendly towards Austria, tried to win favour with the Eidgenossen. He heaped privileges on Zurich, and sanctioned the league of the six states. Zurich refused to renew the treaty of Regensburg by oath, and as persistently declined to punish the people of Schwyz for breaking it. A fresh outbreak of war seemed imminent, but was averted by the peace of Torberg, 1368, which established a better agreement between Austria and the Confederation. By this treaty Zug was permitted to be re-annexed to the league. Zug had been conquered by Schwyz in 1365, at a moment when the attention of Austria was withdrawn. Glarus did not return to the Confederation until it had, so to speak, qualified itself for re-admission, by gaining the most remarkable victory of Naefels, the story of which will be told later on. FOOTNOTES: [27] Compare _Vierwaldstättersee_, the German for Lake Lucerne. [28] See Chapter xiii. XIII. ZURICH AN EXAMPLE OF A SWISS TOWN IN THE MIDDLE AGES. (853-1357.) We may perhaps do well to pause here awhile before proceeding to show how the various Swiss cantons were gathered into the fold of the Eidgenossenschaft--a long process, as a matter of fact--and devote a short chapter to a glance at an aristocratic city whose polity and development contrast with those of the Forest lands. Zurich presents a fair example of a city whose origin dates back to a remote age, and whose transition from the condition of a feudal territory into the position of an independent commonwealth can be clearly followed. That Turicum is a word of Celtic origin, and that the place was one of the lake settlements in prehistoric times, and a Roman toll-station later on, has been already shown. The chief founders of this Alamannic, or Swabian, settlement, however, were the Carolinger. Louis the German had raised the Grand Abbey and Church of Our Lady (Fraumunsterabtei) in 853, to provide his saintly daughters, Hildegarde and Bertha, with positions and incomes equal to their rank. His ancestors, Pepin the Short and Charlemagne, had founded or enlarged the minster, with its vast establishment of prebends, and the Carolinum, or clerical colleges. Both institutions were richly endowed with land, and granted many prerogatives, especially the _immunity_, most precious of all, viz., the severance from the county or local administration of Zurich. They thus came again under the immediate control of the empire, and there were developed, two distinct centres of feudal life. Yet a third nucleus was formed by the dependants of royalty, the _fiscalini_, and followers of the monarch and of the Swabian dukes. These were grouped around the imperial palace (Pfalz) on the Lindenhof, a fortified stronghold on the site of the Roman _castrum_, and a favourite residence of the German sovereigns, who were attracted thither by the natural beauty of the place. The houses of the Alamannic free peasantry were scattered over the slopes of Zurichberg, and reached down to the Limmat river. Gradually these four distinct settlements approached each other, and in the tenth century the inner core at the mouth of the lovely lake was girt with strong walls with towers, and the _tout ensemble_ now looked like a picturesque mediæval city with its suburbs. The rights of high jurisdiction over the whole were exercised by a royal governor, or representative of the sovereign. This was the so-called _Reichsvogtei_, or Advocacia in imperio. The noble counts of Lenzburg were imperial governors from about 970 to 1098, but when the Zaerings became the governors of the Swiss lands the Lenzburgs became their holders till their death. Then the _Reichsvogtei_, that is, the city and its vicinity, fell back into the hands of the Zaerings, and was held by them directly till the extinction of the dynasty, 1218. From that time the charge was entrusted to the city-board, as Vögte. In Zurich the Lady Abbess acknowledged as her superior none but the governing Zaeringen duke, and later on, that is, after the dynasty had come to an end, took the foremost position. Indeed Frederick and the Hohenstaufer created his _Reichsfürstin_, Princess Abbess, and thus the office became one of very special dignity, and was bestowed generally on ladies of noble birth. By the acquisition of territory--reaching into Alsacia and to the St. Gothard--by privileges acquired under successive monarchs, by monopolies (coinage, fees, and tolls on markets and fairs, &c.), the institution rose to an eminence and splendour truly royal. Dukes and counts visited the abbey to pay court to its illustrious abbess--_die Hohe Frau von Zurich_, as she was styled--and entrusted their daughters to her care. Yet it was for court-life these high-born damsels were to be prepared rather than for the religious vows. The inner life of this great monastery, though highly interesting in itself, cannot enter into a short sketch like the present. Not only was the Abbess Lady Paramount over her clergy and vast abbatial household, with its staff of officers and its law-court, but she also bore sway over the city itself. When the administration began to require increased attention she enlarged its council, and presided at its meetings. This curious state of things continued till the thirteenth century, which saw the rise of a general political emancipation in German cities. Though apparently under a thraldom, yet the citizens really grew beneath the mild and equitable female rule into a powerful and thriving body, and at length began to contest with their mistress for self-rule. To Frederick II. they owed their emancipation. By him Zurich became a free imperial city, governed by its own council. Council and citizens gradually becoming alive to their own civic interests, step by step wrested the civil power from the hands of the Lady Abbess, and emerged into the condition of an independent commonwealth. By this time society within the city had arranged itself into three distinct classes. (1) The clergy, headed by the abbess and the provost. (2) The knights, owing military service to emperor and abbess, and the burghers, or chiefly free landowners, and important commercial men. This second order was the governing class, and out of it came the members of the council. (3) The craftsmen, who exercised their trades only with the permission of their masters, the governing class. The workers were excluded from all share in the government, and were even prohibited from forming guilds. The majority of the artisans and serfs lived without the gates, in the outer city or walled-in suburbs. These political inequalities at length met with violent opposition, and in 1336 there broke out a revolution. The industry of the thrifty and energetic population increased the material wealth of the city, and commercial treaties were entered into with neighbouring countries, with Italy particularly, and Italian influence made itself felt ever since the twelfth century, through four hundred years, not only in trade, but also in architecture. Zurich became an emporium for silk, and the silk manufacture, introduced from Italy, became a speciality, and was found in no other German town.[29] The activity displayed in building churches and monasteries was simply astonishing. The present minster, in the Lombard style, on the type of San Michele at Pavia, was built in the twelfth century, and the abbey was restored by the noble ladies in the thirteenth. The frequent visits of kings and emperors, who held their diets here, naturally increased the importance of the city. Taking it altogether, Zurich must have been, even in the thirteenth century, a fine specimen of a mediæval town, for Barbarossa's biographer, Otto von Freysing, calls it the noblest city of Swabia ("Turegum nobilissimum Sueviae oppidum").[30] Her policy of entering into alliances with the Swabian and Rhenish towns, and with the vast South-German coalition, and the friendly political and commercial relations she maintained, show that she fully grasped the situation, and gave her that security which promoted her trade and industry, and allowed her to develop freely. The thirteenth century spread enlightenment amongst the benighted people of the Middle Ages, and increased the growth of political freedom in the cities, thanks to the struggles between the Papacy and the Hohenstaufen. Zurich had early emancipated herself from the spiritual sway and influence of her abbess mistress. Already, in 1146, the people had listened with keen interest to the advanced religious teaching of Arnold of Brescia, and in the ensuing quarrels sided with the freethinking Frederick II. During the interdict of 1247-49 Frederick's staunch adherents boldly drove from the town those clergy who refused to perform their spiritual functions. On a second expulsion from the town the friars took sides with the citizens, and obeyed the order literally, for they went out by one gate of the town, and re-entered by another, and resumed their offices. That the Zurcher had grown strong and self-reliant is shown by their alliance with Rudolf of Habsburg, in the feuds against their common foes, the neighbouring nobles, whose raids they checked, and by openly resisting the heavy taxation imposed by the monarch on the city. On one occasion--it was at a drinking-bout--the chief magistrate denounced this oppressive policy most wrathfully in the very presence of the queen and her daughters. The Staufen epoch, seething with social and political movements, was also full of the spirit of romanticism. The English and French met the Germans in the Crusades, and quickened in the Fatherland the love of poetry and romance. Then the great religious wars themselves opened out a whole new world of thought and fancy. The glorification of the brilliant exploits of the Staufen sovereigns, themselves poets, inspired many a grand or lovely song, the highest flights producing the Nibelungen and the _Minnelieder_. In Swiss lands also minstrelsy flowed richly, and Zurich stands out as a "Poets' Corner" in the thirteenth century. At the hospitable manor of Roger Manesse, a famous knight and magistrate of the city, or at the great Abbey Hall, a brilliant company of singers clustered round the Princess Abbess Elizabeth, an eminent woman, and her relatives, the Prince Bishop of Constance, Henry of Klingenberg, and his brother Albrecht, the famous chevalier. Then the Prince Abbots of Einsiedeln, and the abbots of Petershausen (Constance), the counts of Toggenburg, the barons of Regensberg, of Eschenbach, and Von Wart, together with many other lords, spiritual and temporal, and many a fair and illustrious lady--all these thronged the courtly circle to listen to the recital of the _Minnelieder_, or perchance to produce their own. The famous Codex Manesse, lately at Paris, and now in Germany,[31] bears witness to the romantic character of the age. It contains the songs of some hundred and fifty German and Swiss minstrels, who sang between the years 1200 and 1350. Manesse and his son, a canon at the minster, undertook the collection out of pure enthusiasm. Their amanuensis was a comely young fellow named Hadloub, the son of a freeman farmer from the Zurichberg. A pretty story is told how during his mechanical labour of copying there grew strong in him the love of poetry, and he became himself a poet. For he fell in love with a high-born lady at Manesse's court, who however noticed him not. Then he told his grief in love songs which Manesse added to his collection. Indeed these songs close the series of Swiss poems in the Codex Manesse. Gottfried Keller, of Zurich, one of the greatest German novelists of the present day, has treated of the period in his exquisite novel "Hadloub" (_Zurcher Novellen_). Space does not permit us to give any account of the story, and the reader must be referred to the fascinating tale as it stands. Hadloub was indeed the last Swiss minstrel belonging to that fertile age. The love and beauty of woman is the theme of his songs, and in depicting these he particularly excels--the real _Minnegesang_. Uhland, the great lyric poet says of him, "In the clear soul of this poet the parting minstrelsy has once more reflected its own lovely image." But whilst poetry was rejoicing the hearts of the nobles, political clouds were fast gathering over the city, to break at length into a wild hurricane. As a matter of fact, a few distinguished families had established an oligarchy in the place of the city council in process of time. The craftsmen, excluded from any share in the administration, and moreover finding fault with the financial management of the state, and galled by the domineering conduct of the aristocracy, rose in fierce opposition. Rudolf Brun, an ambitious ruler, but a clever statesman, being at variance with his own patrician party, suddenly placed himself at the head of the malcontents. Overthrowing the government before it had time to bestir itself, Rudolf had himself elected burgomaster, an official in whom all power was to centre. In 1336 he presented a new constitution, making the whole assembly swear to it. To insure its validity this code (_Geschworne Brief_) was submitted to the sanction of the abbess and the provost, and was also approved by the emperor. This new constitution was quite in keeping with the political views of the age, and remained in its chief points the leading constitutional guide of the commonwealth down to the revolution of 1798. It was a curious blending of democratic with aristocratic and monarchical elements. The craftsmen, who up to the present had counted for nothing in politics, were now formed into thirteen corporations, each selecting its own guildmaster, who represented its members in the governing council. The nobility and the wealthy burghers who practised no profession, or the Geschlechter (patricians), and rentiers formed a highly aristocratic body known as the Constafel (Constables), and were likewise represented in the state council by thirteen members, six of whom Brun named himself. The position of the burgomaster was the most striking of all, and was, in fact, that of a Roman dictator of old, or resembling the Italian tyrannies of the Visconti or Medici. Elected for life, vested with absolute power, the burgomaster was responsible to none, whilst to him fealty was to be sworn by all on pain of losing the rights of citizenship. The idol of the people to whom he had granted political power, Brun was regarded as the true pilot and saviour in stormy times. The fallen councillors brooded revenge, and being banished the town, resorted to Rapperswyl, the Zurich _extra muros_, and at the other end of the lake. There they made _chose commune_ with Count John of that place, who was desirous of evading payment of the debts he had contracted in Zurich. Feuds and encounters followed, and John was slain in battle in 1337. The emperor tried to restore peace, but the exiled councillors were bent on bringing back the old state of things, and on regaining their seats. They plotted against Brun's life, and those of his associates, and fixed upon the 23rd of February, 1350, for making an attack by night on the city, with the intention of seizing it by a single _coup-de-main_. They relied on the help of sympathisers within the town. The burgomaster, being apprized of the plot, summoned his faithful burghers to arms by the ringing of the tocsin. A bloody hand-to-hand fight in the streets took place, thence called the _Zurcher Mordnacht_. The conspiracy was crushed by the majority, and Count John of Rapperswyl, son of the above-mentioned count, was thrown into the tower of Wellenberg, a famous state prison. There he passed his time in the composition of _Minnelieder_. Brun made a bad use of his victory. His cruelties to the prisoners and to Rapperswyl, which he burnt, are unjustifiable, and seem inexplicable in so far-sighted a statesman. He was ambitious, and desired not only his own advancement, but also that of his native city. He had depended on Austria, hoping to rise through her alliance and aid, but, suddenly forgetting all moderation, and disregarding all traditional _liaisons_ with her, he laid waste the territory of the counts of Rapperswyl, cousins to the Habsburgs. This of course entangled Zurich in a war with Austria, who threatened to level her with the ground. Having estranged the neighbouring states by her cruel proceedings, or rather by those of Brun, Zurich stood alone, and was compelled to look around for aid and countenance. Though by no means friendly towards the bold Forest men, the dictator Brun concluded an alliance with them. The Waldstätten were quite ready to receive into their league a commonwealth so powerful and well-organized as Zurich, a state likely to be at once their bulwark and their emporium. They therefore willingly agreed to Brun's stipulations (May 1, 1351), and, further acquiesced in the proviso that Zurich should be allowed to conclude separate treaties. These treaties or alliances were very common at that time, and changeable as they were, they nevertheless gave additional security for the time being. But though Brun had introduced a _régime_ of force, he yet made concessions to the masses, giving them a share of political power. And his constitutional system answered the wants of the city, to a great degree, for some four centuries and a half. FOOTNOTES: [29] White silk veils in the guise of bonnets were exported to Vienna, and even as far as Poland. This silk-making, of course, increased the prosperity of the town. It declined, and was reintroduced in the sixteenth century in a far more advanced condition, by the persecuted Protestants from Locarno. [30] He also reports that one of its gates bore the inscription, "_Nobile Turegum multarum copia rerum_." [31] It happened to be in the possession of the Elector of the Palatinate, and was carried off to France when Louis XIV. laid waste the province. XIV. BERN CRUSHES THE NOBILITY: GREAT VICTORY OF LAUPEN, 1339. The alliance of Bern was a great acquisition to the federal league. She formed the corner-stone of the Burgundian states, and brought them into connection with, and finally into the pale of, the Swiss Confederation. Her early history has been touched upon in previous chapters. True to her original position as a check on the nobility, and forming a natural stronghold, this proud Zaeringen town shows a singularly martial, and indeed dominant spirit, and runs a military and political career of importance. Bern had effectively resisted the encroachments of the old house of Kyburg (1243-55), and stoutly opposed the oppressive tax of 40 per cent, imposed by Rudolf of Habsburg. And, though she had suffered a severe defeat at Schosshalde, in 1289, the disaster was more than compensated by a great victory at Dornbühl, in 1298, and she had carried over her rival, Freiburg and the nobles of the highlands, partners of the latter. It was always a most usual thing in the fourteenth century for states to enter into leagues, with the view of better safeguarding themselves against neighbouring and powerful foes. And thus Bern gathered all the kindred elements of West Switzerland into a Burgundian Confederation--the free imperial valley Hasle, the rich monastery of Interlaken, the house of Savoy, the new house of Kyburg-Burgdorf, the bishops of Sion, the cities of Bienne, Solothurn, Freiburg,--all these were at one time or another in union with Bern. The friendship with Freiburg, however, was often disturbed by feelings of jealousy that at times grew into feuds, but that for Solothurn was lasting. It was, in fact, based on similarity of political views and aims, both agreeing in refusing to acknowledge the rival kings, Louis of Bavaria and Frederick the Handsome. In consequence of their obstinacy, Leopold, who had been defeated at Morgarten, and wished to reassert the authority of his brother, laid siege to Solothurn in 1318. The Bernese came to the help of the sister city. A memorable scene was witnessed during the course of the assault. The river Aare was much swollen at the time, and a bridge that the beleaguering forces had thrown across was carried away by the flood, and their men were being drowned in numbers. Then the Solothurner, forgetting all injuries, rushed out with boats to save their enemies. Leopold was so touched by such magnanimity that he at once raised the siege, and presented the town with a beautiful banner. [Illustration: THE STANDARD-BEARERS OF SCHWYZ, URI, UNTERWALDEN AND ZÜRICH.] Bern's strong bent for territorial extension was quite a match for the encroaching tendencies of the Habsburgs. To get a footing in the canton the latter made use of a crime committed amongst the Kyburger. That illustrious house, well-nigh ruined morally and financially, had been compelled by its adverse fortunes to place in the Church a younger son, Eberhard. The young man submitted with great reluctance. Happening to fall to a quarrel with Hartmann, at the castle of Thun, high words arose and were succeeded by blows, and Hartmann was slain. This was in 1332. On the plea of avenging the murder, the Habsburgs set up a claim to the Kyburg property. Bern however confirmed the count in his possessions, and purchasing Thun from him, returned it as a fief, requiring him to give an undertaking that Burgdorf should never be mortgaged without her knowledge and consent. But Eberhard gradually forgot the services Bern had rendered his house, and, fearing her power, veered round to Freiburg, and became a citizen of that town. The differences then swelled into an outbreak, which had been for some time impending. Bern, it is to be noted, had in many ways got the start of the sister city; for instance, she had become an imperial free city in the year 1218, on the extinction of the Zaeringer, and this had given her a considerable lift. Then, in 1324, Bern had secured the mortgage of Laupen, an excellent stronghold on the Saane, and had driven the Freiburger from the district. And in 1331, after the house of Kyburg had joined its fortunes with those of Freiburg, the strong fortress of Gümminen had been demolished, as well as many Kyburg castles. Gümminen belonged to her rival, and was a place of singular strategical importance. But these were mere preliminary episodes, and more serious warfare followed. Many of the surrounding nobles had outlived their time of prosperity and greatness, and yet clung to the prerogatives of their class without possessing any longer the means to maintain them. Bern took advantage of all this to secure her own aggrandisement, and gain for herself more territory, for originally she had possessed no lands beyond her walls. The Bernese Oberland was the first district on which she set her eyes. Here the counts of Greyerz,[32] the dynasts of Turn (Valisian nobles), and the barons of Weipenburg, held the chief territorial lordships, and formed a strong Alpine coalition with Austrian sympathies, as against the rising city of Bern. With the last mentioned Bern strove for the supremacy, and stormed their stronghold, Wimmis, in the Simmenthal, both town and castle, and demolished the _Letzinen_,[33] or fortifications in the valley. The old baron and his nephew had no means to fight out the quarrel, and were compelled to accept the terms dictated by the victors. They were bound to render military service, and were required to pledge their castles for their submission, and so forth. But what most nearly touched them was the loss of Hasle. That beautiful valley, stretching from Brienz lake to the Grimsel pass, with romantic Meiringen as its central place, has had a strange history. The inhabitants were at first free Alamannic farmers, owing allegiance to no sovereign, or lord, except the German monarch, and they chose their Ammann from amongst themselves, or had him chosen by the king. They had allied themselves as equals with Bern, in 1275, but in 1310 their subjection was sealed. Henry VII. wanting money for his coronation at Rome, mortgaged Hasle to the barons of Weipenburg, for 340 marks. In 1334 Bern bought up the mortgage, and the valley thus came under Bernese rule. Bern now appeared likely enough to stretch her power even up to the snow-clad mountain lands, and laid the foundation of her future pre-eminence amongst the western cantons. But she stirred up fierce opposition, especially on the part of the Burgundian nobles. Fearing for their very existence, the counts of Greyerz, Valangin, Aarberg, Nidan, Neuchâtel, Vaud, Kyburg, headed by Freiburg, encouraged, though not actually assisted, by Louis of Bavaria, rose in arms. Bern called for help from Hasle, Weipenburg, and the Forest Cantons, but found it a difficult matter to get together the scattered forces. On the 10th of June, 1339, an army of fifteen thousand foot and three thousand horse marched against Laupen, whose defence devolved upon some four hundred Bernese. On the 21st of the same month there arrived at the town the forces of the Eidgenossen, amounting to barely six thousand men. They wore a white cross of cloth, and marched to the relief of the beleaguered city animated by the stirring words of Theobald, a priest of the Teutonic order. The battle actually took place, however, on a plateau a little more than two miles east of the town. During the day the besiegers had amused themselves with various sports, mocking the preparations of their opponents, and it was not till vespers that Count Valangin commenced hostilities. It was a desperate struggle that followed--a second Morgarten. The Waldstätter had begged to be allowed to engage the cavalry, and a hard task they found it. Yet within two hours the enemy was completely routed, and took to flight. No fewer than fifteen hundred men lay dead upon the field, and amongst them the counts of Valangin, Greyerz, Nidan, the last count of Vaud, and others. Seventy full suits of armour, and twenty-seven banners had been taken. Their hearts overflowing with joy and thankfulness the victors sank on their knees at nightfall, when all was over, and thanked God for His mercy. It would be uninteresting to a foreign reader to give an account of the discussions which have taken place as to the leadership of the Bernese force. But it may be mentioned that two distinguished generals, Rudolf von Erlach and Hans von Bubenberg, have by different authorities been credited with the honour. [Illustration: PORCH OF BERN MINSTER, WITH STATUE OF RUDOLF VON ERLACH.] The war was not yet concluded, but degenerated into one of simple devastation. The Freiburg forces were defeated at the very gates of their town by Rudolf von Erlach, according to some records, which would seem to show at any rate that he is no mere fictitious personage. Bern added victory to victory, and the saying ran that, "God Himself had turned citizen of that town to fight for her just cause." In July, 1340, a truce was agreed upon, and Bern resumed her old alliances with Kyburg, the Forest, Vaud, and even Geneva. The diplomatic Lady of Königsfelden, Agnes, anxious to secure so staunch an ally, drew Bern into a league with Austria, which lasted for ten years, and strongly influenced the politics of the town. It was not till after the expiration of this league, and after the peace of Brandenburg, that she could enter into an alliance with the league of the seven states. This closed the list of the eight Orte, and the league proved to be perpetual. Though Bern was a great check on the feudal nobility, she yet herself possessed a thoroughly aristocratic form of government, in which the lesser people and craftsmen had no share whatever. The mad schemes of Rudolf of Kyburg, who hoped to mend his fortunes by conquering Solothurn and other towns, gave rise to protracted warfare, in which Burgdorf and Thun fell to the share of Bern, by purchase, in 1384. To dwell on this is impossible, within the limits of our space, but it may be mentioned that a first siege proved a failure. Retaliation was made by the siege of Burgdorf, which likewise miscarried, through the intervention of Leopold. The doom of the house of Kyburg was, however, sealed, and it fell beneath the sway of Bern. The treachery of the Habsburgs in breaking their promise to the Eidgenossen was one of the chief causes leading to the battle of Sempach, the most famous of all Swiss battles. FOOTNOTES: [32] Von Greyerz still occurs amongst the Bernese aristocracy. [33] Letzinen are walls constructed across a valley, and are peculiar to Switzerland. XV. THE BATTLES OF SEMPACH, 1386, AND NAEFELS, 1388. Seldom, if ever, has Switzerland seen a more eventful month than that of July, 1386, for in that month she fought and won the ever-memorable battle of Sempach. To set down all the petty details as to the causes which led to this engagement would be tedious indeed. It is sufficient to point out--what is but a truism--that there is seldom much love lost between oppressor and oppressed, and Austria and the Swiss Confederation had for some time held that relation to each other. A ten years' peace had indeed been concluded between the two powers, but it was a sham peace, and the interval had been used by both to prepare for new conflicts. Austria was secretly assisting the impoverished house of Kyburg in her ravishing expeditions against the towns of the Confederation. Ruthlessness was met by ruthlessness; Zurich laid siege to Rapperswyl with the intent to destroy the odious Austrian toll-house; Lucerne levelled with the ground the Austrian fort Rothenburg, and entered into alliances with Entlebuch and Sempach to overthrow the Austrian supremacy. This was equal to a declaration of war, and war was indeed imminent. Duke Leopold III., of Austria, was most anxious to bring the quarrel to an issue, and to chastise the insolent Swiss citizens and peasantry. The Swiss cities had joined in league with the Southern German towns, which like themselves professed the policy of resisting the encroaching tendencies of princes and nobles. Mutual help in case of need had been pledged amongst themselves by this league of cities, but the burghers of the German towns were mere puppets in the hand of Austria. She, dreading the rising of wealthy towns, cajoled them by fine promises, and they pleaded for submission, and sought to compose the differences between the Swiss and the Austrians. Of very different mettle, however, were the towns on this side the Rhine; they objected to the weak and wavering policy of their more northerly neighbours, and determined on fighting, if necessary, alone and unaided. Leopold III., a descendant of that Leopold so disastrously defeated at Morgarten, possessed most of the virtues held of account in his day. He was manly, chivalrous, dauntless; he was possessed of dexterity and adroitness in both sports and the more serious business of war. His indomitable spirit and personal daring knew no bounds. He had once, clad in full armour, forded the Rhine at flood-time, and in the sight of the enemy, to escape being made prisoner. Like Rudolf of Habsburg he was vastly ambitious, and bent on securing wealth and greatness for the house of Austria. A clever manager of his estates and a generous master, he was yet neither politician nor tactician; as a man of action, and filled with hatred of the refractory towns, he spared no pains to check their struggles for independence. No wonder then that the nobles of Southern Germany rallied round the gallant swordsman, and made him their leader in the expeditions against the _bourgeoisie_ and peasantry. And no sooner had the truce expired (June, 1386), than they directed their first attack on the bold Confederation; no fewer than one hundred and fifty nobles sending letters of refusal (= a challenge) to the summons to war sent out by the Swiss Government. Leopold's plan was to make Lucerne the centre of his military operations, but in order to draw away attention from his real object, he sent a division of five thousand men to Zurich to simulate an attack on that town. Whilst the unsuspecting Confederates lay idle within the walls of Zurich, he gathered reinforcements from Burgundy, Swabia, and the Austro-Helvetian Cantons, the total force being variously estimated at from twelve thousand to twenty-four thousand men. He marched his army in the direction of Lucerne, but by a round-about way, and seized upon Willisan, which he set on fire, intending to punish Sempach _en passant_ for her desertion. But the Confederates getting knowledge of his stratagem left Zurich to defend herself, and struck straight across the country in pursuit of the enemy. Climbing the heights of Sempach on the side of Hiltisrieden, overlooking the town and lake of that name, they encamped at Meyersholz, a wood fringing the hilltop. The Austrians leaving Sursee, for want of some more practicable road towards Sempach, made their way slowly and painfully along the path which leads from Sursee to the heights, and then turns suddenly down upon Sempach. Great was their surprise and consternation when at the junction of the Sursee and Hiltisrieden roads they came suddenly upon the Swiss force, which they had imagined to be idling away the time at Zurich. The steep hillsides crossed by brooks and hedges looked a battlefield impracticable enough for cavalry evolutions, yet the young nobles in high glee at the prospect of winning their spurs in such a spot pleaded for the place against the better reason of all men. [Illustration] The Swiss, confident of success, and trusting in the help of God and the saints, as of old, drew up in battle order, their force taking a kind of wedge-shaped mass [Drawing of trapezoid] the shorter edge foremost and the bravest men occupying the front positions. The Austrians, on the other hand, relying proudly on the superiority of their high-born knights and nobles, looked disdainfully on what they believed to be a mere rabble of herdsmen. And, in truth, the handful of fifteen hundred men, inadequately armed with short weapons or clubs, battle-axes or halberds, seemed but a sorry match for that steel-clad army of six thousand well-trained lancers, cavalry, and foot. But the possession of cavalry in such a spot could not in itself give any advantage to the Austrians, and their knights dismounted and handed their horses to the care of attendants. To avoid getting their feet entangled in the long grass of a meadow close by the noble cavaliers cut off the beaks or points of their shoes--then the fashion--and the spot is to this day called the "beak-meadow" (Schnabelweide). Claiming for themselves the right to win honour that day, they ordered their infantry to the rear. According to another account, however their infantry were still at Sursee, the noble horsemen declining their aid. After ancient custom, the Austrians formed themselves into a compact phalanx, the noblest occupying the front ranks, the preparations being necessarily hurriedly and somewhat indefinitely made. The onset was furious, and the Austrian Hotspurs, each eager to outstrip his fellows in the race for honour, rushed on the Swiss, drove them back a little, and then tried to encompass them and crush them in their midst. The Swiss quickly fell back, but some sixty of their men were cut down before the Austrians lost a single soldier. The banner of Lucerne was captured; the Austrian phalanx was as yet unbroken, and all the fortune of the battle seemed against the Swiss, for their short weapons could not reach a foe guarded by long lances. But suddenly the scene changed. "A good and pious man," says the old chronicler, deeply mortified by the misfortune of his country, stepped forward from the ranks of the Swiss--_Arnold von Winkelried_! Shouting to his comrades in arms, "I will cut a road for you; take care of my wife and children!" he dashed on the enemy, and, catching hold of as many spears as his arms could encompass, he bore them to the ground with the whole weight of his body. His comrades rushed over his corpse, burst through the gap made in the Austrian ranks, and began a fierce hand-to-hand encounter. Fearful havoc was made by the Swiss clubs and battle-axes in the wavering ranks of the panic-stricken enemy, whose heavy armour and long lances indeed greatly impeded their movements. Nevertheless the Austrians made a brave stand, and Leopold, who had been watching the issue, now rushed into the _mêlée_, and fell one of the bravest in the desperate struggle. The nobles and knights, calling for their horses, found that the attendants had fled with them. Seeing that all was lost, the knights became panic-stricken, and rushed hither and thither in the greatest disorder. There still remained the infantry, however, and these attempted to stay the flight of the hapless cavaliers, and restore order, but it was all in vain. A fearful carnage followed, in which no mercy was shown, and there fell of the common soldiers two thousand men, and no fewer than seven hundred of the nobility. The Swiss lost but one hundred and twenty men. Rich spoils--arms, jewellery, and eighteen banners--fell into the hands of the victors. This defeat of a brilliant army of horse and foot, of knights and noblemen, all well-trained, by a mere handful of irregulars--citizen and peasant soldiers--was a brilliant military achievement, and attracted the attention and admiration of the civilized world. It brought to the front the _bourgeoisie_ and peasantry and their interests, and struck terror into the hearts of their oppressors. This great victory gained by the Swiss not only widened and established more firmly the career of military glory commenced at Morgarten, but it gave to the Confederation independence, and far greater military and political eminence. What Platæa had been of old to the Greeks, that Sempach was to the Swiss; it struck a deadly blow against an ancient and relentless foe. Austria, her rule on this side of the Rhine thus rudely shaken, was compelled to waive all rights of supremacy over the Confederation. Not that she relinquished those rights readily; it needed an equal disaster to her forces at Naefels, in 1388, before she would really and avowedly renounce her pretensions to rule the Swiss. The story of Winkelried's heroic action has given rise to much fruitless but interesting discussion. The truth of the tale, in fact, can neither be confirmed nor denied, in the absence of any sufficient proof. But Winkelried is no _myth_, whatever may be the case with the other great Swiss hero, Tell. There is proof that a family of the name of Winkelried lived at Unterwalden at the time of the battle. But no Swiss annals referring to the encounter at Sempach were written till nearly a century later. The Austrian chronicle gives no account of Winkelried's exploit, and for good reason, say the Swiss: all the men of the Austrian front ranks, who alone could have witnessed the exploit, were killed, and the rear ranks fled at the very first signs of disaster in front of them. A fifteenth-century chronicle of Zurich, and the numerous songs and annals of the sixteenth century, are full of praise of Winkelried and his deeds. But whatever may be the real truth of the matter it is certain that the grand old story of Winkelried and his splendid self-sacrifice is indelibly written on grateful Swiss hearts. Whether it was a single man or a whole body of men that offered up life itself for their country, it clearly proves a dauntless spirit of independence, a hatred of wrong and tyranny to have been innate in the breasts of the old Switzers, and to have led to the deliverance of their country from foreign oppression. And in spite of the many and often bitter controversies of the past twenty years the memory of Winkelried will ever remain an inspiration and a rallying-point whenever the little fatherland and its liberties are threatened. [Illustration: Winkelried's monument at Stanz (_From photograph by Appenzeller, Zurich._)] The victory of Naefels forms a worthy pendant to that of Sempach, and as such cannot be passed over in silence. The Austrians, having recovered their spirits after the terrible disaster, and the "foul peace" (_faule Friede_) hastily arranged having expired, they carried the game to its conclusion. Despite all prohibitions, Glarus had kept up its friendship with the Eidgenossen, and in conjunction with them had, in 1386, captured Wesen, the key to the district. To Glarus, therefore, Albrecht III. now gave his whole attention. But Glarus itself, feeling much more free after Sempach, assembled its inhabitants, in the spring of 1387, for the first time as a Landsgemeinde, and drew up for itself a constitution. Wesen on Walensee was recaptured by the Austrians on their way to Glarus. This happened through the treachery of the inhabitants of the town, who, siding with their old masters, opened their gates. The federal garrison was surprised as they slept, and put to the sword (February, 1388). The Austrians assembled at Wesen a force of six thousand horse and foot, and on the 9th of April set out in two divisions. Count Hans von Werdenberg, the chief mover in the enterprise, climbed the opposite heights, with the intention of forming a junction at Mollis, whilst Count Donat von Toggenburg and other nobles led the main force along the river Lint. Reaching Naefels, at the entrance of the Glarus valley they found their passage barred by an Alpine fortification--a _Letzi_, as it is called--consisting of rampart and ditch. This, however, was stormed without difficulty, as the guard was insufficient for its defence. In truth, the Glarner were unaware of the Austrian movements, and though Ambühl and his two hundred men fought with the utmost bravery, they were no match for the far superior numbers against them. Like a torrent the Austrians rushed into the open and defenceless valley, and, fancying no doubt there was no further opposition or danger to fear, dispersed in all directions, pillaging property, firing houses, driving cattle. Plunder and destruction seemed indeed to be now their sole aim; but meanwhile the tocsin was sounding through the valley to call the villagers to arms in defence of their country. Fast they flocked to the standard of Ambühl, who had posted himself with his troops on the steep declivity of Rautiberg, waving high the banner of St. Fridolin to attract his friends. Here, six hundred men all told, including a handful of men from Schwyz, awaited the foe. At last, in straggling and disorderly fashion, the Austrians appeared in sight, many lingering behind for the sake of plunder. Their attempt to ascend the eminence occupied by the foe was met by a shower of stones, which threw the horses into confusion. With true Alpine agility the mountaineers now dashed down the slopes and fell on the cavalry. A fierce encounter followed, and then a terrible chase, during which the Austrians are said to have ten times stopped in their flight and attempted to hurl back their Swiss pursuers, but ten times were compelled to give way again before the terrible strokes which met them. Darkness set in, and with it came on fog, and a sudden fall of snow. A superstitious panic seized on the Austrians, and they fled in the utmost confusion to Naefels, and thence sought to regain their faithful Wesen. But here a fresh catastrophe awaited them. Thronging the bridge spanning the outlet of the lake their weight broke down the structure, and hundreds of fugitives dragged down by their heavy armour sank with it, and were drowned. Count Werdenburg, who was watching the disaster from his eminence, fled as fast as he could. This disaster explains the loss by the Austrians of so disproportionate a number of men, viz., seventeen hundred, as against the fifty-four who fell of the Glarus force. The latter fell chiefly in defence of the Letzi. Year after year the people of Glarus, rich and poor alike, Protestant and Catholic, still commemorate this great victory. On the first Thursday in April, in solemn procession, they revisit the battlefield, and on the spot the Landammann tells the fine old story of their deliverance from foreign rule, whilst priest and minister offer thanksgiving. The 5th of April, 1888, was a memorable date in the annals of the canton, being the five-hundredth anniversary of the day on which the people achieved freedom. From all parts of Switzerland people flocked to Naefels to participate in the patriotic and religious ceremonies. A right stirring scene it was when the Landammann presented to the vast assembly the banner of St. Fridolin--the same which Ambühl had raised high--and thousands of voices joined in the national anthem, _Rufst du mein Vaterland_, which, by the way, has the same melody as _God save the Queen_. If the Switzer has no monarch to love and revere, he has still his national heroes and his glorious ancestors, who sealed the freedom of their country with their blood. In 1389 a seven years' peace was arranged, and Glarus returned to the Confederation. This peace was first prolonged for twenty years, and afterwards, in 1412, for fifty years. Finally, after a strife of more than one hundred years, Austria renounced her claims to rule over the Forest, and all her rights in Zug, Lucerne, and Glarus. In process of time the various dues were paid off in ordinary form. XVI. HOW SWITZERLAND CAME TO HAVE SUBJECT LANDS. (1400-1450.) In the fourteenth century the Eidgenossen established a _ménage politique_ of their own, and fixed its independence; in the fifteenth they raised it to power and eminence, and obtained for it an important military position in Europe. Yet though their family hearth was established, all was not done. The allied states could not stop there. They were still surrounded by lands ruled by Austria, by Italy, by Savoy; lands which could and did threaten the independence of the little infant republic. In fact, at a very early stage, the acquisition of additional territory became a vital question. This was to be done by means of new alliances, or by purchase or conquest. Zurich, for instance, had already, between 1358 and 1408, spent some two million francs in the buying of land. The struggles for independence had kindled a like desire for emancipation amongst the neighbouring Alpine states. But the efforts resulting were not all equally successful. Some of the states drifted from monarchical subjection to that of the federation or canton as subject lands (_Unterthanen laender_); others became "connections" (_Zugewandte_), or allies of inferior rank; others, again, took the position of _Schirmverwandte_, or _protégés_. One might indeed go thus through a whole graduated scale of relationships developed amongst the crowd of candidates seeking admission into the league. And though as yet kept outside they received a helping hand from the Eidgenossen. But it is not till the opening of the nineteenth century that we find the list of twenty-two cantons made up. Thanks to the mediation of Napoleon Bonaparte (1803), St. Gall, Thurgau, Grisons, Aargau, Vaud, and Ticino were added to the confederation of states. And by the Congress of Vienna, in 1814-15, were also added Valais, Geneva, and Neuchâtel. The latter, however, still continued under the sway of Prussia, although partly a free state, till 1857. The reader will clearly see into what a complicated fabric of unions the league is growing, and that the Swiss fatherland did not spring at once into life as a _fait accompli_. Each canton had its separate birth to freedom, as was the case with the free states of ancient Greece, which joined into confederations for a similar end--protection against a common foe. Each little state has its own separate history, even before it amalgamates with the general league. We shall, however, notice only the leading features. Appenzell opens the series of _Zugewandte_, or "connections." The shepherds and peasants scattered around the foot of Mount Säntis, oppressed by the abbots of St. Gall, began a rising that partook of a revolutionary character. A succession of heroic feats followed--the battle of Vogelinseck in 1403, that of Am Stoss in 1405, and others[34]--and the prelate and his ally, Frederick IV. of Austria ("Empty Pocket"), were completely defeated. Somewhat curiously we find Graf Rudolf von Werdenberg throwing in his lot with that of the humble peasants, and stooping to the humiliating terms they insisted upon. He had been robbed of his lands by the Habsburgs, and hoped to recover them by the help of the Alpestrians, and actually did so. But the peasantry were somewhat diffident concerning him, and would not entrust him with command. So the noble knight of St. George put aside his fine armour and his magnificent horse, and donned the peasant's garb to be admitted into their ranks. Elated by their succession of triumphs the hardy Appenzeller rushed on to new victories. Bursting their bounds, like an impetuous mountain torrent, they spread into neighbouring lands, and even penetrated to the distant Tyrol. Serf and bondsman hailed them as deliverers, and whole towns and valleys along the Upper Rhine and the Inn came into alliance with them--_Bund ob dem See_, above Lake Constance--that was to be a safeguard in the East. At last the Swabian knighthood plucked up courage enough to oppose this mountain hurricane. At the siege of Bregenz in 1407, they were, through carelessness, put to flight. The Bund collapsed, and its prestige departed, but the men had secured their object, viz., independence from control by the Abbey of St. Gall. By and by they bought off some of the taxes, and they met at their Landsgemeinde to consult respecting the weal of their country. Down to our own days this institution remains famous. Their application in 1411 for admission into the league was granted, but quite conditionally. Bern kept aloof from them, and Zurich found it necessary to checkmate their revolutionary tendencies, and they were received as _Zugewandte_, or allies of second rank. It was not till 1513 that the new-comer rose to the position of full member of the league. St. Gall, too, became "a connection"--and no more--in 1412. The emancipation of the Valais (Wallis) is but one succession of feuds between the native nobility and Savoy, the owner of Low Valais, on the one hand, and the bishops of Sion and the people, on the other. It was, in fact, a contest between the Romance and the German populations, the latter of whom the French had driven into a corner. The dynasts Von Turn had Bishop Tavelli seized in his castle and hurled from its very windows down a precipice. This foul murder was avenged in the great battle of Visp, where Savoy is said to have left four thousand dead (1388). The barons of Raron sustained a defeat at Ulrichen, in 1414, though assisted by Bern (of which town they were citizens) and Savoy. These powerful nobles left the country, and the Valisians gradually secured autonomy, and, being helped in their quarrels by the Forest men, they finally drew nearer to the Confederation, as _Zugewandte_ (1488). We must not pass over a singular custom which prevailed amongst the Valais folk. It was a custom observed as a preliminary to serious warfare. If a tyrant was to fall, he was attainted and doomed by the Mazze. This was a huge club on which was carved a distressed-looking face as a symbol of oppression, the club being wound round with bramble. It was carried from village to village, and hamlet to hamlet, even to the remotest spots, and set up at public places to attract the attention of the people. One of the malcontents would then step forward and denounce the oppressor to the figure, and promise help. It was said that when the name of Raron was pronounced the figure bowed deeply in token of assent, and the insurgents drove nails into the face as a declaration of hostility, and the instrument was deposited at the gate of the baron's castle. Graubünden (Grisons), the land of ancient and mediæval memories, of crumbling and picturesque castles, was, on account of its rugged surface and its almost countless dales, split up into numberless territorial lordships. Here in this rocky seclusion held sway the Belmonts, the Montforts, the Aspermonts, the Sax-Misox, and many others whose sonorous names tell of their origin. Here also were found the families of Haldenstein, Werdenberg, Toggenburg, and many more--Italian, Romansch, and German mingling closely. Yet the lord-paramount of them all was the Bishop of Chur, who had attained the rank of _Reichsfürst_ or duke, who had a suite of nobles attached to his quasi-royal household, and who held lands even in Italy. Quite contrary to the usual rule, noble and peasant in general lived amicably together. The political freedom of the state was due rather to remarkable coalitions than to acts of war or insurrection. In the fourteenth century, when the bishops of Chur revealed a strong leaning towards Austria-Tyrol, the Gotteshausbund sprang into existence as a check on the alien tendencies of the prince-bishops. This league was formed in 1367 by the _Domstift_ (chapter of clergy), the nobles, and the common people. The bishops themselves ruled over people of three different nationalities. A glance at the place-names on the map of Bünden shows how the old Latin race (Romansch), the Italians, and the migrated German race, were mixed up pell-mell in the district. Yet the Walchen Romansch (Welsh) were slowly retreating before the Valser, or Germans of the Valais, who had a strong bent for colonization and culture. In 1397 the _Graue Bund_ (Grey League) was started in the valleys of the Vorder-Rhine by the Abbot of Disentis, some of the nobles, and the people at large. On the death of the last of the Toggenburgs in 1436 his various domains of Malans, Davos, Prättigau, &c., dreading Austrian interference, united into a league known as the ten _Gerichte Bund_ (Jurisdictions), so called because each of the districts had its own place of execution. Gradually the three leagues formed a federal union (1471), and held their diets at one centre, Vazerol. Thus Bünden, developing after the manner of the Forest Cantons, grew into a triple and yet federal democracy which, threatened by the Austrian invasion during the Swabian wars, turned to the Eidgenossen for help, and joined with them in 1497 as "connections." In 1414 met the famous Council convoked by the Emperor Sigismund to remedy the evils which galled the Church, that Council which by a strange irony of fate sentenced to death by fire John Huss, the staunch opponent of the very abuses which the Council was called to redress. The Council proved fatal to the Habsburg interests in Swiss lands. Frederick IV. of Austria--the enemy of Appenzell--refused his homage to the German monarch, and for material reasons espoused the cause of John XXIII., one of the three deposed popes. John gave a tournament to cover his departure, and during the spectacle fled in a shabby postillion's dress to the Austrian town, Schaffhausen, whither Frederick followed. Excommunicated and outlawed--within a few days no fewer than four hundred nobles sent challenges to him--Duke Friedel, as he was familiarly called by his faithful Tyrolese peasantry, who alone stood by him, was driven from his lands and from his people. On all sides German contingents fell upon his provinces. Sigismund called on the Eidgenossen in the name of the empire to march on Aargau, his ancestral land, promising them the province for themselves. As they had just renewed their peace with Austria, the Eidgenossen were unwilling to break it, but it was urged by the emperor that their promise to Frederick was not binding. Bern, ever bent on self-aggrandisement, and determined to secure the lion's share if possible, threw away her scruples, and within seventeen days took as many towns and castles.[35] Zurich, consulting with the Eidgenossen, followed suit and seized Knonau. Lucerne took some fragment, and the Forest did likewise. Aargau, the retreat of the Habsburg nobles, offered no serious resistance; but Baden, which was seized by the Eidgenossen conjointly, the castle of Stein, the royal residence of the Habsburgs, was being stormed, when Sigismund tried to stop the siege; for Frederick in despair had in the meantime made an abject submission, and most of the confiscated lands were restored to him. However, the Eidgenossen were unwilling, because of the emperor's wavering policy, to relinquish so good a chance of adding to their territory. Matters were settled by their paying over a sum of money to Sigismund, who was ever in financial straits. Henceforth Friedel was nicknamed "With-the-empty-pocket."[36] Aargau was divided amongst the Eidgenossen as subject land, what they had seized separately becoming cantonal, and what conjointly federal, property. Baden and some other places became federal domains _(gemeine Herrschaften)_, over which each of the eight states in turn set a governor for two years. With this precedent we enter upon the curious period in which the Swiss cantons split into two sets, the governing and the governed. Whilst the republics vied with each other in extending their borders, two, Uri and Unterwalden, were unable to increase their territory, being hemmed in by lofty mountains. They turned their eyes towards the sunny south, beyond St. Gothard, where they might find additional lands. Like the Rhætians of old they had often descended into the Lombard plains, though for far more peaceful ends. When the St. Gothard pass was thrown open in the thirteenth century, there was a lively interchange of traffic between the two peoples--the cismontanes and the transmontanes. The men of the Forest sold their cheese, butter, cattle, and other Alpine produce at the marts in the Lombardian towns, and got from thence their supply of corn and other necessaries. And they of the Forest acted as guides across the mountains, as they did down to the railway era. Their youths, too, enlisted amongst the Italians soldiers, induced either by the prospect of gaining a living, or by a mere desire for amusement. Thus the Swiss associated on friendly terms with the southerners. But all this pleasant social intercourse was suddenly cut off. Whilst the Eidgenossen under the ægis of a weakened empire secured independence, the mighty Lombard cities, which had objected to imperial fetters, however light, by a singular contrast sank beneath the tyrannies of ambitious native dynasts, and under the Visconti the duchy of Milan sprang up from these free Italian towns. Quarrels that broke out between the Milanese and the people of the Forest prepared the way for the acquisition of Ticino by the Swiss. In 1403 Uri and Unterwalden were robbed of their herds of cattle at the mart of Varese by the officials of the Visconti, on what pretext is not clear. Failing to get redress, they at once decided on resorting to force. They seized the Livinenthal or Leventina, which willingly accepted the new masters. Fresh robberies in 1410 were revenged by the annexation of the Eschenthal, with Domo d'Ossola, which greatly preferred Swiss supremacy to that of the Duke of Milan. This is not much to be wondered at, seeing that Gian Maria Visconti was a second Nero for cruelty. The human beings who fell victims to his suspicion or revenge he had torn to pieces by huge dogs, which were fed on human blood. To strengthen their Italian acquisitions the Eidgenossen bought Bellinzona (1418) from the barons of Sax-Misox or Misocco of Graubünden. But the Milanese dukes would not brook the loss of these lands, and a long-protracted war ensued with varying success. Most of the more distant cantons being opposed to these Italian conquests declined to send help, but hearing that Bellinzona had been captured by the Visconti, some three thousand Eidgenossen marched to its relief in 1422. They were, however, no match for the twenty-four thousand troops gathered by the famous general Carmagnola. Lying in ambush for the Swiss he succeeded in completely shutting them in at Arbedo, with the exception of six hundred who had escaped into the valley of Misox. For six hours the small Swiss band fought to the utmost, refusing to give way, though opposed by a force of ten times their number, and well trained. Suddenly their brethren came to their relief, or they would have been crushed. The Swiss loss was two hundred, that of the enemy nine hundred. But the conquests were forfeited for the present. Yet the Swiss pushed on to new war to redeem their misfortunes under the Sforza. A brilliant victory was that of Giornico (Leventina), 1478, where six hundred Swiss under Theiling from Lucerne defeated a force of fifteen thousand Milanese soldiers. This tended greatly to spread Swiss military fame in Italy. [Illustration: ARMS OF URI.] FOOTNOTES: [34] It is related that Uli Rotach kept at bay with his halbert twelve Austrians, giving way only when the hut against which he leant was set on fire. [35] To Bern fell the classic spots Habsburg and Königsfelden. [36] As a retort to those who thus nicknamed him this extravagant prince built a balcony at Innsbruck whose roof was covered with gold, at the cost of thirty thousand florins--it would be twenty times more money now. Every visitor to that romantic city will be struck by the quaint _Haus zum goldenen Dachere_ (House with the golden roof). XVII. WAR BETWEEN ZURICH AND SCHWYZ. (1436-1450.) A gloomy picture in Swiss history do these civil wars present, marking as they do the chasm separating the Confederates, who were each swayed by a spirit of jealous antagonism. Yet it was clear that the town and the country commonwealths--citizens and peasants--formed such strong contrasts that they would not always pull together. Indeed, the smouldering discontent was suddenly fanned into flame by questions respecting hereditary succession that threatened to consume the whole Confederation. Feudalism was tottering to its fall in Switzerland, but it seemed as if the famous counts of Toggenburg were for a while to stay its ruin in the eastern portion of the country. Frederick III. (1400-1436) possessed what would come up to the present canton of St. Gall, the Ten Gerichte, a large portion of Graubünden, Voralberg (which he had wrenched from Friedel "of the Empty Pocket"), and other districts. Despite the popular struggles for freedom he managed to maintain his authority by adroit and designing policy and by alliance with Zurich and Schwyz, which stood by him against foes domestic and foreign. Having no children Frederick promised that on his death the two cantons should receive his domains south of Zurich lake, which acquisition would round off their territory. He died in 1436, but left no will--intentionally, as was thought by some, with the view of entangling the Confederates in quarrels--"tying their tails together," as the expressive but not very polished phrase had it. Be that as it may, the apple of discord was soon in the midst, and there set up as claimants numerous seigneurs of Graubünden, barons from the Valais, near relatives, as well as Austria and the empire. Zurich and Schwyz also contended for the promised stretch of land. To penetrate into the maze of petty conflicts which followed would be ridiculous as it would be impossible. In accordance with her more aristocratic inclinations Zurich paid court to the dowager countess whilst Schwyz humoured rather the subjects as the future masters, and the three latter proved in the end to have had the better judgment. The strife, indeed, fell into one of emulation between the two most energetic and talented statesmen of the two commonwealths. One of these leading men was burgomaster Stüssi, of Zurich, and the other was Ital von Reding, from Schwyz, both highly gifted and energetic men. Even from their youth they had been rivals, incited by the Emperor Sigismund whose favour they enjoyed. Save the battle of St. Jacques on the Birse, the war brought forth no great military exploits, and as it effected no material changes it may be very briefly passed over. It splits naturally into three periods. The first of these (1436-1442) is simply a series of wasteful feuds waged by the Confederates alone. Schwyz had taken for itself the whole heritage in question, with the exception of one fragmentary portion left to its rival. Zurich, thus deprived of her portion, and disappointed in her scheme of planning a direct commercial road to Italy through Graubünden, retaliated by shutting her market against Schwyz and Glarus, causing a famine in the two districts. The Confederates did not act with impartiality in the matter, but, laying all blame on Zurich, drove her to arms. She was, however, again a loser, for her territory to the east of the lake, which was the theatre of war, was terribly wasted. This portion of the land Schwyz wished to annex, but was prevented by order of the federal Diet. Nevertheless Zurich lost to Schwyz and Glarus three villages on the upper lake, and the island Ufenau which she had governed for half a century, and she was compelled to re-open her roads and market. Deeply wounded by the position of the Confederates in the opposition ranks, and still more by the humiliation inflicted on her by the rustics of Schwyz, the proud, free city of Zurich thirsted for revenge. Thus the second period of conflict began, and in June, 1442, Zurich sought a foreign alliance. Stüssi, or his secretary, who was his right hand, taking advantage of her old leanings towards Austria, conceived the Machiavelian plan of joining in union with the deadly foe of the Confederates. Despite the firm opposition of a strong party of noble and eminent patriots, the coalition was arranged. The plea was put forward that the "imperial city," by virtue of her exceptional position, and the treaty concluded under the auspices of Brun, in 1351, was allowed to make any alliances she chose. Disloyalty was thus coloured by a show of truth. The Emperor Frederick III. and his brother, Albrecht of Austria, proceeded to Zurich to receive the homage and allegiance of the enthusiastic population. The Confederates guessing the meaning of this move tried to convince the renegade member of her perfidy. But their efforts failing, all, Bern included--though she took no prominent or active part, being chiefly occupied by her Burgundian politics--sent their challenge to Austria and Zurich. The war, though fiercer and bloodier than the first, was just as luckless, owing to dissensions arising amongst the allies, the men of Zurich being unwilling to submit to a many-headed Austrian lordship. The struggle was carried on by fits and starts, the Confederates returning home on one occasion for the annual haymaking. Having laid waste the Zurich territory the Confederates proceeded to attack the capital itself. During a sally to St. Jacques on the Sihl, Stüssi fell in defence of the bridge over that river, whilst endeavouring to keep back the foe and stay the flight of the fugitives. His heroic death makes one almost forget his ambitious and misguided policy. At last the Zurich forces drew up their guns on the Lindenhof, an eminence within the town. A single ball worked wonders, for, piercing the walls of a barn, it upset the table at which were sitting a party of Glarner, and carried off the head of the topmost man at the table. Greatly impressed by this result the besiegers rushed from the premises, stopped the siege, and began negotiations for a truce. But the Austrians objected to the truce, fearing a reconciliation between Zurich and the Confederates, and they incited the mob to make a set against the patriotic councillors who were believed to be the prime movers in the peace negotiations. A state of terrorism set in, five of the leading men were demanded by the populace, and were publicly beheaded; and ten more suffered the same fate. Thus powerless had Zurich grown in the hands of Austria. The truce being thus prevented the Eidgenossen proceeded to besiege Greifensee, a strong fortress in the Zurich midlands. For four weeks the garrison of eighty men held out, but, being at last betrayed by a peasant, were compelled to surrender at discretion. Sentence of death was passed on the brave defenders by a majority of the Confederates, and the cruel sentence was carried out in a meadow at hand. Ital von Reding stood by to see that the imperial custom of passing over every tenth man should not be followed in this case. However when sixty had fallen he turned away, and the rest were spared. Strange stories attach to that bloody spot, and indeed Nemesis soon avenged the cruel deed. A second siege of the capital was undertaken by the Confederates, but proved a failure like the first. The men of Zurich, in fact, made light of the siege, and a band of young men even sallied forth and captured wine and other provisions. [Illustration: St. Jacques Monument, Basel, by Schlöth. (_From Photograph by Appenzeller, Zurich._)] [Illustration: Arms of Schwyz.] Wishful to bring matters to an issue, Austria turned to France for assistance, well knowing that she herself was no match for the Eidgenossen in open field. She was, besides, tired of the profitless and resultless kind of war which had hitherto been carried on. Charles VII. was anxious to get rid of his mercenary troops, the savage Armagnacs, which he had led against England, and was glad to launch them on Swiss lands. This combination of Austrian and French arms--the Zurcher remained at home to defend their still beleaguered city--introduces the third and last portion of the war. The Dauphin (Louis XI.), with an army of thirty thousand men, marched against Basel, and the Eidgenossen, unacquainted with the numbers of the enemy, set out to meet them. When they came within sight of the foe, they crossed the river Birse in the most exuberant spirits. Soon, however, they were split into two divisions by the heavy fire of the French, and one of these being surrounded on an island in the river was completely annihilated by the overwhelming numbers, though fighting with marvellous bravery. The other division took up a position behind the garden walls of the infirmary of St. Jacques, on the river (August 26, 1444). Here for six hours a small body of some five or six hundred men held their ground. Twice they withstood the assault of a foe twenty or thirty times their number, and twice themselves rushed on in attack. But at last the walls gave way, pierced through and through, and the foe rushed through the breach. A hand-to-hand fight followed, till the hospital being fired the Swiss were compelled to succumb. Yet, though failing, each man died a hero. Some drew arrows from their wounds, and hurled them at the enemy; others who had lost one hand swung their halberts with the other. The Armagnacs, who had fought in many a bloody battle, confessed that never before had they met with a foe so dauntless, so regardless of death. The Austrians, however, denied the Swiss such testimony. On the day following the battle a German knight was riding over the field wading in blood, and boasted to his comrades, "To-day we seem to be bathing in roses." "There, eat thy roses!" yelled a dying Uri soldier, flinging at his head a large stone which struck him dead from his horse. Louis, who had lost some four thousand men in the fight, was greatly impressed by such show of bravery on the part of the Swiss, and concluded an honourable peace with them at Ensisheim, on the 28th of October, 1444. St. Jacques is a second Swiss Thermopylæ, and sheds immortal honour on the combatants. Though beaten the Confederates were not dishonoured. Like the brave Spartans under Leonidas they preferred death to servitude and dishonour. This battle was also the turning-point of the federal war; it rendered the Confederates more pliant. And though desultory feuds still showed themselves, peace was at last concluded, in 1450, by which Zurich was forced to give up her Austrian alliance. The federal league was knit more closely together than ever before; old injuries were soon forgotten, and the Eidgenossen accepted an invitation to Zurich to join in the carnival festivities got up to celebrate the reconciliation, 1454. A deplorable incident took place during the festivities, the seizure by the Eidgenossen, at the minster, of the famous savant, Felix Malleolus, a canon of the Church. Born of an ancient family at Zurich, he was educated first at the Carolinum in his native city, and afterwards at the university of Bologna, which was the glory of the Middle Ages. Bold, and of an unbending will, early acquainted with the corruptions of the Church and clergy, he hurled bitter invectives against the guilty, and raised for himself a host of enemies amongst the priesthood. And during the early years of the war he had likewise attacked the Eidgenossen as enemies of his native town, and called them an illiterate, uncouth, and belligerent race. His own chapter had objected to so stern a man as provost, and he had consequently contented himself with the position of canon, a position which left him ample time for study, and the composition of learned pamphlets. When the Eidgenossen seized him he was bending over his beloved books. He was hurried to Constance, and was there, by the bishop, thrown into the same prison as that occupied by the martyr Huss. The higher clergy as a rule connived at the deed, and, though promised release, he was handed over a prisoner to the monks at Lucerne. Here the lofty words of Cellano, _"Dies irae, dies illa,"_ so well known from their use in Mozart's Requiem Mass, seem to have been a great consolation to the unfortunate canon. It is not known exactly when he died. XVIII. BURGUNDIAN WARS. (1474-1477.) These wars raised to its height the military glory of the Eidgenossen, and instead of the limited sphere occupied by most of the previous wars, we find ourselves now watching a scene of world-wide interest and importance. Three Great Powers--France, Germany, and Austria--if such a term is applicable in the fifteenth century, are striving for the downfall of a fourth great realm, Burgundy, in some respects the mightiest of them all. The Swiss League, no less interested in the issue, is made the instrument for bringing about that tragical ending which strikes Burgundy for ever from the list of future kingdoms. [Illustration: Elizabeth, wife of Albert II.; Maria of Burgundy; Eleanor of Portugal; Kunigunde, sister of Maximilian. (_From Maximilian Monument at Innsbruck._)] Charles the Bold aimed at the re-establishment of the ancient kingdom of Lorraine, such as it was created by the treaty of Verdun in 843.[37] This was to be a middle kingdom between French and German territory--a kingdom which, stretching from the North Sea through to the Mediterranean, would absorb the Swiss Confederation, and what of other territory we cannot tell. A striking scheme, and one which, if it had succeeded, would have greatly changed the face of modern politics. Charles's deadliest foe was Louis of France, who was unswervingly bent on his destruction. Politically, the two men were the very antipodes of each other. The romantic duke is the embodiment of mediæval chivalry; the sober Louis that of modern absolutism. His reign seals the fate of dying feudalism. Louis is like an immovable rock against which the effete Middle Ages dash themselves in vain. He stands, indeed, between two great historical epochs. Charles is doomed to fall; for pitilessly Louis crushes his unruly vassals, and feudatory France is by his power welded into a mighty and absolute monarchy. The ambitious hotspur, the warlike duke, believes himself a second Alexander. And, indeed, in all Christendom there is no court so splendid as his, no treasury so vast. His magnificence is more than royal, more even than imperial, and he grapples with numberless intricate problems. To carry out his plans he stakes realm and life, but lacking patience and sound political judgment he fails in his chief enterprises.[38] The preliminary steps leading to the war are a diplomatic maze, revealing the double-dealing of the actors, and likewise showing the uncertain position held by the Swiss League in the empire. The destruction of this league, and the overthrow of Charles the Bold were chiefly aimed at. The maze of intrigue is, indeed, well-nigh impenetrable; yet, because the preliminaries are far less known than the wars which followed, and the actual facts have been often distorted, they will, no doubt, command general interest, and we shall try to disentangle the skeins as best we can. The battle of St. Jacques had secured for the Confederates, not only the sympathies of Louis, but also the alliance of his father, Philip the Good, of Burgundy, the Sforzas of Milan, and others. Since those times of prowess the young republic had been growing into a prosperous and powerful nation, not without its influence on continental military affairs. Admired, envied, and feared, by turns, its friendship was greatly appreciated, and it lent protection to all who sought it. So strong was its love of warfare, that it was at all times ready to avenge any wrong or fancied wrong done to itself or its friends. Thus, Zurich, in 1456, laid waste the lands of the Austrian knight-robbers who had plundered some Strasburg merchants on a Swiss round. Despite the distance between them, the two towns of Strasburg and Zurich were on terms of close friendship.[39] At the bidding of Pius II., the elegant Latin writer commonly known as Æneas Sylvius, who had fallen out with his literary friend, Duke Sigmund of Austria, the Eidgenossen conquered Thurgau, which had remained still an Austrian province, and placed it amongst their subject lands. The quarrels of Mulhausen and Schaffhausen with Austria entangled their friends of the league into a war with Sigmund (1468), who, to secure peace, agreed to pay over the sum of ten thousand florins, guaranteeing them their recent conquests. This feud of Waldshut (Black Forest) led to the Burgundian wars. Extravagant but poor, Sigmund failed to find even that modest sum, and applied to Louis of France for help, but was by him referred to Charles of Burgundy. The astute Louis saw that a quarrel between the dukes would be injurious and possibly fatal to Charles, who, all unaware of the pitfall prepared for him, readily fell in with the proposals of Sigmund. He was anxious to join together Alsace, Breisgau, the Aargau towns on the Rhine, &c., and advanced fifty thousand florins as mortgage on the dominions of Sigmund, expecting they would soon fall to him entirely. By the treaty of St Omer, in 1469, their mutual terms of agreement were thus fixed:--Charles to give help in case of need against the Swiss, and Sigmund to promote the long-planned marriage between the son of his cousin and Maria of Burgundy. Rejoicing at this turn of fortune, the emperor at once disannulled the treaty of Waldshut, and the new lands were by Charles the Bold entrusted to the management of his favourite, Peter von Hagenbach.[40] A tyrant and a libertine, his acts of violence, and those of his foreign soldiery, exasperated the German populations of Alsace, Basel, Bern, and Solothurn. Their merchants being robbed on the Rhine, their envoys imprisoned--one Bernese man was killed in a fray--they complained to the duke, but without result for the cruelties and oppression continued. Artful and ever on the watch, Louis found that the Eidgenossen, disgusted by the grasping tendencies of Charles, were fast drifting away from their good understanding with Burgundy, and strove to draw them to his own side. Anxious to secure a friend, the Swiss lent willing ears to the flattery and insinuations of the crafty Louis. He actually succeeded in effecting a reconciliation between the Eidgenossen and Austria. It was a cleverly calculated bit of diplomacy, that secured for the Swiss their recent conquests, isolated Charles, and strengthened the opposition against him. Louis fixed a pension on Sigmund, and urged him to pay off the mortgage on his lands, whilst the Alsacian towns likewise leagued themselves with the Swiss, and actually advanced Sigmund the sum of money required. Charles, however, disappointed in his plans, refused to receive the money. A popular rising took place at Breisach, and Hagenbach was seized, imprisoned, and brought before a tribunal, at which some of the Eidgenossen assisted. He was condemned to death, and publicly beheaded, as a sort of popular judgment. Enraged beyond measure though he was, yet Charles deferred vengeance for the death of his favourite, being, indeed, at the time, otherwise engaged. Taking advantage of this delay, Louis won over to his side Frederick, also lavishing flatteries on the Swiss, and pensions on Nicolas von Diesbach and his followers. This Nicolas was a Bernese nobleman and a skilled politician, and was a fit instrument in the hands of a king who calculated his schemes rather on men's _mauvaises passions_ than on their virtues. Louis hastened on the outbreak of war, and on October 9, 1474, Frederick called on the Eidgenossen to take their part in the attack on Charles. They hesitated, but the pensioner and creature of France, Diesbach, notwithstanding the resistance offered by Adrian von Bubenberg, a Bernese noble of far loftier character, in hot haste declared war against Charles in the name of the empire, and with the consent of the Confederation. But war once actually afoot the Swiss were made a mere catspaw by their partners, and left to their own devices. In a short story like this it is impossible to discuss the merits or demerits of the various factions, or those of Hagenbach or Diesbach,[41] yet we must dwell for a moment on the federal policy, and more especially on that of Bern. The position of the Swiss League at the outbreak of the war was very similar to that of "Sweden, under Gustavus Adolphus, in the Thirty Years' War." Threatened by the preponderating power of Austria, she would not take up arms till France, equally interested in the downfall of Habsburg, under Richelieu, drove her to war by sending subsidies. But French gold was by no means the actual and moving cause of the war. Many things concurred to give rise to it, not the least being Bern's extraordinary bent for aggrandisement and conquest. Her aggressiveness and her far-sightedness were quite remarkable for that age, and her policy was conceived on so large a scale that she has been not inaptly compared to ancient Rome. Bordering on Swiss Burgundy, Bern had strong western leanings, if one may so speak, and very early set her eyes on Vaud and Geneva. She considered Mount Jura as the true western boundary, for French Switzerland still lay without the pale of the Confederation, and belonged for the most part to Savoy, or the vassals of Savoy. However selfish the policy of Bern may appear at this distance of time, yet she has the unquestionable merit of having brought Swiss Burgundy into the federation, thus connecting the French with the German portions of Helvetia. The political views of Bern are clearly evidenced by her foreign relations at the time. Her nobility sent their sons to foreign courts to be educated and trained for a military or a diplomatic career--Bubenberg, for instance, spent his youth at the Court of Burgundy. Her leading men were well-trained military officers or skilled politicians, and the aristocracy which formed the governing body of the town clung obstinately to the prerogatives still left them in those moribund Middle Ages. The country cantons were less interested in Burgundian troubles, well knowing that Bern would take the lion's share of any conquests. Bern and Zurich were rivals, and, like Athens and Sparta of old, followed each its separate ends. Yet when the safety of either, or that of the fatherland, was at stake, private aims and private animosities were dropped, and the Confederates rallied to the common standard, displaying that wonderful heroism which strong love of fatherland seems ever to inspire. The first event of the war was the siege of Héricourt, near Belfort, at the bidding of Frederick III. This was in November, 1474, and there followed wasteful inroads into Vaud, by Bern, Freiburg, and Solothurn, on the pretext of punishing Savoy for siding with Charles (1475). Place after place fell to the victors, and with the help of Bern, Lower Valais was wrenched from Savoy, and restored to Upper Valais. But when once the Swiss were fairly launched on the war all their partners withdrew from the stage, and made their peace with Charles. The Burgundian prince thus having his hands more free pushed on alone his expedition against Duke René, the minstrel poet of Lorraine, in November, 1475. In the January of the following year he opened his campaign against the Swiss. With an enormous army of fifty thousand of the best-trained soldiers in Europe, besides heavy artillery, he started in high spirits across the Jura, resolved on crushing the Swiss peasants, and levelling Bern with the ground. Count Romont was sent on in advance, with instructions to re-conquer Vaud. This he effected within a fortnight, the district being inefficiently garrisoned. Charles then marched on Grandson, whither the main Bernese force had retired. The odds were desperate, five hundred men against so vast an army, and, after a resistance of ten days, the garrison was allured into a surrender by vain promises of safety, and by impudent forgeries. The fate of Dinant (Belgium) awaited the body of 412 men who surrendered. They were bound with ropes and drowned in the lake, or hanged from the trees lining the roads (February 28, 1476). In great straits Bern summoned the assistance of the other cantons, and, on March 2nd, the federal army of eighteen thousand horse and foot, well trained and equipped, assembled at Neuchâtel, and Charles went to meet this force. A large division of the Swiss having gone on in front suddenly noticed from the vineyard slopes the Burgundian troops in the plain beneath. As was their wont in warfare--they were very religious, almost superstitiously so, at that time--the Swiss knelt down, and extended their hands in prayer. To the enemy it seemed as if they were begging for mercy, and Charles exclaimed, "These cowards are ours!" and ordered his men to fire. His artillery swept down whole files, but, though their ranks were broken, the Swiss stoutly held their ground against the oncoming foe. Suddenly Charles ordered his forces to fall back, with the double intention of getting more room, and of alluring his foe into descending from the higher ground. But his men unapprised of their leader's intentions mistook the movement for an actual flight, and their ranks began to show signs of falling into disorder. At this most critical moment the chief body of the Swiss appeared on the heights, their armour glittering in the sun. The deafening noise of their war-cries and war-horns (Uristier of Uri, Harsthörner of Lucerne) "struck such terror into the Burgundians," reports an old chronicler of Neuchâtel, "that they took to their heels, and disappeared from sight, as if a whirlwind had swept them from the earth." Not far, however, did the Eidgenossen pursue, for, "with indescribable joy," they dropped on their knees to render thanks for the great victory. When they neared the camp of Charles the terrible sight they saw stirred up still more their desire for revenge. Their brethren were still suspended by dozens from the trees by the wayside. [Illustration: BATTLE OF GRANDSON--SKETCH MAP. Scale 1 in 150,000. MAP OF GRANDSON DISTRICT.] The battle of Grandson is remarkable for the immense quantity of spoil that fell to the victors. For Charles and his nobles were wont to carry the splendour of their court even into their camps. Four hundred silk tents came into the hands of the Swiss, as well as the arras carpets, and Charles's sets of gold plate and dishes, the admiration of the sovereigns of the time. His Flemish lace and fine linen were cut up like homespun, and divided amongst the rough soldiers; his money dealt out in helmets; his artillery, his beautiful swords and hand-guns; and, most precious of all, his jewellery, were shared amongst the victorious Swiss. Of his three famous diamonds the finest passed finally to Pope Julius II., another to Henry VIII., of England, and thence to Philip of Spain, and the third to the kings of Portugal. It would require pages to give even a bare list of the spoils.[42] Despite this great disaster, Charles did not lose heart, and within a fortnight began to reassemble his scattered forces. His movements were closely watched by the Bernese, who strongly fortified Morat, their strongest outpost, sending Adrian von Bubenberg with fifteen hundred men to hold it against the duke. On the 9th of June, 1476, Charles appeared before the town with twenty-five thousand men, and his artillery soon made terrible havoc amongst the weak fortifications. Von Bubenberg, however, vowed that he would not surrender so long as a drop of living blood remained in his veins. The Eidgenossen forces, which had returned home after the last engagement, did not reach Morat till the 21st of June, but determined to give battle on the 22nd, that day being the anniversary of the ever-memorable Laupen. Charles had drawn up his troops on the plateaux of Munchwiler, Courlevon, and Cressier, opposite Morat, and had strengthened his front with a ditch and a barricade of trees, having also lined the hedges with his artillery, and flanked it with his horse. It was raining in torrents; to weary the foe the Swiss spent the morning in dubbing knights; Duke René of Lorraine, who had joined the Swiss ranks as simple spearman, and Hans Waldmann having that honour bestowed upon them. Towards noon the sun unexpectedly broke forth, and Hans von Hallwyl, a Bernese nobleman, brandishing his sword, exclaimed, "Onward! brave men. God lights up our path. Do not leave your wives and children to the stranger!" Leading his van in a wide circle to avoid the hedge he fell on the right wing of Charles. Seeing him thus engaged Hans Waldmann of Zurich, with his ten thousand troops occupying a central position in the field, marched up, sprang on the intrenchment, and trampled down the hedge. Carrying their guns across their shoulders, they rushed on the artillery, who were keeping up a deadly fire, and, thrusting back the enemy, soon silenced their guns. Then the Swiss force advanced in a close phalanx to the hostile centre, where stood Charles with the Prince of Orange, and other distinguished officers, and where, too, were placed the English archers under Somerset. A murderous engagement ensued, Charles fought like a lion, and soon fifteen hundred nobles lay at his feet. Suddenly Bubenberg sallied forth with his force, and attacked the Burgundian left wing, stationed between Munchwiler and Morat, whilst Hertenstein of Lucerne attacked Charles's centre in the rear. A terrible panic seized Charles, and his army became suddenly disorganized, and fled in wild haste, the Swiss closely following in pursuit. For the whole distance from Morat to Avenches there were terrible hand-to-hand conflicts, for the Burgundians resisted stoutly, and the Swiss gave no quarter. Countless numbers were driven into the lake, and altogether twelve thousand of the foe fell that day, the Swiss themselves losing three thousand men. Charles escaped with a few horsemen to Morges, but quite dazed with despair, and the Eidgenossen turned homewards laden with rich spoils. All over the country the bells were set ringing to welcome the heroic men who had saved Switzerland from becoming a subject-province of Burgundy. The great battle of Murten, a purely defensive engagement so far as the Swiss were concerned, still exerts on them the same spell as Morgarten and Sempach. [Illustration: OLD WEAPONS AND ARMOUR PRESERVED IN THE ARSENAL, ZURICH.] Luckless Duke Charles had shut himself up in his castle near Pontarlier, a prey to a morbid despair, but hearing that René was reconquering Lorraine, he was spurred into taking up arms once more, and started for Nancy with a new force. René went back to Switzerland, and even with tears implored the Federal Diet to help him. The Diet would not themselves organize a new army, but permitted men to enlist of their own will under René's banner. Some eight thousand soldiers enlisted, and, under Hans Waldmann, retook Nancy, on January 15, 1477. The fate of the unhappy Charles is well known; his corpse was found in a bog embedded in ice and snow. A popular rhyme thus characterizes Charles's triple misfortune:-- "Zü Grandson das Gut, Zü Murten den Mut, Zü Nancy das Blut." The acquisition of the victors were in no way adequate to the labour expended. Franche Comté, to which the Eidgenossen had a title, and which the cities wished to annex, was sold to Louis for a sum of money, which he never paid, however. The Swiss merely retained the protectorate over the province, whose envoys had begged on their knees that they might be admitted to the Swiss Federation, to prevent their falling into the hands of France or Austria, a fate which was, however, to be theirs. Grandson Murten, Bex, &c., remained with Bern and Freiburg, but the greater part of Vaud fell back to Savoy, for a ransom of fifty thousand florins. Geneva had to pay half that sum as a war contribution; yet the way was paved for the annexation of Vaud. Freiburg and Low-Valais were entirely rescued from the grasp of Savoy. FOOTNOTES: [37] See Chap. VI. [38] One curious instance of his failures may be given. The Burgundian crown was ready for him, and he proceeded to Trier (1473) to have it placed on his brow by the (Roman) emperor, and push his imperial claims. However, Frederick III., becoming alarmed at the presumption of the future Welsh-German sovereign, broke off negotiations, and fled at night with his son Max, who was to have married the daughter of Charles. [39] A pleasant story is related to the effect that, on one occasion, some young Zurich men started off in a boat by way of the Limmat and the Rhine, taking a dish of hot lentils with them. Reaching Strasburg in the evening they placed the dish, still hot, on the mayor's dinner table. A famous poem, "Glückhaft Schiff," describes the event. [40] Well known from Scott's "Anne of Geierstein." [41] For these matters the reader is directed to Freeman's admirable essay on Charles the Bold. [42] The suits of armour, guns, and banners--the suit belonging to Charles's court jester who fell at Morat, is at Soleure--are stored up in the museums of various capitals. The golden seal of Burgundy is at Lucerne, whilst the town library of Zurich possesses the seal of the Great Bastard, brother of Charles. XIX. MEETING AT STANZ, 1481, &C. Grandson, Morat, and Nancy stamped the Eidgenossen as the _enfants gâtés_ of Europe, and as a nation of the highest military standing on the Continent, nay, even as an umpire in continental politics, and a guardian of the peace. Everybody lavished flattering praises on the prowess of the Swiss. Nation after nation made overtures to them--France foremost, Italy, the Pontiff, the Emperor, distant Hungary, and even England, this last desirous of breaking the French alliance. The meetings of the Federal Diet often became brilliant congresses, lasting for weeks, where princes and ambassadors vied with each other in bestowing bounties and favours on the Swiss leaders, in order to secure their aid, deeming themselves invincible if the Swiss fought on their side. The period 1476-1512--from Morat to Marignano--a noble victory and a scarcely less noble defeat, adds another glorious page to the military history of the Swiss League, but the _revers de la medaille_ shows bitter contention and moral decline. In truth, the Burgundian wars closed a glorious epoch, but brought about a baleful change in the face of more noble warfare, for Nancy is linked with that period of mercenary service and foreign pay which became the curse of Switzerland, and which could not be checked even by the grand efforts of the Reformation period. Leaving the foreign wars for the moment let us cast a glance at home matters. It is not necessary to dwell at length on the excesses indulged in by the disbanded soldiers, unoccupied and unaccustomed to regular labour after the Burgundian wars. These things nearly always result from long-continued struggles. More serious danger threatened the League, through the cropping up again of the old antagonism between the country commonwealths and the city states. Disputes arose concerning the distribution of the Burgundian conquests, and the admission of Freiburg and Solothurn, which had solicited the favour, into the federal fold. In the fifteenth century the balance of political power was gradually inclining towards the cities. Zurich, Bern, and Lucerne, had far outstripped the "Länder" in population, wealth, influence, and culture, and in 1481 their forces amounted to 35,000 as against the 15,500 of the other five cantons. They advocated the division of the spoil in proportion to their soldiery, and the reception of their two helpmates in the previous wars by way of reward. But the three Forest States, presuming on their prestige as the primary stock and foundation of the league, and anxious to maintain their position, resisted measures that would throw the weight of power entirely on the opposite side. Their narrow and selfish views and their obstinacy placed the Confederation in jeopardy. Meetings, held to settle differences, only deepened the bitterness. A final Diet was fixed for the 18th of December, 1481, at Stanz (Unterwalden), and the foremost men met to arrange, if possible, a compromise. But high words were exchanged, and when the excitement had reached its height, the pastor of that place, Im Grund, stole away, and proceeded at dead of night to the cave Zum Ranft, in a wilderness near Sachseln. Here he took counsel with Nicholas von der Flüe, the famous hermit, who had dwelt there for the space of twenty years. Mild words and deep thoughts proceeded from the good man, whose love for his country had always been of the strongest. In his earlier days he had served as a soldier and a magistrate, had married, and had had several children born to him. But always given to meditation, he was at the age of fifty-one suddenly filled with religious enthusiasm, and, unable to appease his yearning soul, took leave of his family, and retired into deep seclusion. His commune built him a cell and chapel--still to be seen near Sachseln--on a rock called die Flüe, hence his name. A few planks formed his bed, and his pillow was a log of wood. Stores he needed not, for he lived on roots and wild berries, and the saying went abroad amongst the country folk that he was sustained by the bread of the holy sacrament alone, and ate no other food. The peasants regarded his person with wonder and awe, and though he was seen at times worshipping at Einsiedeln, no man ever saw him on his way to or from that place. The fame of his wisdom spread beyond the boundaries of his own land, and many were the high personages who came to consult his oracle--from all parts of the empire and Italy, envoys from Sigmund and Frederick. But into subtle discussions he never entered, leaving them rather to his priests. "Pure water does not flow through golden pipes, but through pipes of lead," he used to say to those who complained of the dissolute and degenerate lives of the clergy. To this man, then, the good pastor unburdened his mind, and from him received solace and wise words. Then he toiled back to Stanz, December 22nd. Finding the Diet broken up, and the envoys on the point of leaving for their respective homes, he ran to the various hostelries, and with tearful eyes begged the men to return once more. All opposition melted at the name of Bruder Klaus, the envoys reassembled, and listened with thrilled hearts to the profound truths uttered by him. Their jars and differences were settled within the hour, and Freiburg and Solothurn were unanimously admitted into the league. Blessing the memory of the "Peacemaker," the delegates returned home, and the glad tidings of the establishment of concord were everywhere celebrated by the ringing of bells. [Illustration: INNER COURT OF THE ABBEY OF OUR LADY. LUTH CHAPTER OF ZURICH.] Another feature of this memorable day was the signing of the Covenant of Stanz, a series of measures prepared beforehand, but in which Nicholas had no hand. They were levelled chiefly against the excesses and tumultuous risings that were continually taking place in the country cantons, their object being to re-establish order and prevent a repetition of the insubordination, and to set bounds to "the too much freedom in the Länder." Despite the resistance of Schwyz the agreement was ratified, and gradually became part and parcel of the judicial enactments of the Confederation. Breathing as they do the vigorous spirit of Hans Waldmann, the most influential Swiss statesman of his time, these measures were, though wrongly, attributed to him. This Waldmann is indeed the most conspicuous figure in Switzerland in the fifteenth century, and forms a singular contrast to the humble recluse Zum Ranft, for he shared in all the vicissitudes of his times. Full of vital energy, teeming with lofty schemes, his life is a bright picture, darkened however, here and there, by deep shadows thrown by that stirring, luxurious, fast-living epoch, an epoch itself coloured by the Burgundian wars. The career of this remarkable man is a piece of moral, social, and political history, quite worthy of a few moments' notice. A poor peasant boy Waldmann had raised himself to the highest position in the country, that of Burgomaster of Zurich, and head, or king, as he pleased to call it, of the Eidgenossen. The mobile and passionate Zurcher, more than any other members of the league, lend themselves to infatuations, and never do things by halves, whether for good or for evil, to-day hurl down their idol of yesterday, and hand him over to the executioner, so it has been said. A strange career was that of Waldmann. Born in the canton of Zug, about 1436, he wandered in early youth to Zurich to seek his fortune, and at the age of sixteen bought the citizenship there. Apprenticed in various callings he turned at length to the iron trade, but his restless mind being unalterably bent on the battlefield he enlisted as a soldier at the first beat of the drums, and plunged into the impending struggles as captain of the Zurich men, and condottière of German princes. In the intervals of peace he turned again to business, giving himself up at the same time to the pleasures of the town. Young, fiery, handsome, with an intelligent face and winsome manners, he fascinated the women, whilst his eloquence and joviality made him a general favourite with the men, and especially with the masses. Many stories were current as to his adventurous life, and the excesses in which he indulged in company with other young men of the town caused him to be lodged in the Wellenberg, a state prison built in the lake. Yet in that age of dissoluteness such failings did not detract from his personal charm and credit. He married a gay and handsome young widow of good family, and called himself the squire of Dübelstein, from the manor he acquired. This union raised his position in society, and with the help of the Constafel, the body of aristocracy with which he became connected, he hoped to get a position in the Government. But the Junker, or young nobles, treated with disdain the pretensions of a man who had once been a tanner, and accordingly he turned his attention to the craftsmen and guilds, and was returned as councillor by them in 1473. Beneath his exuberant spirits and brawling temper lay the superior gifts of the general and the politician, gifts which the Burgundian wars were to exhibit to the world. From first to last he shared in the campaigns. At Morat we have seen him knighted, and leading the principal charge against Charles the Bold; the recovery of Nancy was chiefly his doing, for he it was who advocated the continuation of the war and the appeal to arms by René of Lorraine, at the Federal Diet. At the council-board and in the federal assemblies he rose to eminence by his political and diplomatic talents, and showed himself to be an astute ambassador. Sent to the French Court to negotiate with Louis XI. respecting Franche Comté, he lent himself to French influences, for his moral principles were by no means equal to his intellectual gifts. He became a pensioner of that same king, who was thus the first to corrupt the Swiss leaders with his gold. In his own city of Zurich, Waldmann filled a series of public offices; as edile he built the fine Wasserkirche, the Pantheon for war trophies, &c. In 1480 we find him occupying a high position as tribune, and head of the guilds, and, three years later, he was chosen Burgomaster. To obtain this last position, however, he had ousted the powerful Chevalier Goldein. He ruled Zurich as a veritable sovereign, head of the republic, and swayed also the foreign policy of the Federation. He dictated terms of peace; to him foreign princes applied for alliance or troops; and on him they showered their favours. He was made Hofrath of Milan, and, becoming a pensioner of Austria, began to lean more towards that country than to France, and rightly so, perhaps. Waldmann rapidly became, in fact, the most influential statesman, and, notwithstanding his extravagant habits, and boundless generosity, the wealthiest of the Eidgenossen. Thanks to his great ascendency Zurich was restored to that pre-eminence in the state which she had forfeited in the civil strife, and which Bern had gained in the time of the Burgundian troubles. Ambitious, and readily bribed, Waldmann still professed lofty views in his home policy and in his administration, and these views he proposed to put into practice by the help of a political club he had founded. This club he placed under the care of twelve influential citizens, who followed his guidance. There was, in truth, a singular charm about his person, and his intellectual gifts commanded the admiration of his whole circle. He intended making some sweeping reforms that were to change the face of the Zurich republic. And he addressed himself first to the nobility, of whom he was no friend. Hitherto the aristocracy and the craftsmen had been equally represented in the government (Kleiner Rath, see Zurich), each having twelve seats (one having dropped away). Waldmann, however, did away with half that number, and supplied their places by men from the Zünfte, or Guilds, who were almost to a man on his side. This not only strengthened his power as dictator, but increased the importance of the democracy generally, whilst it lessened that of the nobility. Nor did he spare the clergy. In 1486 he issued a series of orders against abuses, and compelled Innocent VIII. to give his sanction to them. Waldmann would at times good-humouredly style himself pope and emperor at Zurich. In one of his writs he laments the evil consequences of the Burgundian wars, and of the Reislaufen, mercenary service. Foreign influence was indeed spreading fast; the rich contracted expensive foreign tastes, French and Spanish dress became fashionable, public amusements increased in number, and magnificent family feasts--weddings, baptisms, and the like--grew general among the people of Zurich. Waldmann began to take steps to regulate these extravagant tastes, although he himself did not practise what he preached--going so far as to fix the number of guests to be invited, and the cost of the presents to be given. Public amusements were checked or suppressed, even when of an altogether innocent character. Reding of Schwyz advocated Reislaufen in full. The indefatigable Waldmann extended his writs and orders to the country districts, and, anticipating the views of the sixteenth century, strove for the centralization of power. This was with the hope of strengthening his government, and bringing the detached portions of the country under one general code of laws. For each village had so far its own distinct judicature. Regensberg, for instance, jealously maintained its curious right of indulging in ear-boxing at the cost of five shillings in each case, whereas the same doubtful amusement cost elsewhere double and treble the money. The city Waldmann considered to be the head of the republic, whilst the country parts he looked upon as the less honourable or subject portion of the body politic. The trade and manufacturing industry he monopolized for the town, limiting the country districts to agriculture and the cultivation of the vine. Numberless were the measures of improvement which the bold reformer showered on his country, but many of them were inadvisedly introduced, and the severity with which he carried out his plans alienated all classes, and none more than the nobles. Consequently a conspiracy was formed by the Junker (the Göldli, the Escher, the Meyer von Knonau, &c.), against the Burgomaster, whose manifest opulence gave the lie to his affectation of republican simplicity. But blinded by the flatteries of the crowd and by his own power Waldmann did not see the storm which was rising fast. The ill-advised execution of Theiling of Lucerne, the hero of Giornio, by the orders of Waldmann, whom and whose banner he had insulted in that campaign, turned the tide of popular favour against the ruler of Zurich, although Lucerne, overawed by the powerful Burgomaster did not dare to accuse him. But a more absurd if less iniquitous order was issued by him, and at length caused the tempest to burst forth against him. He seems however to have been urged on by his enemies, who wished to hasten his ruin, and he issued the order most reluctantly. It was to the effect that the country folk were to kill all their large dogs, his plea being that the animals did injury to the vineyards and hunting grounds. The consternation was as great as if Charles the Bold had once more come to life. Some obeyed, but at Knonau five hundred peasants met, and resisted the messengers who had been sent to effect the slaughter. With this example the whole district rose in arms, and, marching on Zurich, demanded admittance, March 4, 1489. It would occupy too much space to give the story of this outbreak; it was stopped for a time, but broke out again on April 1st. Waldmann bent on amusement had actually returned to Baden, a gay watering-place near Zurich, and the rendezvous of the _grand-monde_ of various nations, but he at once rode back to the town with his troop of horses, hoping to check the revolt by his personal influence. But the majority was too strong for him, and surrendering, he was with his adherents rowed off to the Wellenberg tower, where he was placed on the rack, however without anything worthy of death being discovered. Meanwhile the burgesses held a town's meeting in the Wasserkirche; passed sentence of death on him, and hurriedly instituted a government to confirm the verdict. In his last hours Waldmann revealed his nobleness of soul; no bitter accusation against his enemies ever passed his lips; and he never lost heart, for he knew within himself that he had ever aimed at promoting the greatness of the town, and at that only. Had he appealed to the crowds he might have been saved, but he had promised to his confessor that he would make no such appeal, and on his way to the block he merely begged the thousands who had flocked to the bloody spectacle to forgive him and pray with him. The people were moved to tears, but just then a false alarm was spread that an Austrian army was coming to his rescue. This hurried on his doom. He was executed in a meadow on an eminence outside the walls, so that the armed men might be kept out of the town, April 6, 1489. "May God protect thee, my beloved Zurich, and keep thee from all evil!" were the last words of the dying man, as he turned his eyes towards his loved city for a moment before the fatal blow fell. The new government, called the "Horned Council," on account of its incapacity, was for a while unable to stop the revolts, and more executions followed. The "Compromise of Waldmann" (_Waldmann's Spruch_) secured to the city the supremacy over the country districts, whilst it restored to the city itself its old liberties. To ask to be represented on the council had as yet not entered the mind of the country folk. It may perhaps be added that the question is frequently being ventilated in Zurich whether or no a monument shall be erected to Waldmann's memory. Opinion is divided on the subject. [Illustration: ARMS OF UNTERWALDEN.] XX. THE LEAGUE OF THE THIRTEEN CANTONS COMPLETED. (1513.) No traveller visiting the picturesque town of Innsbruck should miss turning into the Hofkirche to inspect one of the most remarkable masterpieces of German art, the imposing monument erected by Maximilian, of Austria to himself. Amongst the numerous magnificent bronze effigies adorning this monument, we find those of Rudolf of Habsburg, Leopold III., who fell at Sempach, Charles the Bold, and many others whose names are familiar to the reader of the "Story of Switzerland." But the grandest figure there is that of Maximilian himself, a personage hardly less interesting to the Switzer, from the part played by that ruler in the separation of Switzerland from the empire.[43] [Illustration: MAXIMILIAN'S MONUMENT AT INNSBRUCK, MARBLE RELIEVI. (_From a Photograph of the Original._)] Maximilian, the son of Frederick III., is the first of a long series of monarchs who regarded their high vocation as a serious trust, and earnestly desired the well-being of the people whom they ruled; and of an empire sadly torn by the dissensions amongst the various factions of prelates, princes, and cities, each of which followed its own special ends, regardless of the welfare of the empire as a whole. Desirous of drawing more closely together the various members of his kingdom, he sought to lighten his hold over the Swiss Confederation, the bonds between which and the empire lapse of time had loosened. He was at the same time hopeful that he might win Switzerland over for his Italian schemes. He first invited, and then ordered the Eidgenossen to acquiesce in the new constitution (1495), and to join the Swabian Bund, a league formed by the nobility and the great cities, under the ægis of Austria. But this sacrifice of their freedom and independence did not at all suit the Swiss, and they flatly refused. They quite realized by this time that their own federal union was a much better guarantee of safety for them than the dubious assistance of party-torn Germany. Moreover they felt that the Reichstag, composed only of aristocratic elements, would ever fail to really represent and promote their republican and democratic interests. And besides, their strongest feelings were arrayed against Austria. The imperial crown had become almost hereditary in the Habsburg family, and to submit to imperial rule meant to the Swiss the loss of all the political freedom and advantages they had gained. Last, but not least, after the double-dealing of Frederick III. in the Burgundian wars, the Swiss could have but little confidence in imperial rulers. The position of the Eidgenossen was indeed much like that of the Americans three hundred years later. They refused allegiance to a government which placed burdens upon them, but in which they had little or no share. Maximilian threatened the Swiss with invasion, whilst his chancellor proposed to bring his pen to bear upon them. But a Swiss envoy replied to the monarch that he would be very ill-advised to start on such a venture, whilst to the chancellor he said, "Why, sir, should we fear your goose quills? We are known not to have feared your Austrian lances." For the first time, perhaps, the Swiss truly realized that they were in a singularly independent position, and needed no foreign support for their protection. The truant child had grown strong and self-reliant, and would certainly decline to give up his dearly-bought and much-cherished freedom. This stout refusal, the great friendship of the Swiss for France--for since the days of St. Jacques they had been slowly drifting to the French side--and their independent bearing, nettled beyond measure their Swabian neighbours. Mutual recriminations and accusations followed, and the desire of both sides for war was intensified by vexatious lawsuits, and by serious troubles in the Grisons. At last the flame burst forth. That "Rocky Island" where three Swiss nationalities mingle peacefully together, afraid of falling beneath the Habsburg sway--for the Austrian and Rhætian lands were still inextricably mixed together--sought shelter with the Eidgenossen as Zugewandte connections (1497 and 1498), the Zehngerichte excepted. The Tyrolese Government, seizing on this occurrence as a pretext, summoned the Swabian League to its aid, and sent troops into the Münsterthal in the absence of the monarch. The Bündner replied by calling in the Confederates, and war was soon raging along the whole line of the Rhine, from Basel to the borders of Voralberg and the Grisons. The deliverance of Rhætia (Graubünden) thus went step by step with the separation of the Swiss League from the empire. This war, called the Swabian war, from the people who took the most prominent part in it, glorious though it was in many ways, cannot be described in detail here. Maximilian was drawn into the struggle, but his troops never entered into the spirit of the enterprise, and were completely routed. No Swiss war has been more fruitful in glorious deeds and acts of self-sacrifice. As an example we may just allude to the noble courage of Benedict Fontana, the chieftain of the Gotteshausbund. He led the charge on the strong fortress deemed impregnable in the narrow valley, An der Calven (Chialavaina), on the Tyrolean frontier. Lacerated by a bullet he nevertheless covered his wounds with one hand, fighting with the other till he fell exhausted, calling to his troops, "Onward, comrades! I count but for one man; to-day we are Rhætians and allies, or nevermore!" Fired by his example, Von Planta and other noble leaders sacrificed themselves; the fort was taken, and the two leagues were rescued from the Austrian grip. The Swabian war had lasted for six months, the Swabians themselves had suffered reverses on ten occasions, whilst in only two cases had the Swiss been repulsed; the German territory beyond the Rhine had been wasted; two thousand villages and castles having been reduced, and twenty thousand of their soldiery killed. No wonder both the contending parties longed for peace, and this was secured by a treaty at Basel, September 22, 1499. The effect was the separation of the Swiss League from the empire, but this was understood rather than officially expressed. The Eidgenossen were released by the emperor from the Reichskamergericht, a step tantamount to acknowledging their independence. One hundred and fifty years later this independence was formally declared at the Peace of Westphalia. For a time, however, many curious anomalies continued; the Swiss still submitted their charters for the sovereign's approval, accepted patents of nobility, and so forth. But the late wars had again won for them the respect and admiration of many of their neighbours. [Illustration: CITY WALLS OF MURTEN.] Admission into the league was now requested by Basel and Schaffhausen, and their request was granted in 1501. Basel ranked as the ninth link of the federal chain, and thus took precedence of Freiburg and Solothurn, in acknowledgment of its high position and great merits. Basel had indeed advanced greatly in prosperity. She had opened her University in 1460; her importance as an emporium was great; and she formed a fitting corner-stone in the West. She gloried in her union with the league and the protection it afforded her; and to show the perfect trust she felt, she dismissed all the guards at her gates, and placed in their stead an old woman with a distaff who, much to the annoyance of the neighbours, used to receive the tolls. Henceforward the Swabians and the Swiss were looked upon as distinct nationalities. Wurtemburg and Bavaria joined in union with the Swiss the very next year, and even Maximilian himself renewed his friendship with the Swiss states. "Could there be a greater compliment paid to the excellence of the Swiss Union," says a German historian, Uhlmann, "than this mark of confidence on the part of Maximilian?" After various refusals, and only after having qualified itself for taking its position, Appenzell was admitted into the federal fold December, 1513, despite the resistance of the Prince Abbot of St. Gall, as a member on equal terms, and the list of the XIII. Orte, or cantons, was complete, and remained closed for three centuries. The Italian wars which follow bear more or less the stamp of mercenary wars, and are interesting chiefly from a military point of view, only the essential points of their story will therefore be touched upon here. It has been shown how the league got a footing in Ticino under the Visconti;[44] and later on the Swiss not only strove to increase their acquisitions in Italy, but played a prominent part in the wars waged by foreign princes and powers which set up pretensions to Naples, Milan, &c. The period of the French invasion of Italy opened in 1494 when the Swiss assisted Charles VIII. of France in the conquest of Naples, which he claimed from the house of Aragon. His successor, Louis XII., took Milan from Ludovico Sforza, surnamed Il Moro, with the aid of the Swiss, promising to cede Bellinzona to the Swiss as a reward for their services. Of the numerous enemies he raised up against himself the bitterest was Pope Julius II., who counted on the help of the Eidgenossen in the task of driving the French from Italy, and the more so as he discovered amongst them a fit instrument for carrying out his schemes. Matthæus Schinner, a priest, was a most remarkable man. Born of the poorest of parents, in the Upper Valais, he had in early life sung in the streets for bread. From this humble origin he had raised himself to the position of Cardinal, and had become an intimate friend of the Pontiff. Having money, indulgences, and power liberally at command, he brought about a five years' alliance between the Papal See and Switzerland. The Swiss readily entered into this agreement, as they had been slighted by Louis, and, moreover, their contract with France had expired in 1510. Spain, England, and other powers, had likewise entered into league with Pope Julius, but his chief supporters were the Swiss. In their march through Lombardy, against the French (1512), Pavia surrendered, and Milan also fell to the victors. Zwingli, the reformer, who had been present in the campaign as camp-preacher, reports that it was curious to see the ambassadors of great powers appearing at the Tagsatzung held at Baden to decide on the fate of Milan, and pleading with the Eidgenossen for a greater or less share of the duchy.[45] Despite all flatteries, the Swiss envoys reinstated Maximilian Sforza in his heritage, and in return for this they received Lugano, Locarno, &c. The attempt of Louis to re-conquer Milan miscarried. His fine army, commanded by the greatest generals of the age, Trémouille and Trivulzio, was defeated at Novara in 1513. This siege surpassed all the Swiss had yet gone through, yet they left open the gates, and in derision hung linen before the breaches. Foreign historians compared this battle with the greatest victories of the Greeks and Romans. The historian, Machiavelli, prophesied that the Swiss would one day acquire the leadership of Italy, but that was not to be, however. [Illustration: FREIBURG CUSTOM-HOUSE.] On the accession of Francis I., that youthful and ambitious prince wished to signalize the opening of his reign by the recovery of Milan. Anxious to have Switzerland neutral he made overtures, which were rejected. But intrigues amongst the Swiss and dissensions among their allies worked in his favour, and Bern, Freiburg, and Solothurn, accepted a peace against the interests of Switzerland, and their men returned home. Cardinal Schinner, strongly averse to the French, by a false report that the enemy was at the gate, brought up in wild haste the Eidgenossen, who had been wavering hitherto. The Swiss followed their leader who was mounted on his horse, his purple cloak streaming in the wind, and came up with the enemy at Marignano (the modern Malegnano) September 13, 1515. A terrific struggle ensued, abating only when the moon went down at midnight. Trivulzio had cut his way through the force with his sword. Bayard, the "Chevalier _sans peur et sans reproche_," for the first time in his life fled. At dawn the Swiss renewed to the attack. Their fortunes fluctuated till noon, when the cries of "San Marco!" announced the approach of the Venetians. These appeared to be about to cut off retreat, and the plain on which the Swiss stood being now under water--for the French had broken down the dykes of the Lambro--the Eidgenossen were compelled to retire. This they did in perfect order, carrying with them their wounded, and retaining their guns and banners. They were, indeed, rather foiled than defeated, and Francis, full of admiration for the Swiss, forbade his troops to pursue. Trivulzio declared that the eighteen battles he had previously witnessed were but child's play to that of Marignano. In the November of the following year (1516) an "eternal peace" was concluded between France and the Swiss, and this drew Switzerland closer to her powerful neighbour. The material results of the war were the acquisition of Ticino (which was admitted a canton in 1805), and of Valtellina and Chiavenna. This defeat was a turning-point in Swiss history, establishing as it did the supremacy of France. The part they had hitherto played in European politics had come to an end, and the ascendency they had so long maintained as a leading military power had been strangely shattered. A decline was clearly inevitable. A few words may be given here respecting the famous monastery of St. Gall. The cloisters of St. Gall shed a bright lustre on Swabian lands during its best period, from 800 to 1050 A.D. This famous religious-house was a centre of art and high culture, and was a blessing to the whole country. We can but allude to some of its famous monks, such as the Notkers, Ekkehard, Rabbert, and so forth; many famous as poets, musicians, savants, historians, and teachers of the very highest rank. In the noted school attached to the monastery there resided and were educated some three hundred sons of the German and Helvetic nobility. The discipline kept up was most severe. A story runs that King Conrad I., on a visit to the institution, wished to put this to the test, and caused to be scattered under the school benches a basketful of fine apples. Not a single scholar touched the fruit, and, to reward them for this very remarkable self-restraint, Conrad gave the youths three holidays. But the number of anecdotes attaching to this magnificent institution is endless. FOOTNOTES: [43] Maximilian, however, lies buried at Wiener (Vienna) Neustadt. The monument at Innsbruck was planned by the emperor himself, though it took some generations to execute the work (1509-83). Twenty of the relievi were the work of Colin of Mecheln, and excited the admiration of Thorwaldsen even. The whole monument is highly interesting from both an artistic and an historical point of view. Among the bronze figures that of King Arthur is the most exquisite, and is by the famous Peter Vischer. [44] See p. 187. [45] "Here you might observe men's disposition," he writes, "caution, and cunning. They strive to puzzle one another with the view of drawing advantage from the confusion. They pretend to one thing, but hope to get another." XXI. THE GREAT COUNCILS; THE LANDSGEMEINDE AND TAGSATZUNG, OR DIET; LITERATURE IN THE HEROIC AGE. Perhaps no better place than this can be found for discussing the constitutional affairs of the enlarged Bund. A description of the _rouage administratif_ of each of the thirteen republics would be far too tedious to the reader, and we shall therefore treat them collectively as far as possible. The cantons naturally split into two divisions, those _à Grand Conseil_, and the cantons _à Landsgemeinde_, the latter including the country republics, the three Waldstätten, Glarus, Appenzell, and Zug. [Illustration: SARNEN, BERN.] We have seen in the case of Zurich how her council sprang into existence and became the chief corner-stone of her constitutional freedom, after she had been for generations dependent on an abbey. In this latter respect Zurich but resembles Lucerne, Solothurn, Geneva, and others, which went through similar phases of development. Bern, however, received the stamp of independence at her very birth--in the very charter of liberties involved in her foundation--and her history ran more smoothly. Her government at once took an aristocratic tinge, a close corporation of dominant families ruling; and in this respect she resembled somewhat mighty Venice. In the eighteenth century these ruling families numbered 360, and kept at arm's length, as it were, the craftsmen, who, however, were not entirely excluded from a share in the government. Vast personal property and additional domains acquired by conquest formed the chief source of the power of Bern, and brought in a great income to the patricians. Rule, domination, statecraft, became the chief concern of the Bernese aristocracy, whilst in Lucerne, Solothurn, and Freiburg, the government was, if possible, still more aristocratic than that of Bern, and in all these cases was presided over by a Schultheiss, or Mayor. In the Zurich republic a more democratic spirit was found, and the inhabitants were given to industrial and intellectual pursuits rather than to rule and conquest. Her trade was considerable, and her constitution had done away with the prerogatives of the nobility. Owing to these things the way was opened for her burghers into the government, and there sprang up an ambition among the craftsmen to rise in the social scale. Zurich is the prototype of the Geneva of the eighteenth century, the two cities greatly resembling each other in their tendencies and movements, religious and political. At Geneva the craftsmen, occupying the _bas de la ville_, by their energy struggled to the _haut de la ville_, or quarter of the privileged classes. All authority was vested in the two councils--the "Grosse Rath," a sort of legislative body numbering one hundred or two hundred members; and the "Kleine Rath," a select committee of the former, consisting of from twenty-five to thirty-six members, in whom rested the executive and judicial power. In the liberal cantons the Burgomaster presided. The Council, however, encroached upon the rights of the people at large, and deprived them of direct influence in the management of affairs. Basel and Schaffhausen followed in the track of Zurich. Genuine democracies represent the cantons _à Landsgemeinde_. The government embodied the will of a sovereign people, and from its very antiquity commands our veneration and deserves special attention. To time immemorial the ancient custom goes back. It was known amongst the Greeks, and we meet with it in the "Volksversammlung" of the early German tribes--the gathering of a whole people around their king to administer justice or decide issues of peace or war. These assemblies sprang up again in the thirteenth century, in the Forest Cantons, but now became political meetings, from the necessity of guarding against a common foe. The rule by Landsgemeinde was adopted by eleven Alpine districts, of which two, Gersau and Urseren, were almost microscopical. Five of these were swept away, Schwyz amongst the number. Of these we shall not speak. Yet the hoary and patriarchal custom still lingers on in some of the secluded Alpine nooks, favoured by the isolation of the place, and the _génie conservateur_ innate in the Alpine folk. Unable, however, to clearly understand the ancient Landsgemeinde except by reference to the present age, we prefer to draw the reader's attention to the living spring, the sacred spot where he can "look face to face on freedom in its purest and most ancient form"--to quote Freeman's fine words--a heart-stirring sight to witness. [Illustration: CITY WALLS OF LUCERNE.] The last Sunday in April is the date usually fixed for the holding of the Landsgemeinde. The gatherings all bear a general resemblance to each other, yet each shows the influence of the locality, the religion, or the industrial pursuits of the people. But whether we see the meeting in Protestant and manufacturing Glarus, in Catholic and conservative Unterwalden, or in picturesque Sarnen, the scene is one never to be forgotten. Dressed in their Sunday best, and wearing the sword, the badge of freedom--so orders the ancient ritual--the ardent burghers flock to the national ring, or forum, to discharge their civic duties. After early morning service, and a grand parade of Landammann and staff, halberdiers, troops, and bands of music, the Landsgemeinde opens at eleven with a religious ceremony. At Trogen the hymn, "All life flows from Thee," is sung by ten thousand voices, and, at the call of the Landammann, the vast crowd falls down in silent prayer. The effect is grand and solemn. An address by the Landammann follows, and then the business of the day is entered upon. The inspection of the yearly accounts, the election of magistrates and officials, amendment of existing laws and the promulgation of new ones, are the chief items on the agenda list. All the officers, from the Landammann himself down to the humblest public servant, are subject to yearly election, though in the case of the chief man re-election usually takes place for many years. There are indeed regular dynasties of Landammanns, so to speak, for the office may remain in the same family for many generations. Assent to a proposal is given by holding up the right hand, and this the crowd does with great eagerness. The list of candidates is drawn up by the Landsgemeinde, but, strange to say, free discussion on proposed reforms and new laws is permitted only at Glarus. The question is discussed beforehand by the Landrath, a legislative body elected by the parish. "De minoribus rebus principes consultant, de majoribus omnes," writes Tacitus of the German Volksgemeinde, and the words apply almost equally well here. The Landsgemeinde is, in fact, the supreme court, which approves or annuls. So recently as the spring of 1888, for instance, Urseren was deprived of its autonomy and joined to the Canton of Uri, by order of the Landsgemeinde. And at Sarnen the revision of the constitution was agreed to at the open and general meeting. The election of the Waibel, or Summoner, gives rise to much amusement, for in him the chief requisite is strength of lungs, he being the mouthpiece of the Landammann. The installation of the Landammann himself is the closing scene, and the most impressive one. Slowly and solemnly he takes the oath of fidelity to the constitution, and the people in return pledge themselves to stand by the leader. With hands uplifted the vast crowd repeats the phrases word by word as they are spoken by the Landammann. This mutual engagement between leader and people--their hearts filled with the sacredness of the moment, and their voices swelling into one grand roll--is almost overwhelming in its touching simplicity and fervour. That the custom has maintained itself with but minor changes through so many centuries answers for the admirable stability of the people, and the suitableness of the _régime_ itself. The common tie that bound together the thirteen autonomous states into one was the Diet or Tagsatzung. It met at one or other of the chief towns--Zurich, Lucerne, Bern, Baden, and so forth. Each canton was, as a rule, allowed one representative, and any one of the cantons could summon a meeting, though this was generally done by the Vorort or _canton directeur_--a position usually held by Zurich--whose member likewise presided. The various cantons joined in the discussions according to their rank and the order of their admission to the league. This will be made clearer by the accompanying list. The Boten, or envoys, not being plenipotentiaries, would post to and fro between their governments and the Diet, to report progress and receive instructions. As the proceedings were in later times committed to writing, we have extant a most valuable series of records called Abschiede (= leave or _congé_). Held at first but once a year, the Diet occasionally met as many as fifty times in the course of the twelvemonth, whilst a single session would last sometimes for several weeks. At one period the meetings became international congresses, at which the most important questions were deliberated. But, in truth, the Diet, down to its extinction in 1848, never again during its long existence exerted the vast influence it had in its brilliant fifteenth-century period. Yet despite its many defects, and its slow and round-about way of doing business, the Tagsatzung worked successfully--far more so indeed than did the German Government. A short sketch of the intellectual and literary life of the heroic period may here be given. It is clear at the outset that an epoch so largely given over to warfare and political progress would not be likely to produce much meditative or reflective poetry. "The clash of arms frightens the Muses," says an old proverb. (An exception must, however, be usually made in the case of the peaceful and sheltered cloister.) Yet this active and stirring period brought forth much national literature. Throughout we find singers who in verse or prose chant the national glory, and no episode of importance is without its poetic chronicle or interpretation; the national enthusiasm vents itself in war-song, in satire, in mock-heroics, or in rhyming chronicle. Wandering poets living on the scanty proceeds of their _lieder_; craftsmen who have taken up the sword; soldiers by profession--these are the bards of the time. Rugged and unpolished sometimes are their verses, for the Middle German is in a transition state, and poetry has long since left courts and descended among the people. In Germany, as everybody knows, had formed the body of the _Meistersinger_. The historical "Folk songs" (_Volkslieder_) are the overflowing of a nation's heart stirred to its depths by the thrilling scenes around it, and they are the true expression of the temper of the time. We need only allude to the songs inspired by Sempach and Naefels, and the fiery song of Morat by Veit Weber, an Alsacian, who fought in the Swiss ranks filled with patriotic enthusiasm. Lucerne, too, has brought forth many poets--Auer, Wick, Viol, Birkes, and others--who sang the glory of the great wars. A song and a play dealing with Tell appeared about this time. Along with the poet the chronicler springs up, and numerous instances of this class are met with. At Bern we find Justinger (1420), the first to draw historical knowledge from the _Volkslieder_, Diebold Schilling (1484), and Anshelm; at Schwyz, John Fründ; at Lucerne, Melchior Russ, Diebold Schilling, the chaplain, whose account of the meeting at Stanz is most trustworthy, Petermann Etterlin, and Nicolas Schradin; at Zurich, Gerold Edlibach, the noble knights Strettlinger of Bern, who wrote the chronicles bearing their name, and the author of the "White Book of Sarnen," complete the list. The "White Book" is much referred to by modern writers. The most brilliant annalist perhaps is Tschudi, of whom mention was made in the chapter on the foundation of the league. Biassed as the writers often are--nothing else can be expected from the times--their records bear witness to the national spirit of the Swiss, and to the intellectual revival taking place. The first Helvetian typography was produced by Albert von Bonnstetten, a Zurich nobleman, and Dean of Einsiedeln, and one of the chief scholars of his age. He gave a trustworthy account of Nicolas von der Flüe, and the Burgundian wars. Another great scholar was his friend Nicolas von Wyl, a nobleman of Aargau. The revival of letters introduced into the subtle scholasticism of the time a world of new thoughts, learning, and refined literary tastes--_humanismus_ as the Germans so expressively call it. Nicolas von Wyl is one of the oldest German-Swiss humanists. He extended the Italian Renaissance to his native soil by his masterly translations of Petrarch, Boccaccio, Poggio, and others. Æneas Sylvius, the elegant poet, novelist, and orator, who rose to the Papal dignity as Pius II., would have had the world forget his fascinating but worldly writings. "Rejicite Æneam, suscipite Pium," was his request. For twenty years Æneas had laboured to bring classical culture to barbarian Germany. His earliest pupil, Von Wyl,[46] became a great favourite at the German courts, and with the literary circle which the highly-cultivated Duchess of Wurtemberg gathered around her. Von Wyl translated some of the Latin works of Felix Malleolus, his friend and benefactor; for instance, his biting satire on the idle Lollards and "Beghards." He died at Zurich. But if the courts and the nobles promoted the growth of the New Learning, the universities were its chief support. That of Basel was opened in 1460, under the auspices of Pius II. (Æneas Sylvius), who granted its foundation charter. It rapidly gathered within its walls some of the brightest minds of the day, amongst whom we need only mention the world-famed Erasmus and Zwingli the reformer. FOOTNOTES: [46] Prof. Bächtold's "Swiss-German Literature." XXII. THE REFORMATION IN GERMAN SWITZERLAND. (1484-1531.) The age of the Renaissance ushered in a century of intellectual revolution, and wrought remarkable changes in art, in science, in literature, in religion, and in every department of human life and energy. The space at our disposal will permit us to touch only on one of these developments, the religious. But the varying history of religious movement well-nigh fills up the sixteenth century. The revival of learning quickened the spirit of the Reformation, though most of the savants disapproved of the movement, as in the case of Erasmus and Glarean, a famous Swiss scholar. But whilst Luther's training was monastic rather than scholarly, and whilst he was, if anything, opposed to the New Learning, the great Swiss reformer was a scholar of the first order, who drew his profound and liberal ideas from his study of the classics. And it is a curious and noteworthy fact that with the spread of letters in Switzerland, there started up on its soil a host of men of parts[47] who, forming a school of disciples, as it were, espoused the cause of their great leader, Zwingli, and promoted it, each in his own canton. This is one peculiarity of the Swiss Reformation. The degeneracy of the Church passed all belief, and was, as every one knows, the primary and chief cause of the Reformation on the Continent; but in Switzerland there was yet another cause, quite as important, which gave an impulse to the movement--the calamitous consequences of the mercenary wars, touched upon in previous chapters. Foreign pay had irresistible attractions for captain and man alike, and the country was constantly being drained of its stoutest arms and bravest hearts. It was difficult to over-estimate the baneful effects of this practice on the national welfare, and, of all the noble men who deplored these results, none felt it like Ulrich Zwingli. An enthusiastic scholar, a gifted preacher, a zealous patriot, and a remarkably able politician, he devoted his life to the work of rescuing his people and country from their moral decline. This he proposed to effect by the working of the Divine Word. Luther left the knotty skein of politics to his princely friends to unravel, but Zwingli, on the contrary, shrank from no political difficulties, encumbrances, or complications. To his clear and far-seeing mind social and political reform was inseparably bound up with religious change and progress. The one would be of but little avail without the other, and the great object of his life became the total regeneration of the commonwealth--church and state both. [Illustration: ULRICH ZWINGLI. (_After Asper._)] Ulrich Zwingli was born at Wildhaus, among the song-loving Toggenburger, in the canton of St. Gall, January 1, 1484. The talented youth was destined for the Church by his father, a highly-respected magistrate, and was sent to school at Basel, and afterwards studied at Bern. Here sprang up his enthusiasm for classical studies under the famous Lupulus, whilst the friars were so struck with his musical talents that they tried hard to keep him in the cloisters. However, in 1500 he left for the University of Vienna, and two years later we find him established as Latin teacher at Basel and a student of the university there. Steeped in the New Learning his attention was now drawn to scriptural studies by the enlightened Wittenbach. At Basel, too, he formed a friendship with the famed Erasmus. Obtaining the degree of _magister philosophiæ_, in 1506, he was nominated pastor at Glarus, and with regret tore himself away from that seat of learning. During his ten years' ministry at Glarus (a Landsgemeinde canton) his natural taste and talent for politics were brought into play. And though he founded a Latin school for clever youths, and pursued his own studies vigorously, and kept up a vast correspondence with Erasmus, Glarean, and other noted scholars, he was no mere pedant or bookworm, but took a profound interest in the political life of that stirring age. Twice he accompanied the men of Glarus on their Italian expedition as field chaplain, but though he naturally rejoiced at the glory their arms acquired, yet his eyes became fully opened to the disastrous results of the mercenary wars. His direct and unsparing attacks on the _Reislaufen_ and foreign pension system roused such a storm against him that he was forced to take refuge at Einsiedeln, 1516. His two years' quiet retreat in the famous abbey afforded him a glimpse of the flagrant abuses rife in the Church. At first he appealed to the dignitaries of the Church to remedy the evils, but at length, driven no doubt by the sight of the superstitions around him, he introduced those sweeping measures of reform which did away with every vestige of Romanism that remained in the evangelical church. Preaching to the thousands who flocked to the wonder-working image of the Virgin, his sermons, full of force, novelty, and pithy eloquence, rapidly spread abroad his fame. He became friendly with other scholars and religious reformers. Rome made him tempting offers with the view of drawing him away from Switzerland and his life-work, but resisting all her persuasion, he accepted a call to Zurich, as _plebanus_ at the Minster, December, 1518. Zurich was the foremost town of the Confederation, but was justly reputed a dissolute city, not unlike the then Geneva. Its enlightened Council saw in Zwingli a spirited leader. His opening sermon, on New Year's Day, 1519, stirred his hearers in a marvellous way, and at once stamped him as an evangelical reformer of no common type. He briefly sketched out the plan by which he proposed to be guided in his future sermons. His subjects would be drawn from the Bible only,[48] especially from the New Testament, and he would follow the guidance of the Holy Spirit, and not human direction. So profound was the impression made by his impassioned and eloquent words that some of the listeners declared him to be a "new Moses who had arisen to save his people from spiritual bondage." The learned Platter writes that during the sermon he "felt himself lifted off the ground by his hair." The very first year of Zwingli's ministry at Zurich, two thousand souls were "saved by the milk of the Holy Gospel." And his practical goodness of heart was attested by his assiduous attention to the sick during the plague of 1519, in which he was himself stricken and brought very near to death. Three hymns composed during this trying time reveal his entire resignation and calm trust in God. Although he fiercely opposed the sale of indulgences there were no thunderings against him from the Vatican, such as were hurled against Luther.[49] The Eidgenossen, being useful to the Papal See, was rather indulged; it was even intimated to the Diet that they should send back from Bern Friar Bernhard Samson, who was preaching with great effect there, should he prove obnoxious. With unflagging zeal and courage Zwingli followed his ideal in politics, viz., to rear a republic on the type of the Greek free states of old, with perfect national independence. Thanks to his influence Zurich in 1521 abolished _Reislaufen_, and the system of foreign pay. This step, however, brought down on the head of Zurich the wrath of the twelve sister republics, which had just signed a military contract with Francis I. Zwingli addressed to Schwyz a "Holy Exhortation" to serve neither Pope nor Emperor; his exhortation, however, served only to increase the number of his political foes.[50] Relying rather on reason than on force, he prepared the way for his reforms with singular moderation and forbearance. It was only in 1522 that he began to launch pamphlets against the abuses in the Church-fasting, celibacy of the clergy, and the like. On the 29th of January, 1523, Zwingli obtained from the Council of Zurich the opening of a public religious discussion in presence of the whole of the clergy of the canton, and representatives of the Bishop of Constance, whose assistance in the debate the Council had invited. In sixty-seven theses remarkable for their penetration and clearness he sketched out his confession of faith and plan of reform, and utterly confounded all objections of his opponents by showing the conformity of his theses with the Holy Scriptures. On the 25th of October, 1523, a second discussion initiated the practical consequences of the reformed doctrine--the abrogation of the mass and image worship. Zwingli's system was virtually that of Calvin, but was conceived in a broader spirit, and carried out later on in a far milder manner by Bullinger. To enter into a full comparison of the two systems would, however, be out of place here. The Council gave the fullest approval to the Reformation. In 1524 Zwingli married Anne Reinhard, the widow of a Zurich nobleman (Meyer von Knonau), and so discarded the practice of celibacy obtaining amongst priests. She made him an excellent wife and help-mate, and bore him four children. The reformer's skill in music was often brought to bear on his children when they were inclined to be unruly; he would soothe them into peace and quietness by his performances on the lute or other instrument. To his stepson Gerald Meyer he was an excellent father. Tall, with grave but winning features, with a kind and generous heart and winning manner, Zwingli's personality was most fascinating. A scholar but no pedant, a plain but vigorous speaker, of sound and practical judgment, with vast stores of learning, and an unusual elevation of mind, he was also broadminded and compassionate. It may be mentioned that he provided on Ufenau Island in Zurich lake a last asylum for Ulrich von Hutten, who had been rejected by Erasmus and driven from Germany. In 1524 Zwingli began to effect the most sweeping changes with the view of overthrowing the whole fabric of mediæval superstition. In the direction of reform he went far beyond Luther, who had retained oral confession, altar pictures, &c. The introduction of his reforms in Zurich called forth but little opposition. True, there were the risings of the Anabaptists but these were the same everywhere, and the revolt of the peasants was a general feature of the time.[51] Pictures and images were removed from the churches, under government direction, and nothing was left to distract men's attention, for Zwingli aimed at the re-establishment of the primitive Christianity in its pure, simple, and biblical form. The Holy Scriptures, expounded by the elect ministers of God, were to be men's highest guide and support. At the Landgemeinden,[52] called for the purpose, the people gave an enthusiastic assent to his doctrines, and declared themselves ready "to die for the gospel truth." Thus a national Church was established, severed from the diocese of Constance, and placed under the control of the Council of Zurich and a clerical synod. The convents were turned into schools, hospitals, and poor-houses. The famous Chorherrenstift, founded by the Carolingians, was turned into a University College, continuing to be called the Carolinum. This lasted till 1832, when it was formed into the University and Gymnasium of our own days. Zwingli was elected rector, and lectured on theology. He was also devoted to the study of Greek, and on New Year's Day, 1531, had a splendid performance of one of the plays of Aristophanes, for which he himself wrote the accompanying music, grave statesmen joining the professors and students in the representation. Zwingli was now, indeed, the idol of the people, and wielded the sceptre in his little state. Under him Zurich became a centre of learning and religious enlightenment, and its influence spread over other Swiss lands, South Germany and elsewhere. The reformed faith penetrated, but only gradually, into the northern and eastern cantons. Bern was reached in 1528, after a brilliant disputation held in that city. Basel and Schaffhausen followed in 1529, and then St. Gall, Appenzell, Graubünden, and Solothurn, though some of them had serious struggles within themselves and fell in only partly with the reforms. But in the Central or Forest Cantons it was that the fiercest opposition was encountered. Many things combined to produce this result. In the first place, the district was a very stronghold of Catholic and Conservative feeling, and religion was entwined with the fond memories of a glorious past. From the very simplicity of their lives the people ignored the degeneracy of the priesthood, and amongst these pastoral peoples the priests were of simpler manners and more moral life than those in the cities; they disliked learning and enlightenment. Then there was the old feeling of antipathy to the cities, coupled with a strong dislike for the reforms which had abolished _Reislaufen_, that standing source of income to the cantons. Lucerne, bought with French gold, struggled with Zurich for the lead. So far was the opposition carried that the Catholic districts by a majority of votes insisted (at the Diet) on a measure for suppressing heresy in Zurich, whilst some were for expelling that canton from the league. The Forest Cantons issued orders that Zwingli should be seized should he be found within their territories; consequently he kept away from the great convocation at Baden, 1526. Serious collisions arose, but it is impossible to dwell on them here. Wider and wider grew the chasm between the two religious parties, and Zwingli at length formed a "Christian League" between the Swiss Protestants and some of the German cities and the Elector of Hesse. On the other hand, the Catholics entered into an alliance with Ferdinand of Austria, a determined enemy to the reformed religion. At last the Protestant party was exasperated beyond bearing, and Zurich declared war on the Forest Cantons, Zwingli himself joining in the vicissitudes of the campaign. His camp presented the "picture of a well-organized, God-fearing army of a truly Puritan stamp." The encounter at Kappel, in June, 1529, however, took a peaceful turn, thanks to the mediation of Landammann Aebli, of Glarus, greatly to the disgust of Zwingli, who prophetically exclaimed that some day the Catholics would be the stronger party, and then they would not show so much moderation. All ill-feeling, indeed, subsided when the two armies came within sight of each other. The curious and touching episode known as the _Kappeler Milchsuppe_ took place here. A band of jolly Catholics had got hold of a large bowl of milk, but lacking bread they placed it on the boundary line between Zug and Zurich. At once a group of Zurich men turned up with some loaves, and presently the whole party fell to eating the _Milchsuppe_ right merrily. A peace was concluded on the 29th of June, 1529, by which the Austrian League was dissolved, and freedom of worship granted to all. Zwingli's closing years were devoted to vast schemes of European policy. With the view of forming a strong alliance of the Swiss Protestants with foreign powers favouring the reformed faith, and in opposition to the emperor Charles V., he entered into negotiations with France, with some of the German states, with the Venetian republic, and others. His plans were too bold and sweeping to be practical, and came to nought. His relations with Luther claim special attention, however. By his treatise, "De verâ et falsâ religione" (1525), Zwingli had, though unwillingly, thrown the gauntlet into the Wittenberg camp. The work was intended to be a scientific refutation of the Catholic doctrine of transubstantiation, and a war of words arose. The contest was by each disputant carried on _suo more_ by Luther with his usual authoritative and tempestuous vehemence, by Zwingli in his own cool reasoning, dignified, and courteous style and republican frankness. Presently there came a strong desire for a union between the German _Protestants_, and the Swiss _Reformers_--the two were thus distinguished--the impulse to it being given by Charles V.'s "Protest" against the Protestants. Landgrave Philip of Hesse, the political leader of the German reformers, invited Luther and Zwingli to meet at his castle of Marburg, with the view of reconciling the two sections. The religious _colloquium_ was attended by many savants, princes, nobles, and all the chief leaders of the Reformation, and might have done great things, but came to grief through the obstinacy of Luther, as is well known, or rather through his determination to approve of no man's views except they should agree exactly with his own. Luther insisted on a literal interpretation of the words "This is my body," whilst Zwingli saw in them only a metaphorical or symbolical signification. Zwingli's logic and cool, clear reasoning were acknowledged to be superior to those of his opponent, but Luther demanded complete submission. The conference, in short, resulted in nothing, and nearly ended in an open rupture between the two leaders. Zwingli extended his hand in token of friendship and goodwill, but Luther refused it. The truth was the two men looked at the matter from quite different points of view. With Luther religion was almost wholly a thing of a mystic basis, a creed of the heart--of feeling--whilst Zwingli, required his reason to be satisfied. The one wrestled in agony of soul with the spirits of darkness; the other looked to the Divine, all-embracing love under which all creation rests in trust and happiness, and under which all men are brothers, children of one all-kind Father. To return for a moment to home politics. The peace of 1529 was a short-lived one. Zwingli anxious only to spread the reformed faith over the whole republic did not realize clearly the hatred of the Forest district against the new creed. Then there were faults on both sides--the Zwinglian party and the Waldstätten--but the history of them is too long and too trifling to be given here. Not the least of the mistakes, however, was made by Zwingli himself, in claiming well-nigh absolute power for the two chief reformed cities, Zurich and Bern. Again, the refusal of the Waldstätten to assist Graubünden against an Italian invasion was looked upon with grave suspicion, and caused much ill-feeling against them. War was imminent, and was indeed eagerly desired on _both_ sides. Bern, finding that war was likely to be injurious to her private ends insisted on a stoppage of mercantile traffic between the opposing districts,[53] but Zwingli scorned to use such a means to hunger the enemy and so bring them to submit. However Zurich was outvoted in the Christian League (May 16th), and the Forest was excluded from the markets of that city and Bern. The rest may be easily guessed. On Zurich was turned all the fury of the famished Forest men, and they sent a challenge in October, 1531. A second time the hostile armies met at Kappel, but the positions were reversed. Zurich was unprepared to meet a foe four times as numerous as her own, and Bern hesitated to come to her aid. However Göldlin, the captain of the little force, recklessly engaged with the opposing army, whether from treachery or incapacity is not known, but he was certainly opposed to the reformed faith. Zwingli had taken leave of his friend Bullinger, as though foreseeing his own death in the coming struggle, and had joined the Zurich force. He was with the chief banner, and, with some five hundred of his overmatched comrades, fell in the thickest of the battle. Amongst the slain were most of the foremost men of the city, councillors, clergy, Zwingli's friends and relations. Amongst these last was his beloved stepson who had been fighting by his side. A canon of Zug, seeing Zwingli's body, burst into tears, crying, "Whatever thy faith, I know thou hast been a brave Eidgenosse." According to the barbarous custom of the time the body was quartered, then burnt, and scattered to the winds. And the terrible disaster which befell Zurich was followed soon after by another. But the reformation was far too deeply rooted to be thus destroyed. Bullinger, the friend of Zwingli, and, later on, of Calvin, worthily succeeded to the headship of the Zurich reformers. Keeping clear of politics, for which he had no propensity, he concentrated his attention on the perfecting of the Zwinglian ecclesiastical system; working for strict morality without narrowness of mind, for national independence, for inquiring after light and truth, and for true piety combined with benevolence and charity. Zwingli had made mistakes of policy, but his devotion to his cause, his self-abnegation, and his tragic death, made full reparation for them. At Solothurn Catholicism again got the upper hand, and the reformers had to leave. Intestine feuds were breaking out, and indeed the first shot had actually been fired, when the noble-minded Schultheiss, Nicolas von Wengi, a Catholic, threw himself before the mouth of a cannon, and exclaimed, "If the blood of the burghers is to be spent, let mine be the first!" Wengi's party at once desisted from the attack, and matters were settled amicably. FOOTNOTES: [47] A mere list of names must suffice:--Lupulus, Wittenbach, Oecolompad, Vadian, Oeconomius, Collin, Myconius, Pellikan Platter, Glarean (the poet laureate crowned with the wreath by the Emperor Max). The savants at that time were wont to latinize their names in their enthusiasm for the classics. [48] It is necessary to bear in mind that at that time the Bible was well-nigh an unknown book to the common people. There were even to be found priests who neither possessed a copy of the Scriptures nor could have read it if they had. [49] On such good terms with the Pontiff was Zwingli that one of the Papal Legates sent his own doctor to attend him. [50] "It is meet that cardinals should wear red cloaks and hats," to quote one passage from the Exhortation; "if you shake them they drop crowns and ducats, but if you wring them there flows forth the blood of your fathers, your sons, and your brothers." [51] In Germany similar revolts took place, but Luther took no pains to appease the peasantry. [52] Landgemeinden or gatherings of the parishes, a mode of appealing to the people which became the prototype of the modern Referendum. [53] Traffic absolutely necessary to the Forest Cantons for supplying provisions. XXIII. THE REFORMATION IN WEST SWITZERLAND. (1530-1536.) The history of French Switzerland has not yet been touched upon, and that for good reasons. It is difficult to realize that down even to the sixteenth century the French Swiss were still languishing under the ancient forms of feudalism, and this at a time when their German brethren had long been enjoying the blessings of national independence, and had filled the world with their military renown. But, in truth, the French were slow to awaken to republican freedom, and looked to East Switzerland rather than to themselves for deliverance from political bondage. It is a remarkable fact that the Reformation was made but with the assistance of those skilled statesmen, the Bernese, the connecting link between the eastern portions of Switzerland and the isolated west. That Bern rightly calculated on benefiting by this junction is well known. [Illustration: MINSTER, BERN. (_From a Photograph._)] Before passing to the Reformation itself, however, we must give a slight sketch of the political condition at that time of Vaud and Geneva, with which alone we have here any concern. Neuchâtel still remained in reality a separate principality, though temporarily (1512-1529) under Swiss rule. Vaud had in its time seen many masters which may perhaps account for its backwardness in adopting home rule. Its natural beauty and enjoyable climate have made it coveted at all times, in ancient, in mediæval, and, as we shall see, even in modern times. At first a scene of turmoil and tumult caused by the quarrels of its powerful nobles, it sank beneath the sceptre of Savoy, Peter, the eminent prince of Savoy--surnamed the "Petit Charlemagne"--having succeeded in establishing his authority over the native nobility. Once joined to Savoy, the fortunes of Vaud naturally depended on those of the Savoy dynasty. Peter attempted to annex the bishopric of Lausanne, but failing, Vaud was torn asunder, and there existed side by side a spiritual and a temporal lordship. Of the two portions that under ecclesiastical sway enjoyed the less liberty. Lausanne was a place much frequented by pilgrims, and was a mart for indulgences, but it possessed not a vestige of autonomy. It lay "dormant at the base of its many churches." When in the fifteenth century the power of the House of Savoy declined, the Vaud country speedily fell into a condition of anarchy, the nobility at daggers drawn against the burghers, and the mountain-dwellers at deadly variance with the vine-tillers of the plain. But early in the sixteenth century Lausanne was stirred from its lethargy by the attempts of Charles III. of Savoy to obtain the overlordship of the city. Thus threatened, and torn by intestine quarrels, Vaud in its helplessness seemed to invite the interference of Bern in this affair, and that city on its part was only too glad of an occasion of interfering. Geneva was Vaud's companion in trouble, threatened by similar dangers, and torn by similar struggles. Here also the bishop was lord-paramount, but in this case the stout-hearted burghers had wrested from him a considerable amount of self-rule. Its inveterate enemy, too, was the Duke of Savoy. But the men of Geneva loved independence far too much to submit quietly to hostile aggressiveness and encroachment; for centuries even they had kept at bay the designing nobility. Yet at one time the Duke of Savoy had arrogated to himself the rights of vicedom, that is, temporal justice of the bishop as his vassal. Possessing thus temporal jurisdiction, _nomine episcopi_, over the city, he was anxious to annex it altogether. Geneva was almost entirely surrounded by Savoy territory. In the end Savoy arrogated to itself the right of appointing to the see, and its nominees were, it is needless to say, always members of its own house. Boys of twelve or fourteen, bastard sons even, were not unfrequently raised to the episcopal dignity. This did not add to the peacefulness of the district, and the adherents of the respective Savoy and Geneva factions went about armed to the teeth. The accession of Charles III. in 1504 opened for Geneva a period of struggle. Anxious to maintain its freedom against a crafty and malignant prince, and his creature, the base-born bishop, the city split into two parties, the patriotic _Eidguenots_, so called from their relying for assistance on the Swiss Confederation, and the Savoyards, who were nicknamed the Mamelukes (knaves). Something like half the population were Savoyards by birth. Among the patriot party we find the "Children of Geneva," a gay and somewhat noisy band of patriotic enthusiasts, who loved fighting and did not fear death. At the head stood Thilibert the witty hotspur, François Bonivard, Prior of St. Victor, and a noteworthy Geneva chronicler, and Hugues Besançon, a clever statesman, and the father and deliverer of his country. When Charles required the Genevans to do homage they refused, answering sturdily that "Geneva would rather go begging and be free." In 1519, during his sojourn in the city, Charles punished with terrible rigour this bold stand for freedom; all were cowed into submission except Berthelier, who scorned to "bend to a man who was not his master." His head was one of the first to fall. But executions of one kind or another were soon of almost daily occurrence during Charles's stay. Four years later Charles and his beautiful bride, Beatrix entered Geneva with great pomp, and the princess even remained for the birth of her first-born. Charles desired the city to become accustomed to royal splendour, and to feel real sympathy for a native sovereign. But all his plans failed. By his eloquence and patriotism Hugues melted the hearts of the men of Freiburg, and succeeded in persuading them as well as the people of Bern to make an alliance with his own city. This alliance checkmated the plans of Savoy. But the success of the Genevans excited the jealousy of the "Ladle Squires." This curious nickname was given to an extraordinary band of the gentry and nobility living around Geneva. They met at a most frugal supper, and vowed the destruction of the city. A dish of rice was being served by the duke with a large spoon or ladle when one of the guests suddenly brandishing the implement fiercely exclaimed, "With this I shall swallow Geneva!" By an oath the men assembled bound themselves to seek the destruction of the obnoxious city, and hung their ladles round their necks in token of adherence. These "Seigneurs de la Cuiller," though unable to carry out their design, were yet able to work much mischief to Geneva, by cutting it off from the necessaries of life, and by keeping up a desultory but none the less harassing warfare against it. More than this, Bonivard was by order of the duke ousted from his living, and thrown into the castle of Chillon, in 1530.[54] In this same year, however, a new attack on the part of Savoy was checked by Bern and Freiburg, and Charles was forced to sign the treaty of St. Julien, guaranteeing the independence and freedom from molestation of Geneva. It was stipulated that should the treaty be violated by Savoy it should forfeit Vaud to Bern. About this time Bern ventured on the introduction of the reformed faith into French Switzerland, hoping thereby to deepen her interest in that quarter. She found a suitable instrument in the person of Guillaume Farel, a fiery Frenchman from Dauphiné. The most intrepid and daring of champions of the gospel, he had fled from his native soil to Switzerland to avoid religious persecution, and had been expelled from Basel for his fanaticism. Supported by "Leurs excellences les Messieurs de Berne," as the government of that city was styled, he wandered about as an itinerant reformer, visiting Vaud and Neuchâtel. Through his efforts the latter canton adopted Zwingli's doctrines, in 1530, Vaud obstinately refusing the reformation, except in that portion of the district subject to Bern. Farel's preaching always excited the mob, and his harangues generally ended in a scuffle. He would often stop a priest on the road and fling into the river the host or the relics he carried. He had even been known to burst into a church during mass, and inveigh against Antichrist from the pulpit. Buffetings and prison alike failed to stop his efforts, for rough though his manner of controversy was, he was yet deeply in earnest. Going to Geneva, in 1532, his very name so stirred the Catholics there that he was obliged to flee for his life. The Protestant party in the city were strong and well organised, and they counted on the assistance of Bern, and that important state, anxious to convert the whole west, if possible, threatened Geneva with her displeasure should Farel not be favourably received. Thus Geneva was suddenly called upon to decide between the friendship of Bern, and that of Freiburg, where the Catholic party was dominant. Fear of Savoy decided Geneva in favour of Bern, which certainly was a more powerful ally than Freiburg. Furbity, an eloquent priest, who had been chosen to controvert the reformers' teachings, was to be discharged, and Farel, Fromment (another Frenchman), and Viret, a very able Vaudois, one of Farel's disciples, were established at Geneva, in 1534, by the desire of Bern. The new faith rapidly spread, and fresh attacks on the part of Savoy against Geneva only served to promote its extension. A religious discussion arranged by Bern, and conducted (on the reformed side) by Farel, took place at Geneva, in 1535, and resulted in the full establishment of the Zwinglian doctrine in that city. During the disputations an embassy from the Bernese attended the city council to make known the will of the ruling state, much after the manner of the proud and austere Roman senators of old. But neither the ousted Catholics nor Savoy was inclined to submit tamely to this state of things. Geneva was a perfect hotbed of dissension. Duke Charles laid siege to the city, both by land and by water. A sudden change in French politics prompted Bern to show more active energy than it had lately shown. Two claimants for the Duchy of Milan appeared, Francis I. and the Emperor Charles V. To facilitate its conquest the former also planned the annexation of Savoy, intending to include Geneva as the key to Rhone valley. Bern thus seeing threatened the safety of a city which it was itself coveting, declared war on Savoy, and marched six thousand men into the Vaud country. The pretext set up by Bern was that Savoy had violated the treaty of St. Julien. Vaud was seized without striking a blow, and portions of Savoy, Gex, and Chablais, were annexed. In great triumph the Bernese army entered Geneva, but fear of France, and the proud and noble bearing of the Genevese, prevented the Bernese from attempting to put into execution any plans they might have had for annexing the republic. It was in this campaign that Bonivard was rescued. Great was the disappointment of Vaud to find that it had only changed masters; had been rescued from the grasp of Savoy to fall beneath the sway of Bern, though the latter master was certainly in every way superior to the former. It will be well understood that this treatment on the part of Bern would later on give rise to serious troubles. Indeed to this day Vaud bears a grudge against her former master. However the powerful canton set up order and discipline in the disorganized district of Vaud, and gave it the _cachet_ of its exemplary administration. It was divided into governmental districts and managed by eight Bernese landvögte. It agrees with the laws of Bern though its local administration was left it. Every effort was made to establish the reformed faith, and a disputation was held at Lausanne. In this Calvin took a part, but not a prominent one. The result was, however, the downfall of Catholicism in the district, deeply-rooted though it had been. Schools were established, and the Academy was founded by Bern. In this way the French position of the country was cemented to the eastern half. It was not till the Great Revolution that the prerogatives of the governing cantons were shaken, the immense wealth of the cathedral of Lausanne went to fill the state coffers of Bern, and the funds of the various churches were left to provide schools. FOOTNOTES: [54] For a fuller account of Bonivard the reader is referred to Marc-Monnier's "Genève et ses poètes." It is of course well known that though Bonivard's adventures suggested the idea of Byron's beautiful "Prisoner of Chillon," the story in the poem is almost entirely fictitious. In truth, Bonivard was liberated by Bern in 1536, and set himself to write the annals of his city of Geneva. He was married no fewer than four times. He seems to have been frequently cited before the Consistory for gambling and other like offences. XXIV. GENEVA AND CALVIN. (1536-1564.) Political and religious changes had brought about in Geneva a confusion which Farel felt himself incapable of lessening. By vehement intreaties, therefore, and even by threats, he induced Calvin to join him in his missionary work, Calvin being already known to the world as the author of "Institutio Christianæ Religionis," a work that fell on men like a revelation. John Calvin, or Cauvin, was born at Noyon, in Picardy, in 1509, and was a northern Frenchman of superior intelligence and learning, but of a gloomy, austere disposition, with a large admixture of fatalism in his views. Destined for the Church, he studied in Paris at the early age of thirteen, but by his father's wish he changed his intention, and applied himself to the study of law, at Orleans and Bourges. To these latter studies he owed that wonderful facility in systematic reasoning which is so noticeable in his writings. But the death of his parent in 1531 brought Calvin once more to Paris, where he speedily found himself drawn into the new religious movement which was winning its way in France. Profound theological researches and severe inward struggles caused his conversion to the reformed faith, in the following year. In 1535 we find him at Basel, whither he had retired to escape further persecution on account of his extreme views. Here he published his "Christianæ Religionis Institutio," which is his most celebrated work, and which has shed undying lustre on his name. Fascinating by its profound learning, its unflinching logic, and its wonderful fervour, the book became at once a general favourite, and was translated into all the civilized tongues. It is not necessary to do more than place before the reader one or two essential features of this great work. It is of mathematical exactness, and is the very base and foundation of his remarkable religious system, while it likewise maps out his scheme of reformation. This scheme was based on the doctrine of predestination, a doctrine Calvin had embraced with eagerness. Predestination was indeed with him a religious axiom, a self-evident truth which neither needed proof nor admitted of dispute, and he made it the corner-stone of his new religious system. His theory was that, of men all equally guilty _a priori_, some had from the beginning of the world been destined by God for eternal happiness, others for eternal perdition. Who were the elect and who the rejected was left an open question. However incompatible with humane feeling, however irreconcilable with the doctrine of the redemption, this belief might be thought by many, it yet sufficed for the eager minds of the sixteenth century, earnestly seeking as they were some practicable and, as it were, palpable, faith. Whatever the objections to the doctrine, it was on this that the Calvinistic Church was built, and by its spirit that that Church was swayed. It was in 1536 that Calvin settled in Geneva. With Farel he undertook the reorganization of the Church on the lines marked out in his "Institutes," entirely sweeping away previous reforms. A "confession of faith" was drawn up and subscribed to by the people, and a new Church constitution was adopted which involved the establishment of a Church censorship, or rather a Church police. The rigorous discipline enforced, however, clashed with the Genevans' notions of present freedom, and the civil magistrates stoutly contested the right of the pulpit to find fault with the secular government, or interfere in the public administration. For the Genevese were a gay and pleasure-loving people, and they were moreover boisterous, undisciplined, and fond of disputation. A bold stand was made against the "Popery on Leman Lake," by the national party. The spirit of opposition was quickened by the disappointment of Bern at the overthrow of her reformation movement and ritual,[55] and the immigration of French refugees who strengthened Calvin's party. Bickerings, disorderly scenes, riots, both inside and outside the churches, followed, and the direct disobedience of Calvin and Farel to a civil decree of suspension prompted the government to pass sentence of banishment against them in 1538. Amidst the revilings and hootings of the mob they quitted Geneva, Farel going to Neuchâtel, where he remained till his death in 1565, and Calvin to Strasburg. In this more tolerant German city he came into daily contact with the workings of the Lutheran and Zwinglian professions. He attempted to mediate between them with the view of reconciling their opposing views on the Eucharist, but failed. He admired Melanchthon, but considered that his temporizing measures resulted in laxity of discipline. He was grieved, too, by the little regard shown to the clergy, and by their dependence on the courts, and the contemplation of all this served to confirm him in his own views. He never lost sight of the aim of his life--to make the Genevan Church, which he loved as his own soul, the rallying point for his persecuted countrymen. His plans were greatly favoured by several circumstances: the quarrels convulsing Geneva during his exile, and the incapacity of the new ministry there; above all, the well-founded dread of Bern's supremacy. This fear brought into existence the party nicknamed the Guillermins, from Guillaume Farel, which literally drove the Genevans into the fold of Calvinism. Yet Calvin at first hesitated to return. "Why should I replunge into that yawning gulf," he writes to Farel, "seeing that I dislike the temper of the Genevese, and that they cannot get used to me?" But believing himself called by God, he yielded, and, amidst acclamations and rejoicings, he was welcomed back to the city in 1541. Speaking roughly Calvin began his reforms where Luther and Zwingli had stopped; they had broken the ice for him, and shown him the way. He demanded implicit and unquestioning obedience to the Divine Word, for human reason, he said, was "as smoke in the sight of God." His aim was to found a kingdom of God in the spirit of the ancient prophets, and ruled by equally rigorous laws. Excluding the people from direct control in church matters, he lodged the chief authority in the clergy, a class which was also to have the preponderance in the state. By skilful organization he established a theocracy with strong aristocratic leanings, the democratic element being almost entirely excluded. Geneva became indeed "the city of the spirit of stoicism, built on the rock of predestination." But the most curious institution of the Calvinistic Church was the _Consistoire_, a body of twelve chosen from the oldest councillors and the city clergy, Calvin himself being usually at the head. This tribunal was 01 authority in spiritual and moral, and in public and private, matters alike. Calvin's intention was to change the sinful city into a sanctified city--a "city of God." The members of the Consistoire had power to enter private houses, and to regulate even the smallest concerns of life, and they admonished or punished offenders as they thought fit. Even the most trivial matters came within its ken; it prescribed the fashions, even down to the colour of a dress, and fixed the _menus_ of the table, not less than it enforced attendance at religious worship. The table was by no means profusely supplied either, only one dish of meat and one of vegetables being allowed, and no pastry, and only native wine. We find girls cited before the Consistoire for skating, a man for sniffing in church, two others for talking business when leaving church. Every now and then Bonivard was brought up for card playing, and other disorderly deeds. A hairdresser adorning a lady's hair, together with the friends present, was sent to gaol. To the Genevans theatre-going was the chief occupation in life, but nevertheless theatrical performances were suspended, and remained so till shortly before the advent of Voltaire, who, indeed, gloried in leading back the strait-laced Genevans to worldliness and pleasure. But not only was the theatre forbidden, but likewise dancing, games, and music, except psalm-singing. No wonder the Muses left Geneva! Objects of art, and even those of home comfort, were objected to by iconoclasts like Calvin. The once gay Geneva sank into a dull, narrow-minded city of the true Puritan type. Indeed, as is well known, she furnished the pattern for later Puritanism. The Consistoire reserved to itself the right of excommunication, that is, of exclusion from the Communion, though secular or physical punishments were left to the Council. The criminal history of the Genevan Republic reflects the temper of the time, and the spirit of the ecclesiastical leaders. Vice was mercilessly punished, and drunkenness, blasphemy, and unbelief were put in the same category with murder. One reads with dismay of the state of terrorism prevailing during the plague raging about the middle of the century. Superstition was rife and increasing, and every kind of torture was used to extort confessions from accused persons. Whilst the plague was at its worst the sword, the gallows, the stake were equally busy. The jailor asserted that his prisons were filled to excess, and the executioner complained that his arms were tired. Within a period of three years there were passed fifty-eight sentences of death, seventy-six of banishment, and eight to nine thousand of imprisonment, on those whose crime was infringement of the Church statutes. Offences against himself personally Calvin treated as blasphemy, as he identified himself with the prophets of old. Strange as this assertion is, it can be supported. A single instance will suffice. One Pierre Amieaux, a councillor, had once in company spoken of Calvin as a bad man. This the reformer declared to be blasphemy, and refused to preach again till satisfaction was done to him.[56] In such manner was Geneva forced into obedience. However, there was one powerful check on Calvin's progress, viz., the efforts of the national party, the "Children of Geneva," as they called themselves, or the "Libertines," as their opponents nicknamed them.[57] An excellent way of neutralizing the influence of these, Calvin tells his friend Bullinger, at Zurich, was to expel the natives and admit French _emigrés_ to the Genevan citizenship. "The dogs are barking at me on all sides," he complains to the same friend, and now and then he made a clean sweep of his adversaries. The Genevans naturally looked with disfavour on Calvin's policy, objecting to the French refugees not so much from ill will as from a natural dislike to leaving a city to which they were so devotedly attached, and seeing the positions of honour and influence taken up by the strangers. At last, exasperated beyond measure by the admission of a fresh batch of refugees, the Libertines attempted a _coup de main_ on the Calvin government, May, 1555. The attempt miscarried, and the ringleaders were put to death or imprisoned, and most of the rank and file expelled from the city. To fill the great gaps thus caused, three hundred and fifty-nine French families were admitted gradually to the citizenship, and in this way within a few years the population increased from thirteen thousand to twenty thousand. Such high-handed proceedings--wholesale proscriptions one might call them--caused the wheels to run smoothly enough, and Calvin was now completely master of the situation. The imprisonment and burning of Servetus for denying the doctrine of the Trinity once more ruffled the smooth surface of affairs, yet helped if possible to increase Calvin's prestige and influence. Every one knows of the endless discussions that have since taken place as to Calvin's part in putting to death the learned and unfortunate Spaniard. But Calvin's own defence would seem to show that it was he who was chiefly the leader in the matter.[58] His pre-eminence now fully established and acknowledged, Calvin founded the Academy, in 1559, in order to provide ministers for the reformed churches generally. Learned French _emigrés_ were appointed to the professorships, and Theodore de Bèze (Beza) was made rector, and the institution became the glory of the city. From all parts sympathizers flocked to Geneva--Italians, English,[59] Spanish, Germans, mostly French and Italians, however--and churches to suit the different nationalities sprang up. On Leman Lake they found another Rome, and another inspired and infallible Pope, albeit a Protestant Pope. At the first view of the sacred city they sank on their knees and sang songs of joy and praise, as if they had sighted a new Jerusalem. Wittenberg had witnessed similar scenes. No fewer than thirteen hundred French and three hundred Italian families had made Geneva their second home, and men of the greatest mark had settled there temporarily or for good. Missionaries went to France to rally and strengthen the Huguenots, and some two thousand communes were converted to the new faith. Religious champions, like the intrepid John Knox, Peter Martyr, Marnix (de St. Aldegonde), went to Scotland, England, or the Netherlands, to advance the cause of Calvinism. To Geneva as their mother church may look Puritans and Presbyterians. Calvinism but little affected Switzerland at large during the lifetime of its founder. Its absolutism and narrowness clashed with the milder and more advanced, and, if one may say so, more ideal views of the Zwinglian system. It was due to the conciliatory spirit of Bullinger and to his noble efforts that the Churches of Zurich and Geneva--while other countries were distracted with religious differences--drew together as friends, and that their doctrines were blended in official "confessions" of faith. Viret's attempts to plant Calvinism in Vaud failed, as did those of Farel in Neuchâtel. And if Geneva did not regard her great master with affection, she bowed before him in profound veneration. Without him the ancient, frivolous, and quarrelsome city could hardly have kept at bay her many foes. But trained in the school of Calvinism she gathered moral strength, and became the "abode of an intellectual light that has shone for three centuries, and that, though growing pale, is not yet extinguished." [Illustration: THALER OF 1564. (_Laus et gloria soli Deo optimo maximo._)] [Illustration: THALER OF 1564. (_Moneta nova Civitatis San Gallensis, 1564._)] Calvin was a prodigious worker, a profound theologian, an accomplished linguist, a statesman and organizer of consummate skill, and a most excellent correspondent. Twenty-four printing-presses were kept at work day and night multiplying his writings in different languages. No fewer than 2,025 sermons of his have been collected, and 4,721 letters. For the French language Calvin did much what Luther did for the German. His frame, at all times weak, became still more enfeebled by continued illness, and it seemed impossible that he should be physically fit to labour as he did, but his religious enthusiasm was able to triumph over bodily ailments. Bright, sparkling eyes lit up his pale and emaciated features. Averse to earthly pleasures, careless of popular applause, of strong and unbending will--though not devoid of deep feeling--he commanded men's awe rather than their affection. His near personal friends were devotedly attached to him, and on the death of his wife, who sank when bereaved of her children, his tenderness breaks forth in letters to his friends. "If I did not make a strong effort to moderate my grief," he writes to Viret, "I should succumb." He died in May, 1564, and even in his last moments had words of censure for those who had come to take leave of him. His death is registered in these curious terms: "Aujourd'hui spectable Jean Calvin s'en est allé à Dieu, sain et entier, grâce à Dieu, de sens et entendement." Beza was elected his successor; and, less severe and more conciliating than his friend and predecessor, he exerted great influence, both at Geneva and in the reformed countries generally. Beza's death occurred in 1603. FOOTNOTES: [55] The Bern, that is, the Zwinglian, ritual preserved several things which the French reformers rejected, amongst others, the four high fête days, the baptismal font, and the use of unleavened bread in the Communion. [56] Amieaux was led in his shirt through the city, with a lighted torch in his hand, and was required to confess his fault in three different public squares. [57] These "Lovers of Freedom" were stigmatized by the opposite party as "men of loose morals," but of such there were not a few amongst the Calvinists themselves. [58] The Swiss churches under the ægis of Bullinger acquiesced, not so much from a spirit of intolerance, as from a fear that the influence of Servetus might undermine French Protestantism. Rome envied Calvin the honour of having condemned Servetus to the flames. [59] Amongst the English we find the names of Spencer, Coxe, Chambers, Bishop Hooper, and the Bishops of Exeter, Norwich, Durham, and Salisbury. XXV. THE CATHOLIC REACTION. The benefits conferred by the Reformation on Switzerland were counterbalanced by a religious schism which divided the land into two antagonistic moieties, and paralyzed political progress. The religious enthusiasm in Europe had spent itself in the first half of the sixteenth century, and the energy it had displayed had roused amongst the Catholics a corresponding activity. They were led by the famous Philip II. of Spain, but fortunately Queen Elizabeth of England was able to withstand the attack directed against her country. But the new order of Jesuits, lately launched on the world to undo the work of the religious reformers, took the field with united ranks; whilst, on the other hand, the Protestants, split as they were into sections, and stumbling over questions of dogma, lacked the unity of aim and purpose necessary to stand successfully an attack so formidable. The wars of Schmalkalden (1547-49) were as injurious to Protestant Germany as the catastrophe of Kappel had been to Reformed Switzerland. The tide of Reformation rolled back in Germany, and the men of Zurich beheld with grief and indignation the fall of their strong ally in the work of religious reform, Constance, after its desperate stand against the Emperor, Charles V. Zurich was prevented by internal dissension and Catholic intolerance from assisting Constance, and, moreover, was compelled to release Mulhausen and Strasburg from their evangelical union with her. Thus Geneva, which the Papists threatened to level with the ground, was forced into an isolated position, and was near becoming the prey of invading Savoy. Considering the internal condition of the Confederation, we may well ask what it was that saved the little republic from complete destruction in the terrible storm of the reaction which swept over Europe, if it was not the very strength of the Federal union, and the common possession of the different Swiss bailiwicks, which bound the parts so strongly together, and which triumphed over both party feelings and private interests. Thanks to the moderation of the Protestants, war was avoided, and the country settled into a state of comparative repose. Through Zwingli's efforts Switzerland extended the _droit d'asile_ to all, and she henceforward followed out her mission as a neutral power. It is the protection so freely given to refugees by Geneva, Zurich, and other Swiss cities that brightens the history of this gloomy reaction period. Henry II., anxious to win over Switzerland to the Catholic cause, requested the Swiss to stand as sponsors to his daughter, Claudia, and received their embassy with marked distinction. Bern and Zurich, however, were not coaxed into an alliance with France by these blandishments. France wished for the preservation of peace from self-interest. But she extolled greatly the prowess of the Swiss, and called them the very "marrow" of her army. The Swiss excelled in single feats of arms, and amongst the Catholic captains stands out conspicuously the valiant Ludwig von Pfyffer, of Lucerne, who played a part, as regards political influence, not unlike that of Waldmann, and was nicknamed the "Swiss King." The wealth he had hoarded up during his French service he freely spent in the Catholic cause. Pre-eminent amongst those who worked for the Catholic revival was the famous Carlo Borromeo, Archbishop of Milan, and nephew of Pius IV. He lived the life of a saint, and in due time was canonized. To his see belonged the Swiss bailliages in the Ticino and Valtellina. Indefatigable in his labours, constantly visiting every part of his diocese, toiling up to the Alpine huts, he gathered the scattered flocks into the Papal fold, whether by mildness or by force. Shocked at the state of religious matters in the Forest Cantons, he founded a seminary for priests, to which Pfyffer at once gave a very large sum of money. For the spread of Catholic doctrines he hit upon three different means. He called into being the Collegium Helveticum in 1579 at Milan,[60] where the Swiss priests were educated free. He sent the Jesuits into the country, and placed a nuncio at Lucerne, in 1580. In 1586 was signed, between the seven Catholic cantons, the Borromean or Golden League, directed against the reformers, and in the following year a coalition was, by the same cantons, excepting Solothurn, entered into with Philip of Spain and with Savoy. The Jesuits settled themselves in Lucerne and Freiburg, and soon gained influence amongst the rich and the educated, whilst the Capuchins, who fixed themselves at Altorf, Stanz, Appenzell, and elsewhere, won the hearts of the masses by their lowliness and devotion. In this way did Rome seek to regain her influence over the Swiss peoples, and the effect of her policy was soon felt in the semi-Protestant and subject lands. To the impression made by the efforts of the Capuchins the great dissension in Appenzell bears witness, the canton actually breaking up into two hostile divisions. The Catholics removed to Inner, and the Reformers to Outer Rhoden, and each managed its own affairs independently of the other; the latter, however, soon began to prosper more than the former. In the Valais, the Protestant party, though strong, was quite swept out by the Jesuits, before 1630, and fled to Vaud and Bern. The history of lacerated Graubünden will occupy the next chapter. It is painful to read of an act of violence committed by the Papists in the expulsion of the Evangelians from Locarno, in the winter of 1555, where a little band of two hundred adherents of the Zwinglian Church had formed round Beccaria. Zurich supported them, notwithstanding the opposition of France, and even of some of the Protestant cantons, and Bullinger was their comfort and strength in all transactions. However, Beccaria was compelled to flee to Misox valley, whence he ministered by stealth to his flock. In January, 1555, stronger measures were taken, and men and women were driven over the snowy heights to Misox, a sorry substitute for the luxurious homes some of them had left in Locarno. But they were soon moved on by the Papal legate, and in May some 120 of the band arrived at Zurich, where Bullinger had arranged for them a hospitable welcome. These new-comers revived the old trade with Lombardy, and reintroduced the silk manufacture, which, being a monopoly, became a source of great wealth to Zurich. Thus the town was rewarded for its hospitality. Some of the aristocratic Zurich families of to-day trace their origin to these Locarno refugees. The city of Zurich was indeed at this time a general asylum for religious refugees from all quarters. Germans, Italians, and English fled there, and especially the Marian exiles from England. We find Peter Martyr from Oxford established as a professor at the Carolinum; and Occhino as minister to the Italian congregation in Zurich; Socinus and other famous Italians.[61] Martyr and Socinus both died at Zurich, and lie buried in its minster. For several years Peter Martyr and Bullinger had lived on terms of the closest friendship with each other, and their letters show how close was the tie between them. Their respective religious views naturally tended to greater mutual resemblance. Bullinger, like Calvin, kept up an immense correspondence with the reformed churches, and was in frequent communication with monarchs, princes, powerful nobles, and learned doctors. The readers of the present story will naturally feel most interest in the relation between the Swiss and the English Churches, and it will perhaps be better to leave on one side the tangled skein of religious dissensions which agitated Europe, and show from authentic sources[62]--letters chiefly--how the Swiss Churches and Swiss divines influenced the Reformed Church of England. Though the English Reformation under Henry VIII. was greatly influenced by Luther, under Edward VI. the Church veered round more to the Swiss views, Cranmer especially leaning strongly towards Zwinglianism. Since 1536 the prelate had been on most friendly terms with Bullinger, and in this same year some young Englishmen, Butler, Udrof, and Partridge, by Cranmer's desire, settled in Zurich, to study its religious aspect and enjoy intercourse with the distinguished Bullinger. In the following year Eliot and others arrived with similar intent, and a great attachment sprang up between the young men and their spiritual guide. At the request of the students, Bullinger addressed to Henry two treatises on the "Authority of the Scriptures," and on the "Dignity and Office of Bishops," respectively, and was afterwards told that the treatises greatly interested both the king and the archbishop. "It is incredible what fame you acquire in England by your writings," says Eliot in his letter to Bullinger in 1539; "the booksellers are growing rich through you." Under Edward VI., Bullinger's relations with Cranmer and Hooper, with Warwick and Dorset, and with Coxe and Cheke, grew closer and closer, and the Church of Zurich regained its ascendency. At Bullinger's house Hooper passed his second exile, and he says he was received with delight, "being a true Christian," and he states that his faith was greatly quickened by the writings of the famous Zurich divine. The friendship between the two men was most intimate. At Hooper's desire, Bullinger dedicated a series of his sermons on the "Christian Faith" to Edward, who was greatly delighted with them, and had them translated into English. During his imprisonment Hooper composed a remarkable treatise addressed to Parliament in defence of the Zwinglian teaching with regard to the Lord's Supper, and Traheron states (1548) that England at large was inclined towards the Zwinglian view. In 1550 King Edward sent an envoy to ask the state of Zurich to unite with England with regard to a Church Council, and, curiously enough, with regard to reconciling that country with France.[63] A charming episode in the life of Bullinger was the springing up of the friendship with Lady Jane Grey, then a young and studious girl of fourteen. Three letters written by her hand, and still treasured up at Zurich, bear witness to this friendship. Of the treatise on "Christian Marriage" dedicated to her, she translated a portion into Greek, and presented it as a Christmas present to her father. Bullinger's sermons and letters were a delight to her, and were to her "as most precious flowers from a garden." She asked his advice as to the best method of learning Hebrew, and regarded him as particularly favoured by the grace of God. He it was whose teaching quickened her love for Christ, and gave her and her family such support in their great trials later on. Even at her last hour her thoughts were of him, for at the block she took off her gloves and desired that they should be sent on to her Swiss friends.[64] It was on the Continent, among the Reformed Churches, that Hooper and others gained their taste for a simple form of religious worship. When Hooper was made Bishop of Gloucester, in 1550, he refused both the oath and the episcopal vestments, and was sent to prison for his refusal. His opposition, indeed, sowed the germs of that religious development which so strongly agitated the Church under Elizabeth, and which, breaking into open schism, resulted in the rise of Puritanism, and, later on, of the dissenting movements generally. And, as is well known, the Puritans fled to New England rather than give up their religious liberty. Hooper was exempted from taking the oath, but had to give way in the matter of the vestments. During his episcopacy Bullinger was ever his faithful and wise counsellor, and when the martyr's death overtook him, he recommended his persecuted country to his Swiss friends. "Of all men attached to thee," he assures Bullinger in 1554, "none has been more devoted than myself, nor have I ever had a more sincere friend than thee." Many other Marian exiles settled in Zurich, to whom, however, only a passing word can be devoted. Bullinger alone accommodated often as many as twenty guests at a time, and both ministers and magistrates--Gualter, Lavater, and others--received the English exiles "with a tenderness and affection that engaged them to the end of their lives to make the greatest possible acknowledgment for it," to quote the words of one Englishman. The correspondence between the Swiss hosts and their English guests proves how close were the friendships formed between them. Amongst these correspondents we find the English archbishops, Grindal and Sandys, Bishop Pilkington, the Earl of Bedford, and other notable men. Other proofs without number might be given of the close connection between Switzerland and England in religious matters in the sixteenth century, but what has been said must suffice. Enough has been said to show how the influence of the Reformed Swiss Churches was brought to bear on English Protestantism; on the Anglican Church in respect of doctrine; and on the dissenting Church, that is, Puritanism, in respect of both doctrine and form of worship. The Reformed Church is the result of an amalgamation between the two mother Churches of Geneva and Zurich, the union being brought about by the desire of the leaders Calvin, Farel, Beza, Bullinger, who, anxious for peace and concord, made mutual concessions.[65] Thus in Switzerland the narrowness of Calvinism has been tempered by an admixture of the broader and more enlightened teachings of Zwinglius, or rather the basis of the teaching is Zwingli's, and Calvin has confirmed, intensified, and completed it. Over France, England, Scotland, Holland, and North America the reformed faith spread its roots "to grow up to trees of the same family, but of different shape and size according to the soil from which they started up." That Switzerland, with the exception of Geneva, inclined strongly to Zwinglianism we have already shown. To deal adequately with the question of the religious influence of Switzerland on other European countries would be impossible within the limits of this work. But that its influence was very great needs no saying. And not in Europe alone, for the Puritan spirit was carried beyond the ocean, and the reformers of Switzerland had their disciples in far-away New England. Even modern Unitarianism is, in a sense, the direct descendant of the reformation of Zurich, and its apostles--Williams, Channing, Parker--are so far the successors of Zwingli and Bullinger. The revival of learning witnessed by the sixteenth century had its full effect in Switzerland. The thirst for knowledge was so great that men would undergo almost any privations in their pursuit of it. Thomas Platter--to cite but one instance out of many--rose from the humble position of goatherd to be a prominent master of Hebrew and the classics at Basel. In early life he laboured at rope-making, or turned serving-man, or even begged in the streets. His son Felix was a notable physician. The great reformers have already been spoken of. Besides the above,[66] we may just mention among the Catholics, Glarean, the foremost classical scholar of his country, crowned poet-laureate by the Emperor Max. I.; and Tschudi, of Glarus, the brilliant narrator, author of the national epic, Tell, and for centuries the first authority on Swiss history; Paracelsus of Einsiedeln: of Protestants, Manuel (Bern), the satirical poet, and painter of the _Todten Tänze à la Holbein_; and, above all, Gessner, of Zurich, scholar, philosopher, naturalist, the "Pliny of Germany." _Kleinkunst_, lesser or practical art, also made brilliant progress in Switzerland. Painting on glass, wood-carving, manufacture of painted-tile stoves developed into industries almost peculiar to the country in their excellence. This is shown by an inspection of the magnificent specimens of these arts with which the country abounds--splendid painted windows, beautiful wainscots, exquisite relievi, beautiful tiled stoves, and so forth. A few words respecting affairs in Geneva must close our account of the sixteenth century. The Dukes of Savoy, unwilling to renounce their claims, continued to harass the city. Henry IV., of France, came forward as a protector, and Elizabeth, of England, addressed to the Swiss cantons and reformed cities letters remarkable for the noble sentiments and clear judgment displayed in them.[67] She urged them not to throw away the key of Switzerland. However, on the night of the 21st of December, 1602, Duke Charles Emmanuel ventured on a treacherous _coup de main_ on the city known as the famous "Escalade." Eight thousand men had been drawn up before her gates, and some three hundred had already scaled her walls, when the sudden firing by a watchful guard roused the citizens to a sense of their danger. A fierce conflict took place in the streets, and the intruders were fortunately overpowered. This event caused the greatest indignation throughout Europe, but it sealed the independence of the Republic. The anniversary of the victory is still regarded by the Genevans. FOOTNOTES: [60] This still exists in connection with the episcopal seminary. [61] Faustus Socinus, the nephew of this Laelius Socinus, formed into a regular system the ideas of his uncle, and really prepared the way for modern Unitarianism. [62] The Zurich archives are remarkably rich in materials relating to the Reformation period. The Simmler collection contains copies of eighteen thousand authentic letters. The "Epistolæ Tigurinæ," published by the Parker Society, London, in 1842, contain copies of original letters from the Marian exiles to Zurich divines. At Zurich are preserved original letters from Erasmus, Henry the Fourth of France, Lady Jane Grey, &c. [63] Pestalozzi's "Life of Bullinger," Zurich. [64] Pestalozzi's "Life of Bullinger." [65] In England the general name Calvinistic is applied to certain doctrines of the Reformed Churches, but not altogether appropriately, seeing that Calvin was only one of the teachers of these doctrines. [66] Glarean and Tschudi were Catholics, Manuel a Protestant. [67] Copies are preserved among the Zurich letters. XXVI. THE ARISTOCRATIC PERIOD. (1600-1712.) In the life of nations no less than of individuals there are vicissitudes, alternations of prosperity and adversity. If the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries witnessed the glorious rise of the Swiss people, the seventeenth and eighteenth saw the political decline of the Republic. Even the Reformation itself led the way to this decline by lodging all power--political, fiscal, moral, and educational--in the Protestant cantons in the hands of the governments. Patriotism was on the wane, and the old mania for foreign service as a means of securing foreign gold was again breaking out. Even Zurich, which for well-nigh a century had steadfastly borne in mind the patriotic maxims of Zwingli, now yielded to the persuasions of France. Indeed the Swiss Commonwealth was rapidly becoming a mere vassalate of that country, under the despotic Louis XIV. Swiss rule was taking that tinge of absolutism which was colouring the governments of almost all European states. Louis, the personification of absolute rule, had stamped the century with his _cachet_, and aristocracies and oligarchies were taking the place of the old democratic governments. This seems incompatible with the old Swiss republican tenets. Yet, drawn within the influence of the monarchical states, how could Switzerland escape the effects of that influence any more than Venice or Genoa? The political and religious passions and animosities of the previous century now found vent in the terrible Thirty Years' War, which from 1618 to 1648 convulsed Europe. Thanks to its good fortune and far-sightedness, Switzerland was not drawn into the conflict, save as to its south-eastern corner, close as it was to the theatre of the great struggle. Most anxiously was the neutrality of the country maintained, yet its territory was not unfrequently violated. To give one instance, General Horn led his Swedes into Swiss territory to besiege Constance. Germany and Sweden--Gustavus Adolphus especially[68]--did all they could to draw Switzerland to their side, but the Swiss had the good sense to resist all blandishments, and bear patiently with vexatious intrusions. The terrible scenes that were taking place across the Rhine were enough to quell all intestine disputes in Switzerland itself, and the comparative peace and prosperity found within its borders was the envy of the neighbouring lands. A German traveller chronicles his surprise at finding in Switzerland neither rapine nor murder, but security and content. However rough and rugged its surface, the little republic seemed to him an earthly Paradise. [Illustration: HIGH ALTAR, CHUR CATHEDRAL. (_From a Photograph._)] Different, however, was the experience of Graubünden, then a separate free state, and a connection only of the Confederation. In truth, the history of that old Rhætian land at that time forms a striking pendant as it were to the great drama of the European struggle. The Latin-German inhabitants, combining northern prudence with southern passion, had since the middle of the sixteenth century been steeped in internal dissension, owing to the religious divisions caused by the Reformation. The Protestant party under Von Salis, and the Catholics headed by Von Planta, were at deadly enmity with each other, and sided with France and Venice, and with Austria and Spain respectively. John von Planta, head of his clan, and solicitor-general of the Papal see, was suspected of intending to reintroduce Popery into the Grisons. The mountaineers accordingly descended from their Alps in crowds, and flocked to Chur. There they brought to trial Planta and sentenced him to death, and his fall struck the keynote to the tragedy that followed. With the opening of the seventeenth century the conflict grew fiercer, national interests and foreign policy being now inextricably mixed. Mistress of the beautiful Italian Signory Valtellina, Bormio, Chiavenna, and the Alpine passes commanding the entrance into the Tyrol and Italy, Graubünden became the apple of contention between the southern states of Europe. Austria and Spain possessing Milan were not without hopes of joining hands across Graubünden, and France was sanguine of her success in preventing it. This latter state with Venice had effected an alliance with Protestant Bünden, and that party strongly opposed the Spanish union for which the energetic but headstrong Rudolf von Planta was working. Fuentes, a Spaniard, Governor of Milan, furious at the resistance offered, erected a chain of strong forts on Lake Como, with the view of cutting off the Valtellines. Before long, George Jenatsch from the Engadine, Tschusch, and other high-minded and patriotic Protestants, began to decry the Spanish scheme, and tumults arose. An attack on Planta's manor, Zernez (1618), having failed through the escape of Rudolf, Zambra, Landammann in Bregaglia, and Rusca, a priest in the Valtellina, both greyheaded old men, were seized. They were sentenced to death by a new court which had been set up at Thusis, a court which raged against popery and spread terrorism for some months. In the Engadine a strange thing happened. The respective chiefs of the hostile clans were the two brothers Von Travers, and a hand-to-hand fight between the opposing parties having begun, suddenly the wives, daughters, and sisters of the combatants rushed amongst them like the Sabine women of old, and checked them. Foremost amongst these noble women was the spirited Anna Juvalta. The Plantas were now in exile, and were conspiring with Austria. Their cousin Robustello (Valtellina) at a given signal broke into the houses of the Protestants, and, with the help of hired assassins, put the inmates to the sword. This was on the 19th of July, 1620, and throughout the whole valley no quarter was given. Zurich and Bern on hearing of this shocking massacre--the "St. Bartholomew of the Valtellina"--sent troops, but they were defeated at Tirano by the Spanish forces and adherents. The Plantas returned from exile and asked the Forest Cantons to give their countenance to their party, and these were not unwilling; but the plot itself was opposed by the Protestant Grisons with scorn and fury. Jenatsch penetrated to the castle of the Plantas at Rietberg, and Pompejus fell by his hands (1621). The Catholics were defeated at Valendas, and the country was cleared of the troops of the Forest Cantons and of Spaniards. However, Jenatsch failed to take Valtellina. The Austrians still claimed supremacy over part of the _Zehngerichte_,[69] and we find them, from 1620 to 1629, twice invading and occupying Graubünden. The most dreadful cruelties marked the passage of their general, Baldiron, and Catholicism was reintroduced by force. In 1629, the Emperor Ferdinand had reached the height of his success and greatness, and Bünden with all its dependencies lay prostrate at his feet. France came to the rescue. Richelieu pursued the policy of Henry IV. to re-establish the balance of power by breaking down the prestige of the Habsburgs. With the view of gaining supremacy for France, he had drawn Sweden into the Thirty Years' War; and on the death of Gustavus Adolphus, when the zeal was somewhat flagging, he revived it by sending French troops into Alsace, South Germany, and the Grisons. The command of the Franco-Grison army was entrusted to Duke Henry de Rohan, godson of Henry IV. of France (and godfather to Charles I. of England), one of the noblest characters of his age. De Rohan was also appointed ambassador to the Eidgenossen states in 1631. He had been leader of the Huguenots, and had supported the Edict of Nantes in opposition to Louis XIII. Becoming obnoxious to the king in consequence, he withdrew to Venice. There he wrote a treatise on the strategical importance of the Grisons, as if he foresaw his future mission.[70] During his residence in Switzerland he watched zealously over its interests, smoothing over difficulties in the Diet to avoid war. Richelieu sent him neither money nor help, but left him to extricate himself as best he could from his position in that isolated mountain fastness; yet Rohan was the idol of his soldiers and of the people of the Grisons, and was always spoken of by them as the "good duke." In 1635, when France was doing its utmost to oust Austria, open war broke out, and Rohan gained four brilliant victories in succession--Jenatsch serving as local guide and combatant in advance, his superior tactics proving too much for the Austro-Spanish forces. Yet the "good duke" was soon to fall a victim to the perfidious policy of Richelieu, and the treachery of Jenatsch. This latter was a strange mixture of the noble and the vile--fierce, and ambitious, a seeker of gain, yet a man of honour, full of a wild patriotism and thirst for freedom. Eager to free his country from the grasp of the stranger, he and the hot-tempered Bündner, at whose head he was, suddenly found that they were but exchanging masters. Sticking at nothing to gain his ends Jenatsch entered into a secret understanding with Austria and Spain, and even turned Catholic to win more favour with them. Then, forgetting the many kindnesses he had received from his friend Rohan, he betrayed him to his enemies. It should be observed, parenthetically, that the question in dispute was that of the Valtellina, and Rohan had had no instructions from Richelieu to return that territory. Suddenly the French general found himself surrounded by hostile troops from the Grisons, and was compelled to capitulate (1637). Unable to bear the sight of France again, he fought for her under the banner of Bernhard von Weimar, and fell at Rheinfelden, in Aargovy, seeking rather than fearing death. Jenatsch, however, did not long enjoy the fruits of his guilty action. Two years later he was stabbed at an officers' banquet, during the carnival, by some masked figure. Rudolf Planta, son of Pompejus, was said by some to have done the deed, whilst another story has it that the avenger was Rudolf's sister, Lucretia, who was burning for vengeance on the slayer of her father.[71] One of the first German novelists of our time, Ferdinand Meyer, of Zurich, has worked these thrilling episodes into his fine story, "Jenatsch." The hero was buried with pomp at Chur, but his murderer remained unpunished. Thus Graubünden, after a struggle of nearly a hundred years, recovered both its independence and its lost territory. That memorable event of the seventeenth century, the signing of the Peace of Westphalia, which concluded the Thirty Years' War, whilst, on the one hand, it sanctioned the dismemberment of the German Empire, yet ratified the independence and autonomy of the Swiss republics. This result was chiefly due to the noble efforts of two men--Wettstein, Burgomaster of Basel, who most effectively championed Swiss interests at the Congress; and Henry d'Orleans Longueville, count and reigning prince of Neuchâtel, the French representative at the same conference, who supported the Swiss claims. The religious strife of Villmergen in 1656, which ended in the defeat of the Protestants, cannot be gone into here. Suffice it to note that this defeat was fully repaired by the second war of that name in 1712. A more important matter was the Peasants' Revolt, in 1653. It promised to grow to alarming dimensions, but was put down by the Government. This rising, however, is noteworthy, as marking the vast chasm which had formed between the labouring and the governing classes. The peasantry were now in a state of complete subjection, and patiently awaited the dawn of a brighter day, which nevertheless came only with the French Revolution. What they claimed was the restoration of their old liberties, relief from the excessive taxation, and the general improvement of their material interests. But many of the governing classes, councillors, _landvögte_, and others, had served abroad at foreign courts, and had drunk in the spirit of absolutism, and were as much imbued as any James I. or Louis XIV. with notions as to the "divine right" of the privileged classes to govern. They claimed seats on the administration as a right. From their superior positions they looked down on the labouring classes, and had little or no sympathy with them. Except in name the Swiss cantons were as absolutely governed by aristocracies as France was by Louis XIV. Nothing is more ludicrous, or more clearly shows the affectations and narrow pedantries of the age, than the childish delight in long or high-flown titles, by which the Swiss "regents," as they were called, were wont to address each other, and be addressed even by foreigners. "Leurs excellences," "noble-born," and so forth, were as common amongst Swiss republicans as in any monarchy.[72] Nor were they behindhand in the adoption of court fashions, wigs, frills, and the like; whilst they hunted eagerly for patents of nobility, and placed the "von" so unblushingly before their names that the higher classes, and really well-born for the most part dropped it for a time. The Eidgenossen, however, were eminently useful soldiers, and Louis XIV. in 1663 wheedled or tricked them into the renewal of the alliance with France, an alliance into which Le Barde had tried in vain for thirteen years to coax them. The wily Louis invited a Swiss embassy to his Court, and for a whole week amused and flattered his guests with a succession of banquets, ceremonies, and entertainments. Molière played before them by royal command. The ambassadors were thus beguiled into admitting some of the most important points in the treaty, the neutrality of Burgundy, the liquidation of the old debt, &c. On the 18th of November, in the presence of the whole French Court, at Notre Dame, the Swiss representatives agreed to a disgraceful and humiliating bargain with Louis. The king was not, however, inclined to lavish money on them like his predecessors had done. One day Louvois complained to him that his Swiss troops stood him dear, that for the money they had cost him and his predecessors the road could be paved with crown-pieces from Paris to Basel. Stuppa from the Grisons, overhearing this, quickly retorted, "Sir, you forget that with the Swiss blood spilt in the French service you might fill a canal from Basel to Paris." Despite the engagements to France which Switzerland had entered into, it never ceased to give shelter to the French refugees who fled to escape the persecutions of Louis--to the Waldenses and the Huguenots. After the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, sixty-six thousand emigrants are said to have found shelter in Switzerland. Amongst the Swiss cities Geneva stands out conspicuously and honourably by her great benevolence. Not to speak of the vast amount of private assistance given, the municipality spent on the relief of the religious refugees no less a sum than five million florins between 1685 and 1726. Gradually the Eidgenossen became alive to the real character of Louis and his negotiations with them, and ashamed of their own lack of patriotism. As early as 1689, indeed, we find Swiss envoys from Bern and Zurich at Paris, rejecting his bribes, his golden chains, and what not. And on their return home they received the eulogies of their people for their integrity and independence. Gradually the league with France was set aside, or ignored. Nevertheless, the system of mercenary service remained an evil--one may say a cancerous evil--in the Swiss policy of the later centuries. FOOTNOTES: [68] Appealing to the absurd pretended national relationship between Swedes and Switzers, an etymology of the Middle Ages. [69] See the chapter on the Swabian wars. [70] Rohan was a great friend to Zurich, and presented to its city library which was then forming his "Parfait Capitaine," a Hebrew Bible, and his portrait. He was by his own request buried at Geneva, and his death was greatly regretted by the reformed cities. The letters written by his family in reply to the "Condolence of Zurich" are still preserved in the library. See pamphlet on Rohan by Professor von Wyss. [71] In Meyer's novel, Lucretia is betrothed to Jenatsch and takes the veil after the murder of Jenatsch, but this story has no foundation in fact. [72] A few of these magnificent titles, or epithets, may be noted: "Hoch," "Wohlgeachtete," "Edle," "Fromme," "Fürsichtige," "Fürnehme," "Weise Herren," and many more such like. XXVII. POLITICAL MATTERS IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. Politically Switzerland presents much the same aspect in the eighteenth as in the previous century, and it needs here only a few words to indicate more clearly the temper of the times. In Swiss lands, as elsewhere, we have the inevitable division into the two classes of governor and governed. The rank and file of the "reigning families," _regiments-fähig_, patricians or plutocrats, rigorously kept all power to themselves, and held sway over the ordinary burghers and common folk. Unchecked rule and superiority and a life of ease and luxury on the one side; blind submission and toil on the other, especially in the rural districts. Even in the professedly democratic cantons the same despotism is met with; chieftains and family "dynasts" seizing the reins of government, and overruling the _landsgemeinde_, whilst they contend with each other for supremacy. Just as in the case of the oligarchies, the _laender_ make the most of their "divine right" to govern. No wonder risings took place, as that of the Leventines against the harsh _landvögte_ of Uri, and that of the Werdenberger (St. Gall) against Glarus, though these revolts were in vain. In Zurich, Schaffhausen, and Basel, there was less oppression, the guilds keeping the nobility at bay, though this guild system itself was not without blemish. The chief cities or cantonal _chefs-lieux_ one and all held sovereign sway over the country districts attaching to them, but, like the old nobility of France, shifted off their own shoulders nearly all taxation, whilst they monopolized trade and industry. Thus the peasantry were crushed with the weight of taxes, imposts, tithes, and what not. Religious differences had deepened since the second war of Villmergen (1712), which had brought the Protestants to the fore, and had established the principle of religious equality. The Catholics, having lost their supremacy in certain bailiwicks or subject districts, began to dream of regaining their lost position. To this end they entered into a secret agreement (_ligue à la cassette_) with Louis XIV. of France shortly before that monarch's death. It was not till 1777, however, that France really gained her point. In that year the common fear of Austria induced both Protestants and Catholics to enter into a league with Louis XVI. Thus, for the first time since the Reformation, the Confederates were a united body, or at any rate were agreed as to their joint plan of action. Interesting though the task might be, it is here impossible to investigate the various conditions of the government in the subject lands--Aargau, Thurgau, Ticino, Vaud, part of St. Gall, portions gained by conquest, or fragments acquired by purchase. We should meet with curious remnants of feudalism, and strange mixtures of the mediæval and the modern. But our space will permit of only a glance. The subject lands were deprived of all self-government, and the _landvögte_ ruled them as an Eastern satrap might rule his satrapy. A somewhat strange arrangement for a republic to make and allow; but yet, on the whole, the government was excellent, and this state of things continued for a long period. Abuses, bribery, extortions, and the like of course crept in, but it is to be remembered that the _landvögte_ were strictly controlled by the central government.[73] Many of them, especially at Bern, kept up much state; possessed horses, carriages, and livery-servants, and kept open house. In their lordships they ruled as veritable sovereigns, but they cared for their people, as good sovereigns should. They were, indeed, more like the patriarchs of old, rewarding or admonishing their peoples as circumstances required. One specimen of the class was greatly admired by Goethe, viz., Landvogt Landolt von Greifensee (Zurich). A few traits will serve to mark the man and the system. This governor was of the old school, and hated enlightened peasants and modern revolutionary ideas. He advocated compulsory attendance at church, and firmly believed in flogging as the most rational form of punishment. On the other hand, he was both benevolent and humane, and watched over his people with a fatherly care. He was equally anxious to improve their farms and their morals. He was wont to go about _incognito_--generally dressed as a Tyrolese--and visited the printshops to find out the gamblers and the drunkards. The latter he had put into a revolving cage till they got sober. Quarrelling couples he shut up together, and forced them to eat _with the same spoon_![74] But among many subject lands the system had greatly changed. The greatest holder of subject territory was Bern, with its forty-four lordships or bailiwicks, Zurich coming next with twenty-nine. The largest subject district was Vaud, and, thanks to its thriving agriculture, and the wise, though harsh, administration of Bern, it flourished greatly. The Vaudois had on the whole submitted quietly to Bernese rule, though the upper classes amongst them did not relish their exclusion from the conduct of State affairs. However, bowing to the inevitable, they gave themselves up to the enjoyment of a life of pleasure and to intellectual pursuits. About this time Lausanne, their capital, had become the resort of men like Gibbon, Fox, Raynal, Voltaire, and many men of lesser mark. They were attracted by the beauty of the scenery and by the high repute of the Vaud gentry for good breeding and affability. These noble families opened their salons to the distinguished foreigners who resided among them, and Gibbon seems to have particularly appreciated their good qualities.[75] The historian spent much of his life at Lausanne. An unlucky attempt had been made by Major Davel, in 1723, to rescue Vaud from the grasp of Bern. This enthusiastic patriot had himself concocted the plot, and attempted to carry out his plans without informing a single person of his intentions. Mustering his men, Davel, on some pretence, led them to Lausanne, where the council were then sitting, the _landvögte_ being up at Bern, and informed the board what he proposed to do. But the members of the council were not yet prepared to seek emancipation, and, simulating an understanding, betrayed the luckless patriot to the Bernese authorities. "Leurs Excellences"--such was the official title of the Bernese rulers--made use of the rack, with the object of extorting from him the names of his accomplices, but in vain, and he was beheaded. Amongst the leading cities of the Confederation, Zurich was conspicuous as the centre of Liberal tendencies and intellectual progress, whilst Bern was the political centre, and the leading financial focus.[76] Like a modern Rothschild, Bern then lent to various European states. Part of her treasure went towards paying the cost of Napoleon's expedition to Egypt. Among her sister cities, Freiburg, Solothurn, and Lucerne, Bern presented the most perfect example of an oligarchy, admired by Montesquieu, Napoleon, and even Rousseau. Her decided bent was for diplomacy, and she was completely absorbed in rule and administration, and she had few other tastes. Trade and industry she considered beneath her dignity; even literary pursuits to a great extent. The Bernese aristocrats were politicians from birth, so to speak, and the young men had a curious society amongst themselves, "Äusserer Stand," a society formed for the purpose of cultivating the diplomatic art and practising parliamentary oratory and tactics, especially their more formal outward side. Thus trained in bearing and ceremonial they acquired their much-admired political _aplomb_. Bern was French in fashion, in manners, and in language, and the German tongue was as little appreciated amongst the Bernese patricians as at the Court of Frederick the Great. The constitution presents some features quite unique in their way. There was an exclusiveness which has lasted in all its force even down to our own days; and three classes of society sprang up, as widely separated from each other as the different castes in India. All power was vested in the 360 "reigning families"; the number of these was at length, by death and clever manipulating, reduced to eighty, and even fewer. From these families alone were the councils selected, and to the members of these only were governorships assigned. If male heirs were wanting, then the seats on the council were given to the daughters as dowries. So exclusive was this governing body, that even Haller, the great poet, was not allowed to enter it. The class next lower in rank was that of the burghers, _ewige habitanten_, with no political rights, and with not a vestige of power in the commonwealth. They were not allowed to hold officerships abroad, but trade, industry, and the schools and churches were theirs. Lastly came the Ansässige (settlers), the proletariat, including the country labourers, foreigners, refugees, and commoner folk generally. Many were their disabilities; they were not permitted to buy houses, to have their children baptised in the city, to have tombstones set up over the graves of members of their family.[77] They might not even appear in the market till their betters had done their business, viz., 11 a.m., and they were strictly forbidden to carry baskets in the archways (_les arcades de la ville_), in order that these should not damage the hooped petticoats of the patrician ladies.[78] Bern has often been compared with ancient Rome, and certainly its stern council somewhat resembles in its austerity, solemnity, and pomp the august Roman Senate. It is not surprising that many attempts should have been made to induce the Government to relax its severity. In 1744 certain citizens petitioned the council to that effect, but were banished for their pains. Five years later a famous man named Henzi, with several associates, formed a plot against the council, but they were detected and executed. But in truth there were risings in almost every one of the cantons. Of these only the most remarkable can be touched on here, those of Geneva. These are real constitutional struggles, and, indeed, form the preliminaries in their way to the French Revolution, on which indeed their history sheds no little light. These troubles in Geneva are not unlike those of the Gracchi period in Roman history. By the Constitution of 1536 Geneva had been granted the right of a "Conseil Général," but this council had never been allowed to act or meet. The patricians who occupied the _haut de la cité_ had arrogated to themselves well-nigh all power. But as early as 1707, the burghers, ever on the alert to regain their liberties, rose with the view of re-establishing the General Council of 1536. The movement was headed by the generous and noble-minded Pierre Fatio, himself a patrician. In fiery speeches, made in the open places of the town, he championed the popular rights, asserting with vehemence that the rulers were not the masters and tutors of the people, but the executors of its sovereign will. The attempt to gain popular liberty miscarried, Fatio was shot in prison, and his followers were exiled. Yet Fatio's idea lived on amongst the working classes, and later were again advocated in the pamphlets of Micheli du Crêst. In the years 1734 and 1737 the insurrections burst out afresh, and resulted in the establishment of the Constitution of 1738, which secured for a quarter of a century a happiness it had never before known. However, the second half of the century witnessed new troubles between the burghers and the patricians. These latter were called, by way of nickname, "Négatifs," because they denied the people reform, whilst the burghers were styled "Représentants," because they presented petitions for political liberty. The artizan class were nicknamed "Natifs." It is impossible here to follow closely these "tea-cup squabbles," as Voltaire called them, but the philosopher's sympathies were with the _haut de la ville_, while Rousseau, on the contrary, sided with the _bas de la ville_. Of all the Swiss lands the most equitable and righteous government was that enjoyed by Neuchâtel, under Frederick the Great (1740-1786). This state had of its own free will in 1707 accepted the ducal sway of the kings of Prussia, in order to escape the grasp of Louis XIV. At one time, however, Frederick II. so far forgot himself as to infringe the "states'" right of taxation, and the semi-republican duchy at once rose in rebellion. Gaudot, the vice-governor, Frederick's devoted minister, was shot in the fray (1768). Yet, thanks to the monarch's wise moderation, and the intervention of the Swiss Confederation, the storm was calmed, and Neuchâtel continued in her peaceful and happy condition. It is clear that there was in Switzerland plenty of combustible matter, needing only the French Revolution to raise a conflagration. FOOTNOTES: [73] The unrighteous and cruel Landvogt Tscharner was punished with death by the Bernese Government in 1612. [74] For further particulars about this original man the reader is referred to the charming novel bearing his name, by Keller (Keller's "Zurcher Novellen"). [75] Madame de la Charrière, the novelist, writes: "Nous vivons avec eux, nous leur plaisons, quelquefois nous les formons, et ils nous gâtent." [76] The Bernese peasantry had attained unusual wealth by its excellent management and the strict administration of its government. [77] Prof. Vögelin, "Schweizergeschichte," p. 344. [78] See "Die Patrizierin," a recent fascinating novel by Widmann, a Bernese writer. XXVIII. SWITZERLAND AND THE RENAISSANCE. INFLUENCE OF VOLTAIRE AND ROUSSEAU. Barren and uninviting is the waste of politics in Switzerland at this period of our story, and it seemed as if the republic was quietly crumbling out of active existence. But the literary and scientific renaissance runs through it all like a fertilizing stream, and saves it from utter sterility. Feeble though it was politically, Switzerland yet produced on all sides men of mark in science, in literature, in philosophy. Time would fail to tell of them all, and we must be content to follow briefly the three great currents of the movement, which centred respectively around Geneva, Zurich, and the Helvetic Society. The two former of these may indeed be said to form a part (and an important part) of the great general awakening of the eighteenth century, an awakening beginning with the French "period of enlightenment," and crowned by the era of German classicism. Yet the French movement itself was based on English influence. Just as, at the Restoration, England had copied the France of Louis Quatorze, so France in return drew intellectual strength from the England of the second half of the eighteenth century--England was then vastly ahead of the Continent--and brought forth the "_siècle de la philosophie_." Of the great Frenchmen who learned in the school of English thought, Montesquieu, Rousseau, and Voltaire stand foremost, and of these again Voltaire occupies indisputably the highest place. Voltaire was not only the founder, but the very heart of the philosophic school which reared its front against the statutes and traditions and pretensions of the Church. He had drunk deeply of the spirit of Newton and of Locke during his exile in England, and spread abroad their views and discoveries, assisted by his genius, his sparkling wit, his lashing satire, and his graceful style. None equally with him naturalized on the Continent English free thought and English rationalism. Voltaire and Rousseau were as two great beacons planted in the century guiding as they would the course of philosophy. Both were champions of personal freedom and religious tolerance in a benighted and down-trodden age. But the influence of the two men worked in very different ways, for in the one it was based on the head, in the other on the heart. Voltaire, the realist, by his venomous and even reckless satires on the Church and on Christianity, dealt a severe blow to religion at large. Rousseau, the idealist, plunged into the mystery of good and evil, and was wrecked by the very impracticability of his system. Voltaire, as is well known, spent the last twenty years of his life--his "_verte vieillesse_"--almost at the gates of Geneva, and Rousseau, actually one of its citizens, passed the greater part of his life wandering abroad, though he loved Geneva so dearly that he once fainted with emotion on leaving it. Yet while both did battle so to speak from Geneva, neither of them was reckoned as a prophet in that city. After Voltaire had spent a couple of years at "Les Délices"--this was subsequent to his break with the great Frederick--he bought Tournay and Ferney, close to Geneva, to "keep aloof from monarchs and bishops, of whom he was afraid." Ferney, with its _parc à la Versailles_, and its fine castle, he made his residence; and there his niece did the honours of the house to the countless visitors who came from all parts to do homage to the illustrious "Aubergiste del' Europe," as he pleasantly styled himself. It was not the salons of Ferney that induced him to reside there, but care for his health and a wish to be free from all fear of bastilles. Geneva was not inclined to bow in admiration before her famous neighbour, as has been already stated. She had by this time become a great intellectual centre. Men of science, naturalists, and philosophers there congregated, and a reaction against the everlasting study of theology, of which the fashion had been introduced by the Huguenot refugees, having come about, the study of nature had taken its place. Whilst France was being governed by the Pompadours, Geneva was ruled by a society of savants, inclined, it is true, to absolutism and narrow Calvinism, but still savants. It is a common error to suppose that Voltaire's influence took deep root in Geneva. Voltaire set the current running for the world at large indeed, but Geneva was not specially affected. In truth, most of her learned men were disinclined to do more than follow Voltaire half way, as it were, into his philosophy, whilst some of them, as, for instance, Charles Bonnet, were particularly narrow in their views, and were even heretic hunters.[79] Voltaire's contest with the city authorities respecting the establishing of a theatre is a good illustration of his want of real authority and influence there. It greatly tickled his fancy to seduce the "pedantic city still holding to her old reformers, and submitting to the tyrannical laws of Calvin" from the ancient path, and to make war on her orthodoxy. And as part of his plan he determined to introduce theatrical performances into the city. The ball was set rolling by an article in the "Encyclopédie" by D'Alembert, but the arguments there adduced in favour of the theatre proved of no avail. Rousseau made a furious reply, and averred that a theatre was injurious to the morals of a small town. In a large city, where the morals were already corrupt, it did not signify. The Consistoire was in a flutter, for it had pretended that the Genevans had a prodigious love for light amusements. However, one day Voltaire invited the city authorities to "Les Délices," and there treated them to a representation of his "Zaïre," and it was no little triumph to the wily old schemer that his audience were overcome with emotion. "We have moved to tears almost the whole council--Consistory and magistrates; I have never seen more tears," he delightedly reports; "never have the Calvinists been more tender! God be blessed! I have corrupted Geneva and the Republic." Nevertheless he was not to triumph. The theatre at "Les Délices" had to be closed. He opened his theatre several times elsewhere in Genevan territory, and began to draw crowds, but in every instance was compelled to close again. In truth, it was not till 1766 that Geneva had a theatre of its own, and even then it lasted but two years. The building was set on fire by some Puritans, and, being only of wood, was rapidly consumed. Crowds ran to the conflagration, but finding that it was only the theatre that was on fire, they emptied their buckets, shouting, "Let those who wanted a theatre put out the fire!" "_Perruques_ or _tignasses_," exclaimed Voltaire, with irritation, "it is all the same with Geneva. If you think you have caught her, she escapes." Rousseau (1712-1778) was the son of a Genevan watchmaker, and received but a very desultory education in his early days. Whilst yet but a boy he had drunk in the republican and Calvinistic spirit of his native town, hence his democratic leanings. He was a lover of nature, and fond of solitude, and was possessed of a deep religious feeling, even though his religion was based on sentiment. He witnessed the revolt of 1735-37, and, _enfant du peuple_ as he was, rebelled against the tyranny of the patricians, and gave vent to his indignation in his writings. He thus became the mouthpiece of a down-trodden people craving for liberty, of a society satiated with culture. His prize essay on "Arts and Sciences" is an answer in the negative to the question propounded by the Dijon Academy, Whether the New Learning had resulted in an improvement to morals. His next essay on "L'origine et les fondements de l'inégalité" is a sally against the state of society. In it he advocates a return to the condition of nature, on which Voltaire sarcastically retorted, "I felt a great desire to go on all fours." "Emile" (1762), which Goethe calls the "gospel of education," declares against the hollowness of our distorted and over-refined civilization, and advocates a more rational training based on nature. And Pestalozzi, pedagogue and philanthropist, though he styled "Emile" a "book of dreams," was yet nourished on Rousseau's ideas. "Emile" is opposed to deism and materialism on the one hand, whilst on the other it objects to revelation and miracles, and declares that existing religion is one-sided and unable to save mankind from intellectual slavery. The excitement the book created was immense on both sides, and it was publicly burnt both at Paris and Geneva. Its author was compelled to flee. [Illustration: ROUSSEAU.] [Illustration: PORTRAIT OF PESTALOZZI. (_From a photograph of the statue, at Yverdon, by Lanz._)] A similar untoward fate befel the same author's famous "Contrat Social," perhaps the most important political work of the eighteenth century. In this Rousseau advances much further than Montesquieu. Indeed the former was a strong Radical, whilst the latter might be more fittingly described as a Whig. Rousseau advocates republicanism, or rather a democracy, as the best form of government; whilst Montesquieu points to the constitutional government of England as his model, insisting on the right to equality of all before the law. The "Contrat Social," as is well known, did much to advance the revolutionary cause, and became indeed the textbook of the democracy, and formed the principal basis of the Constitution of 1793. But Rousseau himself was no agitator. On the contrary, when the burghers of Geneva rose on his behalf, to save "Emile" and the "Contrat" from the flames, he hesitated hardly a moment, but begged them to submit to order, as he disliked disorder and bloodshed. His novel, "La Nouvelle Heloïse" (1761), introduced the romantic element, and opened a new era in literature. It was, in fact, a manifesto against a bewigged and bepowdered civilization. Poetry was invited to withdraw from the salons and come once more to live with nature. But this sudden onslaught on the stiff conventionalism and narrowness of the time was too much, and there ensued an outburst of excitement and feeling such as we in our day can scarcely realize. A great stream of sentiment poured into literature, and gave rise to that tumultuous "storm and stress" (_Sturm und Drang_) period in Germany, out of which sprang Schiller's "Räuber" (Robbers). Goethe caught up the prevailing tone of sentimentality and supersensitiveness in his "Werther" (1774). This tearful, boisterous period is but the outrush of a nation's pent-up feelings on its sudden emancipation from the thraldom of conventionalism. And it led the way to the golden era in German literature, the era of Schiller and Goethe. The brilliant literary court of Madame de Staël at Coppet succeeded that of Voltaire at Ferney. Though born in Geneva she was in heart a Frenchwoman, and her native country but little affected her character. "I would rather go miles to hear a clever man talk than open the windows of my rooms at Naples to see the beauties of the Gulf," is a characteristic speech of hers. Yet amongst women-writers Madame de Staël is perhaps the most generous, the most lofty, and the grandest figure. Her spirited opposition to Napoleon, her exile, her brilliant _coterie_ at Coppet, and her famous literary productions, are topics of the greatest interest, but as they do not specially concern Switzerland, they cannot be more than hinted at here. [Illustration: HALLER.] From the very depression, political and social, prevailing in Swiss lands arose the yearning for and proficiency in letters and scientific culture which in the period now before us produced so prolific a literature in the country. And it was not in West Switzerland alone that this revival of letters showed itself. Basel prided herself on her naturalists and mathematicians, Merian, Bernoulli, and Euler; while Zurich could boast of her botanists, Scheuchzer and John Gessner. Bern produced that most distinguished naturalist, Haller, who was also a poet; Schaffhausen claims Johannes von Müller, the brilliant historian; and Brugg (Aargau) Zimmermann, philosopher and royal physician at Hanover. Bodmer and Breitinger formed an æsthetic critical forum at Zurich. And no country of similar area had so many of its sons occupying positions of honour in foreign universities. A whole colony of Swiss savants had settled at Berlin, drawn thither by the great Frederick; others were to be found at Halle. Haller, who had lived at Göttingen ever since 1736, likewise received an invitation from Frederick, but found himself unable to accept it, being greatly averse to Voltaire and his influence. A perfect stream of Swiss intellect poured into Germany, and by its southern originality, greater power of expression, and its true German instinct, quickened German nationality, and witnesses to the fact that there is ever passing between the two countries an intellectual current.[80] It is impossible within the limits of the present volume to do more than touch upon the most characteristic literary movements of the period. Amongst the upper classes in Switzerland, French culture reigned supreme, just as did French fashions, French manners, and it may almost be said, the French language. Nevertheless, the Swiss were the first to throw off the French supremacy in literature, turning rather to England as a more congenial guide and pattern. Bodmer speaks of Shakespeare and Milton "as the highest manifestations of Germanic genius." As for German literature itself, it was still in a state of helplessness--what with the Thirty Years' War, and the German nobility given over to French tastes and French influence--and fashioned itself in foreign modes till the close of the Seven Years' War, in 1763, when it took the leading position it has ever since maintained. Bern and Zurich, which had both risen to wealth and independence, were stout opponents of the French policy. Both cities were homes of the _belles lettres_, and Zurich was a veritable "poets' corner." The chief figure there was Bodmer, who wielded the literary sceptre in Switzerland and Germany for well-nigh half a century. A fellow-worker with him, and his well-nigh inseparable companion, was Breitinger, and these two more than any others helped to break the French spell. Bodmer (1698-1783), was the son of a pastor of Greifensee, and had himself been at first destined for the church, though he was at length put to the silk trade. But neither calling could keep him from his beloved letters, and in 1725 he became professor of history and political science at the Zurich Carolinum. His aim was to raise literature from its lifeless condition. As far back as 1721, he had joined with Breitinger and others, in establishing a weekly journal on the model of Addison's _Spectator_--"Discurse der Maler." Breitinger was professor of Hebrew, and later on, canon of the minster of Zurich, and was a man of profound learning and refined taste. The new paper treated not only of social matters, but discussed poetry and _belles lettres_ generally. Gottsched (1700-1766), who occupied the chair of rhetoric at Leipzig, was supreme as a literary critic. His tastes were French, and he held up the French classics as models. In his "Critical Art of Poetry" (1730), he tries to teach what may be called the _mechanics_ of poetry based on reason, and pretends that it is in the power of any really clever man to produce masterpieces in poetry. In 1732, appeared Bodmer's translation of "Paradise Lost," to the chagrin of Gottsched, who, feeling that he was losing ground, furiously attacked the Miltonian following. His mockery of the blind poet roused Bodmer's anger, and he replied with his work the "Wonderful in Poetry." A fierce controversy raged for ten years. In the name of Milton the young men of talent took the side of Zurich, that is, of the German, as opposed to the French influence in literature. The result was that by the efforts of such men as Haller, Klopstock, Wieland, and Kleist, the French influence was ousted and the national German influence came to the front. Albrecht von Haller (1708-1777), whom Goethe calls "the father of national poetry," was the first representative of the new school of poets which began to turn to nature for inspiration and illustration rather than to mere dead forms. His poems on the Alps (1732) paint the majestic beauty of the Bernese highlands, and contrast the humble and peaceful but natural life of the shepherd with the luxurious and artificial life of the patrician, and the dweller in cities. Haller's writings made a great impression on the polite world.[81] Klopstock it was, however, whom Bodmer welcomed as the harbinger of a new era, as the German Milton. Klopstock had been trained in the Swiss school of thought, and regarded Breitinger's "Critical Art" as his æsthetic bible, whilst Bodmer's translation of "Paradise Lost" inspired his epic, "Messiah." The first three cantos appeared in the "Bremer Beiträge" in 1748, and created such a _furore_ that he was declared to be an immortal poet. Wieland's first poems were, in 1751, published in the "Swiss Critic," and met with a reception hardly less favourable if somewhat less enthusiastic. A strong friendship springing up between Bodmer and the young Klopstock, the former offered the poet a temporary home at his Tusculum (still standing) on the slopes of Zurichberg, that he might go on with his great epic. The fine view of the lake and mountains, the "highly cultivated city beneath," was greatly prized by Goethe who sounds its praises in "Wahrheit und Dichtung." However, Bodmer was disappointed with his young guest, for Klopstock loved the society of the young men and young women of his own age, and the progress made with the "Messiah" was well-nigh _nil_. However, it is to Klopstock's sojourn there, that we owe some of his fine odes, especially that on Zurich lake. But meanwhile Bodmer's friendship had cooled, and Klopstock went to the house (in Zurich itself) of Hartmann Rahn, who later on married the poet's sister. With this same Rahn was some years afterwards associated the philosopher Fichte, when he lived at Zurich (1788). Fichte in fact married Rahn's daughter, Johanna. In 1752, Wieland[82] repaid Bodmer for his previous disappointments, by staying with him for some two years. Bodmer's zeal for the advance of literature was unremitting. Though he could not himself boast of much poetic genius, he was a prolific writer in both prose and verse. His great merit is his bringing to light again the fine old mediæval poetry long since forgotten. The manuscript of the "Minnesänger" and the famous "Nibelungen" he had dug up from the lumber-room of Hohenems Castle. He moved heaven and earth to obtain royal protection and patronage for German literature. But little did he gain at the court of the great Frederick. To Müller, who presented the "Nibelungen," his majesty replied in characteristic fashion that the piece was not worth a single "charge of powder." Not less characteristic was Voltaire's reply when a request was made for the royal favour to Klopstock. "A new 'Messiah' is too much of a good thing, the old one has not been read yet." Bodmer's influence on the young man of parts is noticeable. He gathered round him a large following of young Zürcher who had a taste for letters. Crowds of them would accompany him in his evening walks in the avenue Platzspitz, drinking in his words of wit and wisdom. Of the disciples thus gathered round "Father" Bodmer--for so he was affectionately styled--some attained no little eminence in later life. Amongst them we may mention Sulzer, who became art professor at Berlin, and stood in high favour with the king; and Solomon Gessner, the painter poet, whose word pictures are hardly less beautiful than the productions of his brush. His "Idylls," published in 1756, gave him a European reputation. The work was translated into all the literary languages, and in France and Italy was read with great eagerness, a first edition in French being sold out within a fortnight. Another important work is Hirzel's "Kleinjogg," or the "Socrates of the Fields." In this Hirzel, who was a physician and a philanthropist, brings to the fore the despised peasantry. "Kleinjogg" is not a work of fiction solely, but an account of Jakob Gujer who lived in a small Zurich village. Jakob was a man of great intelligence, indomitable resolution, and practical wisdom, who by his admirable management raised a wretched country home into a model farm. Goethe, who on a visit ate at his table, was delighted with the philosophic peasant, and called him "one of the most delicious creatures earth ever produced." Heinrich Pestalozzi, the philanthropist, but better known for his efforts in the cause of education, was also a Zurich man. His principles of education are embodied in his novel of rural life, "Lienhard and Gertrude" (1781). His ideas are partly borrowed from Rousseau, but he failed to realize them in practice. The work at once won for Pestalozzi European fame. Ludwig Meyer von Knonau, a country magnate, was a poet and a painter, and wrote "Fables." Johannes Casper Lavater, Bodmer's favourite pupil, stirred to their depth the patriotic feelings of his countrymen by his famous "Schweizerlieder," which he composed for the Helvetic Society, in 1767. Indeed literary tastes seem to have been very prevalent amongst the Swiss at that time. More of Winkelmann's great work on Æsthetics were sold in Zurich and Basel then would in our own day probably be sold in such cities as Berlin and Vienna. And Solothurn, we find, produced thrice as many subscribers to Goethe's works as the great cities just mentioned. [Illustration: LAVATER.] After Bodmer Lavater became the chief attraction at Zurich, and strangers flocked thither in great numbers to see him. He was the founder of the study of physiognomy, and his works on it were very largely read at the time. Goethe himself joined with Lavater in his "Essays on Physiognomy." The philosopher's personality being singularly charming and fascinating, he was one of the most influential men of his time. He was the pastor of St. Peter's church, and was full of high religious enthusiasm. He desired to take Christianity from its lifeless condition and make it a living thing, and was strongly opposed to rationalism--Anglo-French deism--then slowly creeping in, notwithstanding severe repressive measures against it. Goethe was for many years the close friend of Lavater, and carried on with him a brilliant correspondence. The great poet, it may be stated, paid no fewer than three visits to Zurich, viz., in 1775, 1779, and 1797. He considered his intercourse with Lavater the "seal and crown" of the whole trip to Switzerland in 1779, and calls the divine the "crown of mankind," "the best among the best," and compares his friendship with "pastureland on heaven's border." Lavater's later years were marked by many eccentricities, and he fell into religious mysticism. But his sterling merits will not readily be forgotten by the Swiss. A word respecting the Helvetic Society must close the present chapter. This society was founded in 1762, with the view of gathering together those who were stirred by political aspiration. It gradually united all those who desired the political regeneration of their fatherland, and the most prominent men of both East and West Switzerland, and of both confessions, joined the new society. The young patriots regularly met to discuss methods of improving the country and its institutions, and this in spite of the prohibitions of a narrow-minded executive, and the close control of the press. Stockar's scheme for amalgamating the free states into one republic mightily swelled the hearts of both Catholic and Protestant, and their efforts gave rise to many practical reforms. The most prominent result of these efforts was the rise of national education. Zurich with its higher schools occupied a leading position in the work of reform, and Pestalozzi established on his own estate a school for the poor. Unfortunately this admirable institution failed for want of a proper manager. Later on, after the Revolution, when the soil was better prepared for it, Pestalozzi's system took vigorous root. FOOTNOTES: [79] Hettner's "French Literature in the Eighteenth Century." [80] Switzerland was the cradle of the German drama in the sixteenth century; even the Oberammergau Passion play can be traced to a Swiss origin (Bächtold). [81] Haller, anxious to return to his native land, accepted an inferior post as director of salt-mines at Bex (Vaud), Bern, his native town, disregarding his great merits, declining to offer him either a professorship or a seat on the governing board. [82] A daughter of Wieland was also married to the son of his great friend Gessner, the poet. XXXI. THE FRENCH REVOLUTION AND SWITZERLAND. (1790-1798.) None of our readers will need to be told the story of the French Revolution, nor shown that it was the natural outcome of previous misgovernment and oppression. Every one has read of the miseries of the lower classes--intolerable beyond description; of the marvellous inability of the nobles and clergy to see that amidst all their selfishness and pleasures they were living on the very edge of a frightful volcano; of the _tiers-état_ and its emancipatory movement, which, outgrowing its primary intention, brought about a series of stupendous changes; of Napoleon, how he stopped this disorder and how he made all Europe into one vast theatre of war. All this, in so far as it is the history of France, can only be alluded to here, but, inasmuch as Switzerland was dragged into the whirlpool of changes, we must dwell upon some of the effects of the great Revolution. Not less clearly than in France itself did the cry of "_Liberté, and égalité!_" resound through the Swiss lands, filling the hearts of the unfree and the oppressed with high hopes. Yet it was only after terrible sufferings and endless vicissitudes that the liberal principles of the Revolution came to the front, and admitted of that practical realization which was to lead up to a nobler and happier life for men. [Illustration: THE LION OF LUCERNE. (_From a photograph of the original._)] Of the many popular risings in Switzerland due to the influence of France, we may briefly touch on those which precede the Bern catastrophe in 1798. In September, 1791, Lower Valais rose against the _landvögte_ of Upper Valais, but the intervention of Bern checked the revolt. In the April of the following year, Pruntrut (in the Bernese Jura) renounced its allegiance to the prince-bishops of Basel, and set up as an independent territory, under the style of the "Rauracian Republic," and three months later the widely-extended bishopric itself was amalgamated with France as the "Department Mont Terrible." It was on August 10th of this same year (1792) that the Swiss Guards defending the Tuileries against the Paris mob were massacred. Every one knows the story. "We are Swiss, and the Swiss never surrender their arms but with their lives," were the proud words of Sergeant Blaser to the crowds furious against the protectors of royalty, and claiming that their arms should be put down. When Louis was in safety, the Swiss Guards were withdrawn. But on leaving the palace they were suddenly attacked by thousands of the mob. Resistance was plainly useless, yet the Swiss would not fly, and were ruthlessly slaughtered. Of the 760 men and twenty-two officers, but few escaped that terrible onslaught. The beautiful and far-famed Thorwaldsen monument--the "Lion of Lucerne"--with its inscription, "Helvetiorum fidei ac virtuti," still keeps up the memory of the heroic courage of the Swiss Guards.[83] The outrage aroused intense indignation at home, but could not be avenged. The subjects of the prince-abbot Beda, of St. Gall, secured under his mild rule the abolition of serfdom. His successor, Forster, however, refusing the measure his sanction, was driven from his see--till he returned under Austrian auspices--and a large rural district of St. Gall gained autonomy and freedom from the rule of the abbey in 1797. Geneva saw almost every possible change. At one time she was rescued by Bern at Zurich, but was, in 1798, absorbed by France. The singularly harsh bearing of Zurich towards the country districts brought about the widespread insurrection of Stäfa, in 1795; an insurrection vigorously suppressed however. The Italian lordships, severely treated by Graubünden, desired to be included in the Cis-alpine republic Bonaparte was forming, and the general advised that free state that it should be admitted into their pale as a fourth member of equal rank. Finding that his advice was not taken, he suddenly proclaimed the memorable maxim, "that no people can be subject to another people without a violation of the laws of nature," and joined Valtellina, Bormio, and Chiavenna to Lombardy. This arrangement he had ratified by the treaty of Campo Formio, in 1797, which destroyed the Venetian republic, handing it over, indeed, to Austria, France taking the Netherlands and Milan as her share of the plunder. Few things served to draw the attention of France to Swiss lands more than the Helvetic Club at Paris. This famous club was founded in 1790, by malcontents, chiefly from Vaud, Geneva, and Freiburg. They were bent on the liberation of Switzerland from aristocratic domination, and desirous of assimilating the form of government with that of France. This suited the French Directory exactly, their aim being to girdle France with a strong belt of vassal states. Among these Switzerland was to serve as a bulwark, or at any rate as a battle-ground, against Austria; and France was not without hope of filling her _coffres-forts_ with Swiss treasure, now grown, after long years of peace, to great dimensions. Amongst the band of patriots two men stand out as leaders. One was César de La Harpe, a noble-minded and enthusiastic Vaudois, who, however, was more concerned for his own canton than for Switzerland at large. The other was Peter Ochs, of Basel, a shrewd and able man, but ambitious, and a creature of France. La Harpe had once been taunted by a Bernese noble, who reminded him that Vaud was subject to Bern, and this he never forgot. Even at the Court of Catherine II. of Russia, to which he had been called as tutor to the imperial grandchildren, he never forgot his republican principles. In 1797, returning from Russia, and being forbidden to enter Vaud, he joined the Helvetic Club at Paris, and thence launched forth his pamphlets against Bern. And in the Directory things were making against that hapless canton, Reubel, a declared enemy, gaining a seat. Napoleon too was no lover of Bern. On his way to the Congress of Rastatt, in 1797, he passed through Switzerland, and, while accepting the enthusiastic welcome offered by Basel and Vaud, he declined altogether to respond to that of Bern and Solothurn. Peter Ochs enjoyed Napoleon's full confidence, and was by him summoned to Paris, and charged with the drafting of a new constitution for Switzerland, on the lines of the Directory. La Harpe and Ochs thus worked towards the same end, though the motives of the two men differed greatly. [Illustration: LA HARPE.] Vaud hailed with delight the French Revolution, and celebrated the fall of Bastille in the most ostentatious manner; Bern, on the other hand, looked with dismay on the march of events, and, in Jan. 1798, sent Colonel Weiss with troops into the province. France replied by immediately sending men to occupy the southern shore of Lake Geneva. This was done at the request of the Helvetic Club, which gave as a pretext an old treaty of 1564, by which France guaranteed her support to Vaud. In vain did Weiss issue manifestoes; Bern was irresolute, and Vaud, feeling herself safe under the ægis of France, proclaimed the establishment of the "Lemanic Republic," with the seat of government at Lausanne (Jan. 24, 1798). A simple accident which resulted in the death of a couple of French soldiers was by their general magnified into an _attentât_ of the "Bernese tyrants" against a "great nation." The French troops marched on Weiss, ousted him without the necessity of striking a blow, and then charged Vaud with a sum of £28,000 for services rendered. Such proceedings struck terror into the hearts of the Swiss, and many of the cantons--Basel, Schaffhausen, Lucerne, &c.--set about reforming their governments. With matters at this pass the Diet ordered that the national federal oath should be sworn to, a proceeding which had been neglected for three hundred years. But this pretence of unity was a mere sham, as indeed were all these hasty attempts at reform. They failed to avert the coming storm, as the rulers failed to read aright the signs of the times. The Tagsatzung distracted and helpless dissolved on Feb. 1st. In the operations which followed, the chief command of the French forces in Switzerland was transferred from Mengaud to Brune, a Jacobite of the school of Danton. Brune directed his main attack on Bern, which, torn by dissensions, was wavering between peace and war. With Machiavellian astuteness Brune enticed the city into a truce. This truce, which was to last till the 1st of March, was most injurious to the interests of Bern, as it allowed time both for Brune to increase his own forces, and for Schauenburg to join him with a body of troops from Alsace. The Bernese were well-nigh paralyzed, and not unnaturally suspected treason amongst their own adherents. Unluckily, too, for her, Bern was far from popular amongst her sister cantons, and was well-nigh left to her own resources. Her chief allies were Solothurn and Freiburg, but these surrendered to Schauenburg and Brune at the first shock, on March 2nd. The French troops next marched to Bern, destroying on the way the national monument at Morat. But Von Grafenried secured a decided victory against Brune at Neueneck. On the other hand, Ludwig von Erlach, who attempted a stand against Schauenburg at Fraubrunnen, quite failed to hold his own, and was driven back on Grauholz, a few miles from Bern. A life-and-death struggle followed, even women and children seizing whatever weapons they could and fighting desperately, many of them even unto death. For three hours the combat lasted, and the Bernese fighting with their old bravery, maintained their honour as soldiers. Old Schultheiss von Steiger, "trembling in body, but stout in heart," cheered on his men regardless of the hail of bullets falling, but harmlessly, around him. Four times did the Swiss stand against the terrible onslaught of the French, but were at length compelled to yield to a force so superior in numbers and tactics to their own. And even whilst the clash of arms was still sounding the news came that Bern had surrendered. Erlach and Steiger fled to the Oberland, intending there to resume the combat; but the troops, mad with suspicion that the capitulation was the result of treason, murdered the former, Steiger narrowly escaping a similar fate. On the 5th of March, 1798, the French entered Bern in triumph, Brune, however, cautiously keeping up strict discipline. On the 22nd of the previous month at Lausaune, Brune had caused it to be proclaimed that the French came as friends and bearers of freedom, and would respect the property of the Swiss citizens. Notwithstanding this he emptied the treasuries and magazines of Bern, and on the 10th and 11th of March, sent off eleven four-horse waggons full of booty, nineteen banners, and the three bears--which they nicknamed respectively Erlach, Steiger, and Weiss--the French carried off in triumph. Thus fell Bern, the stronghold of the aristocracy, and with its fall the doom of Switzerland was sealed, though more work remained to be done before it would be complete. The Directory now abolished the old Confederation, and proclaimed in its stead the "one and undivided Helvetic Republic," forcing on it a new constitution elaborated from the draft by Peter Ochs. Brune himself had had a scheme for a triple division of the territory, but a preference was given to a united republic, as more easily manageable from Paris. The thirteen old cantons, together with the various subject lands and connections were formed into twenty-two divisions. After the failure of the _laender_ the number was reduced to nineteen, the three Forest Cantons with Zug being thrown into one, as a punishment. Some of the rearrangements and partitions were very curious. A few may be cited. Oberland Canton was lopped off from Bern, and Baden from Aargau proper. Säntis included Appenzell and the northern portion of St. Gall, and Linth comprised the rest of St. Gall and Glarus; Tessin was split into Bellinzona and Lugano; Vaud, Valais, and Bünden were added intact. Geneva and Neuchâtel were left outside. In this manner the united Helvetic commonwealth was formed, the central government being fixed at Aarau, Lucerne, and Bern in succession. The passing of laws was vested in a senate and great council. There was a Directory of five members to whom were added four ministers of state--for war, justice, finance, and art and science. A supreme court of justice was made up of nineteen representatives, one from each canton. These were sweeping changes, and the unadvised manner in which they were forced on the people prevented their meeting with general approval. And then France gained the hearty dislike of the Swiss generally by her treatment of the country. Switzerland was regarded as a conquered and subject land, and was ruthlessly despoiled by the French. A contribution of sixteen million francs was imposed on the Swiss aristocracy--besides the eight million francs carried off from Bern at her fall.[84] Ten cantons, notably Bern, Zurich, Lucerne, and Vaud, _i.e._, the city cantons, feeling that resistance was impossible, and reform was necessary, acquiesced in the new arrangement; but the _laender_, except Obwalden, stirred up by the priests and local patriots, and fearing that religion and liberty would die together, offered a most uncompromising resistance. They preferred, they said, "to be burnt beneath their blazing roofs, rather than submit to the dictates of the foreigner." Very noble was the defence made by the Forest folk, but we can only touch briefly upon it. After a brave resistance Glarus was defeated at Rapperswyl, on the 30th of April, 1798, and then Schauenburg proceeded with his whole strength against Schwyz. In its defence a band of some four thousand stout-hearted men was collected under the command of Reding, a young and handsome officer, who had just returned from Spanish service. Reding was an enthusiastic patriot of the old stamp, deeply imbued with conservative principles. Men rallied to his standard eagerly, and swore a solemn oath, "not to flee, but conquer." Reding and his little army gained three brilliant victories, at Schindellegi, Arth, and Morgarten, respectively, showing themselves worthy descendants of the old heroes of 1315. However, the French effected an entrance by way of Mount Etzel, through the failure of the priest Herzog to hold his own against them, and poured through the gap in overwhelming numbers. For the moment they were thrust back at Rothenthurm, but Schwyz was too exhausted to continue the unequal struggle, and Reding was forced to enter into negotiations, though negotiations of an honourable character, with Schauenburg. [Illustration: REDING.] Then followed the gloomy 9th of September, written down as "doomsday" in the annals of Midwalden,[85] a day that well-nigh blotted that semi-canton out of existence. Having set up a wild opposition to the "Helvetic," this district drew down upon itself the wrath of France. Animated by the spirit of Winkelried, one and all--its worthy sons, its women and children even--the little band--they were but two thousand as against sixteen thousand--for some days kept up the unequal struggle. The little bay of Alpnach (Alpnacher See) and the Wood of Kerns (Kernserwald) were red with the blood of the enemy. But this state of things could not last long. Suddenly the French broke through, and poured in from all sides. Terrible conflicts took place at Rotzloch and Drachenried, and a rush was made on Stanz, the chief place of the district. By noon this town was really taken, but notwithstanding this the combat continued in furious fashion till evening. This was the 9th of September, 1798, a day which Schauenburg called the hottest of his life. "Like furies," the report says, "the black legion of the French galley-slaves slew and raged the district through." When night set in Stanz looked a devastated, smoking city of blood and death. Europe looked with amazement, yet with admiration and sympathy, on this heroic spot of earth. Both England and Germany sent provisions and money, and even Schauenburg was moved with compassion towards the poor Midwaldeners, and had food distributed to them. It may perhaps here be noted that Stanz shortly figures again in Swiss history, but this time in a far more peaceful and humane manner. It was here that Pestalozzi resumed his noble work of education. To heal the wounds of his noble country as far as was in his power the minister Stapfer founded an educational establishment for the orphan children of the district. And here it was that Pestalozzi ruled, not so much as a mere pedagogue, but as a veritable father, the little unfortunates committed to his care. FOOTNOTES: [83] This grand work of art is carved out of and on the face of an immense rock, after a model by Thorwaldsen--a wounded lion with a broken spear, representing hapless but noble courage. The work was executed in 1821. [84] The exact sum paid by Bern is not known, but probably it reached seven or eight million francs. The Bernese losses, up to 1813, were estimated at seventeen million francs. One hundred and sixty cannon, and sixty thousand muskets were also captured. Bern had kept three bears (in the Bärangraben of the town) ever since the battle of Novara, in 1513. Strangely enough the bears carried off in that battle were French trophies. [85] The mountain range, running from Titlis north-west and then north-east to Stanzer Horn, with the Kernwald at its centre, separates Unterwalden into Obwalden (above the wood) and Midwalden (below the wood). XXX. THE "ONE AND UNDIVIDED HELVETIC REPUBLIC." (1798-1803.) The day of the "one and undivided Helvetic Republic" was a period of "storm and stress," short-lived, full of creative ideas and vast schemes, with much struggling for what was most noble in the principles of the Revolution. Yet Helvetia was torn by inner dissensions, and its energies paralysed by civil and foreign war, by its position of dependence, and by financial difficulties. The Helvetic scheme of pounding the various members of the Confederation into one state wiping out the cantons--a scheme often planned since then, but to this day unrealized, and as yet unrealizable--by its inevitable levelling tendencies, roused intense disgust and hatred amongst the more conservative of the Swiss. In truth, it went too fast, and too far in the direction of centralization. The _laender_ were robbed of their _landsgemeinde_, the city cantons of their councils, and the independent states of their sovereignty. Everything seemed to be turned topsy-turvy. Cantons became mere administrative districts.[86] The barriers between them, and likewise between the various classes of society, were broken down. Subject lands were recognized as equal in status to the rest, and the inhabitants given full rights of citizenship. Amongst the many beneficent measures brought forward the principal may be mentioned. All restrictions on trade and industry were removed, tithes, bondservice, and land taxes could be redeemed at a small cost; freedom in religious matters, freedom of the press, and the right to petition were guaranteed, and torture was suppressed. That child of the Revolution, "the Helvetic," indeed, advocated many reforms and gave birth to many new ideas which required time and thought and peace to bring to maturity and usefulness. But the time was not yet ripe, and peace was lacking, and many things were suggested rather than put into practice. Yet we look back with interest on many of the ideas of the time, for they paved the way for and led up to much of our modern progress. Excellent men, men of parts, wise and moderate, watched over the early days of the young republic; amongst them Usteri, Escher (of Zurich), Secretan and Carrard (Vaud), and Mayer (Bern). But gradually French partisans, nominated from Paris, were returned to the Swiss Directory, and Ochs and La Harpe were promoted to the leadership of Helvetic affairs. Soon a "reign of terror"--of a milder form, perhaps, but none the less a rule of terrorism--was set up, with the view of dragooning the country into submission to the "_grande nation_." A levy was enforced in order to make up a total of eighteen thousand men, a number the Swiss were loth to produce for the foreigner. They objected to this forced service, and took up arms abroad, whilst men like Lavater and Reding, who defied both French tyranny and "Helvetic" despotism, were transported, or thrust into the filthy dungeons of the fortress of Aarburg. On the 19th of August, 1798, was concluded the fatal Franco-Helvetic Alliance--offensive and defensive--despite the supplications and warnings of the more far-seeing patriots, such as Escher (von der Linth) for instance. Swiss neutrality being thus abandoned, the door was opened to the Austro-Russian invasion, planned by the second European coalition with the view of ousting France from Swiss territory. Hating the new _régime_ exasperated at French supremacy and French extortion, and desirous that the _status quo ante_ of 1798 should be re-established, the reactionists hailed with delight the coming of the Austrians, quite as much as the "Patriots" had before welcomed the interference of France. A legion of Swiss _emigrés_ abroad collected by Roverea, at Vaudois, who had sided with Bern in the previous struggle, joined the Austrian army. The foreign occupation which took place and turned Switzerland into one military camp cannot be followed in all its details here. Yet one or two points must be noted, above all, those remarkable Alpine marches carried out, though against his own will, by Suwarow. These marches are quite unique in military history. After the defeat of the French in Southern Germany, the Tyrol, and Italy, by the Archduke Charles, Hotze, and Suwarow, they were to be driven out of Switzerland. Marshal Massena, who had succeeded Schauenburg in the command of the French troops, had at the commencement of the war seized Graubünden, and forced it, free state though it was, to join the Helvetic Republic to which it so strongly objected. But in May, 1799, it was recaptured by Hotze, a gallant swordsman of Swiss birth;[87] who had risen to the rank of field-marshal in the Austrian army. Hotze drove the French from the central highlands, Roverea likewise taking a prominent part in the expedition. About this time the Archduke Charles entered Switzerland at Schaffhausen, and, carrying all before him, advanced to Zurich. This city, after various skirmishes in its neighbourhood, he seized on the 4th of June, forcing Massena to retire to the heights beyond the Limmat river. But now a cessation of hostilities intervened for some months, owing to differences between Austria and Russia, and with this came a change of tactics. Archduke Charles withdrew, and his place was taken by Korsakow with a Russian army forty thousand strong. A plan was now agreed upon under which Suwarow should join Korsakow from Italy, and they should then combine their forces in a grand attack on the French, on September 26th. This Massena was determined to prevent. By admirable manoeuvring he disposed his eight divisions about Eastern and Central Switzerland, his force amounting to no fewer than seventy-five thousand men. The highlands of Schwyz, Uri, and Glarus, were held by Lecourbe, a skilled strategist, thoroughly at home in the Alps, and the entrance to the St. Gothard pass was blocked. Marshal Soult gave battle to Hotze in the marshy district between Lake Zurich and Walensee, on the 25th of September, with the result that Hotze was slain, and the Austrian force retired from Swiss soil. Wherever the Austrians had gained a footing, the reactionists had taken advantage of it to re-establish the _status quo_. On the 25th and 26th of September, Massena attacked the Russian forces under Korsakow, at Zurich. This second battle of Zurich--the fighting was continued (from outside) into the very streets--resulted in the complete defeat of Korsakow. Fortunately the city itself, having remained neutral, escaped violent treatment, but Lavater was unfortunate enough to be struck by a shot during the engagement, whilst carrying help to some wounded soldiers.[88] [Illustration: DILIGENCE CROSSING THE SIMPLON PASS.] Quite unaware of what was being done in Switzerland, Suwarow reached the heights of St. Gothard on the 24th of September, and, finding the pass occupied by the enemy, cut his way through in brilliant style. Whilst some of the Russians--at Teufelsbrüche, for instance--held in check the French, the larger portion of their army scrambled down the steep rocks lining the Reuss, amidst the French fire. Wading across the rapid torrent they hurried down the valley to Flüelen, intending to push on to Lucerne and Zurich. But to their great dismay they found no road skirting Uri lake, and all the boats removed. They were thus locked up in a labyrinth of mountain fastnesses, the outlets from which were blocked by their foes. In this desperate strait there was nothing for it but to proceed over the mountains as best they might, by any rough path which might present itself. In reality, however, these passes were no highroads for armies, but only narrow paths used by occasional shepherds or huntsmen. Devoted to their leader, the Russian troops toiled up from the sombre Schächenthal, and along the rugged Kinzig pass, pursued by their enemies. On reaching Muotta they learned the disheartening news that Korsakow had been defeated. No wonder that down the weather-beaten face of the brave old general, the tears rolled as he gave the order to retreat. But Suwarow was not inclined to sit still and repine, and undaunted by his recent terrible struggle against nature, at once resumed his march across the toilsome Pragel pass into the canton of Glarus, where he had good hopes of finding Austrian friends. But on his arrival he learnt that the Austrians had left the neighbourhood. Thus baffled once more, and unable to get to the plains at Naefels on account of the enemy, he was compelled to retreat again, and again attempt the terrible passage across the mountains. Striking across the Panixer pass, which rises to the height of eight thousand feet, he found himself confronted by greater difficulties than before. Snow had lately fallen, and all traces of the path had disappeared. For five terrible days the force decimated, dying with cold, hunger, and fatigue, unshod--their boots were entirely worn out--struggled along those wintry regions, creeping like caterpillars up walls of snow and over icy peaks. Hundreds of men and horses fell into the hidden crevices, down which also many a piece of artillery fell with sudden crash. Fully one-third of the gallant band perished during that fearful passage. The worn and famished survivors reached Graubünden on the 10th of October, and thence made their way into Austrian territory. Suwarow had failed, but immortal glory attaches to the memory of the dauntless and resolute old general. The non-success of the foreign invasions meant also the failure of the reactionists in their attempt to overthrow the "Helvetic Republic." Indescribable misery was the consequence of the foreign wars, and it was intensified by the French occupation, and especially by the disgraceful system of spoliation practised by the French generals and agents, Mengaud, Lecarlier, Rapinat, &c. A few examples of the treatment Switzerland received at the hands of the French "liberators" may be given. Urserenthal, one of the Uri valleys, was called upon during the year Oct. 1798 to Oct. 1799, to provide food for a total of 861,700 men, and a pretty hamlet in Freiburg for twenty-five thousand, within half a year. During four months, Thurgau spent one and a half million francs, and the Baden district well-nigh five millions, in provisioning French troops within a year. All protestations of inability on the part of the inhabitants were useless; Rapinat[89] and others, like vampires, sucked the very life-blood out of the unfortunate Swiss. The "Helvetic Republic" had its noble side, it is true, but the French occupation, by which it was maintained, and which indeed was the outcome of it, caused the Helvetic scheme to be regarded by the people at large with disgust and hatred. The brightest side of the "Helvetic Republic" was seen in the remarkable efforts of noble patriots--foremost amongst them Rengger and Stapfer--to mitigate the effects of all these calamities by promoting, in spite of all difficulties, or against all odds of the time, the material and ideal interests of the people. Both Rengger and Stapfer were highly cultivated men, and both were ministers of state, the former holding the portfolio of finance, the latter that of arts and sciences. Rengger directed his efforts to the improvement of trade and agriculture; one of his practical efforts being the introduction of English cotton-spinning machines. Stapfer, on the other hand, worked for the spread of popular education. "Spiritual and intellectual freedom alone makes free," he maintained. He himself had been born in one of the new enfranchised subject lands, it may be noted parenthetically. He drew up a remarkable scheme of national education, a scheme embracing the child in the primary school, and the young man in the National University. This dream of a national university, by the way, is still unrealized,[90] but Stapfer intended that it should crown his whole system of national education, and should combine German depth with French versatility and Italian taste. Most of Stapfer's grand scheme remained untried through want of means and time, but it was a very remarkable scheme for that day. Yet much was done. Numerous schools sprang up, and every canton had its educational council and its inspector of schools. Lucerne, which had hitherto been quite behindhand in these matters, now founded schools in all its communes (by 1801), and Aarau established a gymnasium. Some four thousand children from the wasted and ruined country districts were brought into the towns and educated; whilst numerous journals were started, and many literary and art societies founded. Perhaps Stapfer's chief title to honourable remembrance is his appreciation of, and his assistance to, Pestalozzi. Leaving Stanz on account of confessional differences, the great philanthropist established his famous school at Burgdorf, winning for himself by it European renown. These noble efforts towards national advancement intellectually are the more admirable as the country was convulsed with constitutional struggles. From the first days of the Revolution, there had sprung up two political schools, the Centralists, who[91] wished to see one single state with one central government; and the Federalists, who clung to the historical traditions of their fatherland, and to the _status quo ante_ of 1798. These latter desired to see cantonal self-government preponderating over the central authority. It was a struggle to the death between advanced Liberals and stout Conservatives. Within the short space of five years, the country saw no fewer than four _coups d'état_, complete overthrowings of government and constitution. We can notice only the chief points in the history of these changes. The first shock came with the change in France from the Directory to the Consulate, and the return of Napoleon from Egypt, on the 9th of November, 1798. Ochs, detested as the tool of France by nearly all the Swiss, was hurled from his eminence; and La Harpe following suit, the Swiss Directory was replaced by an executive committee. The Peace of Luneville, February, 1801, left the Swiss free to chose their own form of government, but Napoleon himself gradually went over to the Federalist view. Drafts of new constitutions followed each other in quick succession, each in its turn being upset by that which followed. The sketch of La Malmaison, drawn up by the Federalists, restored the Tagsatzung, and the independence of the cantons, May, 1801. Another overthrow, and then Alois Reding rose to the position of first Landammann, and head of the Conservative government (Oct. 28, 1801). Chivalrous and of unflinching resolve, Reding lacked the pliancy necessary for a statesman, and desired to see Vaud again placed under the rule of Bern. "Sooner shall the sun turn from west to east," fiercely exclaimed Napoleon, "than Vaud shall go back to Bern." Reding was deprived of his office, and shut up at Aarburg, a fate that befell him on several other occasions under Bonaparte. In July, 1802, Napoleon withdrew the French troops from Swiss territory, with the view ostensibly of complying with the treaty of Amiens, but in reality to show the Swiss how powerless they were without his help. This was the signal for a general outbreak of civil war, humorously called _Stecklikrieg_, or _Guerre aux bâtons_, in allusion to the indifferent equipment of the soldiery. The Helvetic Government which was then in power fled from Bern, and took up its quarters at Lausanne. Its small force was defeated at Avenches by the Federalists, who pushed on to the Leman city, when an order to lay down their arms reached them from Paris. Through the medium of General Rapp, Napoleon offered his services as "mediator" in the civil troubles of Switzerland, and at his heels followed Marshal Ney, with an army of forty thousand men to enforce order. FOOTNOTES: [86] The utter failure clearly shows how little such a centralization of government, leaving the cantons no scope for action, could suit the separate states of the Confederation at any time. The name "canton" was first used in French treaties with Switzerland, and became thenceforward the general term. It had not come into use even so late as the Helvetic. [87] He was a native of a large village in the Zurich district. [88] He lingered on suffering from his wound for a whole year, and then died, distinguished to the very last by his love for all mankind, and for his country especially. [89] The following lines, common in men's mouths afterwards, tell their own tale:-- "La Suisse qu'on pille et qu'on ruine Voudrait bien que l'on decidât Si Rapinat vient de rapine, Ou rapine de Rapinat." [90] And not very likely to be realized, as the respective cantons cling to their four universities and two academies, which are their pride. [91] In German, _Centralisten_ or _Unitarier_. XXXI. THE MEDIATION ACT AND NAPOLEON. (1803-15.) From a constitutional point of view this period--the mediation period (1803-13)--is the most satisfactory portion of the epoch between the French revolutions of 1789 and 1830. It suited Napoleon's fancy to assume the position of a directing providence to the Alpine lands. And, finding that the federalists and the centralists of Switzerland--the _laudatores temporis acti_ and the progressivists--were quite unable to agree upon a compromise, it pleased him to give the country a new constitution. He stopped their squabbles by summoning the "Helvetic Consulta" to Paris. Sixty-three deputies, of whom but fifteen were federalists, obeyed the call, many of the foremost statesmen among them. Those who disobeyed the summons, like Reding and his party, were arrested (Nov., 1803). In the official gazette Napoleon was pleased to speak of the Swiss nation as one that had "always stood out in history as a model of strength, courage, and good manners," and he expressed a wish that the Swiss should "aim at good government, and should sacrifice their party feelings to their real interests, to glory, and independence." Thus complimentary was his language, and the painstaking care and thoughtful consideration he brought to bear on the reorganization of Swiss affairs presents the great despot under a singularly amiable aspect; and the Mediation Act which he drew up would, but for the selfish _arrière pensée_ running through it, be one of his noblest and most beneficent political acts. From the drafts and data presented by the Conference Napoleon, in two months (Nov. 25th-Jan. 24th), drew up his famous scheme. Laying it first before the whole assembly, he then had selected an inner committee of ten for a further and final consultation. This took place on Jan. 29th at the Tuileries, the sitting lasting from one o'clock to eight in the evening. The French commissioners[92] afterwards stated that they had never witnessed such a scene, and that "never had the First Consul devoted such close attention, even to the most important matters of European politics." The Swiss party, representing both the political sections, and the four French Commissioners, sat round the table, Napoleon himself in the middle of them, beaming with graceful amiability. The proposals respecting the three classes of cantons were read out, and two of the delegates, Stapfer of whom we have heard before, and Hans von Reinhard,[93] were called upon to express their respective views. A general discussion followed, the Consul giving the closest attention to every detail. His own speeches showed an intimate acquaintance with Swiss matters, and whilst full of practical wisdom, also evidenced his real interest and sympathy with the little republic. He pointed out that Switzerland was quite unlike any other country in its history, its geographical position, in its inclusion of three nationalities and three tongues. The characteristics and the advancement of three nations had, in fact, to be considered and maintained. Nature itself had clearly intended that it should be a federal state. To the Forest Cantons, to which he avowed the whole republic owes its characteristic hue, he restored the time-honoured _landsgemeinde_, "so rich in memories of the past"; to the city cantons he gave back their ancient councils, re-fashioned in accordance with modern ideas; and to the subject lands he gave autonomy. The position of these last in the past was, he averred, incompatible with the modern character of a republic, and his elevation of them into new cantons is the special merit of his scheme. Meeting the views of the federalists by giving independence or home-rule to each canton, he also met those of the centralists by planning a well-organized central government in the form of a _Tagsatzung_ with enlarged powers. At the head of this he placed a Swiss Landammann with almost _plein pouvoir_. Napoleon selected as first Landammann a man he highly esteemed--Louis d'Affry, of Freiburg, son of Count d'Affry. Both father and son had served in France as officers and statesmen, and Louis was one of the few who had escaped the massacre at Paris in 1792. He was a perfect courtier, mild and conservative in his views. It is worth mentioning that during the _intermezzo_, which occurred at five o'clock, when refreshments were handed round, the Consul, standing by the mantelpiece, with a circle of delegates round him, talked incessantly on Swiss politics and spared no pains to impress on his hearers how much Swiss interests were bound up with those of France. There was no mistaking his meaning, which, to do him justice, he did not attempt to conceal. The members of the Conference, whom Napoleon treated all through with marked distinction, were quite alive to the danger threatening their country, but trusted that some turn of the wheel might avert it. After this parley the Consul redrafted the Mediation Act, and presented it in person on the 19th of February for signature, afterwards taking leave of the whole deputation. La Harpe gained for the Swiss the countenance of the Emperor Alexander, and Prussia and Austria were engaged in a territorial squabble, and no interference took place. An epoch of peace and prosperity followed the general amnesty (April 15, 1803) granted by the Mediation Act. The period of quiet was broken only by the Bockenkrieg in 1804, a rising in which an attempt was made by the country folk of the Zurich Canton to stand against the unredeemed land rents and tithes still due to the city.[94] The insurrection was put down by force.[95] Six new cantons were formed by the new Act--Bünden, St. Gall, Thurgau, Aargau, Vaud, and Ticino; and these were added as equals to the thirteen _Alte Orte_, the management of its own affairs being granted to each. The liberal principles inaugurated by the "Helvetic" were to a great extent borne in mind, though the lower orders were still excluded from direct political representation. Mercenary wars, military movements, and leagues between separate cantons, were strictly forbidden; but so, also, was forbidden the maintenance of a federal army, save a small force to maintain order, and thus the country was robbed of adequate means of defence. Freiburg, Bern, Soleure, Basel, Zurich, and Lucerne, became in their turns managing or dictatorial cantons for one year at a time. That is, they were the seats of the Diet, and their chief magistrate--schultheiss or burgomaster, as the case might be--became Landammann. To the larger cantons, _i.e._, those having not less than one hundred thousand inhabitants, two votes at the Diet were assigned, to the smaller, one vote. It is not necessary to go into more minute details here, as there are numerous constitutional changes to be noted between that period and the year 1874. Thus, whatever may be thought of Napoleon's ultimate aims, it was owing to him that Switzerland enjoyed quiet, prosperity, and perfect self-government at a time when Europe generally was torn by quarrels and steeped in war. The Swiss people gave their whole attention to home affairs, and to the striving after intellectual and material progress, as they had done in the Helvetic days, but now with more success. Benevolent societies were founded, high schools established, and institutions for the advancement of letters, science, and art, sprang up. Many men of note mightily stirred the ideal side of life; amongst them we may mention the novelist, Zschokke,[96] of Aargau; Martin Usteri, the poet-artist; and George Nägeli, the Sängervater, or "Father of Song." Both these latter were of Zurich, and Nägeli gave a great impulse to the founding of musical societies, and did much to spread the art of singing so common in the German districts, and especially cultivated at Basel and Zurich. Pestalozzi established a new school at Yverdon in Vaud; and his friend and former pupil, Von Fellenberg, of Bern, the superior of his master in practical management, founded his famous institution at Hofwil. This comprised a whole series of schools, high schools, schools for the middle class, agricultural schools, and elementary schools for the poor. Pater Girard, a friend of Pestalozzi, at Freiburg, did for the Catholics much what these men did for the Protestants. Another noble and devoted man was Escher, who, though of aristocratic birth himself, was yet an ardent worker for the benefit of the poorer classes. His chief work was the canalization of the Linth between Walensee and the Lake of Zurich, by means of which some twenty-eight thousand acres of unhealthy swamp became valuable agricultural land. For this labour of love, to which he sacrificed his health, the Diet decreed to him and his family the honourable addition of "Von der Linth."[97] The introduction of machinery gave a great impetus to trade and industry. In 1800 the cloisters of St. Gall were turned into the first Swiss spinning mill, and during the following decade four more mills were started in the canton. In 1808 Heinrich Kunz, the "King of spinners on the Continent," laid the foundations (Zurich) of the first of his numerous mills. In 1812 the great firm of Rieter and Co., whose machines soon gained a world-wide reputation, started business at Winterthur. Yet all was not smooth in the little Swiss state. Switzerland was compelled not only to enter into a close defensive alliance with France, but to keep the French army constantly supplied with sixteen thousand Swiss soldiers. So great was the drain of this "blood-tax," that in some cantons even the prisons had to be opened to enable the levy to be made up. Switzerland was made an _entrepôt_ for English contraband goods; and the decree of Trianon, in 1810, ordered the confiscation of these, and placed a tax on English goods of half their value. All this weighed heavily on Switzerland, and the Landammann's touching representation to Napoleon, that twenty thousand families were rapidly becoming breadless, passed unheeded. In 1806 the despot gave Neuchâtel to his favourite general, Berthier, and in 1810 he handed over Ticino to Italy, on the pretext that that district was harbouring English contraband goods. The same year he joined to France the Valais district, where he had a few years earlier (1802) constructed the famous Simplon road into Italy. The Swiss naturally protested against these mutilations, but he threatened to annex the whole country, and D'Affry and Reinhard, who stood in favour with him, had much ado to calm his temper. When, however, the impetuous Sidler, of Zug, and the heroic Reding, defied him, and advised an armed resistance at the Diet, Napoleon sent word to Reinhard that he would march fifty thousand men into the country, and compel the Swiss to unite with France. But the tide was beginning to turn; Napoleon had passed his zenith. The fatal Russian expedition, into which his pride and reckless ambition tempted him in 1812, was followed by the terrible disaster of Leipsic, "the battle of the nations." The allied armies marched to Paris, and compelled the abdication of the emperor. This turn of events naturally affected the position of the Swiss very greatly, but, quite content with their new constitution, they declined to join the allied states. At the command of the Landammann, Von Reinhard, General von Wattenwil placed his scanty forces, numbering some fifteen thousand men, along the frontier to enforce neutrality if possible. But on the approach of the allied forces Wattenwil saw that resistance would be madness, and gave orders to his men to withdraw, and be careful not to provoke hostilities. About Christmas time in 1813, the combined Austrian and German troops--Alexander was for sparing the Swiss--to the number of one hundred and seventy thousand, marched right across the country on their way to the French capital. On the whole little material injury was done to the country, but the Mediation Act, by the very reason of its origin, was bound to fall. On the 29th of December the Diet was compelled to decree its own extinction. The Peace of Paris, on the 31st of May in the following year, guaranteed Switzerland its independence. A new constitution was to come later on. The overthrow of the Mediation Act plunged Switzerland into fresh troubles. All the reactionary elements came to the surface. Bern revived her old pretensions to the overlordship of Vaud and Aargau; and Freiburg, Solothurn, Lucerne, and the Forest Cantons, acting on the same lines, supported Bern in her claims. Zurich, on the other hand, stood out for the nineteen cantons, and headed the opposition to Bern. Again there was seen the deplorable spectacle of a divided state, with two confederations and two diets. One of these, with its headquarters at Lucerne, was, however, forced to dissolve, by foreign pressure, chiefly through to the influence of D'Istria, the Russian ambassador at Zurich. All the cantons now sent representatives to the Diet held in this last-named city, with the view of drawing up a new federal pact. But party strife was very bitter, and the session lasted from April 6, 1814, to the the 31st of August, 1815, an extraordinary length of time hence it was called the "Long Diet." The protracted proceedings were caused chiefly by Bern, which obstinately refused to abate her pretensions to the two districts (Vaud and Aargau). There were, however, many minor points of difference, all tending to embitter and prolong the session. It was clear that a settlement could only be brought about by a compromise, and great concessions on the part of some of the members. As a matter of fact several things were left unsettled. This Zurich constitution was to be laid before the Vienna Congress, which opened on the 3rd of November, 1814, and which was to disentangle many knots in European politics. Monarchs, princes, ambassadors, ministers, and generals, from all the states, met at the gay city on the Danube, to rearrange the map of Europe. The story of this strange international gathering is well known, with its Vanity Fair of fine ladies and gentlemen, its magnificent fêtes, balls, masquerades, steeplechases, and gaities innumerable. It is said that Francis I. spent no less than thirty millions of florins on entertaining his guests, and the gay scene and high spirits formed a strange contrast with the previous despondency prevailing on the Continent generally. The "_Congrès danse, mais ne marche pas_," was the saying that went abroad. Yet it was not strange that men felt glad. The weight of Napoleon's hand was now removed, and the world breathed more freely. All the sufferings of the last quarter of a century were forgotten, and, it is to be feared, the lesson to be learnt from them was not learnt. The changes were too many, too sudden, and too sweeping to permit anything to take root. But the seeds left behind by the revolutions and wars will blossom and bear fruit later on. Every sound movement must develop gradually. In this way only can we account for the reactions, the return to the old lines of constitution and social life, after the fall of Bonaparte. Switzerland had many points to settle at the Congress, and, indeed, to the despair of the members, seemed inclined to bring forward all her domestic squabbles. On the whole, the commissioners showed much goodwill towards Switzerland, and took great pains to make that country a strong outpost against French extensions. Von Reinhard, the first Swiss representative at the Congress, gained much praise by his dignity and astuteness, and the Emperor Alexander entered fully into his liberal views and aspirations, coinciding with those of La Harpe. Bern and her pretensions, which were as strong as ever, gave most trouble, Vaud and Aargau naturally insisting on retaining their independence. At length a compromise was arranged, and the larger portion of the see of Basel (Bernese Jura, &c.), and Bienne being given to Bern. The bailiwicks of the _laender_ redeemed their freedom by purchase; the rest of the cantons, more generous, required no compensation. Subject lands were set free for good, and the country received its present boundaries. Ticino had been restored by Napoleon, and Valais, Geneva, and Neuchâtel, were admitted as cantons on an equality with the rest, and thus we get the now familiar number of twenty-two cantons. The list was closed, though by a strange anomaly Neuchâtel still continued to be not only a Swiss canton, but a Prussian duchy. Geneva was, as it were, rounded off by the addition of Versoix (Gex), and some Savoy communes.[98] Geneva had long wished to be received into the Federation, and great was her rejoicing now that her dream was realized. Thus Switzerland received the great boon of independence, and was placed under the protection of the Great Powers. Bünden lost her appendages, Valtellina, Chiavenna, and Bormio, which went to Austria, but gained in return the district of Räzuns. The new constitution assigned to Switzerland is decidedly inferior to the "Mediation Act." There was a revival of the old system of narrow prerogatives; the several cantons gaining _plein pouvoir_ as against the federal authorities; the cities retaining their preponderance over the rural districts, and the wealthy and the aristocracy their power over their poorer brethren. Military matters alone were better provided for. Thus we shall presently find that Revolution had to begin her work over again. Bern, Zurich, and Lucerne became in turn the seat of the Diet, and one vote only was allotted to each canton. Midwalden offered a fanatical opposition to the new constitution, but was compelled to give way, and had to forfeit Engelberg, with its famous cloister and the whole valley, which was given to Obwalden. FOOTNOTES: [92] Barthélemy, Röderer, Fouché, and Desmeunier. [93] This Hans von Reinhard was burgomaster of Zurich and Landammann; he belonged to one of the old aristocratic families of his native city. [94] The liquidation of this territorial debt was a most complicated matter, and plays an important part in the risings of the rural districts, yet the rightly cautious city had to consider various other interests besides those of the country folks. Many benevolent city institutions for the sick and poor were maintained by the income drawn from country dues. [95] "It is meet that the country districts should cease their antipathy to the city, or they deserve to fall again under its authority," Napoleon had remarked, during the Paris Conference, to the Zurich representatives, Reinhard and Paul Usteri. He added that the personal character of the representatives was a guarantee that they would reconcile the two parties they represented. [96] A German by birth. [97] Escher died soon after the completion of the Linth Canal (1822), and the Diet erected to his memory a monument in Glarus Canton. A characteristic story respecting him is worth repeating. Some poor man seeing him standing hard at work up to his waist in water exclaimed, "Why, sir, if I were as rich as you, I shouldn't work at all." "That's just why God has given you no wealth," was Escher's quiet reply. [98] She objected to receiving the larger strip of Savoy and French land (on the lake and the Rhone), which the Congress wished to assign her, for fear of being absorbed by Catholicism, and, moreover, she was anxious not to alarm her old friends. The facts were and are often misrepresented. Chablais and Faucigny, once temporarily held by Bern, were declared neutral, and placed under the guarantee of the Powers. That is, in case of war, Swiss troops quarter the district, as in 1870-71. XXXII. SWITZERLAND UNDER THE CONSTITUTION OF 1815-48. The history of the thirty-three years following 1815 may, so far as Switzerland is concerned, be summed up in this description--it was a protest, latent at first and afterwards open and declared, of the Swiss people against the decrees of the Vienna Congress, which tended to stop the wheel of progress. The Swiss struggled onwards through the conflicts of political development, and battled against all that was a hindrance to them in the constitution of 1815, the Powers looking on with misgiving if not with dismay the while not understanding the signs of the times. Yet, by 1848, when the thrones of Europe were again shaken by revolutions, Switzerland had gained that for which it had been struggling, and had settled down into a peaceful and regenerated _Bundestaat_. We have shown how the settlement of 1815 was in many ways a return to old lines in both Church and State. Speaking generally, the Church gained greatly by the new constitution, the return of the Jesuits was favoured, the religious establishments were still maintained at a rate which really exceeded the financial possibilities of the state, and the clergy were given a free hand. Then the old power of the aristocracy was largely re-established, and the cities were given their former great preponderance over the country districts. Bern, for instance, receiving two hundred seats in the Council, as against ninety-nine. The reactionary _régime_ from 1815 to 1830, was, in fact, politically a blank, though towards its close some of the cantons began to carry measures of reform. Amongst these was Ticino, into which some fatal abuses had crept. To make up for their political deficiencies, and to rekindle their smouldering patriotism, the Swiss, as they had done before, turned to the past history of their country. They founded patriotic and literary clubs, and established liberal and benevolent institutions. Monuments were erected at classical spots--Morat, St. Jacques, the lion monument, and so forth. Eminent painters like Vogel and Didary chose national historical events for their canvas; and Rudolf Wyp composed the fine national anthem, "_Rufst Du mein Vaterland_."[99] A naturalists' club at Geneva, a students' association at Zofingen, and a society of marksmen--still in existence--were started, whilst the old Helvetic Society of the eighteenth century left behind its mere theorizings and discussions, and became an active political club. All these things tended greatly to spread and promote Swiss liberalism, of which many noble champions had sprung up, now and in the previous period, like the veteran trio--Victor von Bonstetten, the friend of Madame de Staël, La Harpe, and Usteri; like Troxler, Zschokke, Monnard, Von Orelli and others, far too numerous even to name here. Under such men Switzerland moved on. "No human efforts can succeed in permanently leading back mankind to the old lines of a past and less enlightened age. To struggle onwards, and to reach the end aimed at is the quickening stimulus in every thinking being." Such were the encouraging words of Usteri, a champion whom the party of progress regarded as an oracle. Military matters received a great impetus by the formation of a central school for officers at Thun, and the increase of the army from fifteen thousand to thirty thousand men. It hardly needs to be said that when the struggle of the Greeks for independence began they had the hearty sympathy and support of the Swiss.[100] In 1830 the revolution of July hurled from his throne Charles X., and raised to his place Louis Philippe. Strangely enough the effects of this movement were felt almost more abroad than in France itself. Certainly its influence on Switzerland was very considerable, and it hurried on various changes of a sweeping character in that country, changes, however, which had been long preparing. Constitutional struggles, both federal and cantonal, crowded the next few years, and confessional difficulties tended not a little to quicken them. With nearly all the states, excepting some of the _laender_, the chief object now became the revision of their charters, so as to make them more consistent with the principles of popular rights and equality. Glarus, Uri, and Unterwalden were as yet averse to making changes, however justifiable and desirable they might seem to the rest of the country. The reforms were for the most part quietly carried out, but there were popular oppositions and stormy disputes in places. Bern was at first inclined to be conservative, but once embarked on the sea of reformation, sided strongly with the more progressive Zurich. Freiburg returned a crowd of fifty-seven priests and seventeen professors, all of the Jesuit order, and these ousted Girard, the Catholic Pestalozzi, from his noble work at St. Michael's College. Zurich proceeded in a peaceful and interesting fashion. Here as in other cases the city had a great preponderance of political power over the country districts of the canton. The fourteen thousand citizens elected one hundred and thirty representatives, as against the eighty-six assigned to the two hundred thousand rural inhabitants. The cause of the country folk was ably and without bitterness championed by two eloquent speakers, Guyer and Hegetschweiler; and a motion was carried which allotted to the rural districts two-thirds of the seats on the council board. This "day of Uster," as it was called, proved a great landmark in political development. The sovereignty of the people was now the basis on which reforms were made. The foundation was laid for better administration, and social improvement and provision was made for necessary revisions of the constitution. To safeguard their constitutions against the influence of reactionists, seven cantons entered into a league--_Siebner-Concordat_--March, 1832. They were Bern, Zurich, Lucerne, Solothurn, St. Gall, Aargau, and Thurgau. [Illustration: INTERLAKEN, FROM THE FELSENEGG.] Less satisfactory was the course of events in Schwyz, Basel, and Neuchâtel. In Schwyz a temporary separation into the two semi-cantons of Inner and Outer Schwyz was caused by the refusal of the former to grant equal rights to the latter, which had been formerly subject or purchased land mainly. Basel, the city of millionaires and manufactures, was able by her overwhelming importance to hold her supremacy over the rural districts, and thus arose the division into Baselstadt, and Baselland, which latter had Liestal as its _chef lieu_. But all this after a civil strife of three years. Basel city joined the Catholic League formed at Sarnen, in November, 1832, as a counterblast to the _Siebner-Concordat_. Uri, Inner-Schwyz, Unterwalden, Valais, and Freiburg also joined this league. The inhabitants of Neuchâtel had a double object, the reformation of their constitution, and their separation, if possible, from Prussia, the double _régime_ being greatly disliked. An attempt was made on the castle, but it failed, and the Federation re-established order, and the old _status quo_. The royalist party in Neuchâtel now aimed at a severance from Switzerland. But the natural consequence of constitutional revision in the separate cantons was the revision of the federal pact, with the view of strengthening the bonds which joined the states. The draft of a new constitution for Switzerland was presented at Lucerne in July, 1832, by the moderate party, but it failed, as so many other attempts have done which clashed with the selfishness of those cantons, that thought more of the question of cantonal home-rule than of the weal of the country as a whole. A far-seeing policy required that the central government should be strengthened, that the Diet should be made thoroughly capable of protecting Swiss interests, both in the country itself and abroad. That the Diet was quite incapable of enforcing its decrees for the general good was plainly shown by the condition of things in Basel, alluded to above. With all these drawbacks, however, the period from 1830-1848 witnessed a true regeneration--social, political, intellectual. Never had education made such marvellous progress. It is to this period that the country owes that revival of educational zeal and that improvement in schools and methods of teaching, which are the great glory of modern Switzerland. Canton vied with canton, and authority with authority, in their noble enthusiasm for education. Zurich, Bern, Thurgau, Solothurn, Vaud--all these founded excellent teachers' seminaries. Primary schools were improved, and secondary schools established in every canton, and in all the more important cities gymnasiums were founded. At Zurich these time-honoured institutions, the Chorherrenstift and the Carolinum, were in 1832 converted into the present gymnasium and university, and Bern made similar establishments in the following year. Thus were being gradually realized the noble aspirations of the "Helvetic" period, those of Stapfer particularly. Unfortunate conflicts with foreign powers, however, not seldom arose. Fugitives from other countries then as now made Switzerland their abode, and many of them abused her hospitality, and entangled her in dissensions with foreign governments, exactly as we find happening at the present moment. Many of the political _emigrés_ were men of great note, but space will permit of our noticing only two, Louis Philippe, and Louis Napoleon, afterwards Napoleon III. The Prince de Chartres lived for some years in Graubünden, occupying under the name of Chabaud, the position of mathematical master in an educational establishment of repute at Reichenau. Singularly enough he afterwards refused to the man who was to succeed him on the throne of France, the privilege of shelter in Swiss lands, that is to say, he objected very strongly. For in 1838 he suddenly requested that the Swiss Diet should give up Louis Napoleon, on the plea that he was an intriguer. This request was in reality a demand, and was more than the Swiss could stand. Napoleon was in fact a Swiss burgess, having become naturalized, and having passed through the military school at Thun, and become a captain in the Swiss army. His mother had for some time lived with her son in the castle of Arenenberg (in the Canton of Thurgau), which she had purchased soon after 1814. Thanks to the efforts of Dr. Kern, representative of that state in the Diet, the Swiss Government were able to disprove the charge made against Louis Napoleon, and the Diet firmly refused to expel the prince. France enraged threatened war to her "turbulent neighbour," and actually set on foot an army of twenty-five thousand men. Thoroughly roused, the Diet sent troops to the frontier, amidst general acclamations, Geneva and Vaud being conspicuous in their endeavours to protect their boundaries. These two cantons were specially thanked by the central government. The prince, however, cleared away difficulties by quitting the Swiss soil.[101] The Zurich conflicts of 1839, called "Zurichputsch," from a local word meaning push or scramble, claim a moment's attention. That canton had perhaps more thoroughly than any other carried through a reorganization of its legislature and administration. It had establishment a most complete system of schools, graded from the primary school up to the University, whose chairs were occupied by men who made the city a real intellectual centre--by Oken, Hitzig, Schweizer, Von Orelli, Bluntschli, and others. Things marched too rapidly however. Dr. Scherr, a rationalist German _emigré_, was at the head of an excellent training-college for teachers, but refused to allow biblical teaching to be given. Then the Government, anxious to make the city of Zwingli a centre of freethought, appointed the famous Strauss, author of the "Leben Jesu," to a vacancy on the university staff, despite the warnings of the native professors. The country people rose in wild frenzy, being urged on by the reactionary party, which desired to regain the reins of government. So great was the feeling against the appointment, that Strauss was pensioned off even before he saw the city. Even yet the excitement was very great, and, led by Pastor Hirzel, the rural inhabitants flocked into Zurich in great numbers. The Council was obliged to resign, and for a considerable period the reactionists had the power in their own hands. A few persons, but not many, were killed during the disturbances. The effects of this _contre-coup_ in the most advanced city of the republic were soon felt in other places, in Ticino, Lucerne, and Freiburg, where conservative governments were returned, and codes altered accordingly. Zurich and Lucerne left the _Siebner-Concordat_. But the event which stands out more prominently than any other during this period is the Sonderbund war of 1847. This conflict, which threatened the very existence of the state, forms the prelude to the European disturbances of the following year. This dispute of 1847 is the old struggle between the centralists and the federalists, or rather the progressivists and the reactionists, the dispute being intensified by religious differences. The chief points in the conflict must be briefly noted. In some of the cantons the Catholics, though in a minority, had advantages over the Protestant population, and when, in 1841, Aargau was revising its constitution, the latter demanded to be put on an equal footing with their Catholic brethren. This was flatly refused, and an embroilment took place in the canton, some of the monasteries taking a leading part in fomenting the quarrel. The rising, however, came to nought, and the Diet, on the motion of Keller, suspended the monastic houses, on the plea that they were hotbeds of intrigue. This step was clearly in opposition to the principles of the Constitution of 1815, and for years caused great trouble. It is impossible to give here minutely the story of the disputes: suffice it to say, the Diet compromised matters by extending forgiveness to four of the cloisters that had kept aloof from the rising (1843). But in 1844 Uri, Schwyz, Unterwalden, Zug, Freiburg, and Valais, formed a secret league--that of Sarnen had long since fallen through--to protect Catholic interests, and appointed Jesuits to the highest offices in the state. The entrance of the order at the Vorort created great excitement, but the Diet abstained from intervening, fearing to make matters worse. Two hapless expeditions of "Free Lances" now took place, the liberals from Lucerne and other cantons attempting to carry that city. The attempts utterly failed, and naturally so, seeing in how disorganized a condition the partizans were. But in January, 1847, the Protestants managed to get a majority at the Diet, and demanded the dissolution of the Sonderbund, as it had got to be called by that time. The foreign courts--Paris, Vienna, Berlin, and others--sided with the Swiss Sonderbund, being anxious to retain the _status quo_ of 1815; France and Austria particularly sending money and promises of further support. England alone favoured the Protestants of Switzerland, and rendered them a great service. Palmerston was all against foreign intervention, and when the Powers issued a manifesto against the Swiss, he kept it back till Nov. 30th, when all was quietly settled. Meanwhile the Sonderbund organized a Council of War, and prepared for action. The Diet did all in its power to reconcile the contending religionists, and the English ambassador at Bern strongly recommended moderation and mutual concessions.[102] Seeing that in spite of all their efforts war was inevitable, the Diet levied an army of ninety-eight thousand men, at the head of which was placed General Dufour of Geneva. The Sonderbund raised seventy-five thousand men, under General Salis-Soglio, a Protestant from Bünden. Dufour was a soldier of the old Napoleonic school, and a consummate tactician, and was revered by his fellow countrymen for his patriotism, lofty character, and high culture. It was under his management that the Swiss topographical maps bearing his name--the first of their kind--were executed. His selection as general gave great satisfaction. Thanks to Dufour's ability the campaign was short, lasting only from the 4th to the 29th of November, 1847, and the losses were comparatively small. Honours were lavished on Dufour on all sides, even they of the Sonderbund heartily acknowledging his great services. Heartburning and jealousy enough and to spare there had been between the opposing religious parties. On the 29th of October, 1847, the last occasion on which the Diet had attempted to reconcile Catholic and Protestant, there had been the utmost dissension and rancour. But such is the nature of Swiss patriotism that when, three short months after, the countries around Switzerland were convulsed with revolutions, and the Swiss lands were threatened with invasion, the contending religionists forgot their domestic quarrels entirely. And the glorious sight was seen of Catholic and Protestant standing shoulder to shoulder, ready to vie with each other in meeting danger and death in defence of their common and beloved fatherland. Not a vestige of hostile party feeling was left. It has ever been thus in Switzerland. FOOTNOTES: [99] Wyp had studied at Göttingen, which was still under English rule, and had there been impressed by the English national anthem, of which his own is an imitation, the air being borrowed from "God save the Queen." [100] One of the leading collectors of subscriptions in aid of the Greeks was Eynard, a wealthy Genevese, whose own contributions were most munificent. [101] "La Suisse a montré qu'elle était prête à faire les plus grands sacrifices pour maintenir sa dignité et son honneur. Elle a su faire son devoir comme nation independente; je saurai faire le mien, et rester fidèle à l'honneur.... le seul pays où j'avais trouvé en Europe appui et protection.... Je n'oublierai jamais la noble conduite des cantons qui se sont prononcés si courageusement en ma faveur... surtout Thurgovie" (Extracts from Napoleon's letter of thanks to the Landammann of Thurgau, published in Dr. Kern's "Souvenirs politiques"). [102] See "Souvenirs Politiques de 1838-83," by Dr. Kern, Swiss Ambassador at Paris, Bern, and Paris, 1887, pp. 51, 52. XXXIII. UNDER THE CONSTITUTION OF 1848. The year 1848, which crowned the noble aspirations of the Regeneration period in Switzerland, marks a fresh starting-point in the history of the country. Providence had dealt graciously with the little republic. France, Prussia, and Austria were battling with the "February Revolution," and were thus prevented from dealing out to her the fate of unhappy Poland. Meanwhile eminent Swiss statesmen were drafting the new Federal Constitution which was to bind the various nationalities into one people, and the twenty-two cantons into a well-riveted Bundestaat, a state which, thanks to its policy, its prosperity, and its independent spirit, was soon to command the esteem of even the most antagonistic Powers. On the 12th of September, 1848, the new pact was proclaimed, amidst cannonading, illumination, and general rejoicing. The old and crippled Tagsatzung was abolished. The new constitution borrowed some features from that of the United States, and, though greatly on the lines of the Mediation Act, blended far more happily the central and federal systems. Only the essential points can here be noted. The Central Government, whose _raison d'être_ is the maintenance of peace and order at home, and the upholding of the national honour abroad, divides itself into three authorities or divisions, the Federal Assembly, the Legislative body; the Federal Council, which is the executive body; and the Federal Tribunal. The Federal Assembly consists of two chambers, the National Council, and the Council of the States; the former elected by the Swiss people at large, the latter representing the different cantons. The Nationalrath is elected by ballot for three years, one member to every twenty thousand souls. At present (1889) there are 145 members. The cantonal governments elect the members of the other chamber, two to each canton, one to a semi-canton. The Federal Council (Bundesrath) is the Executive, and consists of seven members. Its chairman or president holds the highest dignity in the country, though his powers do not exceed those of his fellow-ministers. The whole Cabinet is _collectively_ responsible for the conduct of all public business, and holds the _summum imperium_. Thus the _whole Federal Council, and not its president only_, occupies the position similar to that of the President of the United States.[103] There are various departments of the Executive--Foreign Affairs, Interior and Education, Justice and Police, Military, Finance and Customs, Industry and Agriculture, Post and Railway. The Federal Assembly sits twice a year, and elects both the Bundesrath, and Bundesgericht (Tribunal). The Cabinet is subject to re-election every three years, but the same ministers are commonly chosen again and again. The Tribunal, or judiciary body, consists of nine members, who are elected every six years, with headquarters at Lausanne (since 1884). [Illustration: POLYTECHNIKUM AT ZURICH.] Bern, on account of its position between the German and French-speaking districts, was chosen as the seat of the central government. Zurich was to have been the home of the National University, but the plan failed, and it is now the seat of the National Polytechnikum, or technical university. Thus the two leading cities of the Confederation keep up their old characteristics, as governmental and intellectual respectively. Zurich's claims to intellectual distinction are unquestionable. Its magnificent system of schools, &c., is probably one of the most complete in Europe, if not in the world. It would be tedious as it is unnecessary to enter in detail into the powers of the central government as compared with those of the separate cantons. Suffice it to say, that the Bund reigns supreme in all relations with foreign states--it is only through the medium of the central government that any canton can treat with a foreign Power--that it controls all military matters, regulates coinage (Mints), weights and measures, posts and telegraphs, and fixes customs duties. It also partly controls the national education--the Polytechnikum at Zurich is wholly a federal affair, for instance--but in general each canton is left to its own devices in the matter. Thus, though every Swiss takes a pride in his schools, there is not one uniform standard throughout the state. Every burgess is bound to perform military service, and at any time a force of 200,000 men of the _élite_, and first reserve, can be placed in the field, not including the Landsturm. Since the Franco-German war military matters are engaging the serious attention of the country, seeing the central position of Switzerland, and the unsettled state of Europe.[104] It remains to be said that the new Constitution secured freedom in religious matters, though the Jesuits were denied free settlement, and the Jews were not recognized till 1866. The _Octroi_, or duties between the cantons, was not removed till 1887, and then only after a hard fight on the part of some of the cantons, notably Bern, to whom these dues were a great source of profit. It is a problem requiring all the powers of the skilled statesmen to make the two Swiss sovereignties--the federal and cantonal--run side by side without allowing either to trench on the other's ground. And it is a much disputed point how far it is to the national benefit to increase the powers of the Federal Government. The centralization of the Government undoubtedly secures a better administration in most points, but the cantons jealously guard against any infringement of their rights by the Federation. They believe that a healthy rivalry and emulation between the states is a good thing, and one not lightly to be given up. The new Bundesrath was soon called upon to prove the quality of its mettle, for troubles arose in Neuchâtel. This canton was, up to 1848, a veritable mediæval relic in its form of government--a mixture of monarchy and free state. Few spots in Europe have had a more typical and characteristic history than Neuchâtel, and did space permit it would be most interesting to trace that history downwards, from its junction with the empire in 1033; through its rule by native lords, the counts of Neuchâtel, till their extinction in 1395; its vassalage to the house of Châlons; the suzerainty of the Orleans-Longueville family; the regency of Marie de Nemours (1679-1707). But here suffice it to say, that through fear of the designs of Louis Quatorze, Neuchâtel gladly accepted the ducal supremacy of the kings of Prussia. In 1815 it was incorporated with the Confederation, as a canton with equal rights and standing to the rest. Notwithstanding this, Prussia still claimed to be its overlord, and thus arose a double _régime_, a condition of things plainly untenable. In 1848 the Confederation endeavoured to obtain the release of the canton from Prussian rule, and this by the peaceful methods of diplomacy, but in vain. In 1856 a conspiracy was set on foot to undo the work of 1848--the granting of a more democratic constitution to Neuchâtel. At the head of these royalist plotters were Count Poustates and De Meuron. However, their plans failed, and five hundred prisoners were taken. Out of these, twenty-five were by order of the Federal Government kept back to be tried as insurgents. Frederick William IV., of Prussia, demanded their unconditional pardon and surrender, an order obedience to which would have been a renunciation of the canton, and a defiance of the Federal rule. The demand was refused, and the question of the release became the centre about which all the negotiation now turned. In this emergency Napoleon III., of France, offered his services as mediator, mindful of the hospitality shown to him of old by Switzerland. He further promised to espouse the Swiss cause if the prisoners were released, and to Switzerland his offer carried greater weight than all the promises of Prussia. "I shall act in the matter as if I were the Swiss Government," he assured Dr. Kern, who had been sent as special envoy to the French Court, and in a further conversation tried in every possible way to prove his sympathy with the little republic.[105] England made similar promises. However the Prussian king made no overtures, and neither France nor England gave sufficient guarantee that Neuchâtel should be ceded to Switzerland, and the Swiss Government therefore declined to proceed further on these vague terms. Frederick William threatened war, and began to mobilize his troops. The Federal Council likewise began its preparation, and without outward sign of fear or hesitation, but with a unanimous feeling of heroic enthusiasm though the length and breadth of the country, the Swiss went on with their military organization. Most touching instances of devoted patriotism were witnessed--from the greyhaired old man to the mere boy the people offered their services; fellow-countrymen abroad sent large sums of money; even school children offered their savings. Catholic and Protestant, French and German, Italian and Romansch, all were animated by one spirit, all were equally ready to defend the honour and independence of their beloved country. Dufour was again elected Commander-in-chief of the Federal forces. To the crowds who gave him a splendid ovation he replied in these memorable words: "I rejoice to end my life in the service of my country. I am old"--he was seventy--"and my task is heavy, for the enemy is powerful, but I trust I shall carry on my mission in the name of the God of our Rütli, who has never ceased to protect our Fatherland." Such has ever been and ever will be the love of the Swiss for their native soil, a love not based merely on the beauty of their land, nor on the perfection of its institutions, but on the knowledge that it is a stronghold of noble freedom, and one of their own rearing. The proud bearing of the Swiss made a great impression on the Powers, and particularly excited the admiration of Napoleon, who, forgetting the former distrust shown towards him, again offered his services as mediator. By his advice the prisoners were conducted to France, and there set free, on January 16, 1857, and they remained in banishment till the settlement of the dispute. This was finally accomplished on May 26th, at the conference of Paris, when the Prussian king formally renounced for ever all claims on Neuchâtel, whether duchy or canton, retaining, however, the title of Fürst von Neuenburg. Thus the district was entirely ceded to Switzerland. The cession of Nice and Savoy to Napoleon III. by Victor Emmanuel in 1859-60, led to dissensions with the emperor, which might have turned out serious, the Swiss having some claims on Chablais and Faucigny. The point is not settled even yet. There have also been disputes with the Papal See, consequent on the development of the Old Catholic movement, and the Pope's encroachments. Though the old diocese of Geneva had been long abolished, Pius IX. appointed Mermillod as bishop. Lachat, Bishop of Solothurn, turned out of their cures several priests for declining to accept the dogma of infallibility. The exasperation in the country was great, the two bishops were banished from Switzerland, and the Papal Nuncio was discharged. It was not till 1883 that Mermillod was allowed to return. It remains to speak briefly of some of the constitutional revisions which have taken place, up to 1883, or even to the present moment. In 1874 the Federal Pact was amended. Briefly the improvement on the pact of 1848 consisted mainly in arranging a better and more effective centralization in financial, military, and judicial matters. Experience had brought to light many defects in the representative system. Personal, local, or class interests often weighed more with delegates than national interests; or occasionally a minister would assume too great powers to himself. To give the people a more direct share in the legislation, two institutions were set on foot which are peculiar to Switzerland. These are the "Initiative" and the "Referendum." They are perhaps the furthest developments of democracy yet reached, and are exciting considerable interest in English-speaking countries at the present time. The Initiative is a development of the right of petitioning. By it any voter or voters may propose new legislation, and if the requisite number of voters can be got to support the proposal by signing the formal petition in its favour, the matter must be put to the popular vote. The number of signatures necessary is five thousand in the case of cantonal legislation, and fifty thousand in Federal matters. The people have thus always the power to bring on the discussion of any matter, however much the Council, or the legislators may object. [Illustration: VIEW OF SION. (_From a Photograph_.)] The Referendum, which by the way is far more frequently applied, secures that any law passed by the cantonal assemblies, or by the Federal Assembly, shall be put before the forum of the whole people[106]--_referred_ to the whole body of voters--if again the required number of supporters can be got together. In cantonal matters this number is the same as in the case of the Initiative; in matters relating to the Confederation, thirty thousand votes, or eight cantons are necessary. There are two kinds of Referendum, adopted by different parts of the country, the "facultative," or optional Referendum, by St. Gall, Zug, Lucerne, Baselstadt, Schaffhausen, Vaud, Neuchâtel (1882), Geneva, Ticino (1883); and the "obligatory" or compulsory Referendum, which obtains in Zurich (1869), Bern (1869), Thurgau, Aargau, Solothurn, Schwyz, Graubünden, and Baselland. Uri, Glarus, the two Unterwalden, and the two Appenzell cantons, still cling to their old _landsgemeinde_, whilst Valais has a _financial_ Referendum, and Freiburg is content with its older representative form of government. Opinion is much divided in Switzerland as to the value of the Referendum. In this, probably, most Swiss agree, that an arrangement which places the sovereign will of the people above that of the authorities and legislative bodies is a good arrangement, providing the people at large are intelligent and educated. And here Switzerland shows to great advantage. Probably no people in the world have so fully and so clearly recognized that "education alone makes free." The Swiss educational system is such, that it reaches down to the poorest child and penetrates into the remotest valley. All primary education is gratuitous and compulsory. If any people deserve by education and intelligence to be entrusted with powers like that conferred by the Referendum, it is the Swiss. Yet men of every political shade admit that the Referendum is a two-edged weapon which may cut both ways. It is at any rate no new thing in Switzerland. It may be styled a _landsgemeinde by ballot_. And, as far back as the sixteenth century, the question of the Reformation was put to the Referendum--in a somewhat different way, it is true--both in Zurich and Bern. In its present form, of course, the Referendum is modern. It is curious to find that though introduced by the advanced democratic party it turns out in actual working to be a decidedly conservative measure. It may stop a sound and beneficial measure occasionally, but it is more likely to check rash and insufficiently considered legislation, as the Swiss are naturally averse to needless changes. An example or two may serve to illustrate this. Baselland thrice brought forward a Bill for the revision of its cantonal code; thrice the Bill was rejected, under the compulsory Referendum. At Zurich quite recently (spring of 1889), the Grand Council wished to bring in a new law for bettering the education of the masses by improving the supplementary schools. The country labourers had a majority, and rejected the measure, objecting, it is said, to the additional expenditure. It is to be hoped, however, that this measure will be carried eventually. On the whole, perhaps, the "facultative" Referendum is to be preferred to the obligatory. We may mention, in conclusion, that out of 107 Bills passed by the Federal Council, between 1874 and 1886, nineteen were submitted to the Referendum, and of these nineteen, but six were ultimately adopted by the whole body of voters thus appealed to.[107] [Illustration: LAW COURTS AT LAUSANNE.] FOOTNOTES: [103] There is, in fact, no office in Switzerland similar to that of the United States President, though foreigners nearly always speak of the _President of the Swiss Republic_, when they mean simply the _Chairman of the Cabinet_. [104] The reader is referred for fuller information to the most interesting account by Sir F. O. Adams and Mr. Cunningham in "The Swiss Confederation" (Longmans). [105] Kern, "Souvenirs Suisses," pp. 124-129, where other instances of Napoleon's goodwill in 1848-9 are mentioned. [106] Legislative Acts are, in fact, referred _to the whole people_ for approval or disapproval, as in limited monarchies they are referred to the _sovereign_. But in Switzerland the veto possessed by the people is a _real_ thing, and not a virtual impossibility, as in England for instance. [107] For further notes on the Referendum, see Adams and Cunningham's "Swiss Confederation," alluded to above. The Referendum seems likely to attract increasing attention, in England and America especially. XXXIV. INDUSTRY, COMMERCE, RAILWAYS, EDUCATION THE "RIGHT OF ASYLUM." Our story must be brought to a close with a short account of several important matters on which nothing has as yet been said, viz., the industrial condition of the country, and its material progress. Hardly any other country has had to contend with so many natural disadvantages as Switzerland, in prosecuting her industries and establishing her trade. The difficulty of the country, the absence of coal and iron, the want of navigable rivers, the scanty produce of the soil in the more elevated districts, the want of seaboard--all these and other things increased the severity of the struggle in the race for wealth. Then she is fenced in as it were by protection. As a set-off against these drawbacks, there is an abundance of water-power. But it is evident that agriculture alone could not suffice to provide for all the inhabitants, and thus it comes to pass that the Swiss have turned their energies in a remarkable manner to the establishment and development of manufactures. It may here be pointed out parenthetically that the poverty of the country in the pre-manufacturing days accounts for, and to some extent excuses, the old and reprehensible practice amongst the Swiss of hiring themselves out as soldiers to the highest bidder. Raw material in vast quantities is imported, and finished goods sent out. Switzerland competes successfully with some of the greatest manufacturing countries--England, Belgium, France--nay, considering her population, she almost surpasses them. Putting imports and exports together, Switzerland does a trade of £60,000,000 annually, the imports consisting mainly of coal, iron, raw silk, cotton, gold, and other raw materials, the exports of manufactured goods. The value of the imports exceeds that of the exports by no less a sum than six and a half millions sterling (Federal Statistics, 1887), the counterbalance being supplied by the tourists, and by the interest on foreign investments. The Swiss are a stirring and business-like people, and had already in the first half of the present century carried their enterprises abroad, especially in the principal seaports. As early as 1812, Egg, a citizen of Zurich, took two hundred operatives, and started a cotton factory at Piedimonti, near Naples, notwithstanding the blockade, the machinery being taken by way of Trieste and the Adriatic. Now the Swiss are to be found all over the world, as every one knows. A few figures in detail respecting the imports and exports may be interesting. They are from the official statistics for 1887. IMPORTS. Food stuffs 242,935,277 francs. Raw materials 330,324,615 " Finished or partly-finished goods 263,775,024 " ----------- Total 837,034,916 " EXPORTS. Food stuffs 78,565,548 francs. Raw materials 95,922,106 " Finished products 496,604,979 " ----------- Total 671,092,633 " Switzerland imports chiefly from the neighbouring countries, but her export trade is largely with England and America, as well as with Germany and France. Of the industries of the country, the largest as well as the oldest is the production of silk goods, dating back to the thirteenth century, the chief seats being Zurich and Basel. Cotton manufacture is carried on at Zurich, Aargau, St. Gall, and other places; embroidery is made at St. Gall and Appenzell; and watches at Neuchâtel and Geneva. This last town has also a great trade in jewellery and musical boxes. Then there are considerable manufactures of machinery, cheese, condensed milk, and other things, and wood carving is carried on to a large extent. The last returns give the exports of silk as 198,768,230 francs, cotton as over 158,000,000, and watches over 84,000,000. [Illustration: "VICTIMS OF THE WORK," ST. GOTHARD TUNNEL, FROM A BAS-RELIEF BY VELA. (_Photographed by Guler. By permission of the Sculptor._)] This is not the place for details respecting the railway system, but it may be noted that the total length of the Swiss lines is now over three thousand kilometres. A special feature of the Alpine lines is, as every one is aware, the skill with which the engineering difficulties have been surmounted. The St. Gothard line, with its fifty tunnels, is the most conspicuous of these successes. This grand international enterprise owes its execution to Dr. Alfred Escher of Zurich, and the famous engineer, Louis Favre of Geneva. Vela, the Ticinese sculptor, has produced a fine group of relievi as a memento of the many poor victims of the great undertaking. The tunnel is between nine and ten miles long, and was completed in seven and a half years. There is no doubt that the thriving condition of Switzerland is chiefly due to three causes--the thriftiness of the people, their natural ability, and perhaps, more than all, the excellence of the educational system. On this last point much has been written by the late Matthew Arnold and Sir F. O. Adams, and to their works the reader must be referred for details. We may here mention, however, that besides the primary, secondary, and high schools, which are to be found in every canton, Switzerland stands out conspicuously by the number and excellence of its technical and trade schools. The great Polytechnikum of Zurich is the pride of the country, and Basel, Zurich, Bern, and Geneva have universities, and Neuchâtel and Lausanne academies.[108] Primary education is entirely free, and to it the greater share of the education vote is assigned--in 1887, nearly seventeen and a half million francs out of a total of twenty-six and a half millions given to education. Attendance at school is compulsory, and there were in 1887, 467,597 children attending the primary schools. [Illustration: PORTRAIT OF GOTFRIED KELLER, THE POET. (_After a Photograph._)] Of men of intellect, of talent, of artistic, scientific, or literary skill, Switzerland has produced many, and has sheltered many more. The numerous academical institutions, literary, scientific, and musical societies, draw together large numbers of superior intellects. Amongst the numberless men of science now or lately living may be mentioned Agassiz, Desor, De la Rive, Heer, Merian, Studer, and Dr. Ferdinand Keller, the discoverer of the lake dwellings. In literature we have Viet, Marc Monnier, Zschokke, as well as Leuthold, Gotfried Keller, and Ferdinand Meyer. Keller has a reputation more than European; he has been called the German Shakespeare. He belongs to Zurich. The occasion of his seventieth birthday (on July, 1889), brought a remarkable demonstration. The Assembly voted him an address, and enthusiastic congratulations poured in upon him from all quarters. From Germany Von Moltke himself headed the list of admiring friends who sent messages. Keller is acknowledged to be the greatest living German poet. Amongst painters are Calaine, Diday, Girardet, Gleyre, Vautier, and Böcklin, whom the Germans consider one of their greatest living painters; and of sculptors, there are Vela and Lanz. Gustave Weber and Joachim Raff are well-known musical composers, with whom we must name Baumgartner, who has raised Keller's "Oh, mein Heimatland," into the position of a second national anthem. We see in Switzerland a nation which once played a conspicuous part in European military affairs, but which has now become a land of peace, whose neutrality the Powers vouchsafed at the Vienna Congress. In the exceptional position she holds, she deems it part of her mission of peace to promote the general welfare of the world, so far as lies in her power. Most important international institutions owe their origin, or at least their successful establishment, to Switzerland. Thus she started the Geneva Convention, under the presidency of General Dufour, in 1864. This Convention had for its object the mitigation of the horrors of war, and every European nation was represented at it. The declaration of the neutrality of all nurses, medical men, hospitals, &c., on either side, and the adoption of the distinguishing badge, the Geneva cross, are too well known to need description here. Then at the suggestion of Germany the International Postal Union was founded at a meeting at Bern. And quite recently the International Congress of labour delegates is under consideration to be called with the view of settling some of the social questions affecting labour. A particularly interesting Swiss foundation was started in 1886, to provide for poor soldiers incapacitated by war, and to assist relatives dependent on those killed in battle. It was founded to celebrate the five-hundredth anniversary of Sempach, and is appropriately named the _Winkelriedstiftung_. The right to offer an asylum in time of war she considers one of her most precious privileges. Seeing, however, how frequently her well-meant intentions are misinterpreted, and her hospitality abused, she may probably have to restrict her offers of asylum. In fact, the Bundesrath have even now under consideration the question of how best to maintain her rights in this respect, whilst seeing that no injury is done to foreign interests. One thing is certain, she will not give up the right of asylum. Meanwhile the refractory foreign elements residing in Switzerland are not only endangering her safety, but doing harm to the character of her people. The confusion of 1848-9 brought to Swiss territory fugitives from all parts of Europe. As many as ten thousand fled from the Grand Duchy of Baden, when the Prussian troops checked the rising there. Many distinguished men, who would otherwise have met with death, or lingered indefinitely in prison, found a safe retreat in Switzerland. We need only mention the great composer, Richard Wagner, and Rüstow, Mommsen, Semper, Joh. Scherr, Kinkel, Köchly, from amongst a host of scholars who took refuge there, and settled for years at the Swiss universities. Köchly's scholarship and activity brought in a conspicuously successful period of classical study at Zurich University (1850-64),[109] and his successor, Arnold Hug, was no less devoted and successful. In 1853 Austria turned out six thousand Swiss (Ticinese) in the harshest manner from Lombardy, on the plea that Italians had been allowed to combine on Swiss ground against Austria. Six years later the Swiss had an opportunity of heaping coals of fire on the head of Austria, for when the Austrian garrison was driven from Fort Laveno, on Lake Maggiore, the soldiers were not only freely admitted into Swiss territory, but were liberally treated. Mazzini, too, the Italian patriot, sought safety in Switzerland, causing her, by the way, considerable trouble. The Franco-German war, again, offered the Swiss many opportunities of showing their usual benevolence and charity towards distressed foreigners. To the Germans who had to leave France on the outbreak of war, making their way home through Switzerland, the Swiss people showed innumerable kindnesses, many of the people being poor, and destitute of even necessaries. And when they heard of the siege of Strasburg, their old friend and ally of centuries ago, the Swiss sent a deputation to invite the weak and tender to go home with them. This was done with the consent of both belligerents, and fourteen hundred persons, chiefly women and children, and old men, accepted the invitation. It was a touching scene when they left with their protectors, and few eyes were dry. Every one knows how Bourbaki, failing to relieve Belfort, was compelled to flee into Swiss territory, with his eighty-five thousand men and nine thousand horses (February 1, 1871). The troops were disarmed, and quartered all over the country, and remained till peace was concluded. High and low, rich and poor, the Swiss vied with each other in showing kindness to the refugees. Miserable in the extreme had been their condition on their arrival, but they left recruited in health, improved in appearance and full of gratitude. As they departed the air was filled with shouts of "Vive la Suisse." That same spring, too, when seed was wanting with which to sow the ground in many districts of France, the Swiss sent large quantities of potatoes, oats, barley, and beans, and other seed corn, besides money and clothing. And during the war Swiss aid was distributed amongst French and Germans impartially. It is not from self-interest or vain-glory that the Swiss act thus, but from motives of humanity and benevolence. And, though the "right of asylum" is liable to be abused, its nobler side is not to be forgotten. It is to be hoped that Switzerland will ever keep her present independence and neutrality, the very existence of which bears witness to the more human tendencies of modern European politics. It remains only to give a few figures respecting the present numbers of the population. They are taken from the official returns, and though the report is only provisional,[110] it may be taken that the figures are substantially correct. It appears, then, that the total population of the Republic, on December 1, 1888, was 2,934,057 actually, or 2,920,723 in regular residence. In 1850 the actual population was 2,392,740, thus the increase during the thirty-eight years has been over half a million. Of the 2,934,057 enumerated on December 1, 1888, 1,427,377 were males, and 1,506,680 females; 2,092,530 were German-speaking, 637,972 French-speaking, 156,606 Italian-speaking, 38,375 Romansch-speaking, 8,574 were of other nationalities; 1,724,957 were Protestants, 1,190,008 Catholics, and 19,092 of other religions, or of none. The canton with the largest population was Bern, with 539,271, Zurich coming next with 339,014, whilst that with the smallest number of souls was Lower Unterwalden, with 12,524. The most populous town is Zurich, with 90,111 inhabitants, those coming next in order being Basel, with over 69,000, Geneva 52,000, Bern, 45,000, Lausanne, 33,000. [Illustration: INTERIOR OF LAUSANNE CATHEDRAL. (_From a Photograph._)] Here must end our short sketch of this remarkable little state. From the very earliest times its peoples have been particularly interesting--from its prehistoric lakemen with their almost unique series of settlements, down through successive nationalities of Helvetians and Romans, Alamanni and Burgundians to the modern Germans, French, Italians, and Romansch. Switzerland has bred or has been closely connected with some of the proudest ruling families in European history--Habsburgs and Zaerings, Carlovingians and Burgundians, Hohenstaufens and Savoys. Some of the most glorious victories recorded in history have been gained by the little Swiss nation in defence of their beloved fatherland; the fame of Morgarten, Sempach, Grandson, and Morat is not likely to die out while European civilization lasts. Constitutionally the history of Switzerland is of surpassing interest. Step by step we have seen a handful of gallant people free themselves from oppression by emperor or duke, by prince or lord, by prelate or cloister. Inch by inch the people at large have gained their political rights from foreign overlords or from native aristocracies. We have seen how a tiny confederation of three petty states has grown into a league of eight, and then of thirteen independent districts, and how this has developed into the federal state of twenty-two cantons of our own day. Lastly, some of the institutions of the country, notably the Initiative and the Referendum, are well-nigh unique of their kind, and certainly are of the greatest interest to the student of political history and development; whilst Switzerland's noble efforts for the amelioration and benefit of mankind at large cannot but command our admiration. "Il est à nous, notre libre avenir; Morgarten, Grandson, jours de fête, Si vous ne deviez revenir, O Saint Jacques, O sainte defaite, Dans ton pourpre linceul, tu nous verrais dormir."[111] THE END. FOOTNOTES: [108] That of Lausanne is to be made into a university. [109] "Life of Köchly," by Prof. A. Hug, 1878. [110] "Vorläufige Resultate der eidg. Volkszählung vom 1 Dezember, 1888." [111] De la Rive, Genevan poet. INDEX. A Aargau, subject land, 186 Adams, Sir F. O., 412 Adolf of Nassau, 131 Æneas Sylvius, 203, 253 Ætius defeated Huns, 45; gave Savoy to Burgundy, 51 Agassiz, 14 Agen, battle of, 20 Agnes of Königsfelden, 141 Alamanni, 39, 46, 47, 49 Albrecht of Habsburg, 113, 120, 131, 132 Alcuin, 64 Allobroges, 21 Allmend, or common land, 48, 126 Alpinus, 37 Alpnach, bay of, 355 Ambühl of Glarus, 176 Amman chosen in Uri, 127 Am Stoss, battle of, 181 Appenzell, 181; admitted as an ally, 182; admitted as a canton, 237 Aquæ (Baden), 35 Aquæ Sextiæ, battle of, 21 Arbedo, engagement at, 188 Arelatisches Reich founded, 73 Arnold of Brescia, reformer, 100, 152 Arnold von Melchthal, 120 Arnulf of Kaernthen, 76 Arth, Battle of, 354 Asylum, Right of, 416, 418 Augusta Rauracorum, 35, 39 Augusta Vindelicorum, 32 "Äusserer Stand," Society, 320 Austria, 143, 146, 166; defeated at Sempach, 172; defeated at Naefels, 177; claims the Forest, 178 Autun, battle of, 55 Avars, the, 76 Avenches, 97, 213; battle at, 368 Aventicum, 14, 34, 39 B Baden (Zurich), 186 Barbarossa, 96 Basel, 14; treaty of, 236; divided, 387 Bayard, 240 Beccaria, 294 Bellinzona, 188 Bern, founded, 97; defeated at Schosshalde, 158; forms Burgundian Confederation, 159; rules over Hasle, 163; League with Austria, 166; power over house of Kyburg, 166; seizes Habsburg, 186; fortifies Morat, 212; natural bent for rule, 245; governing families of, 320; plundered by French, 351, 353; population, &c., 420 Berchtold V. founds Bern, 97; defeated by Savoy, 98 Bertha, the "Spinning Queen," 74, 86 Bertold I., Duke of Zaeringen, 93 Bertold II., 94 Bertold IV., 96 Beza, 287, 290 Bibracte, battle of, 23 Bituitus, 19 Bockenkrieg, 372 Bodmer, 334, 338 Bonivard, 273 Borromean League, 294 Borromeo, Archbishop of Milan, 293 Bourbaki, General, 417 Breisach, rising at, 205 Breitinger, 334, 336 Brun, Burgomaster of Zurich, 140, 146, 155, 157 Bubenberg, Hans von, 164; Adrian von, 206, 212 Bullinger, Reformer, 268, 296 Bund ob dem See, 181 Burgdorf, 97, 166 Burgundia Transjurans, 73 Burgundy takes West Helvetia, 40; defeated by Huns, 50; defeated by Franks, 55; two kingdoms of, 73; its wars, 200 Burkhard of Alamannia, 74 Burkhard of Chur-Rhætia, 78, 80, 81 C Cæcina ravages Helvetia, 36 Campo Formio, treaty of, 347 Calvin, 279; his writings, 280; settles at Geneva, 281; banished, 282; founds the Consistory, 283; burns Servetus, 286; his policy, 287; death, 289 Carlomann, 58 Carmagnola, General, 188 Carolinum founded, 67 Catalaunian Plain, great battle on, 45 Catholic League, 387 Catholic Reaction, 291, 294 Central Government, 396 Centralists, the, 366 Chablais, 380, 402 Charlemagne, 59; Emperor of the West, 60; legends concerning, 62; zeal for education, 64 Charles the Bald, 72 Charles the Bold, 200, 205; defeated at Grandson, 211; at Morat, 213; death, 215 Charles IV. of Germany, 141, 143 Chiavenna, 241, 346, 380 Chillon, 109, 274 Christianity, introduction of, 40 Christian League, 264 Codex Manesse, 153 Columban, 57 Commerce, 409 Confederation formed, 119 Conrad I., 77; II., 88; III., 99 Conradin, 114 Constance, siege of, 304 Clairvaux, monk, preaches Crusades, 99 Clovis, king of the Franks, 54 Crusades, 98 D D'Affry, 372, 376 Davel, Major, 319 "Délices, Les," 326; theatre destroyed, 328 Diesbach, Nicolas von, 206 Divico, 20, 23 Domo d'Ossola, 188 Dornbühl, victory at, 158 Drachenried, engagement at, 355 Drusus, 25, 32 Dufour, General, 393, 401, 415 E East Frankish realm, 72 Eberhard the "Quarrelsome," 143; of Kyburg, 161 Education, 388, 412 Eidgenossenschaft, the, 118 Eight States League, 139, 166 Einsiedeln, 82, 134 Eishere the Giant, 62 Elizabeth of Habsburg, 133 "Empty Pocket," Frederick the, 181 Ensisheim, peace of, 197 Erlach, Ludwig von, 350 Erlach, Rudolf von, 164 Ernest II. of Swabia, 82 Escalade of Geneva, 302 Eschenbach, 133 Escher, 358, 375 Ewiger Bund, 129 Exports, 410 F Farel, reformer, 275 Faucigny, 380, 402 "Faustrecht," the, 107 Federal Assembly, 396 Federal Council, 396 Federal Tribunal, 396 Felix Martyr, 42 Fellenberg, educationist, 374 Ferney, 326 Feudalism, 103 Fichte, 338 Fontana, 234 "Foul Peace," the, 175 Franche Comté, 215 Franco-German War, 417 Franks, the, 54 Fraubrunnen, skirmish at, 350 Frederick von Staufen, 93 Frederick I. (Barbarossa), 105 Frederick II., 127, 150 Frederick III., 190 Frederick the "Empty Pocket," 181, 185 Freiburg, 161, 221 French Revolution, 343 Fridolin St., banner of, at Naefels, 177 "Friedel" (Empty Pocket), 185 G Galba, 25, 35 Gallia Comata, 31 Gall, St., 57, 62, 182, 241, 346 Geneva, 245; "Children" of, 273, 285; besieged by Savoy, 276; occupied by Bernese army, 277; Calvin's rule in, 284; escalade of, 302; Fatio's reforms, 322; admitted into league, 380; Geneva Convention, 415 Geschworne Brief, 155 Gessler, 121, 123 Giornico, victory at, 189 Glarean, scholar, 254 Glarus, 141; 1st Landsgemeinde, 175; defeats Austria, 177; defeated at Rapperswyl, 353 Goethe, 341 Golden League, 294 Gothard, St., pass, 187; tunnel, 412 Götterdämmerung, 50 Gotteshausbund, 184 Grandson, battle of, 208, 211 Graubünden, 184, 234; religious feuds, 305; massacre in, 307; Austrian occupation, 308; independence recovered, 311 Grauholz, conflict at, 351 Gregory VII., Pope, 91 Greifensee, 194, 317 Greyerz, 162, 164 Grey, Lady Jane, 298 Grey League, 184 Guillermins, the, 282 Gümminen, 161 Gundobad of Burgundy, 52 H Habsburg Castle, 113 Habsburg-Austria, family of, 113 Habsburg-Laufenburg, 113 Habsburg, house of, 113, 114; kings of Germany, 115 Hadrian, Pope, 60, 63 Hadwig, 81 Hærige, the, 48 Hagenback, Peter von, 204, 205 Haller, 334, 336 Hallwyl, Hans von, 212 Harpe, La, 347, 359, 367, 372, 384 Hartmann, 108, 161 Harsthörner, 209 Hatto, Bishop, 66 Heer, Professor, 8 Heierli, 11 Helvetia, 13, 31, 32 Helvetians, 14; government, 17; feuds with Germans, 18; victory over Romans, 20; defeated at Bibracte, 24; made associates by Rome, 25; split into two sections, 36 Helvetic Club, 347 Helvetic Republic, 352 Helvetic Society, the, 340, 342 Henry I., the "City Founder," 80 Henry II. of Germany, 87 Henry III., 88, 90, 105 Henry IV., 91, 93 Henry VII., 134 Héricourt, Siege of, 208 Herodotus, 8 Hertenstein of Lucerne, 213 Hildgard, Princess, Abbess of Zurich, 70 Hirtzel, 339 Hohe Frau von Zurich, 149 Hohenstaufen line, 107; extinction, 114 Hooper, Bishop, 297 "Horned Council," 229 Hotze, 360 Hug, Dr. Arnold, scholar, 416 Huns, 44, 45 Huss, martyr, 198 I Im Grund, 219 Imports, 410 Initiative, the, 403 Innsbruck, 186 International Postal Union, 415 Italian Wars, 237 J Jacques, St., battle of, 191, 193, 195 Jenatsch, 307, 309; stabbed, 310 John XXIII., Pope, 185 Judith, 72 Julien, St., treaty of, 274 Juvalta, Anna, 307 K Kaernthen, Arnulf of, 76 Kappel, first battle, 264; second ditto, 267 "Kappeller, Milchesuppe," 262 Keller, Dr. Ferdinand, 3, 414 Keller, novelist, 154 Keller, poet, 414 Kern, Swiss envoy, 400 Klaus, Bruder, 221 Klingenberg, Henry of, 153 Klopstock, 337, 338 Kloten, 38 Knonau Castle, 186; rising at, 227; Ludwig Meyer von, 340 Knox, 287 Köchly, scholar, 416 Königsfelden, Monastery, 133 Korsakow, 360, 361 Kyburg Manor, 82; counts of, 89; rise of family, 104; fall, 166 L "Ladle Squires," the, 274 Lake dwellers, 5, 9, 11 Lake dwellings, 3; construction, 5; probable dates, 11; ditto in East Yorkshire, 12 Landammann, installation of, 249 Landenberg, 121 Länder, the, 218 Landsgemeinde, 247 Latin right, 35 Laupen, 97, 163 Lausanne bishopric, 271 Lavater, 340, 359, 361 League of Perpetual Alliance, 119 Lemanic Republic, 349 Lenzburg, counts of, 89; family, 104 Leopold, 135; defeated at Morgarten, 136 Leopold III. of Austria, 168; defeated at Sempach, 172 Letzinen, the, 162 Leventina, 188; rising in, 316 Libertines, 285 Ligue à la Cassette, 316 Linth canal, 375 "Lion of Lucerne," 346 Locarno refugees, 295 "Long Diet," 378 Lorraine, kingdom of, 200 Lothair, 73, 96 Louis Napoleon, 389 Louis Philippe, 389 Louis the Child, 76 Louis the German, 70 Louis the Pious, 71 Louis XI., 195 Louis XIV., 312, 313 Lucerne, 140 Luneville, peace of, 367 Lützelburg, Henry of, 133 Lyons, 32 M Mæhren, the, 76 Malleolus, savant, 198, 253 Mamelukes, the, 273 Manesse, 142, 153 Manufactures, 410 Marignano, 218, 240 Martel, Charles, 58 Massena, 360, 361 Maximilian, 232 Mayence, diet at, 93 "Mazze," the, 183 Mediation Act, 369 Meilen, 3 Meistersinger, 251 Melchthal, Arnold von, 120 Mermillod, Bishop, 402 Milan, 187, 189, 238 "Milchsuppe," the, 264 Military system, 398 Minnelieder, 153 Misox, 295 Monk of St. Gall, 62 Morat, battle of, 212 Morgarten, battle of, 131, 135; another engagement at, 354 Müller, historian, 124 Murten, _see_ Morat Mytenstein, the, 121 N Naefels, battle of, 175 Nancy, battle of, 215 Napoleon and Switzerland, 370 "Natifs," the, 323 "Négatifs," the, 322 Nellenburg, counts of, 89 Neuchâtel, 209; rebels against Prussia, 323; admitted to league, 380; troubles in, 399; Prussia renounces claim to, 402 Neueneck, engagement at, 350 "Nibelungenlied," 51 Nicolas von der Flüe, 219 Nidan, Count of, 164 Nidwalden, 129 Notker, chronicler, 62; Monachus S. Gallensis, 75 Novara, siege of, 239 Noviodunum, 33 O Obwalden, 129 Ochs, Peter, 347, 352, 358, 367 Octodurum (Martigny), 35 Omer, St., treaty of, 204 Orcitrix, _see_ Orgetorix Orgetorix, 17; his treason and death, 21 Otho I., 80 Ottokar of Steyermark, 116 Otto of Strassberg, 135; death, 136 Otto von Freysing, 151 P Papal see, alliance with, 238 Paracelsus, 301 Paris, peace of, 377 Paulus Diaconus, 64 Peasants' revolt, 311 Pepin le Bref, 58 Pestalozzi, 331, 339, 356, 366, 374, 385 Peter Martyr, 295 Peter of Savoy, "Second Charlemagne," 108; Savoy palace, 109; war with Austria, 110; death, III Pfäffikon Lake, 6 Pfyffer, "Swiss king," 293 Philip of Savoy, III Pius II., 203 Planta, John von, 305; Rudolf, 307 Polytechnikum at Zurich, 398 Population, 418 Postal Union, the, 415 R Railways, 410 Rapinat, 364 Rapperswyl, counts of, 104; skirmish at, 156; John of, 156; battle at, 353 Raron, barons of, 182, 183 Rauraci, 14, 33 Rauracian Republic, 345 Reding, 191, 194; advocates Reislaufen, 226 Reding of Schwyz, 353, 359, 367 Referendum, the, 403; of two kinds, 405; its working, 406 Reformation in East Switzerland, 254; in West Switzerland, 267 Regensburg, peace of, 145 Regula Martyr, 40 Reichsfreiheit, the, 126 Reinhard, 376, 379 René of Lorraine, 208, 215 Rengger, 365 Rhætians, 14; campaign of Drusus, 26; joined with East Switzerland, 32; fall of Goths, 55 Rheinfelden manor, 91; battle of, 310 Richard of Cornwall, 109 Robenhausen, 6, 8 Rohan, Duke Henry de, 309, 310 Romans, 20; Bibracte, 23; conquer Valais, 25; Rhætia, 26; policy, 30 Romaunsh dialect, 14, 26 Rotach, 181 Rothenburg, 168 Rotzloch, battle of, 355 Rousseau, 325; birth, 328; writings, 329; "Contrat Social," 331 Rudolf der Alte, 113 Rudolf of Habsburg, 113; elected King of Germany, 115; policy, 116 Rudolf II., 74 Rudolf III., 82, 87 Rudolf IV., 145 Rudolf, "Rector of Burgundy," 91 Rudolf the Guelf, 73 Rudolf the Silent, 113 Rudolf von Erlach, 164 "Rufst du mein Vaterland," 178 Rütli, the oath on, 120, 122 S Sabaudia (Savoy), 51 Salis, Von, 305 Salodunum (Soleure), 35 Sarnen, the "White Book" of, 124 Savoy, 98; Palace in Strand, 109; defeated at Visp, 182; loses Lower Valais, 208; and Freiburg, 216; and Vaud, 277 "Savoyards," the, 273 Sax-Misox, 183, 188 Schaffhausen, 204, 236 Schauenberg, 350, 355, 360 Scheffel's "Ekkehard," 81 Schindellegi, battle of, 354 Schinner, Matthæus, 238 Schirmverwandte, 180 Schmalkalden wars, 291 Schosshalde, battle of, 158 Schwyz, 119; charter of liberties, 127; joins league, 128; war with Zurich, 190 Sempach, battle of, 166; Winkelried's death, 170 Sequani, the, 41 Servetus, 286 Sforza, Ludovico, 238; Maximilian, 239 Siebner Concordat, 387, 391 Sigismund, 55, 185 Sigmund of Austria, 204 Simplon Road, 376 Socinus, 295 Solernon, Abbott of St. Gall, 76, 77, 80 Solothurn, 159, 221 Sonderbund wars, 392 Soult, Marshal, 361 Staël, Madame de, 332 Stäfa, insurrection in, 346 Stanz, meeting at, 217, 219; covenant of, 221; siege, 355 Stapfer, 365, 370 Staufacher, 120 "Stecklikrieg," the, 368 Steyermark, 116 Strasburg, 203 Strauss, 391 Stuppa, 313 Stüssi, 191, 193 Subject lands, 179 Suwarow, 360, 361 Swabia, 71, 73; John of, 133; wars, 235 Swiss guards massacred, 345 Sylvius, 204 T Tagsatzung (Diet), 250 Tätwil, Austrian defeat at, 142 Tavelli murdered, 182 Tell, 122, 123 Tell, historian, 301 Tellenplatte, 123 Theiling of Lucerne, 227 Theobald, bishop, 66 Theodoric the Great, 51, 53 "Thermopylæ of Switzerland," 137 Thun, 97 Thurgau, 204 Ticino, 187, 241 Tigurini, the, 14, 22 Tirano, skirmish at, 308 Toggenburg, 93, 190 Torberg, peace of, 146 Toygeni, the, 14 Trémouille, General, 239 Trivulzio, 239, 241 Tschudi, historian, 124, 252 U Ufenau Island, 192 Ulrichen, battle of, 182 Ulrich of Kyburg, 108 Unitarier, 366 Unterthanen Laender, 180 Unterwalden, 119; divided, 129 Uri, 119; severed from Zurich Abbey, 126; chooses Ammann, 127 Uristier of Uri, 209 Ursus (and Victor) put to death, 42 "Uster, Day of," 385 Uto Castle, 115 V Valais, 14; joined to Savoy, 32; joins league, 182; rising in, 345 Valangin, Count, 164 Valisians, 14, 25 Valtellina, 241; massacre in, 307; joined to Lombardy, 346; to Austria, 380 Vaud, 216, 269; lost to Savoy, 277 Vazerol, diets at, 184 Vercellæ, battle of, 21 Vercingetorix defeated, 25; death, 29 Verdun, treaty of, 72; ditto, 200 Vespasian, 34 Victor (and Ursus) put to death, 42 Victoriden, the, 55 Vienna Congress, 378 Villemergen, religious strife, 311; second ditto, 316 Vindonissa, 35 Viret, reformer, 276 Visconti, the, 187 Visp, battle of, 182 Vitellius, 37 Vogelinseck, battle of, 181 Volkslieder, the, 251 Voltaire, 325; at Ferney, 326; influence, 327 Voralberg, 190 W Walchen Romaunsh, 184 Waldmann, 212, 213; his life, 222; policy, 225; conspiracy against him, 227; sentence and death, 228; compromise, 229 Waldshut feud, 204 Waldstätten, the, 3, 120, 140 Walter Fürst von Attinghausen, 120 Wart stabs Albrecht of Habsburg, 133 Wasserkirche (Zurich), 68, 224 Weiss, 349 Wengi, Nicolas von, 268 Werdenberg, counts of, 105, 176, 181; revolts, 316 Werner of Kyburg, 104 Werner Staufacher, 120 Wesen, 175, 177 West Frankish realm, 72 Westphalia, peace of, 311 Wieland, 337 William IV. of Burgundy, 95 Willisan destroyed, 169 Wimmis stormed, 162 Winkelried, 171, 173 Winkelriedstiftung, the, 415 Winterthur, 74, 132 Wyss, Prof. Georg von, historian, 69 Y Yorkshire, lake settlements in East, 12 Yverdon, 97 Z Zaeringen, house of, 95, 96; dissolution, 101 Zehngerichte (Bund), 184 Zschokke, novelist, 374, 384, 414 Zug, 142; excluded from league, 145; re-admitted, 146 Zugewandte, 180 Zum Ranft, 219 Zünfte or guilds, 225 Zuricum, 17 Zurich, 60, 66; abbey founded, 70, 75; diets, 90; Reichsvogtei, 94; attacks Winterthur, 132; joins league, defeats Austrians, 142; Lenzburgs and Zaerings, 149; a poet's corner, 155; "Mordnacht," 156; war with Schwyz, 190, 193; gives up Austrian Alliance, 197; revolts against Waldmann, 228; war with Forest, 264; religious refugees, 295; educational pre-eminence, 398; largest Swiss city, 420 "Zurichputsch," 390 Zwingli, 255; birth, 257; called to Zurich, 258; abolishes Reislaufen, 260; establishes National Church, 262; with Zurich army, 264; killed in battle, 267 The Story of the Nations. Messrs. G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS take pleasure in announcing that they have in course of publication, in co-operation with Mr. T. Fisher Unwin, of London, a series of historical studies, intended to present in a graphic manner the stories of the different nations that have attained prominence in history. In the story form the current of each national life is distinctly indicated, and its picturesque and noteworthy periods and episodes are presented for the reader in their philosophical relation to each other as well as to universal history. It is the plan of the writers of the different volumes to enter into the real life of the peoples, and to bring them before the reader as they actually lived, labored, and struggled--as they studied and wrote, and as they amused themselves. In carrying out this plan, the myths, with which the history of all lands begins, will not be overlooked, though these will be carefully distinguished from the actual history, so far as the labors of the accepted historical authorities have resulted in definite conclusions. The subjects of the different volumes have been planned to cover connecting and, as far as possible, consecutive epochs or periods, so that the set when completed will present in a comprehensive narrative the chief events in the great STORY OF THE NATIONS; but it is, of course, not always practicable to issue the several volumes in their chronological order. The "Stories" are printed in good readable type, and in handsome 12mo form. They are adequately illustrated and furnished with maps and indexes. They are sold separately at a price of $1.50 each. The following volumes are now ready (April, 1890): THE STORY OF GREECE. Prof. JAS. A. HARRISON. " " " ROME. ARTHUR GILMAN. " " " THE JEWS. Prof. JAMES K. HOSMER. 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JAMES MACKINTOSH. Now in Press for immediate issue: THE STORY OF SWITZERLAND. R. STEAD and Mrs. _Arnold Hug_. " " " VEDIC INDIA. Z. A. RAGOZIN. " " " THE THIRTEEN COLONIES. HELEN A. SMITH. " " " MODERN FRANCE. EMILY CRAWFORD. " " " CANADA. A. R. MACFARLANE. G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS T. FISHER UNWIN NEW YORK LONDON 
42758	----	Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. The Preface listed as being on page vii is on page ix. TRUE TALES OF MOUNTAIN ADVENTURE [Illustration: MELCHIOR ANDEREGG 1894. _Frontispiece._] TRUE TALES OF MOUNTAIN ADVENTURE FOR NON-CLIMBERS YOUNG AND OLD BY MRS AUBREY LE BLOND (MRS MAIN) NEW YORK E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 1903 (_All rights reserved._) TO MR EDWARD WHYMPER WHOSE SPIRITED WRITINGS AND GRAPHIC PENCIL FIRST AWAKENED AN INTEREST IN MOUNTAINEERING AMONGST THOSE WHO HAD NEVER CLIMBED, I DEDICATE THESE TRUE TALES FROM THE HILLS, THE MATERIAL FOR SOME OF THE MOST STRIKING OF WHICH I OWE TO HIS GENEROSITY. PREFACE There is no manlier sport in the world than mountaineering. It is true that all the sports Englishmen take part in are manly, but mountaineering is different from others, because it is sport purely for the sake of sport. There is no question of beating any one else, as in a race or a game, or of killing an animal or a bird as in hunting or shooting. A mountaineer sets his skill and his strength against the difficulty of getting to the top of a steep peak. Either he conquers the mountain, or it conquers him. If he fails, he keeps on trying till he succeeds. This teaches him perseverance, and proves to him that anything is possible if he is determined to do it. In mountaineering, all the party share the pleasures and the dangers. Every climber has to help the others. Every climber has to rely both on himself and on his companions. Mountaineering makes a person quick in learning how to act in moments of danger. It cultivates his presence of mind, it teaches him to be unselfish and thoughtful for others who may be with him. It takes him amongst the grandest scenery in the world, it shows him the forces of nature let loose in the blinding snow-storm, or the roaring avalanche. It lifts him above all the petty friction of daily life, and takes him where the atmosphere is always pure, and the outlook calm and wide. It brings him health, and leaves him delightful recollections. It gives him friends both amongst his fellow-climbers, and in the faithful guides who season after season accompany him. It is a pursuit which he can commence early in life, and continue till old age, for the choice of expeditions is endless, and ascents of all scales of difficulty and of any length are easily found. That I do not exaggerate the joys and the benefits of mountaineering will be borne out by those extracts from the true tales from the hills of which this book chiefly consists. Some may think I have dwelt at undue length on the catastrophes which have darkened the pages of Alpine history. I do not apologize. If in one single instance any one who reads these pages becomes afterwards a climber, and takes warning from anything I have told him, I am amply justified. It has been difficult in a work like this to know always what to include and what to omit. My guiding principle has been to give preference to descriptions which are either so exciting by reason of the facts narrated, or else so brilliantly and wittily written, that they cannot fail to excite the reader's interest. To these I have added four chapters, those on mountaineering, on glaciers, on avalanches, and on the guides of the Alps, which may help to make climbing more intelligible to those who have never attempted it. My warm thanks are due to Sir Leslie Stephen, Messrs Whymper, Tuckett, Charles Pilkington, and Clinton Dent who have rendered the production of this book possible by allowing me to quote at considerable length from their writings; also to Messrs Longman who have permitted me to make extracts from works of which they hold the copyright, and to Messrs Newnes and Messrs Hutchinson for their kind permission to re-print portions of my articles which have appeared in their publications. I am also under a debt of gratitude to Mr Philip Gosset, who has not only allowed me to reprint his account of the avalanche on the Haut-de-Cry, but has also most kindly placed his wide knowledge of glaciers at my disposal by offering to revise the chapter I have written on that subject in this book. Dr Kennedy, whose beautiful edition of Mr Moore's diary, "The Alps in 1864," recently appeared, has generously given me permission to make any extracts I desire from it. Colonel Arkwright, whose brother perished on Mont Blanc in 1866, has been good enough to allow me to reproduce a most interesting and hitherto unpublished photograph of the relics discovered in 1897. The illustrations, except those connected with the Arkwright accident, and a view of the Matterhorn, by the late Mr W. F. Donkin, are from photographs by me. By them I have tried rather to show how climbers carry out their mountaineering than to illustrate any particular locality. In my own writings I have adopted, in the spelling of names of places, the modern official forms, but, of course, when quoting I have kept to those followed by each writer. If, in the following pages, I have given any pleasure to those who have never scaled a peak, or have perhaps recalled happy days amongst the mountains to a fellow-climber, it will be a very real gratification to me. E. LE BLOND. 67, THE DRIVE, BRIGHTON, _Oct. 30th, 1902_. CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE PREFACE vii. I. WHAT IS MOUNTAINEERING? 1 II. A FEW WORDS ABOUT GLACIERS 7 III. AVALANCHES 15 IV. THE GUIDES OF THE ALPS 22 V. THE GUIDES OF THE ALPS (Continued) 50 VI. AN AVALANCHE ON THE HAUT-DE-CRY--A RACE FOR LIFE 59 VII. CAUGHT IN AN AVALANCHE ON THE MATTERHORN--THE ICE-AVALANCHE OF THE ALTELS--AN AVALANCHE WHICH ROBBED A LADY OF A GARMENT 72 VIII. LOST IN THE ICE FOR FORTY YEARS 92 IX. THE MOST TERRIBLE OF ALL ALPINE TRAGEDIES 107 X. A WONDERFUL SLIDE DOWN A WALL OF ICE 113 XI. AN ADVENTURE ON THE TRIFT PASS--THE PERILS OF THE MOMING PASS 122 XII. AN EXCITING PASSAGE OF THE COL DE PILATTE 134 XIII. AN ADVENTURE ON THE ALETSCH GLACIER--A LOYAL COMPANION--A BRAVE GUIDE 142 XIV. A WONDERFUL FEAT BY TWO LADIES--A PERILOUS CLIMB 153 XV. A FINE PERFORMANCE WITHOUT GUIDES 170 XVI. THE PIZ SCERSCEN TWICE IN FOUR DAYS--THE FIRST ASCENT BY A WOMAN OF MONT BLANC 194 XVII. THE ASCENT OF A WALL OF ICE 208 XVIII. THE AIGUILLE DU DRU 221 XIX. THE MOST FAMOUS MOUNTAIN IN THE ALPS--THE CONQUEST OF THE MATTERHORN 250 XX. SOME TRAGEDIES ON THE MATTERHORN 268 XXI. THE WHOLE DUTY OF THE CLIMBER--ALPINE DISTRESS SIGNALS 289 GLOSSARY 293 INDEX 295 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE Melchior Anderegg, 1894 _Frontispiece_ Climbers Descending the Ortler 2 The Aletsch Glacier from Bel Alp 7 General View of a Glacier 8 A Glacier Table: after a Storm 11 A Crevassed Glacier 13 An Avalanche near Bouveret: a Tunnel through an Avalanche 17 Edouard Cupelin 22 Descending a Rock Peak near Zermatt 31 A Big Crevasse: the Gentle Persuasion of the Rope 37 A Typical Couloir: the Ober Gabelhorn: the Wrong Way to Descend: Very Soft Snow 42 Piz Palü: Hans and Christian Grass 44 Christian Almer, 1894 54 An Avalanche Falling 59 Eiger and Mönch from Lauberhorn 66 Avalanche Falling from the Wetterhorn 79 On Monte Rosa 83 Mr Whymper: Mrs Aubrey Le Blond: Group on a High Peak in Winter 85 Mrs Aubrey Le Blond and Joseph Imboden: Crossing a Snow Couloir 89 Mont Blanc: Nicolas Winhart: a Banker of Geneva: the Relics of the Arkwright Accident 92 Alpine Snow-Fields 108 A Start by Moonlight: Shadows at Sunrise: a Standing Glissade: a Sitting Glissade 136 On a Snow-Covered Glacier 148 Martin Schocher and Schnitzler 150 Exterior of a Climber's Hut: Interior 157 The Meije: Ascending a Snowy Wall 171 Top of Piz Scerscen: Party Descending Piz Bernina: On a Mountain Top: Descent of a Snow-Ridge 194 Hard Work: Setting Out in a Long Skirt 204 A Steep Icy Slope: On the Top of a Pass 216 A Slab of Rock: Negotiating a Steep Passage 225 The Family of Herr Seiler, Zermatt: Going to Zermatt in the Olden Days 250 The Guides' Wall, Zermatt 259 The Zermatt Side of the Matterhorn: Rising Mists 260 A Bitterly Cold Day: The Matterhorn from the Zmutt Side 265 Jost, Porter of Hotel Monte Rosa, Zermatt 268 Hoar Frost in the Alps 274 ERRATA The plate labelled to face page 225, to face page 11. " " " " 5, " 83. TRUE TALES OF MOUNTAIN ADVENTURE CHAPTER I WHAT IS MOUNTAINEERING? Mountaineering is not merely walking up hill. It is the art of getting safely up and down a peak where there is no path, and where steps may have to be cut in the ice; it is the art of selecting the best line of ascent under conditions which vary from day to day. Mountaineering as a science took long to perfect. It is more than a century since the first ascent of a big Alpine peak was accomplished, and the early climbers had but little idea of the dangers which they were likely to meet with. They could not tell when the snow was safe, or when it might slip away in an avalanche. They did not know where stones would be likely to fall on them, or when they were walking over one of those huge cracks in the glacier known as crevasses, and lightly bridged over with winter snow, which might break away when they trod on it. However, they soon learnt that it was safer for two or more people to be together in such places than for a man to go alone, and when crossing glaciers they used the long sticks they carried as a sort of hand-rail, a man holding on to each end, so that if one tumbled into a hole the other could pull him out. Of course this was a very clumsy way of doing things, and before long it occurred to them that a much better plan would be to use a rope, and being all tied to it about 20 feet apart, their hands were left free, and the party could go across a snow-field and venture on bridged-over crevasses in safety. At first both guides and travellers carried long sticks called alpenstocks. If they came to a steep slope of hard snow or ice, they hacked steps up it with small axes which they carried slung on their backs. This was a very inconvenient way of going to work, as it entailed holding the alpenstock in one hand and using the axe with the other. So they thought of a better plan, and had the alpenstock made thicker and shorter, and fastened an axe-head to the top of it. This was gradually improved till it became the ice-axe, as used to-day, and as shown in many of my photographs. This ice-axe is useful for various purposes besides cutting steps. If you dig in the head while crossing a snow-slope, it acts as an anchor, and gives tremendous hold, while to allude to its functions as a tin-opener, a weapon of defence against irate bulls on Alpine pastures, or as a means for rapidly passing through a crowd at a railway station, is but to touch on a very few of its admirable qualities. [Illustration: CLIMBERS DESCENDING A SNOW-CLAD PEAK (THE ORTLER).] When people first climbed they went in droves on the mountains, or I should say rather on the mountain, for during the first half of the nineteenth century Mont Blanc was the object of nearly all the expeditions which set out for the eternal snows. After some years, however, it was found quite unnecessary to have so many guides and porters, and nowadays a party usually numbers four, two travellers and two guides, or three, consisting generally of one traveller and two guides, or occasionally five. Two is a bad number, as should one of them be hurt or taken ill, the other would have to leave him and go for help, though one of the first rules of mountaineering is that a man who is injured or indisposed must never be left alone on a mountain. Again, six is not a good number; it is too many, as the members of the party are sure to get in each other's way, pepper each other with stones, and waste no end of time in wrangling as to when to stop for food, when to proceed, and which way to go up. A good guide will run the concern himself, and turn a deaf ear to all suggestions; but the fact remains that six people had better split up and go on separate ropes. And if they also, in the case of rock peaks, choose different mountains, it is an excellent plan. The best of friends are apt to revile each other when stones, upset from above, come whistling about their ears. The early mountaineers were horribly afraid of places which were at all difficult to climb. Mere danger, however, had no terrors for them, and they calmly encamped on frail snow-bridges, or had lunch in the path of avalanches. After a time the dangerous was understood and avoided, and the difficult grappled with by increased skill, until about the middle of the nineteenth century there arose a class of experts, little, if at all, inferior to the best guides of the present day. The most active and intelligent of the natives of Chamonix, Zermatt, and the Bernese Oberland now learnt to find their way even on mountains new to them. Some were chamois hunters, and accustomed to climb in difficult places. Others, perhaps, had when boys minded the goats, and scrambled after them in all sorts of awkward spots. Others, again, had such a taste for mountaineering that they took to it the very first time they tried it. Of these last my own guide, Joseph Imboden, was one, and later on I will tell you of the extraordinary way in which he began his splendid career. [Illustration: ON A ROCK RIDGE NEAR THE TOP OF MONTE ROSA. The Schallihorn may be seen in the top right-hand corner of the picture.] It is from going with and watching how good guides climb that most people learn to become mountaineers themselves. Nearly all take guides whenever they ascend difficult mountains, but some are so skilful and experienced that they go without, though few are ever good enough to do this quite safely. I am often asked why people climb, and it is a hard question to answer satisfactorily. There is something which makes one long to mountaineer more and more, from the first time one tries it. All climbs are different. All views from mountains are different, and every time one climbs one is uncertain, owing to the weather or the possible state of the peak, if the top can be reached or not. So it is always a struggle between the mountain and the climber, and though perseverance, skill, experience, and pluck must give the victory to the climber in the end, yet the fight may be a long one, and it may be years before a particularly awkward peak allows one to stand on its summit. Perhaps, if you have patience to read what follows, you may better understand what mountaineering is, and why most of those who have once tried it become so fond of it. [Illustration: THE ALETSCH GLACIER FROM BEL ALP. The medial moraine is very conspicuous. This glacier is about a mile in width.] CHAPTER II A FEW WORDS ABOUT GLACIERS Of all the beautiful and interesting things mountain districts have to show, none surpass the glaciers. Now a glacier is simply a river of ice, which never melts away even during the hottest summer. Glaciers form high up on mountains, where there is a great deal of snow in winter, and where it is never very hot even in summer. They are also found in northern lands, such as Greenland, and there, owing to the long cold winter and short summer, they come down to the very level of the sea. A glacier is formed in this way: There is a heavy fall of snow which lies in basins and little valleys high up on the mountain side. The air is too cold for it to melt, and as more falls on the top of it the mass gets pressed down. Now, if you take a lump of snow in your hand and press it, you get an icy snow-ball. If you squeeze anything you make it warmer. The pressing down of the great mass of snow is like the squeezing of the ball in your hand. It makes it warmer, so that the snow first half melts and then gradually becomes ice. You bring about this change in your snow-ball in a moment. Nature, in making a glacier, takes much longer, so that what was snow one year is only partly ice the next--it is known as _nevé_--and it is not until after several seasons that it becomes the pure ice we see in the lower part of a glacier. One would fancy that if a quantity of snow falls every winter and does not all melt, the mountains must grow higher. But though only a little of the snow melts, it disappears in other ways. Some is evaporated into the atmosphere; some falls off in avalanches. Most of it slowly flows down after forming itself into glaciers. For glaciers are always moving. The force of gravity makes them slide down over their rocky beds. They flow so slowly that we cannot see them move, in fact most of them advance only a few inches a day. But if a line of stakes is driven into the ice straight across a glacier, we shall notice in a few weeks that they have moved down. And the most interesting part of it is that they will not have moved evenly, but those nearest the centre will have advanced further than those at the side. In short, a glacier flows like a river, the banks keeping back the ice at the side, as the banks of a river prevent it from running so fast at the edge as in the middle. [Illustration: GENERAL VIEW ON THE LOWER PART OF A LARGE GLACIER. The surface is ice, not snow. The snow-line may be seen further up.] A large glacier is fed by such a gigantic mass of snow that it is in its upper part hundreds of feet thick. Of course when it reaches warmer places it begins to melt. But the quantity of ice composing it is so great that it takes a long time before it disappears, and a big glacier sometimes flows down far below the wild and rocky parts of mountains and reaches the neighbourhood of forests and corn-fields. It is very beautiful at Chamonix to see the white, glittering ice of the Glacier des Bossons flowing in a silent stream through green meadows. The reason that mountaineers have to be careful in crossing glaciers is on account of the holes, cracks, or, to call them by their proper name, crevasses, which are met with on them. Ice, unlike water, is brittle, so it splits up into crevasses whenever the glacier flows over a steep or uneven rocky bed. High up, where snow still lies, these chasms in the ice are often bridged over, and if a person ventures on one of these snow bridges it may break, and he may fall down the crevasse, which may be so deep that no bottom can be found to it. He is then either killed by the fall or frozen to death. If, as I have explained before, several climbers are roped together, they form a long string, like the tail of a kite, and not more than one is likely to break through at a time. As the rope is--or ought to be--kept tightly stretched, he cannot fall far, and is easily pulled out again. The snow melts away off the surface of the glacier further down in summer. It is on this bare, icy stream, scarred all over with little channels full of water running merrily down the melting rough surface, that the ordinary tourist is taken when he visits a glacier during his summer trip to Switzerland. [Illustration: A GLACIER TABLE (page 11).] [Illustration: Taken in Mid-Winter on reaching the Lower Slopes of a Mountain after a terrific Storm of Snow and Wind. The local Swiss snow-shoes were used during part of the ascent.] You will notice in most of the photographs of glaciers black streaks along them, sometimes only near the sides, sometimes also in the centre. These are heaps of stones and earth which have fallen from the mountains bordering the glacier, and have been carried along by the slowly moving ice. The bands in the centre have come there, owing to the meeting higher up of two glaciers, which have joined their side heaps of rubbish, and have henceforward flowed on as one glacier. The bands of piled up stones are called moraines, those at the edge being known as lateral moraines, in the centre as medial moraines, and the stones which drop off the end (or snout) of a glacier, as terminal moraines. Besides these compact bands, we sometimes find here and there a big stone or boulder by itself, which has rolled on to the ice. Often these stones are raised on a pedestal of ice, and then they are called "glacier-tables." They have covered the bit of ice they lie upon, and prevented it from melting, while the glacier all round has gradually sunk. After a time the leg of the table begins to feel the sun strike it also. It melts away on the south side and the stone slips off. A party of climbers, wandering about on a glacier at night or in a fog, and having no compass, can roughly take their bearings by noticing in what position these broken-down glacier-tables lie. Occasionally sand has been washed down over the surface of the ice, and a patch of it has collected in one place. This shields the glacier from the sun, the surrounding ice sinks, and eventually we find cones which are lightly covered with sand, the smooth ice beneath being reached directly we scratch the surface with the point of a stick. It is difficult to realise the enormous size of a large glacier. The Aletsch Glacier, the most extensive in the Alps, would, it has been said, if turned to stone, supply building material for a city the size of London. With regard to the movement of glaciers, the entertaining author of "A Tramp Abroad" mildly chaffs his readers by telling them that he once tried to turn a glacier to account as a means of transport. Accordingly, he took up his position in the middle, where the ice moves quickest, leaving his luggage at the edge, where it goes slowest. Thus he intended to travel by express, leaving his things to follow by goods train! However, after some time, he appeared to make no progress, so he got out a book on glaciers to try and find out the reason for the delay. He was much surprised when he read that a glacier moves at about the same pace as _the hour hand of a watch_! [Illustration: A DISTORTED AND CREVASSED GLACIER. Showing the rough texture of the surface of a Glacier below the Snow-line.] Many thousands of years ago there were glaciers in Scotland and England. We are certain of this, as glaciers scratch and polish the rocks they pass over as does nothing else. Stones are frozen into the ice, and it holds them and uses them as we might hold and use a sharply-pointed instrument, scratching the rock over which the mighty mass is slowly passing. In addition to the scratches, the ice polishes the rock till it is quite smooth, writing upon it in characters never to be effaced the history of past events. Another thing which proves to us that these icy rivers were in many places where there are no glaciers now, is the boulders we find scattered about. These boulders are sometimes of a kind of rock not found anywhere near, and so we know that they must have been carried along on that wonderful natural luggage-train, and dropped off it as it melted. We find big stones in North Wales which must have come on a glacier beginning in Scotland! Glacier-polished rocks are found along the whole of the west coast of Norway, and there are boulders near Geneva, in Switzerland, which have come from the chain of Mount Blanc, 60 miles away. So you see that the glaciers of the Alps are far smaller than they were at one time, and that in many places where formerly there were huge glaciers, there are to-day none. The Ice Age was the time when these great glaciers existed, but the subject of the Ice Age is a difficult and thorny one, which is outside the scope of my information and of this book. CHAPTER III AVALANCHES Many of the most terrible accidents in the Alps have been due to avalanches, and perhaps, as avalanches take place from different causes and have various characteristics, according to whether they are of ice, snow, or _débris_, some account of them may not be out of place. We may briefly classify them as follows:-- 1. Ice avalanches, only met with on or near glaciers. 2. Dust avalanches, composed of very light, powdery snow. 3. Compact avalanches (_Grund_ or ground avalanches, as the Germans call them), consisting of snow, earth, stones, trees, and anything which the avalanche finds in its path. These take place only in winter and spring, while the two other kinds happen on the mountains at any season. An ice avalanche is easily understood when it is borne in mind that a glacier is always moving. When this river of ice comes to the edge of a precipice, or tries to crawl down a very steep cliff, it splits across and forms tottering crags of ice, which lean over more and more till they lose their balance and go crashing down the slope. Some of the ice is crushed to powder by its fall, yet many blocks generally survive, and are occasionally heaped up in such huge masses below that they form another glacier on a small scale. If a party of mountaineers passes under a place overhung by threatening ice, they are in great danger, though at early morning, before the sun has loosened the frozen masses, the peril is less. Sometimes, too, if the distance to be traversed is very short and the going quite easy, it is safe enough to dash quickly across. [Illustration: A TUNNEL 300 FEET LONG THROUGH AN AVALANCHE. Tree trunks, etc., can be seen embedded in it.] [Illustration: AN AVALANCHE NEAR BOUVERET, LAKE OF GENEVA.] Dust avalanches occur when a heavy fall of light, powdery snow takes place on frozen hillsides or ice-slopes, and so long as there is no wind or disturbance, all remains quiet, and inexperienced people would think there was no danger. But in reality dust avalanches are the most to be feared of any, for they fall irregularly in unexpected places, and their power is tremendous. While all seems calm and peaceful, suddenly a puff of wind or the passage of an animal disturbs the delicately-balanced masses, and then woe betide whoever is within reach of this frightful engine of destruction. First, the snow begins to slide gently down, then it gathers pace and volume, and even miles away the thunder of its fall can be heard as it leaps from ledge to ledge. Covered with a cloud of smoking, powdery dust, it is a veritable Niagara of giant height, and as it descends towards the forests, it carries with it whatever it finds in its path. Trees are mown down with as much ease as the tender grass of spring. Houses are lifted from the ground and tossed far away. An avalanche is preceded by a blast even more destructive than the masses of snow which it hurls along. As it advances with ever-increasing rapidity the air in front is more and more compressed as the avalanche rushes on with lightning-like speed behind it. The wind sweeps everything before it, and many are the tales related by those who have survived or witnessed a display of its power. On one occasion more than a hundred houses were overwhelmed by a huge avalanche at Saas (Prättigau, near Davos), and during the search afterwards the rescue party found amidst the ruins a child lying asleep and uninjured in his cradle, which had been blown to some distance from his home, while close by stood a basket containing six eggs, none of which were broken. I have myself seen a row of telegraph posts in an Alpine valley in winter thrown flat on the ground by the air preceding an enormous avalanche, which itself did not come within 300 yards of them. It is a very wonderful thing that persons buried beneath an avalanche can sometimes hear every word spoken by a search party, and yet not a sound that they utter reaches the ears of those outside. A great deal of air is imprisoned between the particles of snow, and so it is possible for those overwhelmed by an avalanche to live inside it for hours. Cases have been known where a man, buried not far below the surface, has been able to melt a hole to the outer air with his breath, and eventually free himself from his icy prison. On 18th January, 1885, enormous avalanches fell in some of the mountainous districts of northern Italy, houses, cattle, crops, and granaries being carried away, and many victims buried beneath the ruins. Some touching episodes of wonderful escapes were related. "For instance, at Riva, in the valley of Susa, a whole family, consisting of an old woman of seventy, her two daughters, her four nieces, and a child four months old, were buried with their house in the snow, exposed apparently to certain death from cold and hunger. But the soldiers of the Compagnie Alpine, hearing of the sad case, worked with all their might and main to save them, and at last they were found and brought out alive, the brave old grandmother insisting that the children should be saved first, and then her daughters, saying that their lives were more precious than her own." The soldiers, who worked with a will above all praise, were obliged in several cases to construct long galleries in the snow in order to reach the villages, which were sometimes buried beneath 40 feet of snow. Compact avalanches, though very terrible on account of their frequently great size, can be more easily guarded against than dust avalanches, because they always fall in well-defined channels. A compact avalanche consists of snow, earth, stones, and trees, and comes down in times of thaw. Many fall in early spring in Alpine valleys, and though it is not unusual for them to come right across high roads, the fatal accidents are comparatively few. The inhabitants know that wherever, high up on the hills, there is a hollow which may serve as a _reservoir_ or collecting-basin for the snow, and below this a funnel or shoot, there an avalanche may be expected. Often they take means to prevent one starting, for an avalanche, whose power is irresistible when once it has begun to move quickly, is very easily kept from mischief if it is not allowed a running start. The best of all ways for preventing avalanches is to plant the gullies with trees, but where this cannot be done, rows of stakes driven into the ground will serve to hold up the snow, and where the hillside is extremely steep, and much damage would be caused if an avalanche fell, stone walls are built one above another to keep the soil and the snow together, very much as we see on precipitous banks overlooking English railways. The driving roads over Alpine passes are in places exposed to avalanches in winter. At the worst spots galleries of stone are built, through which the sleighs can pass in perfect safety, and if an avalanche fell while they were inside it would pass harmlessly over their heads. On the Albula Pass, in Switzerland, as soon as the avalanches come down, tunnels are cut in the snow through them, and are in constant use till early summer. Occasionally houses or churches are built in the very path of an avalanche. A V-shaped wall, called an avalanche-breaker, is put behind, and this cuts the snowy stream in two parts, which passes on harmlessly on either side of the building. Sometimes avalanche-breakers of snow, hardened into ice by throwing water over them, are constructed behind barns which have been put in exposed places. In order that an avalanche may get up speed enough to commence its swift career, the slope the snow rests on where it starts must be at an angle of from 30° to 35° at least. CHAPTER IV THE GUIDES OF THE ALPS: WHAT THEY ARE AND WHAT THEY DO There is no profession drawing its members from the peasant class which requires a combination of so many high and rare qualities as that of a mountain guide. Happily, the dwellers in hill countries seem usually more noble in mind and robust of frame than the inhabitants of plains, and all who know them well must admit that among Alpine guides are to be found men whose intelligence and character would rank high in any class of life. I have usually noticed that the abilities and duties of a guide are little understood by the non-climber, who often imagines that a guide's sole business is to know the way and to carry the various useless articles which the beginner in mountaineering insists on taking with him. [Illustration: EDOUARD CUPELIN OF CHAMONIX. The Guide with whom Mrs Aubrey Le Blond commenced her climbing.] Guiding, if it sometimes does include these duties, is far more than this. The first-class guide must be the general of the little army setting out to invade the higher regions. He need not _know_ the way--in fact, it sometimes happens that he has never before visited the district--but he must be able to _find_ a way, and a safe one, to the summit of the peak for which his party is bound. An inferior guide may know, from habit, the usual way up a mountain, but, should the conditions of ice and snow alter, he is unable to alter with them and vary his route. You may ask: "How does a guide find his way on a mountain new to him?" There are several means open to him. If the peak is well known, as is, say, the Matterhorn, he will have heard from other guides which routes have been followed, and will know that if he desires to take his traveller up the ordinary way he must go past the Schwarz-see Hotel, and on to the ridge which terminates in the Hörnli, making for the hut which he has seen from below through the telescope. Then he remembers that he must cross to the east face, and while doing so he will notice the scratches on the rocks from the nailed boots of previous climbers. Now, mounting directly upward, he will pick out the passages which seem easiest, until, passing the ruined upper hut, he comes out on the ridge and looks down the tremendous precipice which overhangs the Matterhorn Glacier. This ridge, he knows, he simply has to follow until he reaches the foot of a steep face of rock some 50 feet high, down which hangs a chain. He has heard all about this bit of the climb since his boyhood, and he tells his traveller that, once on the top of the rock, all difficulty will be over, and the final slope to the summit will be found a gentle one. So it comes to pass that the party reaches the highest pinnacle of the great mountain without once diverging from the best route. Occasionally the leading guide may take with him as second guide a man from the locality, but most climbers will prefer to keep with them the two guides they are used to. It is not only on mountains that a guide is able to find his way over little known ground. Many years ago Melchior Anderegg came to stay with friends in England, and arrived at London Bridge Station in the midst of a thick London fog. "He was met by Mr Stephen and Mr Hinchliff," writes his biographer in _The Pioneer of the Alps_, "who accompanied him on foot to the rooms of the latter gentleman in Lincoln's Inn Fields. A day or two later the same party found themselves at the same station on their return from Woolwich. 'Now, Melchior,' said Mr Hinchliff, 'you will lead us back home.' Instantly the skilful guide, who had never seen a larger town than Berne, accepted the situation, and found his way straight back without difficulty, pausing for consideration only once, as if to examine the landmarks at the foot of Chancery Lane." Now, let us see how a guide sets about exploring a district where no one has previously ascended the mountains. Of this work I have seen a good deal, since in Arctic Norway my Swiss guides and I have ascended more than twenty hitherto-unclimbed peaks, and were never once unable to reach the summit. Of course, the first thing is to see the mountains, and, to do this, it is wise to ascend something which you are sure, from its appearance, is easy, and then prospect for others, inspecting others again from them, and so on, _ad infinitum_. You cannot always see the whole of a route, and, perhaps, your leading guide will observe: "We can reach that upper glacier by the gully in the rocks." "What gully?" you ask. "The one to the left. There _must_ be one there. Look at the heap of stones at the bottom!" Thus, from the seen to the unseen the guide argues, reading a fact from writing invisible to the untrained eye. Between difficulty and danger, too, he draws a sharp distinction, and attacks with full confidence a steep but firm wall of rock, turning back from the easy-looking slope of snow ready to set forth in an avalanche directly the foot touches it. And how is this proficiency obtained? How does the guide learn his profession? In different ways, but he usually begins young, tending goats on steep grassy slopes requiring balance and nerve to move about over. Later on, having decided that he wishes to be a guide, the boy, at the age of seventeen or eighteen, offers himself for examination on applying for a certificate as porter. The requirements for this first step are not great: a good character, a sound physique, a knowledge of reading and writing, and in most Alpine centres the guild of guides will grant him a license. He can now accompany any guide who will take him, on any expedition that guide considers within the porter's powers. His advancement depends on his capacity. Should he quickly adapt himself to the work, the guides will trust him more and more, taking him on difficult ascents and allowing him occasionally to share the responsibility of leading on an ascent and coming down last when descending. It will readily be seen that the leader must never slip, and must, when those who follow are moving, be able to hold them should anything go wrong with them. The same applies to the even more responsible position of last man coming down. When a porter reaches this stage, he is little inferior to a second guide. He can now enter for his final examination. If he is competent, he has no trouble in passing it, and I fear that if the contrary--as is the case in many of those who apply--he gets through easily enough. At Chamonix the guides' society is controlled by Government. The rules press hardly on the better class of guides there, or would do so if observed; but a first-class guide is practically independent of them, and mountaineers who know the ropes can avoid the regulations. At Zermatt greater liberty is allowed, and, indeed, I believe that everywhere except at Chamonix a guide is free to go with any climber who applies for him. At Chamonix the rule is that the guides are employed in turn, so that the absurd spectacle is possible of a man of real experience carrying a lady's shawl across the Mer de Glace, while a guide, who is little better than a porter, sets out to climb the Aiguille de Dru! However, the exceptions to this rule make a broad way of escape, for a lady alone, a member of an Alpine club, or a climber bent on a particularly difficult ascent, may choose a guide. The pay of a first-class guide is seldom by tariff, for the class of climber who alone would have the opportunity of securing the services of one of the extremely limited number of guides of the first order generally engages him for some weeks at a time. Indeed, such men are usually bespoken a year in advance. The pay offered and expected is 25 fr. a day, including all expeditions, or else 10 fr. a day for rest days, 50 fr. for a peak, 25 fr. for a pass, in both cases the guide to keep himself, while travelling expenses and food on expeditions are to be paid for by the employer. If a season is fine and the party energetic, the former rate of payment may be the cheaper. The second guide generally receives two-thirds as much as the first guide. When a novice is about to choose a guide, the advice of an experienced friend is invaluable, but, failing this, it is worse than useless to rely on inn-keepers, casual travellers, or the _guide-chef_ at the guides' office of the locality. From these you can obtain the names of guides whom they recommend, but before making any definite arrangements, see the men themselves and carefully examine their books of certificates. In these latter lie your security, if you read them intelligently. Bear in mind that their value consists in their being signed by competent mountaineers. For instance, you may find something like the following in a guide's book:-- A. Dumkopf took me up the Matterhorn to-day. He showed wonderful sureness of foot and steadiness of head, and I consider him a first-class guide, and have pleasure in recommending him. (Signed) A. S. SMITH. Now, this is by some one you never heard of, and a very little consideration will show you that A. S. Smith is quite ignorant of climbing, judging by his wording of the certificate. That which follows, taken from the late Christian Almer's _Führerbuch_, is the sort of thing to carry weight:-- Christian Almer has been our guide for three weeks, during which time we made the ascents of the Matterhorn (ascending by the northern and descending by the southern route), Weisshorn (from the Bies Glacier), Dent Blanche, and the Bietschhorn. Every journey that we take under Almer's guidance confirms us in the high opinion we have formed of his qualities as a guide and as a man. To the utmost daring and courage he unites prudence and foresight, seldom found in combination. (Signed) W. A. B. COOLIDGE. Visp, September 22nd, 1871. It is when things go badly that a first-class guide is so conspicuously above an inferior man. In sudden storms or fog you may, if accompanied by the former, be in security, while the latter may get his party into positions of great peril. The former will take you slowly and carefully, sounding, perhaps, at every step, over what appears to you a perfectly easy snow plateau. The latter goes across a similar place unsuspecting of harm and with the rope loose, and, lo and behold, you all find yourselves in a hidden crevasse, and are lucky if you escape with your lives. In the early days of mountaineering guides were frequently drawn from the chamois hunters of a district, a sport requiring, perhaps, rather the quickness and agility of the born climber and gymnast than the qualities of calculation and prudence needed in addition by the guide. [Illustration: A careful party descending a Rock Peak near Zermatt (the Unter Gabelhorn).] The most thoroughly unorthodox beginning to a great career of which I have ever heard was that of Joseph Imboden, of St Nicholas. When a boy his great desire, as he has often told me, was to become a guide. But his father would not consent to it, and apprenticed him to a boot-maker. During the time he toiled at manufacturing and mending shoes he contrived to save 20 fr. He then, at the age of sixteen, ran away from his employer, bought a note-book, and established himself at the Riffel Hotel above Zermatt. On every possible occasion he urged travellers to employ him as guide. "Where is your book, young man?" they invariably enquired. He showed it to them, but the pages were blank, and so no one would take him. "At last," Imboden went on, "my 20 fr. were all but spent, when I managed to persuade a young Englishman to let me take him up Monte Rosa. I told him I knew the mountain well, and I would not charge him high. So we started. I had never set foot on a glacier before or on any mountain, but there was a good track up the snow, and I followed this, and there were other parties on Monte Rosa, so I copied what the guides did, and roped my gentleman as I saw the guides doing theirs. It was a lovely day, and we got on very well, and my gentleman was much pleased, and offered me an engagement to go to Chamonix with him over high passes. "Then I said to myself: 'Lies have been very useful till now, but the time has come to speak the truth, and I will do so.' "So I said to him: 'Herr, until to-day I have never climbed a mountain, but I am strong and active, and I have lived among mountaineers and mountains, and I am sure I can satisfy you if you will take me.' "He was quite ready to do so, and we crossed the Col du Géant and went up Mont Blanc, but could do no more as the weather was bad. Then he wrote a great deal in my book, and since then I have never been in want of a gentleman to guide." Imboden's eldest son, Roman, began still younger. When only thirteen he was employed by a member of the Alpine Club, Mr G. S. Barnes, to carry his lunch on the picnics he made with his friends on the glaciers near Saas-Fée. The party eventually undertook more ambitious expeditions, and one evening, Roman, who was very small for his age, was seen entering his native village at the head of a number of climbers who had crossed the Ried Pass, the little boy proudly carrying the largest knapsack of which he could possess himself, a huge coil of rope, and an ice-axe nearly as big as himself. Thus commenced the career of an afterwards famous Alpine guide. During some fifteen seasons Imboden accompanied me on my climbs, frequently with Roman as second guide. Once the latter went with me to Dauphiné, and, though only twenty-three at the time, took me up the Meije, Ecrins, and other big peaks, his father being detained at home by reason of a bitter feud with the railway company about to run a line through his farm. It is sad to look back to the terrible ending of Roman's career at a period when he was the best young guide in the Alps. How little, in September 1895, as with the Imbodens, father and son, I stood on the summit of the Lyskamm, did any of us think that never again should we be together on a mountain, and that from the very peak on which we were Roman would be precipitated in one awful fall of hundreds of feet, his companions, Dr Guntner and the second guide Ruppen, also losing their lives. I shall never forget the evening the news reached us at Zermatt. Imboden was, as usual, my guide, but Roman was leading guide to Dr Guntner. A month or two previously this gentleman had written to Roman asking if he would climb with him. Roman showed the letter to his father, saying: "I only go with English people, so I shall refuse." "Do not reply in a hurry," was the answer; "wait and see what the Herr is like, he is coming here soon." So Roman waited, saw Dr Guntner, liked him immensely, and engaged himself, not only till the end of the season, but also for a five months' mountaineering expedition in the Himalayas. We had all arrived at Zermatt from Fée a few days before, and while we waited in the valley for good weather, Dr Guntner, Roman Imboden, and Ruppen went to the Monte Rosa Hut to get some exercise next day on one of the easier peaks in the neighbourhood. Dr Guntner much wished to try the Lyskamm. Roman was against it, as the weather and snow were bad. However, in the morning there was a slight improvement, and as Dr Guntner was still most anxious to attempt the Lyskamm and Roman was so attached to him that he wished to oblige him in every way he could, he consented to, at any rate, go and look at it. Another party followed, feeling secure in the wake of such first-rate climbers, and, though the snow was atrocious and the weather grew worse and worse, no one turned back, and the summit was not far distant. The gentleman in the second party did not feel very well, and made a long halt on the lower part of the ridge. Something seems to have aroused his suspicions--some drifting snow above, it was said, but I could never understand this part of the story--and an accident was feared. Abandoning the ascent, partly because of illness, partly on account of the weather, the party went down. At the bottom of the ridge, wishing to see if indeed something had gone wrong, they bore over towards the Italian side of the mountain. Directly the snowy plain at the base of the peak became visible, their worst fears were confirmed, for they perceived three black specks lying close together. Examining them through their glasses, it was but too certain that what they saw were the lifeless bodies of Dr Gunnter, Roman, and Ruppen. Meanwhile, unconscious of the awful tragedy being enacted that day on the mountains, I had sent Imboden down to St Nicholas to see his family, and, after dinner, was sitting writing in the little salon of the Hotel Zermatt when two people entered, remarking to each other, "What a horrible smash on the Lyskamm!" I started to my feet. Something told me it must be Roman's party. Crossing quickly over to the Monte Rosa Hotel, I found a silent crowd gathering in the street. I went into the office. "Who is it?" I asked. "Roman's party," was the answer. "How do you know?" "The other party has telephoned from the Riffel; we wait for them to arrive to hear particulars." The crowd grew larger and larger in the dark without. All waited in cruel suspense. I could not bear to think of Imboden. An hour passed. Then there was a stir among the waiting throng, and I went out among them and waited too. The other party was coming. As the little band filed through the crowd, one question only was whispered. "Is there any hope?" Sadly shaking their heads, the gentleman and his guides passed into Herr Seiler's room, and there we learned all there was to hear. I need not dwell on Imboden's grief. He will never be the same man again, though three more sons are left him; but I must put on record his first words to me when I saw him: "Ruppen has left a young wife and several children, and they are very poor. Will you get up a subscription for them, ma'am, and help them as much as possible?" [Illustration: STOPPED BY A BIG CREVASSE. The party descended a little till a better passage was found by crossing a snow-bridge (page 37).] [Illustration: THE GENTLE PERSUASION OF THE ROPE (page 39).] It was done, and for Roman a tombstone was erected, "By his English friends, as a mark of their appreciation of his sterling qualities as a man and a guide." Roman was twenty-seven at the time of the accident. Neither Imboden nor I cared to face the sad associations of the Alps after the death of Roman, and the next and following years we mountaineered in Norway instead. It will have been noticed that a climber nearly always takes two guides on an expedition. A visitor at Zermatt, or some other climbing centre, was heard to enquire: "Why do people take two guides? Is it in case they lose one?" There are several reasons why a climbing party should not number less than three. In a difficult place, if one slips, his two companions should be able to check his fall immediately, whereas if the party number but two the risk of an accident is much greater. Again, a mishap to one of a party of two is infinitely more serious than had there been three climbing together. A glance at the accompanying photograph of some mountaineers reconnoitring a big crevasse will make my point clear. A first-class guide will use the rope very differently to an inferior man, who allows it to hang about in a tangle, and to catch on every point of projecting rock. A friend of mine, a Senior Wrangler, was extremely anxious to learn how to use a rope properly. So, instead of watching the method of his guide, he purchased a handbook, and learned by heart all the maxims therein contained on the subject. Shortly after these studies of his I was descending a steep face of rock in his company. I was in advance, and had gone down as far as the length of rope between us permitted. A few steps below was a commodious ledge, so I called out: "More rope, please!" My friend hesitated, cleared his throat, and replied: "I am not sure if I ought to move just now, because, in _Badminton_, on page so-and-so, line so-and-so, the writer says----" "Will you please give the lady more rope, sir!" called out Imboden. "He says that if a climber finds himself in a position----" "Will you go on, sir, or must I come down and help you?" exclaimed Imboden from above, and, at last, reluctantly enough, my friend moved on. He is now a distinguished member of the Alpine Club, so there is, perhaps, something to be said in favour of learning mountaineering from precept rather than example! Occasionally a guide's manipulation of the rope includes something more arduous than merely being always ready to stop a slip. If his traveller is tired and the snow slopes are long and wearisome, it may happen that a guide will put the rope over his shoulder and pull his gentleman. A mountaineer of my acquaintance met a couple ascending the Breithorn in this manner. It was a hot day, and the amateur was very weary. Furthermore, he could speak no German. So he entreated his compatriot to intercede for him with the guide, who would insist on taking him up in spite of his groans of fatigue. "Why do you not return when the gentleman wishes it?" queried the stranger. "Sir," replied the guide, "he can go, he must go; he has paid me in advance!" The rope generally used by climbers is made in England, is known as Alpine Club rope, and may be recognised by the bright red thread which runs through the centre of it. A climber should have his own rope, and not trust to any of doubtful quality. Should climbers desire to make ascents in seldom explored parts of the world, such as the Caucasus, the Andes, or the Himalayas, they must take Alpine guides with them, for mountains everywhere have many characteristics in common, and as a good rider will go over a country unknown to him better than a bad horseman to whom it is familiar, so will a skilful guide find perhaps an easy way up a mountain previously unexplored, while the natives of the district declare the undertaking an impossible one. The Canadian Pacific Railway Company have recognised the truth of this, and have secured the services of Swiss guides for climbing in the Rockies. The devotion of a really trustworthy guide to his employer is a fine trait in his character. My guide, Joseph Imboden, has often told me that for years the idea that he might somehow return safe from an expedition during which his traveller was killed, was simply a nightmare to him. Directly the rope was removed his anxiety commenced, and he was just as careful to see that the climber did not slip in an easy place as he had been on the most difficult part of the ascent. It is an unbroken tradition that no St. Nicholas guide ever comes home without his employer; all return safely or all are killed. Alas! the list of killed is a long one from that little Alpine village. In the churchyard, from the most recent grave, covered by the beautiful white marble stone placed there by Roman's English friends, to those recalling accidents a score or more of years ago, there lies the dust of many brave men. But I must not dwell on the gloom of the hills; let me rather recall some of the many occasions when a guide, by his skill, quickness, or resource, has saved his own and his charges' lives. A famous Oberlander, Lauener by name, noted for his great strength, performed on one occasion a marvellous feat. He was ascending a steep ice slope, at the bottom of which was a precipice. He was alone with his "gentleman," and to this fact, usually by no means a desirable one, they both owed their lives. A big boulder seemed to be so deeply imbedded in the ice as to be actually part of the underlying rock. The traveller was just below it, the guide had cut steps alongside, and was above with, most happily, the rope taut. As he gained the level of the boulder he put his foot on it. To his horror it began to move! He took one rapid step back, and with a superhuman effort positively swung his traveller clean out of the steps and dangled him against the slope while the rock, heeling slowly outwards, broke loose from its icy fetters and plunged down the mountain side, right across the very place where the climber had been standing but an instant before. A small man, whose muscles are in perfect condition, and who knows how to turn them to account, can accomplish what would really appear to be almost impossible for any one of his size. Ulrich Almer, eldest son of the famous guide, the late Christian Almer, saved an entire party on one occasion by his own unaided efforts. They were descending the Ober Gabelhorn, a high mountain near Zermatt, and had reached a ridge where there is usually a large cornice. Now, a cornice is an overhanging eave of snow which has been formed by the wind blowing across a ridge. Sometimes cornices reach an enormous size, projecting 50 feet or more from the ridge. In climbing, presence of mind may avail much if a cornice breaks--absence of body is, however, infinitely preferable. Even first-class guides may err in deciding whether a party is or is not at an absolutely safe distance from a cornice. Though not actually on that part of the curling wave of snow which overhangs a precipice, the party may be in danger, for when a cornice breaks away it usually takes with it part of the snow beyond. [Illustration: A typical Couloir is seen streaking the peak from summit to base in the centre of the picture (page 73).] [Illustration: The Cross marks the spot where the accident happened on the cornice of the Ober Gabelhorn in 1880 (page 43).] [Illustration: THE WRONG WAY TO DESCEND.] [Illustration: Very soft Snow which, on a steep slope, would cause an Avalanche (page 60).] By some miscalculation the first people on the rope walked on to the cornice. It broke, and they dropped straight down the precipice below. But at the same moment Ulrich saw and grasped the situation, and, springing right out on the other side, was able to check them in their terrible fall. It was no easy matter for the three men, one of whom had dislocated his shoulder, to regain the ridge, although held all the time by Ulrich. Still it was at length safely accomplished. The two gentlemen were so grateful to their guide that they wished to give him an acceptable present, and after much consideration decided that they could not do better than present him with a cow! In trying to save a party which has fallen off a ridge, either by the breaking of a cornice or by a slip, I am told by first-rate guides that the proper thing to do is to jump straight out into the air on the opposite side. You thus bring a greater strain on the rope, and are more likely to check the pace at which your companions are sliding. I had a very awkward experience myself on one occasion when, owing to the softness of the snow, we started an avalanche, and the last guide, failing to spring over on the other side, we were all carried off our feet. Luckily, we were able, by thrusting our axes through into a lower and harder layer of snow, to arrest our wild career. Piz Palü, in the Engadine, was once nearly the scene of a terrible tragedy through the breaking of a cornice, the party only being saved by the quickness and strength of one of their guides. The climbers consisted of Mrs Wainwright, her brother-in-law Dr B. Wainwright and the famous Pontresina guides Hans and Christian Grass. Bad weather overtook them during their ascent, and while they were passing along the ridge the fog was so thick that Hans Grass, who was leading, got on to the cornice. He was followed by the two travellers, and then with a mighty crack the cornice split asunder and precipitated them down the icy precipice seen to the right. Last on the rope came sturdy old Christian Grass, who grasped the awful situation in an instant, and sprang back. He held, but could, of course, do no more. Now was the critical time for the three hanging against the glassy wall. Both Hans and the lady had dropped their axes. Dr Wainwright alone retained his, and to this the party owed their lives. Of course he, hanging at the top, could do nothing; but after shouting out his intentions to those below, he called on Hans to make ready to catch the axe when it should slip by him. A moment of awful suspense, and the weapon was grasped by the guide, who forthwith hewed a big step out of the ice, and, standing on it, began the toilsome work of constructing a staircase back to the ridge. At last it was done, and when the three lay panting on the snow above, it was seen that by that time one strand only of the rope had remained intact. [Illustration: The dotted line in the top right-hand corner shows the spot on Piz Palü where the Wainwright accident took place, the slope being the one the party fell down.] [Illustration: HANS AND CHRISTIAN GRASS.] The following account of a narrow escape from the result of a cornice breaking has an especially sad interest, for it was found amongst the papers of Lord Francis Douglas after his tragic death on the Matterhorn, and was addressed to the Editor of the _Alpine Journal_. The ascent described was made on 7th July 1865, and the poor young man was killed on the 14th of the same month. The Gabelhorn is a fine peak, 13,365 feet high, in the Zermatt district. Lord Francis Douglas writes:--"We arrived at the summit at 12.30. There we found that some one had been the day before, at least to a point very little below it, where they had built a cairn; but they had not gone to the actual summit, as it was a peak of snow, and there were no marks of footsteps. On this peak we sat down to dine, when, all of a sudden, I felt myself go, and the whole top fell with a crash thousands of feet below, and I with it, as far as the rope allowed (some 12 feet). Here, like a flash of lightning, Taugwald came right by me some 12 feet more; but the other guide, who had only the minute before walked a few feet from the summit to pick up something, did not go down with the mass, and thus held us both. The weight on the rope must have been about 23 stone, and it is wonderful that, falling straight down without anything to break one's fall, it did not break too. Joseph Viennin then pulled us up, and we began the descent to Zermatt." Here, again, one of the guides saved the party from certain destruction. It is in time of emergency that a really first-rate guide is so far ahead of an inferior man. In many cases when fatal results have followed unexpected bad weather or exceptionally difficult conditions of a mountain, bad guiding is to blame, while the cases when able guides have brought down themselves and their employers from very tight places indeed, are far more frequent than have ever been related. A really wonderful example of a party brought safely home after terrible exposure is related in _The Pioneers of the Alps_. The well-known guides, Andreas Maurer and Emile Rey, with an English climber, had tried to reach the summit of the Aiguille du Plan by the steep ice slopes above the Chamonix Valley. "After step-cutting all day, they reached a point when to proceed was impossible, and retreat looked hopeless. To add to their difficulties, bad weather came on, with snow and intense cold. There was nothing to be done but to remain where they were for the night, and, if they survived it, to attempt the descent of the almost precipitous ice-slopes they had with such difficulty ascended. They stood through the long hours of that bitter night, roped together, without daring to move, on a narrow ridge, hacked level with their ice-axes. I know from each member of the party that they looked upon their case as hopeless, but Maurer not only never repined, but affected rather to like the whole thing, and though his own back was frozen hard to the ice-wall against which he leaned, and in spite of driving snow and numbing cold, he opened coat, waistcoat and shirt, and through the long hours of the night he held, pressed against his bare chest, the half-frozen body of the traveller who had urged him to undertake the expedition. "The morning broke, still and clear, and at six o'clock, having thawed their stiffened limbs in the warm sun, they commenced the descent. Probably no finer feat in ice-work has ever been performed than that accomplished by Maurer and Rey on the 10th August 1880. It took them ten hours of continuous work to reach the rocks and safety, and their work was done without a scrap of food, after eighteen hours of incessant toil on the previous day, followed by a night of horrors such as few can realize." Had the bad weather continued, the party could not possibly have descended alive, "and this act of unselfish devotion would have remained unrecorded!" Perhaps the most remarkable instance of endurance took place on the Croda Grande. The party consisted of Mr Oscar Schuster and the Primiero guide, Giuseppe Zecchini. They set out on 17th March 1900, from Gosaldo at 5.10 A.M., the weather becoming unsettled as they went along. After they had been seven hours on the march a storm arose, yet, as they were within three-quarters of an hour of the top of their peak, they did not like to turn back. They duly gained the summit, the storm momentarily increasing in violence, and then they descended on the other side of the mountain till they came to an overhanging rock giving a certain amount of shelter. The guide had torn his gloves to pieces during the ascent, and his fingers were raw and sore from the difficult icy rocks he had climbed. As the cold was intense, they now began to be very painful. The weather grew worse and worse, and the two unfortunate climbers were obliged to remain in a hole scooped out of the snow, not only during the night of the 17th, but also during the whole day and night of the 18th. On the 19th, at 8 A.M., they made a start, not having tasted food for forty-eight hours. Five feet of snow had fallen, and the weather was still unsettled, but go they had to. First they tried to return as they came, but the masses of snow barred the way. They were delayed so long by the terrible state of the mountain that they had to spend another night out, and it was not till 6 P.M. on the 20th, after great danger that they reached Gosaldo. The guide, from whose account in _The Alpine Journal_ I have borrowed, lost three fingers of his right hand and one of the left from frost-bite; the traveller appears to have come off scot free. CHAPTER V THE GUIDES OF THE ALPS--(_continued_). The fathers of modern mountaineering were undoubtedly the two great Oberland guides, Melchior Anderegg and Christian Almer, who commenced their careers more than half a century ago. The former is still with us, the latter passed away some two years ago, accomplishing with ease expeditions of first-rate importance till within a season or two of his death. Melchior began his climbing experiences when filling the humble duties of boots at the Grimsel Inn. He was sent to conduct parties to the glaciers, his master taking the fee, while Melchior's share was the _pourboire_. His aptitude for mountain craft was soon remarked by the travellers whom he accompanied, and in a lucky hour for him--and indeed for all concerned--he was regularly taken into the employ of Mr Walker and his family. At that time Melchior could speak only a little German in addition to his Oberland _patois_, and was quite unaccustomed to intercourse with English people. He was most anxious, however, to say the right thing, and thought he could not do better than copy the travellers, so Mr Walker was somewhat startled on finding himself addressed as "Pa-pa," while his children were greeted respectively as "Lucy" and "Horace." The friendship between Melchior and the surviving members of Mr Walker's family has lasted ever since, and is worthy of all concerned. Melchior was born a guide, as he was born a gentleman, and no one who has had the pleasure of his acquaintance can fail to be impressed by his tact and wonderful sweetness of disposition, which have enabled him to work smoothly and satisfactorily with other guides, who might well have felt some jealousy at his career of unbroken success. Melchior's great rival and friend, Christian Almer, was of a more impetuous disposition, but none the less a man to be respected and liked for his sturdy uprightness and devotion to his employers. The romantic tale of his ascent of the Wetterhorn, which first brought him into notice, has been admirably told by Chief-Justice Wills in his "Wanderings among the High Alps." Mr Wills, as he then was, had set out from Grindelwald to attempt the ascent of the hitherto unclimbed Wetterhorn. He had with him the guides Lauener, Bohren, and Balmat. The former, a giant in strength and height, had determined to mark the ascent in a way there should be no mistaking, so, seeking out the blacksmith, he had a "Flagge," as he termed it, prepared, and with this upon his back, he joined the rest of the party. The "Flagge" was a sheet of iron, 3 feet long and 2 broad, with rings to attach it to a bar of the same metal 10 or 12 feet high, which he carried in his hand. "He pointed first to the 'Flagge,' and then, with an exulting look on high, set up a shout of triumph which made the rocks ring again." The Wetterhorn is so well seen from Grindelwald that it was natural some jealousy should arise as to who should first gain the summit. At this time Christian Almer was a chamois hunter, and his fine climbing abilities had been well trained in that difficult sport. He heard of the expedition, and took his measures accordingly. Meanwhile Mr Wills' party, having bivouacked on the mountain side, had advanced some way upwards towards their goal, and were taking a little rest. As they halted, "we were surprised," writes Mr Wills, "to behold two other figures, creeping along the dangerous ridge of rocks we had just passed. They were at some little distance from us, but we saw they were dressed in the guise of peasants." Lauener exclaimed that they must be chamois hunters, but a moment's reflection showed them that no chamois hunter would come that way, and immediately after they noticed that one of them "carried on his back a young fir-tree, branches, leaves, and all." This young man was Christian Almer, and a fitting beginning it was to a great career. "We had turned aside to take our refreshment," continues Mr Wills, "and while we were so occupied they passed us, and on our setting forth again, we saw them on the snow slopes, a good way ahead, making all the haste they could, and evidently determined to be the first at the summit." The Chamonix guides were furious, declaring that no one at Chamonix would be capable of so mean an action, and threatening an attack if they met them. The Swiss guides also began to see the enormity of the offence. "A great shouting now took place between the two parties, the result of which was that the piratical adventurers promised to wait for us on the rocks above, whither we arrived very soon after them. They turned out to be two chamois hunters, who had heard of our intended ascent, and resolved to be even with us, and plant their tree side by side with our 'Flagge.' They had started very early in the morning, had crept up the precipices above the upper glacier of Grindelwald before it was light, had seen us soon after daybreak, followed on our trail, and hunted us down. Balmat's anger was soon appeased when he found they owned the reasonableness of his desire that they should not steal from us the distinction of being the first to scale that awful peak, and instead of administering the fisticuffs he had talked about, he declared they were '_bons enfants_' after all, and presented them with a cake of chocolate; thus the pipe of peace was smoked, and tranquility reigned between the rival forces." The two parties now moved upwards together, and eventually reached the steep final slope of snow so familiar to all who have been up the Wetterhorn. They could not tell what was above it, but they hoped and thought it might be the top. [Illustration: CHRISTIAN ALMER, 1894.] At last, after cutting a passage through the cornice, which hung over the slope like the crest of a great wave about to break, Mr Wills stepped on to the ridge. His description is too thrilling to be omitted. "The instant before, I had been face to face with a blank wall of ice. One step, and the eye took in a boundless expanse of crag and glacier, peak and precipice, mountain and valley, lake and plain. The whole world seemed to lie at my feet. The next moment, I was almost appalled by the awfulness of our position. The side we had come up was steep; but it was a gentle slope compared with that which now fell away from where I stood. A few yards of glittering ice at our feet, and then nothing between us and the green slopes of Grindelwald, 9000 feet below. Balmat told me afterwards that it was the most awful and startling moment he had known in the course of his long mountain experience. We felt as in the immediate presence of Him who had reared this tremendous pinnacle, and beneath the 'majestical roof' of whose blue heaven we stood poised, as it seemed, half-way beneath the earth and sky." Another notable ascent by Almer of the Wetterhorn was made exactly thirty years later, when, with the youngest of his five sons (whom he was taking up for the first time) and an English climber he repeated as far as possible all the details of his first climb, the lad carrying a young fir-tree, as his father had done, to plant on the summit. Finally, in 1896, Almer celebrated his golden wedding on the top of the mountain he knew so well. He was accompanied by his wife, and the sturdy old couple were guided by their sons. But all guides are not the Melchiors or the Almers of their profession. Sometimes, bent on photography from the easier peaks, I have taken whoever was willing to come and carry the camera, and on one occasion had rather an amusing experience with an indifferent specimen of the Pontresina _Führerverein_. All went well at first, and our large party, mostly of friends who knew nothing of climbing, trudged along quite happily till after our first halt for food. When we started again after breakfast our first adventure occurred. We had one first-class guide with us in the person of Martin Schocker, but were obliged to make up the number required for the gang by pressing several inferior men into our service. One of these was leading the first rope-full (if such an expression may be allowed), and with that wonderful capacity for discovering crevasses where they would be avoided by more skilful men, he walked on to what looked like a firm, level piece of snow, and in a second was gone! The rope ran rapidly out as we flung ourselves into positions of security, and as we had kept our proper distances the check came on us all as on one. We remained as we were, while the second caravan advanced to our assistance. Its leading guide, held by the others, cautiously approached the hole, and seeing that our man was dangling, took measures to haul him up. This was not very easy, as the rope had cut deeply into the soft snow at the edge; but with so large a party there was no real difficulty in effecting a rescue. At last our guide appeared, very red in the face, puffing like a grampus, and minus his hat. As soon as he had regained breath he began to talk very fast indeed. It seemed that the crown of his hat was used by him for purposes similar to those served by the strong rooms and safes of the rich; for in his head-gear he was in the habit of storing family documents of value, and among others packed away there was his marriage certificate! The hat now reposed at the bottom of a profound crevasse, and his lamentations were, in consequence, both loud and prolonged. I don't know what happened when he got home, but for the rest of the day he was a perfect nuisance to us all, explaining by voice and gesture, repeated at every halt, the terrifying experience and incalculable loss he had suffered. Another unlucky result of his dive into the crevasse was its effect upon a lady member of the party, who had been induced, by much persuasion, to venture for the first time on a mountain. So startled was she by his sudden disappearance, that she jibbed determinedly at every crack in the glacier we had to cross, and, as they were many, our progress became slower and slower, and it was very late indeed before we regained the valley. Mr Clinton Dent, writing in _The Alpine Journal_, justly remarks: "Guides of the very first rank are still to be found, though they are rare; yet there are, perhaps, as many of the first rank now as there have ever been. The demand is so prodigiously great now that the second-class guide, or the young fully qualified guide who has made some little reputation for brilliancy, is often employed as leader on work which may easily overtax his powers. There is no more pressing question at the present time in connection with mountaineering, than the proper training of young guides." [Illustration: The dust of an Avalanche falling from the Matterhorn Glacier may be seen to the right.] CHAPTER VI AN AVALANCHE ON THE HAUT-DE-CRY The Haut-de-Cry is not one of the giants of the Alps. It is a peak of modest height but fine appearance, rising abruptly from the valley of the Rhone. In 1864 it had never been climbed in winter, and one of our countrymen, Mr Philip Gosset, set out in February of that year to attempt its ascent. He had with him a friend, Monsieur Boissonnet, the famous guide Bennen, and three men from a village, named Ardon, close by, who were to act as local guides or porters. The party had gained a considerable height on the mountain when it became necessary to cross a couloir or gully filled with snow. It was about 150 feet broad at the top, and 400 or 500 at the bottom. "Bennen did not seem to like the look of the snow very much," writes Mr Gosset in _The Alpine Journal_. "He asked the local guides whether avalanches ever came down this couloir, to which they answered that our position was perfectly safe. We were walking in the following order--Bevard, Nance, Bennen, myself, Boissonnet, and Rebot. Having crossed over about three-quarters of the breadth of the couloir, the two leading men suddenly sank considerably above their waists. Bennen tightened the rope. The snow was too deep to think of getting out of the hole they had made, so they advanced one or two steps, dividing the snow with their bodies. Bennen turned round and told us he was afraid of starting an avalanche; we asked whether it would not be better to return and cross the couloir higher up. To this the three Ardon men opposed themselves; they mistook the proposed precaution for fear, and the two leading men continued their work. "After three or four steps gained in the aforesaid manner, the snow became hard again. Bennen had not moved--he was evidently undecided what he should do. As soon, however, as he saw hard snow again, he advanced, and crossed parallel to, but above, the furrow the Ardon men had made. Strange to say, the snow supported him. While he was passing, I observed that the leader, Bevard, had ten or twelve feet of rope coiled round his shoulder. I of course at once told him to uncoil it, and get on to the arête, from which he was not more than fifteen feet distant. Bennen then told me to follow. I tried his steps, but sank up to my waist in the very first. So I went through the furrows, holding my elbows close to my body, so as not to touch the sides. This furrow was about twelve feet long, and as the snow was good on the other side, we had all come to the false conclusion that the snow was accidentally softer there than elsewhere. Bennen advanced; he had made but a few steps when we heard a deep, cutting sound. The snow-field split in two, about fourteen or fifteen feet above us. The cleft was at first quite narrow, not more than an inch broad. An awful silence ensued; it lasted but a few seconds, and then it was broken by Bennen's voice, 'Wir sind alle verloren.'[1] His words were slow and solemn, and those who knew him felt what they really meant when spoken by such a man as Bennen. They were his last words. I drove my alpenstock into the snow, and brought the weight of my body to bear on it. I then waited. It was an awful moment of suspense. I turned my head towards Bennen to see whether he had done the same thing. To my astonishment I saw him turn round, face the valley, and stretch out both arms. The ground on which we stood began to move slowly, and I felt the utter uselessness of any alpenstock. I soon sank up to my shoulders, and began descending backwards. From this moment I saw nothing of what had happened to the rest of the party. With a good deal of trouble I succeeded in turning round. The speed of the avalanche increased rapidly, and before long I was covered up with snow. I was suffocating, when I suddenly came to the surface again. I was on a wave of the avalanche, and saw it before me as I was carried down. It was the most awful sight I ever saw. The head of the avalanche was already at the spot where we had made our last halt. The head alone was preceded by a thick cloud of snow-dust; the rest of the avalanche was clear. Around me I heard the horrid hissing of the snow, and far before me the thundering of the foremost part of the avalanche. To prevent myself sinking again, I made use of my arms, much in the same way as when swimming in a standing position. At last I noticed that I was moving slower; then I saw the pieces of snow in front of me stop at some yards distant; then the snow straight before me stopped, and I heard on a large scale the same creaking sound that is produced when a heavy cart passes over frozen snow in winter. I felt that I also had stopped, and instantly threw up both arms to protect my head, in case I should again be covered up. I had stopped, but the snow behind me was still in motion; its pressure on my body was so strong that I thought I should be crushed to death. This tremendous pressure lasted but a short time; I was covered up by snow coming from behind me. My first impulse was to try and uncover my head--but this I could not do, the avalanche had frozen by pressure the moment it stopped, and I was frozen in. Whilst trying vainly to move my arms, I suddenly became aware that the hands as far as the wrist had the faculty of motion. The conclusion was easy, they must be above the snow. I set to work as well as I could; it was time for I could not have held out much longer. At last I saw a faint glimmer of light. The crust above my head was getting thinner, but I could not reach it any more with my hands; the idea struck me that I might pierce it with my breath. After several efforts I succeeded in doing so, and felt suddenly a rush of air towards my mouth, I saw the sky again through a little round hole. A dead silence reigned around me; I was so surprised to be still alive, and so persuaded at the first moment that none of my fellow-sufferers had survived, that I did not even think of shouting for them. I then made vain efforts to extricate my arms, but found it impossible; the most I could do was to join the ends of my fingers, but they could not reach the snow any longer. After a few minutes I heard a man shouting; what a relief it was to know that I was not the sole survivor!--to know that perhaps he was not frozen in and could come to my assistance! I answered; the voice approached, but seemed uncertain where to go, and yet it was now quite near. A sudden exclamation of surprise! Rebot had seen my hands. He cleared my head in an instant, and was about to try and cut me out completely, when I saw a foot above the snow, and so near to me that I could touch it with my arms, although they were not quite free yet. I at once tried to move the foot; it was my poor friend's. A pang of agony shot through me as I saw that the foot did not move. Poor Boissonnet had lost sensation, and was perhaps already dead. "Rebot did his best. After some time he wished me to help him, so he freed my arms a little more, so that I could make use of them. I could do but little, for Rebot had torn the axe from my shoulder as soon as he had cleared my head (I generally carry an axe separate from my alpenstock--the blade tied to the belt, and the handle attached to the left shoulder). Before coming to me Rebot had helped Nance out of the snow; he was lying nearly horizontally, and was not much covered over. Nance found Bevard, who was upright in the snow, but covered up to the head. After about twenty minutes, the two last-named guides came up. I was at length taken out; the snow had to be cut with the axe down to my feet before I could be pulled out. A few minutes after 1 P.M. we came to my poor friend's face.... I wished the body to be taken out completely, but nothing could induce the three guides to work any longer, from the moment they saw it was too late to save him. I acknowledge that they were nearly as incapable of doing anything as I was. When I was taken out of the snow the cord had to be cut. We tried the end going towards Bennen, but could not move it; it went nearly straight down, and showed us that there was the grave of the bravest guide the Valais ever had or ever will have." Thus ends one of the most magnificent descriptions of an avalanche which has ever been written. The cause of the accident was a mistaken opinion as to the state of winter snow, which is very different to the snow met with in summer, and of which at that time the best guides had no experience. A RACE FOR LIFE Once upon a time, in the year 1872, a certain famous mountaineer, Mr F. F. Tuckett, had with his party a desperate race for life. The climbers numbered five in all, three travellers and two guides, and had started from the Wengern Alp to ascend the Eiger. Nowadays there is a railway to the Wengern Alp, and so thousands of English people are familiar with the appearance of the magnificent group of mountains--the Eiger, the Mönch, and the Jungfrau--which they have before them as they pass along in the train. Suffice it here to say that the way up the Eiger lies over a glacier, partly fed by another high above it, from which, through a narrow, rocky gully, great masses of ice now and again come dashing down. Unless the fall is a very big one, climbers skirting along the edge of this glacier are safe enough, but on the only occasion I have been up the Eiger, I did not fancy this part of the journey. [Illustration: Eiger. Mönch. FROM THE LAUBERHORN. The Cross marks the Scene of "A Race for Life." The dotted line shows the steep Ice-Wall of the Eigerjoch (page 208).] To return to Mr Tuckett and his friends. They were advancing up the snowy valley below the funnel-shaped opening through which an avalanche occasionally falls. The guide, Ulrich Lauener, was leading, and, remarks Mr Tuckett, "He is a little hard of hearing; and although his sight, which had become very feeble in 1870, is greatly improved, both ear and eye were perhaps less quick to detect any unexpected sound or movement than might otherwise have been the case. Be this as it may, when all of a sudden I heard a sort of crack somewhere up aloft, I believe that, for an instant or two, his was the only head not turned upwards in the direction from which it seemed to proceed, viz., the hanging ice-cliff; but the next moment, when a huge mass of sérac broke away, mingled apparently with a still larger contingent of snow from the slopes above, whose descent may, indeed, have caused, or at least hastened, the disruption of the glacier, every eye was on the look-out, though as yet there was no indication on the part of any one, nor I believe any thought for one or two seconds more, that we were going to be treated to anything beyond a tolerably near view of such an avalanche as it rarely falls to anyone's lot to see. Down came the mighty cataract, filling the couloir to its brim; but it was not until it had traversed a distance of 600 to 800 feet, and on suddenly dashing in a cloud of frozen spray over one of the principal rocky ridges with which, as I have said, the continuity of the snow-slope was broken, appeared as if by magic to triple its width, that the idea of danger to ourselves flashed upon me. I now perceived that its volume was enormously greater than I had at first imagined, and that, with the tremendous momentum it had by this time acquired, it might, instead of descending on the right between us and the rocks of the Klein Eiger, dash completely across the base of the Eiger itself in front of us, attain the foot of the Rothstock ridge, and then, trending round, sweep the whole surface of the glacier, ourselves included, with the besom of destruction. "I instinctively bolted for the rocks of the Rothstock--if haply it might not be too late--yelling rather than shouting to the others, 'Run for your lives!' "Ulrich was the last to take the alarm, though the nearest to the danger, and was thus eight or ten paces behind the rest of us, though he, too, shouted to Whitwell to run for his life directly he became aware of the situation. But by this time we were all straining desperately through the deep, soft snow for dear life, yet with faces turned upwards to watch the swift on-coming of the foe. I remember being struck with the idea that it seemed as though, sure of its prey, it wished to play with us for a while, at one moment letting us imagine that we had gained upon it, and were getting beyond the line of its fire, and the next, with mere wantonness of vindictive power, suddenly rolling out on its right a vast volume of grinding blocks and whirling snow, as though to show that it could out-flank us at any moment it chose. "Nearer and nearer it came, its front like a mighty wave about to break, yet that still 'on the curl hangs poising'; now it has traversed the whole width of the glacier above us, taking a somewhat diagonal direction; and now run, oh, run! if ever you did, for here it comes straight at us, still outflanking us, swift, deadly, and implacable! The next instant we saw no more; a wild confusion of whirling snow and fragments of ice--a frozen cloud--swept over us, entirely concealing us from one another, and still we were untouched--at least I knew that I was--and still we ran. Another half second and the mist had passed, and there lay the body of the monster, whose head was still careering away at lightning speed far below us, motionless, rigid, and harmless. It will naturally be supposed that the race was one which had not admitted of being accurately timed by the performers; but I believe that I am speaking with precision when I say that I do not think the whole thing occupied from first to last more than five or six seconds. How narrow our escape was may be inferred from the fact that the spot where I halted for a moment to look back after it had passed, was found to be just twelve yards from its edge, and I don't think that in all we had had time to put more than thirty yards between us and the point where our wild rush for the rocks first began. Ulrich's momentary lagging all but cost him his life; for in spite of his giant stride and desperate exertions he only just contrived to fling himself forwards as the edge of the frozen torrent dashed past him. This may sound like exaggeration, but he assured me that he felt some fragments strike his legs; and it will perhaps appear less improbable when it is considered that he was certainly several yards in the rear, and when the avalanche came to a standstill, its edge, intersecting and concealing our tracks along a sharply defined line, rose rigid and perpendicular, like a wall of cyclopean masonry, as the old Bible pictures represent the waters of the Red Sea, standing 'upright as an heap' to let the Israelites through. "The avalanche itself consisted of a mixture, in tolerably equal proportions, of blocks of sérac of all shapes and sizes, up to irregular cubes of four or five feet on a size, and snow thoroughly saturated with water--the most dangerous of all descriptions to encounter, as its weight is enormous. We found that it covered the valley for a length of about 3300 feet, and a maximum breadth of 1500, tailing off above and below to 500 or 1000 feet. Had our position on the slope been a few hundred feet higher or lower, or in other words, had we been five minutes earlier or later, we must have been caught beyond all chance of escape." * * * * * There was no rashness which can be blamed in the party finding themselves in the position described. Avalanches, when they fall down the gully, hardly ever come so far as the one met with on this occasion, and they very seldom fall at all in the early morning. The famous guide, Christian Almer, while engaged on another expedition, visited the spot after the avalanche had fallen, and said that it was the mightiest he had ever seen in his life. Mr Tuckett roughly estimated its total weight as about 450,000 tons. FOOTNOTE: [1] "We are all lost." CHAPTER VII CAUGHT IN AN AVALANCHE ON THE MATTERHORN The following exciting account is taken from an article by Herr Lorria, which appeared in _The St Moritz Post_ for 28th January 1888. The injuries received were so terrible that, I believe, Herr Lorria never entirely ceased to feel their effects. The party consisted of two Austrian gentlemen, Herren Lammer and Lorria, without guides, who, in 1887, had made Zermatt their headquarters for some climbs. They had difficulty in deciding which ascent to begin with, especially as the weather had recently been bad, and the peaks were not in first-class condition. Herr Lorria writes: "I fancied the Pointe de Zinal as the object of our tour; but Lammer, who had never been on the Matterhorn, wished to climb this mountain by the western flank--a route which had only once before been attacked, namely by Mr Penhall. We had with us the drawing of Penhall's route, published in _The Alpine Journal_. "After skirting a jutting cliff, we reached the couloir at its narrowest point. It was clear that we had followed the route laid down in _The Alpine Journal_; and although Mr Penhall says that the rocks here are very easy, I cannot at all agree with him. "We could not simply cross over the couloir, for, on the opposite side, the rocks looked horrible: it was only possible to cross it some forty or fifty mètres higher. We climbed down into the couloir: the ice was furrowed by avalanches. We were obliged to cut steps as we mounted upwards in a sloping direction. In a quarter of an hour we were on the other side of the couloir. The impression which the couloir made upon me is best shown by the words which I at the moment addressed to Lammer: 'We are now completely cut off.' We saw clearly that it was only the early hour, before the sun was yet upon the couloir, which protected us from danger. Once more upon the rocks, we kept our course as much as possible parallel to the N.W. arête. We clambered along, first over rocks covered with ice, then over glassy ledges, always sloping downwards. Our progress was slow indeed; the formation of the rock surface was ever becoming more unfavourable, and the covering of ice was a fearful hindrance. "Such difficult rocks I had rarely seen before; the wrinkled ledges of the Dent Blanche were easy compared to them. At 1 P.M., we were standing on a level with the "Grand Tower"; the summit lay close before us, but as far as we could see, the rocks were completely coated with a treacherous layer of ice. Immediately before us was a precipitous ice couloir. All attempts to advance were fruitless, even our crampons were of no avail. Driven back! If this, in all cases, is a heavy blow for the mountain climber, we had here, in addition, the danger which we knew so well, and which was every moment increasing. It was one o'clock in the afternoon; the rays of the sun already struck the western wall of the mountain; stone after stone, loosened from its icy fetters, whistled past us. Back! As fast as possible back! Lammer pulled off his shoes and I stuffed them into the knapsack, holding also our two ice-axes. As I clambered down the first I was often obliged to trust to the rope. The ledges, which had given us trouble in the ascent, were now fearfully difficult. Across a short ice slope, in which we had cut steps in the ascent, Lammer was obliged, as time pressed, to get along without his shoes. The difficulties increased; every moment the danger became greater; and already whole avalanches of stones rattled down. The situation was indeed critical. At last, after immense difficulty, we reached the edge of the couloir at the place we had left it in the ascent. But we could find no spot protected from the stones; they literally came down upon us like hail. Which was the more serious danger, the threatening avalanches in the couloir or the pelting of the stones which swept down from every side? On the far side of the couloir there was safety, as all the stones must in the end reach the couloir, which divides the whole face of the mountain into two parts. It was now five o'clock in the afternoon; the burning rays of the sun came down upon us, and countless stones whirled through the air. We remembered the saying of Dr Güssfeldt, in his magnificent description of the passage of the Col du Lion, that only at midnight is tranquility restored. We resolved, then, to risk the short stretch across the couloir. Lammer pulled on his shoes; I was the first to leave the rocks. The snow which covered the ice was suspiciously soft, but we had no need to cut steps. In the avalanche track before us on the right a mighty avalanche is thundering down; stones leap into the couloir, and give rise to new avalanches. "Suddenly my consciousness is extinguished, and I do not recover it till twenty-one days later. I can, therefore, only tell what Lammer saw. Gently from above an avalanche of snow came sliding down upon us; it carried Lammer away in spite of his efforts, and it projected me with my head against a rock. Lammer was blinded by the powdery snow, and thought that his last hour was come. The thunder of the roaring avalanche was fearful; we were dashed over rocks, laid bare in the avalanche track, and leaped over two immense bergschrunds. At every change of the slope we flew into the air, and then were plunged again into the snow, and often dashed against one another. For a long time it seemed to Lammer as if all were over, countless thoughts went thronging through his brain, until at last the avalanche had expended its force, and we were left lying on the Tiefenmatten Glacier. Our fall was estimated at from 550 to 800 English feet. "I lay unconscious, quite buried in the snow; the rope had gone twice round my neck and bound it fast. Lammer, who quickly recovered consciousness, pulled me out of the snow, cut the rope, and gave me a good shake. I then awoke, but being delirious, I resisted with all my might my friend's endeavours to pull me out of the track of the avalanche. However, he succeeded in getting me on to a stone (I was, of course, unable to walk), and gave me his coat; and having thus done all that was possible for me, he began to creep downwards on hands and knees. He could not stand, having a badly sprained ankle; except for that he escaped with merely a few bruises and scratches. At length Lammer arrived at the Stockje hut, but to his intense disappointment there was nobody there. He did not pause to give vent to his annoyance, however, but continued his way down. Twice he felt nearly unable to proceed, and would have abandoned himself to his fate had not the thought of me kept him up and urged him on. At three o'clock in the morning he reached the Staffel Alp, but none of the people there were willing to venture on the glacier. He now gave up all hope that I could be saved, though he nevertheless sent a messenger to Herr Seiler, who reached Zermatt at about 4.15 A.M. "In half an hour's time a relief party set out from Zermatt. When the party reached the Staffel Alp, Lammer was unconscious, but most fortunately he had written on a piece of paper the information that I was lying at the foot of Penhall's couloir. They found me about half-past eight o'clock. I had taken off all my clothes in my delirium, and had slipped off the rock on which Lammer had left me. One of my feet was broken and both were frozen into the snow, and had to be cut out with an axe. "At 8 P.M. I was brought back to Zermatt, and for twenty days I lay unconscious at the Monte Rosa Hotel hovering between life and death." Herr Lorria pays a warm tribute to the kindness of Seiler and his wife, and the skill of Dr de Courten, who saved his limbs when other doctors wished to amputate them. He ends his graphic account as follows: "The lesson to be learnt from our accident is not 'Always take guides,' but rather 'Never try the Penhall route on the Matterhorn, except after a long series of fine, hot days, for otherwise the western wall of the mountain is the most fearful mouse-trap in the Alps.'" THE ICE AVALANCHE OF THE ALTELS. Those who climbed in the Alps during the summer of 1895 will recollect how wonderfully dry and warm the weather was, denuding the mountains of snow and causing a number of rock-falls, so that many ascents became very dangerous, and, in my own case, after one or two risky encounters with falling stones, we decided to let the rock peaks alone for the rest of that campaign. [Illustration: In the centre of the picture may be seen an Avalanche, which a non-climber might mistake for a Waterfall, dropping down the Rocks of the Wetterhorn.] In _The Alpine Journal_ of August 1897, Mr Charles Slater gives an admirable description of a great ice-avalanche which overwhelmed one of the fertile pastures near the well-known Gemmi route. From this account I make some extracts, which will give an idea of the magnitude of the disaster and its unusual character, as the ice from a falling glacier rarely ever approaches cultivated land and dwellings. The scene of the catastrophe was at Spitalmatten, a pasturage with châlets used in summer by the shepherds, in a basin at the beginning of the valley which extends to the pass. Steep slopes bound it on the east, and above them rises the glacier-capped peak of the Altels. The glacier was well seen from the Gemmi path, and all tourists who passed that way must have noticed and admired it. It is believed that a big crevasse, running right across the glacier, was noticed during the month of August, and the lower part of the glacier seemed to be completely cut off from the upper portion by it. On the evening of 10th September, the Vice-President of the commune of Leuk (to which commune the Alp belonged) arrived at the châlets to settle the accounts of the past summer. Several of the women had already gone down, taking some of the calves with them, and the rest of the inhabitants of the little settlement were to follow next day. The weather was warm but cloudy, with a strong _föhn_ wind.[2] On the morning of 11th September, about 5 A.M., the few people who lived at or near the Schwarenbach Inn heard a roar like an earthquake, and felt a violent blast of wind. A servant, rushing out of the inn, saw "what appeared to be a white mist streaming down the Altel's slope. The huge mass of ice forming the lower end of the glacier had broken away, rushed down the mountain side, leapt from the Tateleu plateau into the valley, and, like an immense wave, had swept over the Alp, up the Uschinen Grat, as if up a 1500 sea-wall, and even sent its ice-foam over this into the distant Uschinen Thal." The only other eye-witness of this appalling catastrophe was a traveller who was walking up the Kanderthal from Frutigen in the early morning. "He saw in the Gemmi direction a fearful whirlwind, with dust and snow-clouds, and experienced later a cold rain falling from a clear sky, the rain being probably due to the melting of the ice-cloud." The scene after the disaster must have been a terrible one. "Winter had apparently come in the midst of summer"; the whole pasture was covered with masses of ice. "The body of the Vice-President was found lying 180 yards away from the hut. Another body had been flung into the branches of an uprooted tree, while a third was found still holding a stocking in one hand, having been killed in the act of dressing." There was no chance of escape for the people, as only a minute or little more elapsed from the time the avalanche started till it reached the settlement. The cows were nearly all killed, "they seem to have been blown like leaves before a storm to enormous distances." A year later, much of the avalanche was still unmelted. The thickness of the slice of glacier which broke away is believed to have been about 25 feet, and it fell through a vertical height of 4700 feet. It moved at about the average rate of two miles a minute. "It is difficult to realise these vast figures, and a few comparisons have been suggested which may help to give some idea of the forces which were called into play. The material which fell would have sufficed to bury the City of London to the depth of six feet, and Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens would have disappeared beneath a layer six-and-a-half feet deep. The enormous energy of the moving mass may be dimly pictured when we think that a weight of ice and stones ten times greater than the tonnage of the whole of England's battle-ships plunged on to the Alp at a speed of nearly 300 miles an hour." An almost exactly similar accident had occurred in 1782. AN AVALANCHE WHICH ROBBED A LADY OF A GARMENT One of the greatest advantages in mountaineering as a sport is the amount of enjoyment it gives even when climbing-days are past. While actually engaged in the ascent of difficult peaks our minds are apt to be entirely engrossed with the problem of getting up and down them, but afterwards we delight in recalling every interesting passage, every glorious view, every successful climb; and perhaps this gives us even more pleasure than the experiences themselves. If we happen to have combined photography with mountaineering we are particularly to be envied, for an hour in the company of one of our old albums will recall with wonderful vividness many an incident which we should have otherwise forgotten. Turning over some prints which long have lain on one side, a wave of recollection brings before me some especially happy days on snowy peaks, and makes me long to bring a breath of Alpine air to the cities, where for so much of the year dwell many of my brother and sister climbers. With the help of the accompanying photographs, which will serve to generally illustrate my remarks, let me relate what befell me during an ascent of the Schallihorn--a peak some twelve thousand and odd feet high, in the neighbourhood of Zermatt. Now, although Zermatt is a very familiar playground for mountaineers, yet even as late as ten years ago one or two virgin peaks and a fair number of new and undesirable routes up others were still to be found. I had had my share of success on the former, and was at the time of which I write looking about for an interesting and moderately safe way, hitherto untrodden, up one of the lesser-known mountains in the district. My guide and my friend of many years, Joseph Imboden, racked his brains for a suitable novelty, and at length suggested that as no one had hitherto attacked the south-east face of the Schallihorn we might as well see if it could be ascended. He added that he was not at all sure if it was possible--a remark I have known him to make on more than one peak in far away Arctic Norway, when the obvious facility of an ascent had robbed it of half its interest. However, in those days I still rose satisfactorily to observations of that sort, and was at once all eagerness to set out. We were fortunate in securing as our second guide Imboden's brilliant son Roman, who happened to be disengaged just then. A further and little dreamed-of honour was in store for us, as on our endeavouring to hire a porter to take our things to the bivouac from the tiny village of Taesch no less a person than the mayor volunteered to accompany us in that capacity. [Illustration: MR WHYMPER. ZERMATT, 1896.] [Illustration: MRS AUBREY LE BLOND ON A MOUNTAIN TOP. _Photographed by her Guide, Joseph Imboden_] [Illustration: A HOT DAY IN MID-WINTER ON THE SUMMIT OF A PEAK 13,000 FEET HIGH.] So we started upwards one hot afternoon, bound for some overhanging rocks, which, we were assured by those who had never visited the spot, we should find. For the regulation routes up the chief peaks the climber can generally count on a hut, where, packed in close proximity to his neighbours, he lies awake till it is time to get up, and sets forth on his ascent benefited only in imagination by his night's repose. Within certain limits the less a man is catered for the more comfortable he is, and the more he has to count on himself the better are the arrangements for his comfort. Thus I have found a well-planned bivouac under a great rock infinitely preferable to a night in a hut, and a summer's campaign in tents amongst unexplored mountains more really luxurious than a season in an over-thronged Alpine hotel. Two or three hours' walking took us far above the trees and into the region of short grass and stony slopes. Eventually we reached a hollow at the very foot of our mountain, and here we began to look about for suitable shelter and a flat surface on which to lay the sleeping-bags. The pictured rocks of inviting appearance were nowhere to be found, and what there were offered very inferior accommodation. But the weather was perfect, and we had an ample supply of wraps, so we contented ourselves with what protection was given by a steep, rocky wall, and turned our attention to the Schallihorn. The proposed route could be well seen. Imboden traced out the way he intended taking for a long distance up the mighty precipice in front of us. There were tracks of avalanches at more than one spot, and signs of falling stones were not infrequent. My guide thought he could avoid all danger by persistently keeping to the projecting ridges, and his idea was to descend by whatever way we went up, as the ordinary route is merely a long, uninteresting grind. We now lit a fire, made soup and coffee, and soon after got into our sleeping-bags. The night passed peacefully, save for the rumble of an occasional avalanche, when great masses of ice broke loose on the glacier hard by. Before dawn we were stirring, and by the weird light of a huge fire were making our preparations for departure. It gradually grew light as our little party moved in single file towards the rocky ramparts which threatened to bar the way to the upper world. As we ascended a stony slope, Imboden remarked, "Why, ma'am, you still have on that long skirt! Let us leave it here; we can pick it up on our return." Now, in order not to be conspicuous when starting for a climbing expedition, I always wore an ordinary walking-skirt over my mountaineering costume. It was of the lightest possible material, so that, if returning by a different route, it could be rolled up and carried in a knapsack. I generally started from the bivouac without it; but the presence on this occasion of the Mayor of Täsch had quite overawed me; hence the unusual elegance of my get-up. Lest I be thought to dwell at undue length on so trifling a matter, I may add that the skirt had adventures that day of so remarkable a nature that the disappearance of Elijah in his chariot can alone be compared to them. The skirt was now duly removed, rolled up and placed under a heavy stone, which we marked with a small cairn, so as to find it the more easily on our return. Shortly after, the real climb began, and, putting on the rope, we commenced the varied series of gymnastics which make life worth living to the mountaineer. We had several particularly unpleasant gullies to cross, up which Imboden glanced hastily and suspiciously, and hurried us over, fearing the fall of stones. At length we came for a little time to easier ground, and as the day was now intensely hot the men took off their waistcoats, leaving them and their watches in a hole in the rock. Above this gentler slope the mountain steepened again, and a ridge in the centre, running directly upwards, alone gave a possible route to the summit. This ridge, at first broad and simple, before long narrowed to a knife-edge. There was always enough to hold; but the rocks were so loose and rotten that we hardly dared to touch them. Spread out over those treacherous rocks, adhering by every finger in our endeavour to distribute our weight, we slowly wormed ourselves upwards. Such situations are always trying. The most brilliant cragsman finds his skill of little avail. Unceasing care and patience alone can help him here. Throwing down the most insecure of the blocks, which fell sometimes on one side, sometimes on the other of the ridge, we gradually advanced. The conversation ran rather in a groove: "Not that one, ma'am, or the big fellow on the top will come down!" "Don't touch the red one or the little white one!" "Now come up to where I am without stepping on any of them!" "Roman! look out! I'm letting this one go!" Then bang! bang! bang! and a disgusting smell as of gunpowder, while a great boulder dashed in leaps towards the glacier below, grinding and smashing itself to atoms before it reached the bottom. [Illustration: JOSEPH IMBODEN. MRS AUBREY LE BLOND. ZERMATT, SEPTEMBER, 1896.] [Illustration: CROSSING A SNOW COULOIR (page 73).] Thus with untiring thoroughness Imboden led his little band higher and higher, till at last the summit came in sight and our muscles and overstrained nerves saw rest ahead. I readily agreed to Imboden's decision that we should go down the ordinary way. After descending for a considerable distance we stopped, and the guides held a short consultation. It seemed that Roman was anxious to try and fetch the waistcoats and watches and my skirt, and his father did not object. Wishing him the best of good-luck, we parted by the rocks and trudged on over the snow towards Zermatt. We moved leisurely, as people who climb for pleasure, with no thought of record-breaking; and as it was late in September it was dusk as we neared the village. Later in the evening I saw Imboden, and asked for news of Roman. He had not arrived, and as time passed we grew uneasy, knowing the speed at which, if alone, he would descend. By 10 P.M. we were really anxious, and great was our relief when a figure with knapsack and ice-axe came swinging up the narrow, cobbled street. It was an exciting tale he had to tell, though it took a good deal of danger to impress Roman with the notion that there was any at all. Soon after leaving us he came to the first gully. Just as he was about to step into it he heard a rumble. Springing back, he squeezed himself under an overhanging piece of rock, while a huge mass of stones and snow dashed down the mountain, some of the fragments passing right over him--though, thanks to his position, none actually touched him. When tranquility was restored he dashed across to the other side, and immediately after a fresh fall commenced, which lasted for a considerable time. At length he approached without injury the spot he was looking for, far down on the lower slopes, where my skirt had been left, and here he felt that all danger was past. But the extraordinarily dry season had thrown out most people's calculations, and at that very moment he was really in the direst peril. As he ran gaily down the slope of earth and stones a tremendous crash brought him to a standstill, and looking back he saw the smoke of a mighty avalanche of ice coming in a huge wave over the cliffs above. He rushed for shelter, which was near at hand, and from beneath the protection of a great rock he saw the avalanche come on and on with the roar of artillery, and he gazed, fascinated, as it swept majestically past his place of refuge. He could see the mound where lay my skirt with its heap of stones. And now a striking sight met his eyes, for before ever the seething mass could touch it the whole heap rose from the ground and was carried far out of the path of the avalanche, borne along by the violence of the wind which preceded it. The late John Addington Symonds has related in one of his charming accounts of winter in the Alps that an old woman, sitting peaceably before her châlet door in the sun, was transported by the wind of an avalanche to the top of a lofty pine-tree, where, quite uninjured, she calmly awaited assistance; but that my skirt should have such an adventure brought very strongly home to me the dangers Roman had passed through that afternoon and the escape we had had ourselves. FOOTNOTE: [2] The exact origin of the _föhn_ wind is still disputed. It is thought to have no connection with the sirocco, a wind which in Europe blows always from the south, bears with it sometimes particles of sand, and is impregnated with damp from its passage over the Mediterranean. The _föhn_ blows from any quarter (though usually from the south), and is a dry, warm wind, which causes the snow to melt rapidly. In German Switzerland it is called the _Schneefresser_, or Snow Devourer, and it has been said that if no _föhn_ visited the Alps, Switzerland would still be in the glacial period. CHAPTER VIII LOST IN THE ICE FOR FORTY YEARS It was in 1786 that the summit of Mont Blanc was reached for the first time. It had been attained on only eleven occasions, and no accidents had happened on it when, in 1820, the catastrophe since known as the Hamel accident, took place. Dr Joseph Hamel was a Russian savant, and Counsellor of State to the Czar. He much desired to ascend Mont Blanc in order that he might make scientific experiments on the top, and in August 1820, he came to Chamonix for the purpose. It is of no use, and of little interest to general readers, if I enter into particulars of the controversy which this expedition excited. Some declared that Dr Hamel urged his guides to proceed against their better judgment. Others say that the whole party--which included two Englishmen and nine guides--were anxious to continue the ascent, and, indeed, saw no reason for doing otherwise. Certain it is, however that in those days no one was a judge of the condition of snow, and able to tell from its consistency if an avalanche were likely or not. [Illustration: MONT BLANC. The black line shows the probable course the bodies took during their 40 years' descent in the ice. _By a local Photographer._] [Illustration: Nicolas Winhart, escaping on this occasion with his life, afterwards perished on the Col des Grands Montets in 1875 (page 99). _By a local Photographer._] [Illustration: A Banker at Geneva, who was a most active searcher for Henry Arkwright's body. He was killed in a duel in 1869. It is interesting to compare the old-fashioned costume with that of the present day climber. _By a local Photographer._] [Illustration: THE RELICS. The rope was found round the body but worn through in two places by the hip bones. The handkerchief, shirt front with studs, prune stones, watch chain, pencil case, cartridge, spike of alpenstock, coins, glove tied with spare bootlace, etc., all belonged to Henry Arkwright.] The party, which at first numbered fourteen, duly reached the rocks of the Grands Mulets, where it was usual to spend the night. The sky clouded over towards evening, and there was a heavy thunderstorm during the night. Next morning the weather was too unsettled for the ascent to be tried, so a couple of guides were sent down to Chamonix for more provisions, and a second night was spent in camp. Early next morning, in beautiful weather, a start was made, one of the members of the party, Monsieur Selligne, who felt ill, and two guides leaving the others and going down to Chamonix. The rest safely reached the Grand Plateau. The snow, hardened by the night's frost, had thus far supported the weight of the climbers and made their task easy. It was, however, far from consolidated beneath the crust, as the warm wind of the previous days had made it thoroughly rotten. All were in excellent spirits during the halt for breakfast on the Grand Plateau, that snowy valley which is spread out below the steeper slopes of the final mass of the mountain. Dr Hamel employed part of his time in writing a couple of notes announcing his arrival on the top of Mont Blanc leaving a blank on each to insert the hour. These notes he intended to despatch by carrier pigeon, the bird being with them, imprisoned in a large kettle. At 10.30 they reached the foot of what is now known as the Ancien Passage. This is a steep snow-slope leading almost directly to the top of Mont Blanc. When the snow is sound, and the ice above does not overhang much, this route is as safe as any other; but a steep slope covered with a layer of rotten snow is always most dangerous. At that time, the Ancien Passage was the only way ever taken up Mont Blanc. They had ascended a considerable distance, the snow being softer and softer as they rose, and they formed a long line one behind the other, not mounting straight up, but making their way rather across the slope. Six guides walked at the head of the troop, and then, after an interval, the two Englishmen and two more guides, Dr Hamel being last. All seemed to be going excellently. Everyone plodded along, and rejoiced to be so near the culminating point of the expedition. No thought of danger disturbed them. Suddenly there was a dull, harsh sound. Immediately the entire surface of the snow began to move. "My God! The avalanche! We are lost!" shrieked the guides. The slope at Dr Hamel's end of the party was not steep,--barely more than 30°--but up above it was more rapid. The leading guides were carried straightway off their feet. Hamel was also swept away by the gathering mass of snow. Using his arms as if swimming, he managed to bring his head to the surface, and as he did so the moving snow slowed down and stopped. In those few moments, some 1200 feet had been descended. At first Dr Hamel thought that he alone had been carried away, but presently he saw his English friends and their guides--no more. "Where are the others?" cried Dr Hamel. Balmat, who a moment before had let his brother pass on to the head of the party, wrung his hands and answered, "The others are in the crevasse!" The crevasse! Strange that all had forgotten it! The avalanche had poured into it, filling it to the brim. "A terrible panic set in. The guides lost all self-control. Some walked about aimlessly, uttering loud cries. Matthieu Balmat sat in sullen silence, rejecting all kind offices with an irritation which made it painful to approach him. Dornford threw himself on the snow in despair, and Henderson, says Hamel, 'was in a condition which made one fear for the consequences.' A few minutes later two other guides extricated themselves, but the remaining three were seen no more. Hamel and Henderson descended into the crevasse, and made every possible attempt to find the lost guides, but without avail; the surviving guides forced them to come out, and sore at heart they returned to Chamonix. "The three guides who were lost were Pierre Carrier, Pierre Balmat, and Auguste Tairraz. They were the three foremost in the line and felt the first effects of the avalanche. Matthieu Balmat, who was fourth in the line, saved himself by his great personal strength and by presence of mind. Julien Dévouassoud was hurled across the crevasse, and Joseph Marie Couttet was dragged out senseless by his companions, 'nearly black from the weight of snow which had fallen upon him.'"[3] Scientific men had already begun to give attention to the movement of glaciers. In addition to this, cases had occurred where the remains of persons lost on glaciers had been recovered years afterwards. A travelling seller of hats, crossing the Tschingel Glacier on his way from the Bernese Oberland to Valais, had fallen into a crevasse. Eventually his body and his stock of merchandise was found at the end of the glacier. Near the Grimsel, the remains of a child were discovered in the ice. An old man remembered that many years before a little boy had disappeared in that locality and must doubtless have been lost in a crevasse. These facts were probably known to Dr Hamel, and he made the remark that perhaps in a thousand years, the bodies of his guides might be found. Forbes, who knew more of the subject, believed that, travelling in the ice, they would reach the end of the glacier in forty years. He was right, for on 15th August 1861, his "bold prediction was verified, and the ice give up its dead." On that day, the guide, Ambrose Simond, who happened to be with some tourists on the lower part of the Glacier des Bossons, discovered some pieces of clothing and human bones. From that time until 1864 the glacier did not cease to render up, piece by piece, the remains and the belongings of the three victims. An accident, very similar to that which befell Dr Hamel's party, took place in 1866. This has for me a very special interest, as I have met the brother of the Englishman who perished, and have examined all the documents, letters, newspaper cuttings, and photographs relating to the catastrophe. The guide, Sylvain Couttet, an old friend of mine, since dead, has given a moving account of the sad event. Sylvain knew Mont Blanc better than any other native of Chamonix, and though when I knew him he had given up guiding, he desired to add one more ascent of the great white peak to his record, for at that time he had been up ninety-nine times. I accordingly invited him to come with my party when we climbed it from the Italian side. He did so--he had never been up that way before--and I well remember how he slipped himself free of the rope after the last rocks, saying, "Ah, you young people, you go on. The old man will follow." Alone he arrived on the top, strode about over its snowy dome as if to say good-bye, and was just as ready for his work as any of us when, in a stiff gale, we descended the ridge of the Bosses. But to return to what is known as the Arkwright accident. In the year 1866, Henry Arkwright, a young man of twenty-nine, aide-de-camp to the Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, was travelling in Switzerland with his mother and two sisters. Writing from Geneva on 3rd September to a member of his family, he said, "We have ventured to try our luck higher up, as the weather is so warm and settled--as otherwise I should leave Switzerland without seeing a glacier." On what an apparent chance--a run of fine weather--do great issues depend! The party shortly afterwards moved on to Chamonix, where many excursions were made, thanks to the beautiful weather which still continued. It had now become quite the fashion to go up Mont Blanc, so one is not surprised that Henry Arkwright, though no climber, decided to make the attempt. One of his sisters went with him as far as the hut at the Grands Mulets, and they were accompanied by the guide Michael Simond, and the porters Joseph and François Tournier. Another party proposed also to go up. It consisted of two persons only, Sylvain Couttet and an _employé_ of the Hotel Royal named Nicolas Winhart, whom Sylvain had promised to conduct to the top when he had time and opportunity. It was the 12th October when they left Chamonix, and all went well across the crevassed Glacier des Bossons, and they duly reached their night quarters. While the climbers were absent next day, Miss Fanny Arkwright employed herself with writing and finishing a sketch for her brother. Meanwhile the two parties, having set out at an early hour, advanced quickly up the snow-slopes. The days were short, and it was desirable to take the most direct route. For years the Ancien Passage had been abandoned, and the more circuitous way by the Corridor used instead. However, the snow was in good order, and as up to then no accidents had happened through falling ice, this danger was little dreaded, though it is sometimes a very real one in the Ancien Passage. So the guides advised that this should be the way chosen, and both parties directed their steps accordingly. Sylvain Couttet has left a remarkable description of the events which followed, and portions of this I now translate from his own words as they appeared in _The Alpine Journal_. The two parties were together at the beginning of the steep snow-slope. Sylvain's narrative here commences:--"I said to the porter, Joseph Tournier, who had thus far been making the tracks, 'Let us pass on ahead; you have worked long enough. To each of us his share!' It was to this kindly thought for my comrade that, without the slightest doubt, Winhart and I owe our salvation! We had been walking for about ten minutes near some very threatening _séracs_ when a crack was heard above us a little to the right. Without reasoning, I instinctively cried, 'Walk quickly!' and I rushed forwards, while someone behind me exclaimed, 'Not in that direction!' "I heard nothing more; the wind of the avalanche caught me and carried me away in its furious descent. 'Lie down!' I called, and at the same moment I desperately drove my stick into the harder snow beneath, and crouched down on hands and knees, my head bent and turned towards the hurricane. I felt the blocks of ice passing over my back, particles of snow were swept against my face, and I was deafened by a terrible cracking sound like thunder. "It was only after eight or ten minutes that the air began to clear, and then, always clinging to my axe, I perceived Winhart 6 feet below me, with the point of his stick firmly planted in the ice. The rope by which we were tied to each other was intact. I saw nothing beyond Winhart except the remains of the cloud of snow and a chaos of ice-blocks spread over an area of about 600 feet. "I called out at the top of my voice--no answer--I became like a madman, I burst out crying, I began to call out again--always the same silence--the silence of death. "I pulled out my axe, I untied the rope which joined us, and both of us, with what energy remained to us, with our brains on fire and our hearts oppressed with grief, commenced to explore in every direction the enormous mountain of shattered ice-blocks which lay below us. Finally, about 150 feet further down I saw a knapsack--then a man. It was François Tournier, his face terribly mutilated, and his skull smashed in by a piece of ice. The cord had been broken between Tournier and the man next to him. We continued our search in the neighbourhood of his body, but after two hours' work could find nothing more. It was vain to make further efforts! Nothing was visible amongst the masses of _débris_, as big as houses, and we had no tools except my axe and Winhart's stick. We drew the body of poor Tournier after us as far as the Grand Plateau, and with what strength remained to us we descended as fast as we could towards the hut at the Grands Mulets, where a terrible ordeal awaited me--the announcement of the catastrophe to Miss Arkwright. "The poor child was sitting quietly occupied with her sketching. "'Well, Sylvain!' she cried on seeing me, 'All has gone well?' "'Not altogether, Mademoiselle,' I replied, not knowing how to begin. "Mademoiselle looked at me, noticed my bent head and my eyes full of tears--she rose, came towards me--'What is the matter? Tell me all!' "I could only answer, 'Have courage, Mademoiselle.' "She understood me. The brave young girl knelt down and prayed for a few moments, and then got up pale, calm, dry-eyed. 'Now you can tell me everything,' she said, 'I am ready.' * * * * * "She insisted on accompanying me at once to Chamonix, where she, in her turn, would have to break the sad tidings to her mother and sister. "At the foot of the mountain the sister of Mademoiselle met us, happy and smiling. "Do not ask me any more details of that awful day, I have not the strength to tell them to you." * * * * * Thirty-one years passed, when, in 1897, Colonel Arkwright, a brother of Henry Arkwright's, received the following telegram from the Mayor of Chamonix: "Restes Henry Arkwright peri Mont Blanc 1866 retrouvés." Once more the glacier had given up its dead, and during these thirty-one years the body of Henry Arkwright had descended 9000 feet in the ice and had been rendered back to his family at the foot of the glacier. The remains of the Englishman were buried at Chamonix, and perhaps never has so pathetic a service been held there as that which consigned to the earth what was left of him who thirty-one years before had been snatched away in the mighty grip of the avalanche. Many belongings of the lost one's came by degrees to light. A pocket-handkerchief was intact, and on it as well as on his shirt-front, Henry Arkwright's name and that of his regiment written in marking-ink were legible. Though the shirt was torn to pieces, yet two of the studs and the collar-stud were still in the button-holes and uninjured. The gold pencil-case (I have handled it), opened and shut as smoothly as it had ever done, and on the watch-chain there was not a scratch. A pair of gloves were tied together with a boot-lace which his sister remembered taking from her own boot so that he might have a spare one, and coins, a used cartridge, and various other odds and ends, were all recovered from the ice. The remains of the guides had been found and brought down soon after the accident, but that of Henry Arkwright had been buried too deeply to be discovered. In connection with the preservation of bodies in ice the following extract from _The Daily Telegraph_ for 10th May 1902 is of great interest. It is headed: MAMMOTH 8000 YEARS OLD Reuter's representative has had an interview with Mr J. Talbot Clifton, who has lately returned from an expedition in Northern Siberia, undertaken for the purpose of discovering new species of animals. Mr Clifton gives the following account of the Herz mammoth, which he saw on his arrival at Irkutsk. "It is," he said, "about the size of an elephant, which it resembles somewhat in form. It possesses a trunk, has five toes instead of four, and is a heavy beast. It is supposed to have lived about 8000 years ago. Its age was probably not more than twenty-six years--very young for a mammoth. Its flesh was quite complete, except for a few pieces which had been bitten at by wolves or bears. Most of the hair on the body had been scraped away by ice, but its mane and near foreleg were in perfect preservation and covered with long hair. The hair of the mane was from 4 in. to 5 in. long, and of a yellowish brown colour, while its left leg was covered with black hair. In its stomach was found a quantity of undigested food, and on its tongue was the herbage which it had been eating when it died. This was quite green." FOOTNOTE: [3] _The Annals of Mont Blanc_, by C. E. Mathews. CHAPTER IX THE MOST TERRIBLE OF ALL ALPINE TRAGEDIES There is no great mountain in the Alps so easy to ascend as Mont Blanc. There is not one on which there has been such a deplorable loss of life. The very facility with which Mont Blanc can be climbed has tempted hundreds of persons totally unused to and unfitted for mountaineering to go up it, while the tariff for the guides--£4 each--has called into existence a crowd of incapable and inexperienced men who are naturally unable, when the need for it arrives, to face conditions that masters of craft would have avoided by timely retreat. The great danger of Mont Blanc is its enormous size, and to be lost on its slopes in a snow-storm which may continue for days is an experience few have survived. On a rocky mountain there are landmarks which are of the utmost value in time of fog, but when all is snow and the tracks are obliterated as soon as made, can we wonder if the results have been disastrous when a poorly equipped party has encountered bad weather? Of all the sad accidents which have happened on Mont Blanc, none exceeds in pathos that in which Messrs Bean, M'Corkindale, Randall, and eight guides perished. None of these gentlemen had any experience of mountaineering. Stimulated rather than deterred by the account given by two climbers who had just come down from the mountain, and had had a narrow escape owing to bad weather, these three men, with their guides, who were "probably about the worst who were then on the Chamonix roll," set out for the Grands Mulets. The weather was doubtful, nevertheless the next morning they started upwards, leaving their only compass at their night quarters. During the whole of that 6th of September the big telescope at the Châlet of Plan-Praz above Chamonix was fixed on their route, but they could only be seen from time to time, as the mountain was constantly hidden by driving clouds. At last they were observed close to the rocks known as the Petits Mulets not far below the summit. It was then a quarter past two o'clock. There was a terrific wind, and the snow was whirled in clouds. The party could be seen lying down on the ground, to avoid being swept away by the hurricane. [Illustration: These small figures, in a waste of Snow, may help to give some faint idea of the extent of Alpine Snow-fields.] The Chamonix guide, Sylvain Couttet, had gone to the châlet of Pierre-Pointue, where the riding path ends, to await the return of the climbers. On the morning of the 7th, as there was still no sign of them, Sylvain became uneasy, and mounting to an eminence not far off, from which he could see nearly all the route to the Grands Mulets, he carefully searched for tracks with the aid of his telescope. Snow had fallen during the night, yet there was no trace of footsteps. Seriously alarmed, Sylvain hurried back to Pierre-Pointue, sent a man who was there to Chamonix in order that a search party might be held in readiness, and accompanied by the servant of the little inn he went up the Grands Mulets. Sylvain had arranged that if no one was there he would put out a signal and the search party would then ascend without delay. On reaching the hut at the Grands Mulets his worst fears were realised--it was empty. He now quickly regained Chamonix from where fourteen guides were just starting. He remounted with them immediately. By the time they got a little way above Pierre-Pointue, the snow was again falling heavily, it was impossible to go further. Next day the weather was so bad that the party had to descend to Chamonix, and for several days longer the rain in the valley and the snow on the heights continued. On the 15th the weather cleared, and Sylvain went up to Plan-Praz to see if from there any traces of the lost ones could be discovered with the telescope. The first glance showed him five black specks near the Petit Mulets, which could be nothing else but the bodies of some of the victims. On the 16th, with twenty-three other guides, Sylvain spent the night at the Grands Mulets. The 17th, they mounted to the spot they had examined with the telescope, and there they found the bodies of Mr M'Corkindale and two porters. Three hundred feet higher was Mr Bean, with his head leaning on his hand, and by him another porter. These were in a perfectly natural position, whereas the others appeared to have slipped to where they were, as their clothes were torn, and the ropes, knapsacks (still containing food), sticks, and so on, lay by the others above. The five bodies were frozen hard. As complete a search as possible was now made for the remaining six members of the party, but without success. Probably they fell either into a crevasse or down the Italian side of the mountain. It is no wonder that Mr Mathews calls this "the most lamentable catastrophe ever known in the annals of Alpine adventure." But the most pathetic part of the story is to come. During those terrible, hopeless hours Mr Bean had made notes of what was happening, and they tell us all we shall ever know about the disaster: "_Tuesday, 6th September._--I have made the ascent of Mont Blanc with ten persons--eight guides, Mr M'Corkindale, and Mr Randall. We arrived at the summit at half-past two o'clock. Immediately after leaving it I was enveloped in clouds of snow. We passed the night in a grotto excavated out of the snow, affording very uncomfortable shelter, and I was ill all night. _7th September, morning._--Intense cold--much snow, which falls uninterruptedly. Guides restless. _7th September, evening._--We have been on Mont Blanc for two days in a terrible snowstorm; we have lost our way, and are in a hole scooped out of the snow at a height of 15,000 feet. I have no hope of descending. Perhaps this book may be found and forwarded. We have no food. My feet are already frozen, and I am exhausted. I have only strength to write a few words. I die in the faith of Jesus Christ, with affectionate thoughts of my family--my remembrance to all. I trust we may meet in heaven." CHAPTER X A WONDERFUL SLIDE DOWN A WALL OF ICE Twice at least in the Alps climbers have lost their footing at the top of a steep slope, and rolled down it for so long a distance that it seemed impossible they could survive. The two plucky mountaineers who have competed in an involuntary race to the bottom of a frozen hillside are Mr Birkbeck, in his famous slide near Mont Blanc, and Mr Whymper, when he made his startling glissade on the Matterhorn. It was in July 1861 that a party of friends, whose names are well known to all climbers, set out to cross a high glacier pass in the chain of Mont Blanc. The Revs. Leslie Stephen, Charles Hudson, and Messrs Tuckett, Mather, and Birkbeck were the travellers, while in addition to the three magnificent guides, Melchior Anderegg, Perren, and Bennen, there were two local guides from the village of St Gervais. Let me give the account of the accident in Mr Hudson's own words. How sad to think that, only four years later, this capable and brave mountaineer himself perished on the grim north slopes of the Matterhorn! The Col de Miage is reached by a steep slope of ice or frozen snow, and is just a gap in the chain of peaks which runs south-west from Mont Blanc. Col is the word used for a pass in French-speaking districts. "On the morning of the 11th, at 3.30, we left the friendly rock on or near which we had passed the night, and at 7 o'clock we had reached the summit of the Col de Miage. Here we sat down on a smooth, hard plain of snow, and had our second breakfast. Shortly afterwards Birkbeck had occasion to leave us for a few minutes, though his departure was not remarked at the time. When we discovered his absence, Melchior followed his footsteps, and I went after him, and, to our dismay, we saw the tracks led to the edge of the ice-slope, and then suddenly stopped. The conclusion was patent at a glance. I was fastening two ropes together, and Melchior had already bound one end round his chest, with a view to approach or even descend a portion of the slope for a better view, when some of the party descried Birkbeck a long way below us. He had fallen an immense distance. "My first impulse led me to wish that Melchior and I should go down to Birkbeck as fast as possible, and leave the rest to follow with the ropes; but on proposing this plan some of the party objected. For a considerable time Birkbeck shouted to us, not knowing whether we could see his position. His course had been arrested at a considerable distance above the bottom of the slope, by what means we know not; and just below him stretched a snow-covered crevasse, across which he must pass if he went further. We shouted to him to remain where he was, but no distinguishable sounds reached him; and to our dismay we presently saw him gradually moving downwards--then he stopped--again he moved forwards and again--he was on the brink of the crevasse; but we could do nothing for him. At length he slipped down upon the slope of snow which bridged the abyss. I looked anxiously to see if it would support his weight, and, to my relief, a small black speck continued visible. This removed my immediate cause of apprehension, and after a time he moved clear of this frail support down to the point where we afterwards joined him. Bennen was first in the line, and after we had descended some distance he untied himself and went down to Birkbeck. It was 9.30 when we reached him. He told us he was becoming faint and suffering from cold. On hearing this, Melchoir and I determined to delay no longer, and, accordingly, unroped and trotted down to the point where we could descend from the rocks to the slope upon which he was lying. Arrived at the place, I sat on the snow, and let Birkbeck lean against me, while I asked him if he felt any internal injury or if his ribs pained him. His manner of answering gave me strong grounds for hoping that there was little to fear on that score." Mr Hudson gives a graphic description of poor Mr Birkbeck's appearance when he was found on the snow. "His legs, thighs, and the lower part of his body were quite naked, with his trousers down about his feet. By his passage over the snow, the skin was removed from the outside of the legs and thighs, the knees, and the whole of the lower part of the back, and part of the ribs, together with some from the nose and forehead. He had not lost much blood, but he presented a most ghastly spectacle of bloody raw flesh. This, added to his great prostration, and our consciousness of the distance and difficulties which separated him from any bed, rendered the sight most trying. He never lost consciousness. He afterwards described his descent as one of extreme rapidity, too fast to allow of his realising the sentiment of fear, but not sufficiently so to deprive him of thought. Sometimes he descended feet first, sometimes head first, then he went sideways, and once or twice he had the sensation of shooting through the air. "The slope where he first lost his footing was gentle, and he tried to stop himself with his fingers and nails, but the snow was too hard. He had no fear during the descent, owing to the extreme rapidity; but when he came to a halt on the snow, and was ignorant as to whether we saw, or could reach him, he experienced deep anguish of mind in the prospect of a lingering death. Happily, however, the true Christian principles in which he had been brought up, led him to cast himself upon the protection of that merciful Being who alone could help him. His prayers were heard, and immediately answered by the removal of his fears." The account of how the injured man was brought down to the valley is very exciting. Mr Hudson continues:--"The next thing was to get him down as fast as possible, and the sledge suggested itself as the most feasible plan. Only the day before, at Contamines, I had had the boards made for it, and without them the runners (which, tied together, served me as an alpenstock) would have been useless. Two or three attempts were made before I could get the screws to fit the holes in the boards and runners, and poor Melchior, who was watching me, began to show signs of despair. At length the operation was completed, and the sledge was ready. We spread a plaid, coats, and flannel shirts over the boards, then laid Birkbeck at full length on them, and covered him as well as we could. "Now came the 'tug-of-war,' for the snow was much softened by the sun, the slope was steep, and there were several crevasses ahead; added to this, there was difficulty in getting good hold of the sledge, and every five or six steps one of the bearers plunged so deeply in the snow that we were obliged to halt. Birkbeck was all the time shivering so much that the sledge was sensibly shaken, and all the covering we could give him was but of little use. "I was well aware of the great danger Birkbeck was in, owing to the vast amount of skin which was destroyed, and I felt that every quarter of an hour saved was of very great importance; still the frequent delay could not be avoided." So matters continued till the party was clear of the glacier. Then Mr Tuckett went ahead to Chamonix, a ten hours' tramp or so, in search of an English doctor, and on the way left orders for a carriage to be sent as far as there was a driving road, to meet the wounded man, and more men beyond to help in carrying him. The chief part of the transport was done by the three great guides, Melchoir, Bennen, and Perren, and was often over "abrupt slopes of rock, which to an ordinary walker would have appeared difficult, even without anything to carry. We had so secured Birkbeck with ropes and straps, that he could not slip off the sledge, otherwise he would on these occasions at once have parted company with his stretcher, and rolled down the rocks." At last, after incredible toil, they reached the pastures, and at about three o'clock in the afternoon eight hours after the accident, they got to the home of one of the guides, where they were able to make poor Mr Birkbeck more comfortable before undertaking the rest of the journey, warming his feet and wrapping him in blankets. For two hours more the poor fellow had to be carried down, and then they met the carriage, in which he was driven to St Gervais, accompanied by the doctor from Chamonix. Thanks to the skilful treatment and excellent nursing he received, Mr Birkbeck made a good recovery, though, of course, it was weeks before he could leave his bed. Mr Hudson ends his wonderfully interesting narrative with an account of a visit he paid later in the season to the place where the accident happened. He says "The result of our observations is as follows: 'The height of the Col de Miage is 11,095. The height of the point at which Birkbeck finally came to a standstill is 9328 feet; so the distance he fell is, in _perpendicular_ height, 1767 feet." As part of the slope would be at a gentle angle, one may believe that the slip was over something like a mile of surface! Mr Hudson continues:--"During the intervening three weeks, vast changes had taken place in the glacier. The snowy coating had left the couloir in parts, thus exposing ice in the line of Birkbeck's course, as well as a rock mid-way in the slope, against which our poor friend would most likely have struck, had the accident happened later. "This is one of that long chain of providential arrangements, by the combination of which we were enabled to save Birkbeck's life. (1) The recent snow, and favourable state of the glacier, enabled us to take an easier and much quicker route, if not the only one possible for a wounded man. (2) We had a singularly strong party of guides, without which we could not have got him down in time to afford any chance of his recovery. (3) If we had not had real efficient men as travellers in the party we should not have got the telegram sent to Geneva; and a few hours' delay in the arrival of Dr Metcalfe would probably have been fatal. (4) The day was perfectly calm and cloudless; had there been wind or absence of sun, the cold might have been too much for such a shaken system to bear. (5) We had with us the very unusual addition of a sledge, without which it would have been scarcely possible to have carried him down. "One thing there was which greatly lessened the mental trial to those engaged in bringing Birkbeck down to St Gervais, and afterwards in attending upon him, and that was, his perfect calmness and patience--and of these I cannot speak too highly. No doubt it contributed greatly to his recovery." CHAPTER XI AN ADVENTURE ON THE TRIFT PASS Few passes leading out of the Valley of Zermatt are oftener crossed than the Trift. It is not considered a difficult pass, but the rocks on the Zinal side are loose and broken and the risk of falling stones is great at certain hours in the day. The Zinal side of the Trift is in shadow in the early morning, and therefore most climbers will either make so early a start from the Zermatt side that they can be sure of descending the dangerous part before the sun has thawed the icy fetters which hold the stones together during the night, or else they will set out from the Zinal side, and sleep at a little inn on a patch of rocks which jut out from the glacier at the foot of the pass, from which the top of the Trift can be reached long before there is any risk from a cannonade. One of the earliest explorers of this pass, however, Mr Thomas W. Hinchliff, neglected the precaution of a sufficiently early start, and his party very nearly came to grief in consequence. He has given us an excellent description in _Peaks, Passes, and Glaciers_ of what befell after they had got over the great difficulties, as they seemed in those days, of descending the steep wall of rock on the Zinal side. I will now begin to quote from his article: "Being thoroughly tired of the rocks, we resolved as soon as possible to get upon the ice where it swept the base of the precipices. The surface, however, was furrowed by parallel channels of various magnitudes; some several feet in depth, formed originally by the descent of stones and avalanches from the heights; and we found one of these troughlike furrows skirting the base of the rocks we stood upon. One by one we entered, flattering ourselves that the covering of snow would afford us pretty good footing, but this soon failed; the hard blue ice showed on the surface, and we found ourselves rather in a difficulty, for the sides of our furrow were higher here than at the point where we entered it, and so overhanging that it was impossible to get out. "Delay was dangerous, for the _débris_ far below warned us that at any moment a shower of stones might come flying down our channel; a glissade was equally dangerous; for, though we might have shot down safely at an immense speed for some hundreds of feet, we should finally have been dashed into a sea of crevasses. Cachat in front solved the puzzle, and showed us how, by straddling with the feet as far apart as possible, the heel of each foot could find pretty firm hold in a mixture of half snow and half ice, his broad back, like a solid rock, being ready to check any slip of those behind him. "We were soon safe upon a fine open plateau of the _névé_, where we threaded our way among a few snow crevasses requiring caution, and then prepared for a comfortable halt in an apparently safe place. "The provision knapsacks were emptied and used as seats; bottles of red wine were stuck upright in the snow; a goodly leg of cold mutton on its sheet of paper formed the centre, garnished with hard eggs and bread and cheese, round which we ranged ourselves in a circle. High festival was held under the deep blue heavens, and now and then, as we looked up at the wonderful wall of rocks which we had descended, we congratulated ourselves on the victory. M. Seiler's oranges supplied the rare luxury of a dessert, and we were just in the full enjoyment of the delicacy when a booming sound, like the discharge of a gun far over our heads, made us all at once glance upwards to the top of the Trifthorn. Close to its craggy summit hung a cloud of dust, like dirty smoke, and in few seconds another and a larger one burst forth several hundred feet lower. A glance through the telescope showed that a fall of rocks had commenced, and the fragments were leaping down from ledge to ledge in a series of cascades. The uproar became tremendous; thousands of fragments making every variety of noise according to their size, and producing the effect of a fire of musketry and artillery combined, thundered downwards from so great a height that we waited anxiously for some considerable time to see them reach the snow-field below. As nearly as we could estimate the distance, we were 500 yards from the base of the rocks, so we thought that, come what might, we were in a tolerably secure position. At last we saw many of the blocks plunge into the snow after taking their last fearful leap; presently much larger fragments followed; the noise grew fiercer and fiercer, and huge blocks began to fall so near to us that we jumped to our feet, preparing to dodge them to the best of our ability. 'Look out!' cried someone, and we opened out right and left at the approach of a monster, evidently weighing many hundredweights, which was coming right at us like a huge shell fired from a mortar. It fell with a heavy thud not more than 20 feet from us, scattering lumps of snow into the circle." Years afterwards a very sad accident occurred at this spot, a lady being struck and killed by a falling stone. In this case the fatality was unquestionably due to the start having been made at too late an hour. An inn in the Trift Valley makes it easy to reach the pass soon after dawn. THE PERILS OF THE MOMING PASS. In 1864 many peaks remained unsealed, and passes untraversed in the Zermatt district, though now almost every inch of every mountain has felt the foot of man. Yet even now few passes have been made there so difficult and dangerous (if Mr Whymper's route be exactly followed) as that of the Moming, from Zinal to Zermatt. Mr Whymper gives a most graphic and exciting description of what befell his party, which included Mr Moore and the two famous guides Almer and Croz. Having slept at some filthy châlets, the climbers, first passing over easy mountain slopes, gained a level glacier. Beyond this a way towards the unexplored gap in the ridge, which they called the Moming Pass, had to be decided on. The choice lay between difficult and perhaps impassable rocks, and an ice-slope so steep and broken that it appeared likely to turn out impracticable. In fact it was the sort of position that whichever route was chosen the climbers were sure, when once on it, to wish it had been the other. Finally, the ice-slope, over which a line of ice-cliffs hung threateningly, lurching right above the track to be taken, was decided on, and the whole party advanced for the attack. Mr Whymper writes: "Across this ice-slope Croz now proceeded to cut. It was executing a flank movement in the face of an enemy by whom we might be attacked at any moment. The peril was obvious. It was a monstrous folly. It was foolhardiness. A retreat should have been sounded.[4] "'I am not ashamed to confess,' wrote Moore in his Journal, 'that during the whole time we were crossing this slope my heart was in my mouth, and I never felt relieved from such a load of care as when, after, I suppose, a passage of about twenty minutes, we got on to the rocks and were in safety.... I have never heard a positive oath come from Almer's mouth, but the language in which he kept up a running commentary, more to himself than to me, as we went along, was stronger than I should have given him credit for using. His prominent feeling seemed to be one of _indignation_ that we should be in such a position, and self-reproach at being a party to the proceeding; while the emphatic way in which, at intervals, he exclaimed, 'Quick; be quick,' sufficiently betokened his alarm. "It was not necessary to admonish Croz to be quick. He was fully as alive to the risk as any of the others. He told me afterwards that this place was the most dangerous he had ever crossed, and that no consideration whatever would tempt him to cross it again. Manfully did he exert himself to escape from the impending destruction. His head, bent down to his work, never turned to the right or to the left. One, two, three, went his axe, and then he stepped on to the spot he had been cutting. How painfully insecure should we have considered those steps at any other time! But now, we thought only of the rocks in front, and of the hideous _séracs_, lurching over above us, apparently in the act of falling. "We got to the rocks in safety, and if they had been doubly as difficult as they were, we should still have been well content. We sat down and refreshed the inner man, keeping our eyes on the towering pinnacles of ice under which we had passed, but which, now, were almost beneath us. Without a preliminary warning sound, one of the largest--as high as the Monument at London Bridge--fell upon the slope below. The stately mass heeled over as if upon a hinge (holding together until it bent thirty degrees forwards), then it crushed out its base, and, rent into a thousand fragments, plunged vertically down upon the slope that we had crossed! Every atom of our track that was in its course was obliterated; all the new snow was swept away, and a broad sheet of smooth, glassy ice, showed the resistless force with which it had fallen. "It was inexcusable to follow such a perilous path, but it is easy to understand why it was taken. To have retreated from the place where Croz suggested a change of plan, to have descended below the reach of danger, and to have mounted again by the route which Almer suggested, would have been equivalent to abandoning the excursion; for no one would have passed another night in the châlet on the Arpitetta Alp. 'Many' says Thucydides, 'though seeing well the perils ahead, are forced along by fear of dishonour--as the world calls it--so that, vanquished by a mere word, they fall into irremediable calamities.' Such was nearly the case here. No one could say a word in justification of the course which was adopted; all were alive to the danger that was being encountered; yet a grave risk was deliberately--although unwillingly--incurred, in preference to admitting, by withdrawal from an untenable position, that an error of judgment had been committed. "After a laborious trudge over many species of snow, and through many varieties of vapour--from the quality of a Scotch mist to that of a London fog--we at length stood on the depression between the Rothhorn and the Schallhorn.[5] A steep wall of snow was upon the Zinal side of the summit; but what the descent was like on the other side we could not tell, for a billow of snow tossed over its crest by the western winds, suspended o'er Zermatt with motion arrested, resembling an ocean-wave frozen in the act of breaking, cut off the view.[6] "Croz--held hard in by the others, who kept down the Zinal side--opened his shoulders, flogged down the foam, and cut away the cornice to its junction with the summit; then boldly leaped down and called on us to follow him. "It was well for us now that we had such a man as leader. An inferior or less daring guide would have hesitated to enter upon the descent in a dense mist; and Croz himself would have done right to pause had he been less magnificent in _physique_. He acted, rather than said, 'Where snow lies fast, there man can go; where ice exists, a way may be cut; it is a question of power; I have the power--all you have to do is to follow me.' Truly, he did not spare himself, and could he have performed the feats upon the boards of a theatre that he did upon this occasion, he would have brought down the house with thunders of applause. Here is what Moore wrote in _his_ Journal "('The descent bore a strong resemblance to the Col de Pilatte, but was very much steeper and altogether more difficult, which is saying a good deal. Croz was in his element, and selected his way with marvellous sagacity, while Almer had an equally honourable and, perhaps, more responsible post in the rear, which he kept with his usual steadiness.... One particular passage has impressed itself on my mind as one of the most nervous I have ever made. We had to pass along a crest of ice, a mere knife-edge,--on our left a broad crevasse, whose bottom was lost in blue haze, and on our right, at an angle of 70°, or more, a slope falling to a similar gulf below. Croz, as he went along the edge, chipped small notches in the ice, in which we placed our feet, with the toes well turned out, doing all we knew to preserve our balance. While stepping from one of these precarious footholds to another, I staggered for a moment. I had not really lost my footing; but the agonised tone in which Almer, who was behind me, on seeing me waver, exclaimed, "Slip not, sir!" gave us an even livelier impression than we already had of the insecurity of the position.... One huge chasm, whose upper edge was far above the lower one, could neither be leaped nor turned, and threatened to prove an insuperable barrier. But Croz showed himself equal to the emergency. Held up by the rest of the party, he cut a series of holes for the hands and feet down and along the almost perpendicular wall of ice forming the upper side of the _schrund_. Down this slippery staircase we crept, with our faces to the wall, until a point was reached where the width of the chasm was not too great for us to drop across. Before we had done, we got quite accustomed to taking flying leaps over the _schrunds_.... To make a long story short; after a most desperate and exciting struggle, and as bad a piece of ice-work as it is possible to imagine, we emerged on to the upper plateau of the Hohlicht Glacier.')" From here, in spite of many further difficulties necessitating a long _detour_, the party safely descended to Zermatt by the familiar Trift path. FOOTNOTES: [4] The responsibility did not rest with Croz. His part was to advise, but not to direct. [5] The summit of the pass has been marked on Dufour's map, 3793 mètres, or 12,444 feet. [6] These snow-cornices are common on the crests of high mountain ridges, and it is always prudent (just before arriving upon the summit of a mountain or ridge), to _sound_ with the alpenstock, that is to say, drive it in, to discover whether there is one or not. Men have often narrowly escaped losing their lives from neglecting this precaution. These cornices are frequently rolled round in a volute, and sometimes take extravagant forms. CHAPTER XII AN EXCITING PASSAGE OF THE COL DE PILATTE Even now the valleys and mountains of Dauphiné are neglected in comparison with the ranges of Mont Blanc, Monte Rosa, and other famous mountain chains of the Alps. In 1864, when Mr Whymper with his friends Messrs Moore and Walker undertook a summer campaign there, it was practically unexplored from the climbers' point of view. The party was a skilful and experienced one, the guides, Almer and Croz, of the highest class, and the _esprit de corps_ in the little army of invasion most admirable. Thus it is no wonder that peak after peak fell before them, passes were accomplished at the first assault, and no accident or annoyance spoilt the splendid series of expeditions which were so successfully accomplished. Of these I have taken the account of the crossing of the Col de Pilatte, a high glacier pass, for, though it was excelled in difficulty by other climbs, yet it is so wittily described by Mr Whymper in his _Scrambles in the Alps_, and gives so excellent an idea of the sort of work met with on glaciers, and the ease with which a thoroughly competent party tackles it, that it cannot fail to be read with interest. The three Englishmen had been joined by a French friend of theirs, Monsieur Reynaud, and had left their night quarters at Entraigues at 3.30 A.M. on the morning of 27th June. Their course was prodigiously steep. _In less than two miles difference of latitude they rose one mile of absolute height._ The route, however, was not really difficult, and they made good progress. They had reached the foot of the steep part when I take up the narrative in Mr Whymper's own words: "At 9.30 A.M. we commenced the ascent of the couloir leading from the nameless glacier to a point in the ridge, just to the east of Mont Bans.[7] So far the route had been nothing more than a steep grind in an angle where little could be seen, but now views opened out in several directions, and the way began to be interesting. It was more so, perhaps, to us than to our companion M. Reynaud, who had no rest in the last night. He was, moreover, heavily laden. Science was to be regarded--his pockets were stuffed with books; heights and angles were to be observed--his knapsack was filled with instruments; hunger was to be guarded against--his shoulders were ornamented with a huge nimbus of bread, and a leg of mutton swung behind from his knapsack, looking like an overgrown tail. Like a good-hearted fellow he had brought this food thinking we might be in need of it. As it happened, we were well provided for, and, having our own packs to carry, could not relieve him of his superfluous burdens, which, naturally, he did not like to throw away. As the angles steepened, the strain on his strength became more and more apparent. At last he began to groan. At first a most gentle and mellow groan; and as we rose so did his groans, till at last the cliffs were groaning in echo, and we were moved to laughter. [Illustration: START OF A CLIMBING PARTY BY MOONLIGHT.] [Illustration: SHADOWS AT SUNRISE.] [Illustration: A STANDING GLISSADE.] [Illustration: AN EASY DESCENT.] "Croz cut the way with unflagging energy throughout the whole of the ascent, and at 10.45 we stood on the summit of our pass, intending to refresh ourselves with a good halt; but just at that moment a mist, which had been playing about the ridge, swooped down and blotted out the whole of the view on the northern side. Croz was the only one who caught a glimpse of the descent, and it was deemed advisable to push on immediately, while its recollection was fresh in his memory. We are consequently unable to tell anything about the summit of the pass, except that it lies immediately to the east of Mont Bans, and is elevated about 11,300 feet above the level of the sea. It is one of the highest passes in Dauphiné. We called it the Col de Pilatte. "We commenced to descend towards the Glacier de Pilatte by a slope of smooth ice, the face of which, according to the measurement of Mr Moore, had an inclination of 54°! Croz still led, and the others followed at intervals of about 15 feet, all being tied together, and Almer occupying the responsible position of last man: the two guides were therefore about 70 feet apart. They were quite invisible to each other from the mist, and looked spectral even to us. But the strong man could be heard by all hewing out the steps below, while every now and then the voice of the steady man pierced the cloud: 'Slip not, dear sirs; place well your feet; stir not until you are certain.' "For three-quarters of an hour we progressed in this fashion. The axe of Croz all at once stopped. 'What is the matter, Croz?' 'Bergschrund, gentlemen.' 'Can we get over?' 'Upon my word, I don't know; I think we must jump.' The clouds rolled away right and left as he spoke. The effect was dramatic! It was a _coup de théâtre_, preparatory to the 'great sensation leap' which was about to be executed by the entire company. "Some unseen cause, some cliff or obstruction in the rocks underneath, had caused our wall of ice to split into two portions, and the huge fissure which had thus been formed extended, on each hand, as far as could be seen. We, on the slope above, were separated from the slope below by a mighty crevasse. No running up and down to look for an easier place to cross could be done on an ice-slope of 54°; the chasm had to be passed then and there. "A downward jump of 15 or 16 feet, and a forward leap of 7 or 8 feet had to be made at the same time. That is not much, you will say. It was not much. It was not the quantity, but it was the quality of the jump which gave to it its particular flavour. You had to hit a narrow ridge of ice. If that was passed, it seemed as if you might roll down for ever and ever. If it was not attained, you dropped into the crevasse below, which, although partly choked by icicles and snow that had fallen from above, was still gaping in many places, ready to receive an erratic body. "Croz untied Walker in order to get rope enough, and warning us to hold fast, sprang over the chasm. He alighted cleverly on his feet; untied himself and sent up the rope to Walker, who followed his example. It was then my turn, and I advanced to the edge of the ice. The second which followed was what is called a supreme moment. That is to say, I felt supremely ridiculous. The world seemed to revolve at a frightful pace, and my stomach to fly away. The next moment I found myself sprawling in the snow, and then, of course, vowed that it was nothing, and prepared to encourage my friend Reynaud. "He came to the edge and made declarations. I do not believe that he was a whit more reluctant to pass the place than we others, but he was infinitely more demonstrative--in a word, he was French. He wrung his hands, 'Oh! what a _diable_ of a place!' 'It is nothing, Reynaud,' I said, 'it is nothing.' 'Jump,' cried the others, 'jump.' But he turned round, as far as one can do such a thing in an ice-step, and covered his face with his hands, ejaculating, 'Upon my word, it is not possible. No! no! no! it is not possible.' "How he came over I scarcely know. We saw a toe--it seemed to belong to Moore; we saw Reynaud a flying body, coming down as if taking a header into water; with arms and legs all abroad, his leg of mutton flying in the air, his bâton escaped from his grasp; and then we heard a thud as if a bundle of carpets had been pitched out of a window. When set upon his feet he was a sorry spectacle; his head was a great snowball; brandy was trickling out of one side of the knapsack, chartreuse out of the other--we bemoaned its loss, but we roared with laughter. "I cannot close this chapter without paying tribute to the ability with which Croz led us, through a dense mist, down the remainder of the Glacier de Pilatte. As an exhibition of strength and skill, it has seldom been surpassed in the Alps or elsewhere. On this almost unknown and very steep glacier, he was perfectly at home, even in the mists. Never able to see 50 feet ahead, he still went on with the utmost certainty, and without having to retrace a single step; and displayed from first to last consummate knowledge of the materials with which he was dealing. Now he cut steps down one side of a _sérac_, went with a dash at the other side, and hauled us up after him; then cut away along a ridge until a point was gained from which we could jump on to another ridge; then, doubling back, found a snow-bridge, over which he crawled on hands and knees, towed us across by the legs, ridiculing our apprehensions, mimicking our awkwardness, declining all help, bidding us only to follow him. "About 1 P.M. we emerged from the mist and found ourselves just arrived upon the level portion of the glacier, having, as Reynaud properly remarked, come down as quickly as if there had not been any mist at all. Then we attacked the leg of mutton which my friend had so thoughtfully brought with him, and afterwards raced down, with renewed energy, to La Bérarde." FOOTNOTE: [7] The upper part of the southern side of the Col de Pilatte, and the small glaciers spoken of on p. 211, can be seen from the high road leading from Briançon to Mont Dauphin, between the 12th and 13th kilomètre stones (from Briançon). CHAPTER XIII AN ADVENTURE ON THE ALETSCH GLACIER Mr William Longman, a former Vice-President of the Alpine Club, has given us an interesting account in _The Alpine Journal_ of an exciting adventure which happened to his son in August 1862. The party, consisting of Mr Longman, his son, aged fifteen, two friends, two guides, and a porter, set out one lovely morning from the Eggischhorn Hotel for an excursion on the Great Aletsch Glacier. The names of the guides were Fedier and Andreas Weissenflüh. Mr Longman writes:--"We started in high spirits; the glacier was in perfect order; no fresh snow covered the ice; the crevasses were all unhidden; and no one thought it necessary to use the rope. I felt it to be a wise precaution, however, to place my son, a boy of fifteen years of age, under the care of the Eggischhorn porter. It was his second visit to Switzerland, and he could, I am sure, have taken good care of himself, but I felt it was my duty to place him under the care of a guide. I have no wish to throw undeserved blame on the guide; but his carelessness was unquestionably the cause of the accident. He began wrong, and I ought to have interfered. He tied his handkerchief in a knot, and, holding it himself, gave it to my son to hold also in his hand. This was worse than useless, and, in fact, was the cause of danger, for it partly deprived him of that free and active use of his limbs which is essential to safety. It threw him off his guard. Except at a crevasse, it was unnecessary for the boy to have anything to hold by; and, at a crevasse, the handkerchief would have been insufficient. The impression that there was no real danger, and that all that was required was caution in crossing the crevasses, prevented my interfering. So the guide went on, his hand holding the handkerchief behind him, and my son following, his hand also holding the handkerchief. Many a time I complained to the guide that he took my boy over wide parts of the crevasses because he would not trouble himself to diverge from his path, and many a time did I compel him to turn aside to a narrower chasm. At last, I was walking a few yards to his left, and had stepped over a narrow crevasse, when I was startled by an exclamation. I turned round suddenly, and my son was out of sight! I will not harrow up my own feelings, or those of my readers, by attempting to describe the frightful anguish that struck me to the heart; but will only relate, plainly and calmly, all that took place. When my son fell, the crevasse, which I had crossed so easily, became wider, and its two sides were joined by a narrow ridge of ice. It was obviously impossible to ascertain exactly what had taken place; but I am convinced that the guide went on in his usual thoughtless way, with his hand behind him, drawing my son after him, and that, as soon as he placed his foot on the narrow ridge, he slipped and fell. I rushed to the edge of the crevasse and called out to my poor boy. To my inexpressible delight he at once answered me calmly and plainly. As I afterwards ascertained, he was 50 feet from me, and neither could he see us nor we see him. But he was evidently unhurt; he was not frightened, and he was not beyond reach. In an instant Weissenflüh was ready to descend into the crevasse. He buckled on one of my belts,[8] fixed it to the rope, and told us to lower him down. My two friends and I, and the other two guides, held on to the rope, and slowly and gradually, according to Weissenflüh's directions, we paid it out. It was a slow business, but we kept on encouraging my son, and receiving cheery answers from him in return. At last Weissenflüh told us, to our intense joy, that he had reached my son, that he had hold of him, and that we might haul up. Strongly and steadily we held on, drawing both the boy and the guide, as we believed, nearer and nearer, till at length, to our inexpressible horror, we drew up Weissenflüh alone. He had held my son by the collar of his coat. The cloth was wet, his hand was cold, and the coat slipped from his grasp. I was told that when my boy thus again fell he uttered a cry, but either I heard it not or forgot it. The anguish of the moment prevented my noticing it, and, fortunately, we none of us lost our presence of mind, but steadily held on to the rope. Poor Weissenflüh reached the surface exhausted, dispirited, overwhelmed with grief. He threw himself on the glacier in terrible agony. In an instant Fedier was ready to descend, and we began to lower him; but the crevasse was narrow, and Fedier could not squeeze himself through the ice. We had to pull him up again before he had descended many feet. By this time the brave young Weissenflüh had recovered, and was ready again to go down. But we thought it desirable to take the additional precaution of lowering the other rope, with one of the belts securely fixed to it. My son quickly got hold of it, and placed the belt round his body, but he told us his hands were too cold to buckle it. Weissenflüh now again descended, and soon he told us he had fixed the belt. With joyful heart some hauled away at one rope and some at the other, till at length, after my son had been buried in the ice for nearly half an hour, both he and the guide were brought to the surface.... Let a veil rest over the happiness of meeting. My boy's own account of what befell him is, that he first fell sideways on to a ledge in the crevasse, and then vertically, but providentially with his feet downwards, till his progress was arrested by the narrowness of the crevasse. He says he is sure he was stopped by being wedged in, because his feet were hanging loose. His arms were free. He believes the distance he fell, when Weissenflüh dropped him, was about three or four yards, and that he fell to nearly, but not quite, the same place as that to which he fell at first, and that, in his first position, he could not have put the belt on. His fall was evidently a slide for the greater part of the distance; had it been a sheer fall it would have been impossible to escape severe injury." A LOYAL COMPANION The following is taken from _The Times_ of 23rd July 1886. "On Tuesday, 13th July, Herr F. Burckhardt, member of the Basel section of the Swiss Alpine Club, accompanied by the guides Fritz Teutschmann and Johann Jossi, both from Grindelwald, made an attempt to ascend the Jungfrau from the side of the Little Scheideck. After leaving the Guggi cabin the party mounted the glacier of the same name. The usual precautions were of course taken--that is to say, the three men were roped together, Herr Burckhardt in the middle, one of the guides before, the other behind him. When the climbers reached the _séracs_, at a point marked on the Siegfried Karte as being at an elevation of 2700 mètres, an enormous piece of ice broke off from the upper part of the glacier, and came thundering down. Although by good fortune the mass of the avalanche did not sweep across the path of the three men, they were struck by several large blocks of ice, and sent flying. Jossi, who was leading, went head first into a crevasse of unfathomable depth, dragging after him Herr Burckhardt, who, however, contrived to hold on to the edge of the crevasse, but in such a position that he could not budge, and was unable to help either himself or Jossi. Their lives at that moment depended absolutely on the staunchness of Teutschmann, who alone had succeeded in keeping his feet. It was beyond his power to do more; impossible by his own unaided strength to haul up the two men who hung by the rope. If he had given way a single step all three would have been precipitated to the bottom of the crevasse. So there he stood, with feet and ice-axe firmly planted, holding on for dear life, conscious that the end was a mere question of time, and a very short time; his strength was rapidly waning, and then? It would have been easy for the two to escape by sacrificing the third. One slash of Burckhardt's knife would have freed both Teutschmann and himself. But no such dastardly idea occurred to either of them. They were resolved to live or die together. Half an hour passed; they had almost abandoned hope, and Teutschmann's forces were well-nigh spent, when help came just in time to save them. The same morning another party, consisting of two German tourists, and the two guides Peter Schlegel and Rudolph Kaufmann, had started from the Little Scheideck for the Jungfrau, and coming on traces of Burckhardt's party had followed them up, and arrived before it was too late on the scene of the accident. Without wasting a moment Schlegel went down into the crevasse and fastened Jossi to another rope, so that those above were enabled to draw him up and release Burckhardt and Teutschmann. Jossi, although bruised and exhausted, was able to walk to the Scheideck, and all reached Grindelwald in safety." [Illustration: ON A SNOW-COVERED GLACIER. The party is crossing a Snow Bridge, and the rope between the centre and last man is too slack for safety.] When it is remembered how few people make this expedition, the escape of Mr Burckhardt's party is the more wonderful, and would not have been possible unless other climbers had taken the same route that day. This way up the Jungfrau is always somewhat exposed to falling ice, though sometimes it is less dangerous than at other times. As the editor of _The Alpine Journal_ has written, "no amount of experience can avail against falling missiles, and the best skill of the mountaineer is shown in keeping out of their way." A BRAVE GUIDE The brave actions of guides are so many in number that it would be impossible to tell of them all, and many noble deeds have never found their way into print. The following, however, is related of a guide with whom I have made many ascents, and is furthermore referred to in _The Alpine Journal_ as "an act of bravery for which it would be hard to find a parallel in the annals of mountaineering." On 1st September 1898, a party of two German gentlemen with a couple of guides went up Piz Palü, a glacier-clad peak frequently ascended from Pontresina. One of the guides was a Tyrolese, Klimmer by name, the other a native of the Engadine, Schnitzler. They had completed the ascent of the actual peak, and were on their way down, some distance below the Bellavista Saddle. Here there are several large crevasses, and the slope is very steep at this point. I remember passing down it with Schnitzler the previous January, and finding much care needed to cross a big chasm. Schnitzler was leading, then came the two travellers, finally the Tyrolese, who came down last man. Suddenly Schnitzler, who must have stepped on a snow-bridge, and Herr Nasse dropped without a sound into the chasm. Dr Borchardt was dragged some steps after them, but managed to check himself on the very brink of the abyss. Behind was Klimmer, but on so steep a surface that he could give no help beyond standing firm. At last, after some anxious moments, came a call from below, "Pull!" They did their best but in vain. "My God!" cried Schnitzler from below, "I can't get out!" A period of terrible apprehension followed. Herr Nasse was entreated to try and help a little, or to cut himself free from the rope, as he appeared to be suffering greatly. But he was helpless, hanging with the rope pressing his chest till he could hardly breathe, and cried out that he could stand it no longer. Dr Borchardt made a plucky attempt to render assistance, and the desperate endeavour nearly caused him to fall also into the crevasse. [Illustration: Martin Schocher standing, Schnitzler sitting. On the Summit of Crast' Agüzza in Mid-Winter.] [Illustration: A projecting Cornice of Snow, which might fall at any moment. The accident on the Lyskamm, described on page 35, was due to the breaking of a Cornice.] [Illustration: Between Earth and Sky (page 163).] [Illustration: An extremely narrow Snow Ridge, but a much easier one to pass than that described by Mr Moore (page 160)] The position was terrible, and Herr Nasse was at the end of his forces. He called out in a dying voice that he could bear no more--it was the last time he spoke. Of Schnitzler nothing was heard, and the others could not tell if he were still alive. But while this terrible scene was passing, Schnitzler had performed an act of the highest bravery. First he had tried, by using his axe, to climb out of the icy prison where he hung. This he could not do, so steadying himself against the glassy wall, he deliberately cut himself loose from the rope. He dropped to the floor of the crevasse, which, luckily, was not of extraordinary depth, and being uninjured, he set himself to find a way out. He followed the crevasse along its entire length, and discovered a little ledge of ice, with the aid of which, panting and exhausted, he reached the surface. But even with Schnitzler's help it was impossible to raise Herr Nasse out of the chasm. The rope had cut deeply into the snow. He hung underneath an eave of the soft surface and could not be moved. Another willing helper, an Englishman, now came up, and after a time the body--for Herr Nasse had not survived--was lowered to the floor of the crevasse. Every effort was made to restore animation, but with no result, and there was nothing left to do but leave that icy grave and descend to the valley. Herr Nasse had suffered from a weak heart and an attack of pleurisy, and these gave him but a poor chance of withstanding the terrible pressure of the rope. Dr Scriven, from whose spirited translation from the German I have taken my facts, remarks that, "The death of Professor Nasse seems to emphasize a warning, already painfully impressed on us by the loss of Mr Norman Neruda, that there are special dangers awaiting those whose vital organs are not perfectly sound, and who undertake the exertion and fatigue of long and difficult climbs." FOOTNOTE: [8] In the early days of mountaineering it was the custom to pass the rope through a ring or spring-hook attached to a strong leather belt, instead of, as now, attaching it in a loop round the body of each climber. CHAPTER XIV A WONDERFUL FEAT BY TWO LADIES One of the highest and hardest passes in the Alps is the Sesia-Joch, 13,858 feet high, near Monte Rosa. The well-known mountaineer, Mr Ball, writing in 1863, referred to its first passage by Messrs George and Moore, as "amongst the most daring of Alpine exploits," and expressed a doubt whether it would ever be repeated. The party went _up_ the steep Italian side (on the other, or Swiss side, it is quite easy). We can, therefore, judge of the astonishment of the members of the Alpine Club when they learnt that in 1869 "two ladies had not only crossed this most redoubtable of glacier passes, but crossed it from Zermatt to Alagna, thus descending the wall of rock, the ascent of which had until then been looked on as an extraordinary feat for first-rate climbers." The following extract from an Italian paper, aided by the notes communicated by the Misses Pigeon to _The Alpine Journal_, fully explains how this accidental but brilliant feat of mountaineering was happily brought to a successful termination. "On 11th August 1869, Miss Anna and Miss Ellen Pigeon, of London, were at the Riffel Hotel, above Zermatt, with the intention of making the passage of the Lys-Joch on the next day, in order to reach Gressonay. Starting at 3 A.M. on the 12th, accompanied by Jean Martin, guide of Sierre, and by a porter, they arrived at 4 A.M. at the Gorner Glacier, which they crossed rapidly to the great plateau, enclosed between the Zumstein-Spitz, Signal-Kuppe, Parrot-Spitze, and Lyskamm, where they arrived at 10 A.M. At this point, instead of bearing to the right, which is the way to the Lys-Joch, they turned too much towards the left, so that they found themselves on a spot at the extremity of the plateau, from which they saw beneath their feet a vast and profound precipice, terminating at a great depth upon a glacier. The guide had only once, about four years before, crossed the Lys-Joch, and in these desert and extraordinary places, where no permanent vestiges remain of previous passages, he had not remembered the right direction, nor preserved a very clear idea of the localities. At the sight of the tremendous precipice he began to doubt whether he might not have mistaken the way, and, to form a better judgment, he left the ladies on the Col, half-stiffened with cold from the violence of the north wind, ascended to the Parrot-Spitze, and advanced towards the Ludwigshöhe, in order to examine whether along this precipice, which lay inexorably in front, there might be a place where a passage could be effected. But wherever he turned his eyes he saw nothing but broken rocks and couloirs yet more precipitous. "In returning to the Col after his fruitless exploration, almost certain that he had lost his way, he saw among some _débris_ of rock, an empty bottle (which had been placed there by Messrs George and Moore in 1862). This discovery persuaded him that here must be the pass, since some one in passing by the place had there deposited this bottle. He then applied himself to examining with greater attention the rocks below, and thought he saw a possibility of descending by them. He proposed this to the ladies, and they immediately commenced operations. All being tied together, at proper intervals, with a strong rope, they began the perilous descent, sometimes over the naked rock, sometimes over more or less extensive slopes of ice, covered with a light stratum of snow, in which steps had to be cut. It was often necessary to stop, in order to descend one after the other by means of the rope to a point where it might be possible to rest without being held up. The tremendous precipice was all this time under their eyes, seeming only to increase as they descended. This arduous and perilous exertion had continued for more than seven hours when, towards 6 P.M., the party arrived at a point beyond which all egress seemed closed. Slippery and almost perpendicular rocks beneath, right and left, and everywhere; near and around not a space sufficient to stretch one's self upon, the sun about to set, night at hand! What a position for the courageous travellers, and for the poor guide on whom devolved the responsibility of the fatal consequences which appeared inevitable! "Nevertheless, Jean Martin did not lose his courage. Having caused the ladies to rest on the rocks, he ran right and left, climbing as well as he could, in search of a passage. For about half an hour he looked and felt for a way, but in vain. At length it appeared to him that it would be possible to risk a long descent by some rough projections which occurred here and there in the rocks. With indescribable labour, and at imminent peril of rolling as shapeless corpses into the crevasses of the glacier below, the travellers at length set foot upon the ice. It was 8 P.M.; they had commenced the descent at 11 A.M.; they crossed the Sesia Glacier at a running pace, on account of the increasing darkness of the night, which scarcely allowed them to distinguish the crevasses. After half an hour they set foot on _terra firma_ at the moraine above the Alp of Vigne, where they perceived at no great distance a light, towards which they quickly directed their steps. The shepherd, named Dazza Dionigi, received them kindly, and lodged them for the night. Until they arrived at the Alp, both the ladies and the guide believed that they had made the pass of the Lys-Joch, and that they were now upon an Alp of Gressonay. It was, therefore, not without astonishment that they learned from the shepherd that, instead of this, they were at the head of the Val Sesia, and that they had accomplished the descent of the formidable Sesia-Joch." [Illustration: EXTERIOR OF A CLIMBER'S HUT.] [Illustration: INTERIOR OF A CLIMBER'S HUT.] As an accompaniment to the foregoing highly-coloured narrative, the following modest notes, sent to _The Alpine Journal_ by the Misses Pigeon, will be read with interest: "All mountaineers are aware how much the difficulty of a pass is lessened or increased by the state of the weather. In this we were greatly favoured. For some days it had been very cold and wet at the Riffel; and when we crossed the Sesia-Joch we found sufficient snow in descending the ice-slope to give foothold, which decreased the labour of cutting steps--the axe was only brought into requisition whenever we traversed to right or left. Had the weather been very hot we should have been troubled with rolling stones. It was one of those clear, bright mornings so favourable for mountain excursions. Our guide had only once before crossed the Lys-Joch, four years previously, and on a very misty day. We were, therefore, careful to engage a porter who professed to know the way. The latter proved of no use whatever except to carry a knapsack. "We take the blame to ourselves of missing the Lys-Joch; for, on making the discovery of the porter's ignorance, we turned to _Ball's Guide Book_, and repeatedly translated to Martin a passage we found there, warning travellers to avoid keeping too much to the right near the Lyskamm. The result of our interference was that Martin kept too much to the left, and missed the Lys-Joch altogether. "When we perceived the abrupt termination of the actual Col, we all ascended, with the aid of step-cutting, along the slope of the Parrot-Spitze, until we came to a place where a descent seemed feasible. Martin searched for a better passage, but, after all, we took to the ice-slope, at first, for a little way, keeping on the rocks. Finding the slope so very rapid, we doubted whether we could be right in descending it; for we remembered that the descent of the Lys-Joch is described by Mr Ball as _easy_. We therefore retraced our steps up the slope to our former halting-place, thus losing considerable time, for it was now twelve o'clock. Then it was that Martin explored the Parrot-Spitze still further, and returned in three-quarters of an hour fully persuaded that there was no other way. We re-descended the ice-slope, and lower down crossed a couloir, and then more snow-slopes and rocks brought us to a lower series of rocks, where our passage seemed stopped at five o'clock. Here the mists, which had risen since the morning, much impeded our progress, and we halted, hoping they would disperse. Martin again went off on an exploring expedition, whilst the porter was sent in another direction. As both returned from a fruitless search, and sunset was approaching, the uncomfortable suggestion was made that the next search would be for the best sleeping quarters. However, Martin himself investigated the rocks pronounced impracticable by the porter, and by these we descended to the Sesia Glacier without unusual difficulty. When once fairly on the glacier, we crossed it at a running pace, for it was getting dark, and we feared to be benighted on the glacier. It was dark as we scrambled along the moraine on the other side, and over rocks and grassy knolls till the shepherd's light at Vigne gave us a happy indication that a shelter was not far off. The shouts of our guide brought the shepherd with his oil-lamp to meet us, and it was a quarter to nine o'clock P.M. when we entered his hut. After partaking of a frugal meal of bread and milk, we were glad to accept his offer of a hay bed, together with the unexpected luxury of sheets. When relating the story of our arrival to the Abbé Farinetti on the following Sunday at Alagna, the shepherd said that so great was his astonishment at the sudden apparition of travellers from that direction, that he thought it must be a visit of angels. "We consider the Italian account incorrect as to the time we occupied in the descent. We could not have left our halting-place near the summit for the second time before a quarter to one o'clock, and in eight hours we were in this shepherd's hut. "The Italian account exaggerates the difficulty we experienced. The rope was never used 'to hold up the travellers and let them down one by one.' On the contrary, one lady went _last_, preferring to see the awkward porter in front of her rather than behind. At one spot we came to an abrupt wall of rock and there we gladly availed ourselves of our guide's hand. The sensational sentence about 'rolling as shapeless corpses into the crevasses' is absurd, as we were at that juncture rejoicing in the prospect of a happy termination of our dilemma, and of crossing the glacier in full enjoyment of our senses." The editor of _The Alpine Journal_ concludes with the following comments: "It is impossible to pass over without some further remark the behaviour of the guide and porter who shared this adventure. Jean Martin, if he led his party into a scrape, certainly showed no small skill and perseverance in carrying them safely out of it. Porters have as a class, and with some honourable exceptions, long afforded a proof that Swiss peasants are not necessarily born climbers. Their difficulties and blunders have, indeed, served as one of the standing jokes of Alpine literature. But we doubt if any porter has ever exhibited himself in so ignoble a position as the man who, having begun by obtaining an engagement under false pretences, ended by allowing one of his employers, a lady, to descend the Italian side of the Sesia-Joch last on the rope." A PERILOUS CLIMB In the year 1865 but few different routes were known up Mont Blanc. It has now been ascended from every direction and by every conceivable combination of routes, yet I doubt if any at all rivalling the one I intend quoting the account of has ever been accomplished. The route in question is by the Brenva Glacier on the Italian side of the great mountain, and the travellers who undertook to attempt what the guides hardly thought a possible piece of work, consisted of Mr Walker, his son Horace, Mr Mathews, and Mr Moore, the account which I take from _The Alpine Journal_ having been written by the latter. For guides they had two very first-rate men, Melchior Anderegg and his cousin, Jacob Anderegg. I shall omit the first part of the narrative, interesting though it is, and go at once to the point where, not long after sunrise, the mountaineers found themselves. "We had risen very rapidly, and must have been at an elevation of more than 12,000 feet. Our position, therefore, commanded an extensive view in all directions. The guides were in a hurry, so cutting our halt shorter than would have been agreeable, we resumed our way at 7.55, and after a few steps up a slope at an angle of 50°, found ourselves on the crest of the buttress, and looking down upon, and across, the lower part of a glacier tributary to the Brenva, beyond which towered the grand wall of the Mont Maudit. We turned sharp to the left along the ridge, Jacob leading, followed by Mr Walker, Horace, Mathews, Melchior, and myself last. We had anticipated that, assuming the possibility of gaining the ridge on which we were, there would be no serious difficulty in traversing it, and so much as we could see ahead led us to hope that our anticipations would turn out correct. Before us lay a narrow but not steep arête of rock and snow combined, which appeared to terminate some distance in front in a sharp peak. We advanced cautiously, keeping rather below the top of the ridge, speculating with some curiosity on what lay beyond this peak. On reaching it, the apparent peak proved not to be a peak at all, but the extremity of the narrowest and most formidable ice arête I ever saw, which extended almost on a level for an uncomfortably long distance. Looking back by the light of our subsequent success, I have always considered it a providential circumstance that, at this moment, Jacob, and not Melchior was leading the party. In saying this, I shall not for an instant be suspected of any imputation upon Melchior's courage. But in him that virtue is combined to perfection with the equally necessary one of prudence, while he shares the objection which nearly all guides have to taking upon themselves, without discussion, responsibility in positions of doubt. Had he been in front, I believe that, on seeing the nature of the work before us, we should have halted and discussed the propriety of proceeding; and I believe further that, as the result of that discussion, our expedition would have then and there come to an end. Now in Jacob, with courage as faultless as Melchior's, and physical powers even superior, the virtue of prudence is conspicuous chiefly from its absence; and, on coming to this ugly place, it never for an instant occurred to him that we might object to go on, or consider the object in view not worth the risk which must be inevitably run. He therefore went calmly on without so much as turning to see what we thought of it, while I do not suppose that it entered into the head of any one of us spontaneously to suggest a retreat. "On most arêtes, however narrow the actual crest may be, it is generally possible to get a certain amount of support by driving the pole into the slope on either side. But this was not the case here. We were on the top of a wall, the ice on the right falling vertically (I use the word advisedly), and on the left nearly so. On neither side was it possible to obtain the slightest hold with the alpenstock. I believe also that an arête of pure ice is more often encountered in description than in reality, that term being generally applied to hard snow. But here, for once, we had the genuine article, blue ice without a speck of snow on it. The space for walking was, at first, about the breadth of an ordinary wall, in which Jacob cut holes for the feet. Being last in the line I could see little of what was coming until I was close upon it, and was therefore considerably startled on seeing the men in front suddenly abandon the upright position, which in spite of the insecurity of the steps and difficulty of preserving the balance, had been hitherto maintained, and sit down _à cheval_. The ridge had narrowed to a knife edge, and for a few yards it was utterly impossible to advance in any other way. The foremost men soon stood up again, but when I was about to follow their example Melchior insisted emphatically upon my not doing so, but remaining seated. Regular steps could no longer be cut, but Jacob, as he went along, simply sliced off the top of the ridge, making thus a slippery pathway, along which those behind crept, moving one foot carefully after the other. As for me, I worked myself along with my hands in an attitude safer, perhaps, but considerably more uncomfortable, and, as I went, could not keep occasionally speculating, with an odd feeling of amusement, as to what would be the result if any of the party should chance to slip over on either side--what the rest would do--whether throw themselves over on the other side or not--and if so, what would happen then. Fortunately the occasion for the solution of this curious problem did not arise, and at 9.30 we reached the end of the arête, where it emerged in the long slopes of broken _névé_, over which our way was next to lie. As we looked back along our perilous path, it was hard to repress a shudder, and I think the dominant feeling of every man was one of wonder how the passage had been effected without accident. One good result, however, was to banish from Melchior's mind the last traces of doubt as to our ultimate success, his reply to our anxious enquiry whether he thought we should get up, being, 'We must, for we cannot go back.' In thus speaking, he probably said rather more than he meant, but the fact will serve to show that I have not exaggerated the difficulty we had overcome." Mr Moore goes on to describe the considerable trouble the party had in mounting the extremely steep snow-slope on which they were now embarked. The continual step-cutting was heavy work for the guides. At last they were much annoyed to find between them and their goal "a great wall of ice running right across and completely barring the way upwards. Our position was, in fact, rather critical. Immediately over our heads the slope on which we were, terminated in a great mass of broken _séracs_, which might come down with a run at any moment. It seemed improbable that any way out of our difficulties would be found in that quarter. But, where else to look? There was no use in going to the left--to the right we _could_ not go--and back we _would_ not go. After careful scrutiny, Melchior thought it just possible that we might find a passage through those séracs on the higher and more level portion of the glacier to the right of them, and there being obviously no chance of success in any other direction, we turned towards them. The ice here was steeper and harder than it had yet been. In spite of all Melchior's care, the steps were painfully insecure, and we were glad to get a grip with one hand of the rocks alongside of which we passed. The risk, too, of an avalanche was considerable, and it was a relief when we were so close under the séracs that a fall from above could not well hurt us. Melchior had steered with his usual discrimination, and was now attacking the séracs at the only point where they appeared at all practical. Standing over the mouth of a crevasse choked with _débris_, he endeavoured to lift himself on to its upper edge, which was about 15 feet above. But to accomplish this seemed at first a task too great even for his agility, aided as it was by vigorous pushes. At last, by a marvellous exercise of skill and activity, he succeeded, pulled up Mr Walker and Horace, and then cast off the rope to reconnoitre, leaving them to assist Mathews, Jacob and myself in the performance of a similar manoeuvre. We were all three still below, when a yell from Melchior sent a thrill through our veins. 'What is it?' said we to Mr Walker. A shouting communication took place between him and Melchior, and then came the answer, 'He says it is all right.' That moment was worth living for." Mr Moore tells how, over now easy ground, the party rapidly ascended higher and higher. "We reached the summit at 3.10, and found ourselves safe at Chamouni at 10.30. Our day's work had thus extended to nearly 20 hours, of which 17½ hours were actual walking." It is interesting to note that in after years a route was discovered on the opposite, or French side of Mont Blanc, of which the chief difficulty was an extremely narrow--but in this case also steep--ice ridge. This ascent, _via_ the Aiguille de Bionnassay, enjoys, I believe, an even greater reputation than that by the Brenva. It has been accomplished twice by ladies, the first time by Miss Katherine Richardson, whose skill and extraordinary rapidity of pace have given her a record on more than one great peak. Miss Richardson, having done all the hard part of the climb, descended from the Dome de Gouter. The second ascent by a lady was undertaken successfully in 1899, by Mademoiselle Eugénie de Rochat, who has a brilliant list of climbs in the Mont Blanc district to her credit. CHAPTER XV A FINE PERFORMANCE WITHOUT GUIDES The precipitous peak of the Meije, in Dauphiné, had long, like the Matterhorn, been believed inaccessible, and it was only after repeated attempts that at last the summit was reached. The direct route from La Bérarde will always be an extremely difficult climb to anyone who desires to do his fair share of the work; the descent of the great wall of rock is one of the few places I have been down, which took longer on the descent than on the ascent. When the members of the Alpine Club heard that a party of Englishmen had succeeded, _without guides_, in making the expedition, they were much impressed by the feat, and on 17th December 1879, one of the climbers, Mr Charles Pilkington, read a paper before the Club describing his ascent. From it I quote the following. The party included the brothers Pilkington and Mr Gardiner. [Illustration: The Meije is to the left, the Glacier Carré is the snow-patch on it, beneath this is the Great Wall.] [Illustration: ASCENDING A SNOWY WALL (page 216).] "On the 19th July 1878, we reached La Bérarde, where we found Mr Coolidge with the two Almers. Coolidge knew that we had come to try the Meije, and he had very kindly given us all the information he could, not only about it, but about several other peaks and passes in the district. Almer also, after finding out our plans, was good enough not to laugh at us, and gave us one or two useful hints. He told us as well that the difficulty did not so much consist in finding the way as in getting up it. "At two o'clock in the afternoon of 20th July, we left for our bivouac in the Vallon des Etançons, taking another man with us besides our two porters, and at four reached the large square rock called the Hôtel Châteleret, after the ancient name of the valley. We determined to sleep here instead of at Coolidge's refuge a little higher up. The Meije was in full view, and we had our first good look at it since we had read the account of its ascent. "We went hopefully to bed, telling our porters to call us at eleven the same evening, so as to start at midnight; but long before that it was raining hard, and it required all the engineering skill of the party and the india-rubber bag to keep the water out. It cleared up at daybreak. Of course it was far too late to start then; besides that, we had agreed not to make the attempt unless we had every sign of fine weather. "As we had nothing else to do, we started at 8 A.M. on an exploring expedition, taking our spare ropes and some extra provisions, to leave, if possible, at M. Duhamel's cairn, some distance up the mountain, whilst our porters were to improve the refuge and lay in a stock of firewood. The snow was very soft, and we were rather lazy, so it was not until eleven that we reached the upper part of the Brêche Glacier, and were opposite our work. The way lies up the great southern buttress, which forms the eastern boundary of the Brêche Glacier, merging into the general face of the mountain about one-third of the total height from the Glacier des Etançons, and 700 feet below, and a little to the west of the Glacier Carré, from whence the final peak is climbed. The chief difficulty is the ascent from M. Duhamel's cairn, on the top of the buttress to the Glacier Carré. "After a few steps up the snow, we gained the crest of the buttress by a short scramble. The crest is narrow, but very easy, and we went rapidly along, until we came to where a great break in the arête divides the buttress into an upper and a lower part; being no longer able to keep along the crest, we were forced to cross the rocks to our left to the couloir. Not quite liking the look of the snow, Gardiner asked us to hold tight whilst he tried it. Finding it all right he kicked steps up, and at five minutes past one we reached the cairn, having taken one hour and thirty-five minutes from the glacier. The great wall rose straight above us, but the way up, which we had had no difficulty in making out with the telescope from below, was no longer to be seen. Our spirits which had been rising during our ascent from the glacier, sunk once more, and our former uncertainty came back upon us; for it is difficult to imagine anything more hopeless-looking than this face of the Meije. It has been said that, after finding all the most promising ways impossible, this seeming impossibility was tried as a last chance. We looked at it a long time, but at last gave up trying to make out the way as a bad job, determined to climb where we could, if we had luck enough to get so far another day; so, leaving our spare ropes, a bottle of wine, a loaf of bread, and a tin of curried fowl carefully covered with stones, we made the best of our way back, reaching the glacier in one hour and twenty minutes, and our bivouac in an hour and a half more. There we spent the next night and following day, but at last we had to give in to the bad weather, and go sorrowfully down to La Bérarde. It was very disappointing. We had been looking forward to the attempt for more than six months. I had to leave in a few days for England. It was not a mountain for two men to be on alone; what if we had spent all our time and trouble for nothing, and only carried our bed and provisions to the cairn for someone else to use? "On the evening of the 24th we were again at our bivouac; this time there was a cold north wind blowing, and the weather looked more settled than it had yet done since we came into the district. We watched the last glow of the setting sun fade on the crags of the Meije, and then crawled into our now well-known holes. At midnight exactly we were off, and, as we had much to carry, we took our porters with us as far as the bottom of the buttress, where we waited for daylight. At last the Tête du Replat opposite to us caught the reflection of the light, so, leaving a bottle of champagne for our return, as a reward of victory or consolation for defeat, we started at 3.15, unfortunately with an omen, for in bidding good-bye to our porters, we said 'adieu,' instead of 'au revoir, and though we altered the word at once, they left us with grave faces, old Lagier mournfully shaking his head. Gardiner took the lead again, and at 4.45 we once more stood beside the stone-man, finding our _câche_ of provisions all safe. Here we rearranged our luggage. Both the others took heavy loads; Gardiner the knapsack, Lawrence the 200 feet of spare rope and our wine tin, holding three quarts; the sleeping bag only was given to me, as I was told off to lead. "We got under weigh at 5.15, and soon clambered up the remaining part of the buttress, and reached the bottom of the great wall, the Glacier Carré being about 700 feet above us, and some distance to our right. We knew that from here a level traverse had to be made until nearly under the glacier before it was possible to turn upwards. We had seen a ledge running in the right direction; crossing some steep rocks and climbing over a projecting knob (which served us a nasty trick on our descent), we let ourselves gently down on to the ledge, leaving a small piece of red rag to guide us in coming back. The ledge, although 4 or 5 feet broad, was not all that could be wished, for it was more than half-covered with snow, which, as the ledge sloped outwards, was not to be trusted; the melting and refreezing of this had formed ice below, nearly covering the available space, forcing us to walk on the edge. We cut a step here and there. It improved as we went on, and when half-way across the face we were able to turn slightly upwards, and at 6.30 were near the spot where later in the day the icicles from the extreme western end of the Glacier Carré fall. It is not necessary to go right into the line of fire, and in coming back we kept even farther away than on the ascent. "So far the way had been fairly easy to find, but now came the great question of the climb; how to get up the 600 feet of rock wall above us. To our right it rose in one sheer face, the icicles from the Glacier Carré, fringing the top; to our left the rocks, though not so steep, were very smooth, and at the top, especially to the right, near the glacier, they became precipitous. A little above us a bridge ledge led away to the left, slanting upwards towards the lowest and most practicable part of the wall, obviously the way up. Climbing to this ledge, we followed it nearly half-way back across the face, then the holding-places got fewer and more filled with ice, the outward slope more and more until at last its insecure and slippery look warned us off it, and we turned up the steeper but rougher rocks on our right. In doing so I believe we forsook the route followed by all our predecessors, but we were obliged to do so by the glazed state of the rocks. "As the direction in which we were now going was taking us towards the glacier and the steep upper rocks, we soon turned again to our left to avoid them, the only way being up some smooth slabs, with very little hold, the sort of rocks where one's waistcoat gives a great deal of holding power; worming oneself up these we reached a small shelf where we were again in doubt. It was impossible to go straight up; to the left the rocks, though easier, only led to the higher part of the ledge we had forsaken; we spent some minutes examining this way, but again did not like the look of the glazed rocks; so we took the only alternative and went to the right. Keeping slightly upwards, we gained about 50 feet in actual height by difficult climbing. We were now getting on to the steep upper rocks near the glacier, which we had wanted to avoid. "This last piece of the wall will always remain in our minds as the most desperate piece of work we have ever done; the rocks so far had been firm, but now, although far too steep for loose stones to lodge on, were so shattered that we dared not trust them; at the same time we had to be very careful, lest in removing any we should bring others down upon us. "One place I shall never forget. Gardiner was below, on a small ledge, with no hand-hold to speak of, trying to look as if he could stand any pull; my brother on a knob a little higher up, to help me if necessary. I was able to pull myself about 8 feet higher, but the next rock was insecure, and the whole nearly perpendicular. A good many loose stones had been already pulled out; this one would not come. It is hard work tugging at a loose stone with one hand, the other in a crack, and only one foot finding anything to rest on. I looked down, told them how it was, and came down to rest. "For about a minute nothing was said; all our faces turned towards the Glacier Carré, now only about 60 feet above us. We all felt it would have been hard indeed to turn back, yet it was not a pleasant place, and we could not see what was again above. We were on what may be fairly called a precipice. In removing the loose stones, the slightest backhanded jerk, just enough to miss the heads of the men behind, sent them clear into the air; they never touched anything for a long time after leaving the hand, and disappeared with a disagreeable hum on to the Glacier des Etançons, 1800 feet below. We looked and tried on both sides, but it was useless, so we went at it again. After the fourth or fifth attempt I managed to get up about 10 feet, to where there was some sort of hold; then my brother followed, giving me rope enough to get to a firm rock, where I remained till joined by the others. It was almost as bad above, but we crawled carefully up; one place actually overhung--fortunately there was plenty of hold, and we slung ourselves up it! From this point the rocks became rather easier, and at 9.30 we reached a small sloping shelf of rock, about 20 yards to the west of the Glacier Carré and on the top of the great rock wall. Stopping here for a short time to get cool, and to let one of the party down to get the axes, which had been tied to a rope and had caught in a crevice in the rock, we changed leaders, and crossing some shelving rocks, climbed up a gully, or cleft, filled with icicles, and reached the platform of rock at the south-west end of the Glacier Carré at 10.15 A.M. "The platform we had reached can only be called one by comparison; it is rather smooth, and slopes too much to form a safe sleeping-place, but we left our extra luggage there. "At 11.10 we started up the glacier, Gardiner going ahead, kicking steps into the soft, steep snow. "We were much more cheerful now than we had been two hours before. My companions had got rid of their heavy loads, the day was still very fine, and Almer had told us that, could we but reach the glacier, we should have a good chance of success. "Shortly before 1 P.M. we were underneath the well-known overhanging top, the rocks of which, cutting across the face, form a triangular corner. It is the spot where Gaspard lost so much time looking for the way on the first ascent. We knew that the arête had here to be crossed, and the northern face on the other side taken to. "Almost before I got my head over the crest came the anxious question from below, 'Will it go on the other side?' I could not see, however; so when the others came up, Gardiner fixed himself and let us down to the full extent of the rope. The whole northern face, as far as we could see, looked terribly icy; but as there was no other way of regaining the arête higher up without going on to it, we told him to come down after us. "Turning to the right as soon as possible, we had to traverse the steep, smooth face for a short distance. It took a long time, for the rocks were even worse than they had appeared; we often had to clear them of ice for a yard before we could find any hold at all and sometimes only the left hand could be spared for cutting. After about 50 yards of this work we were able to turn upwards, and with great difficulty wriggled up the slippery rocks leading to the arête; rather disgusted to find the north face so difficult--owing, perhaps, to the lateness of the season. "It was our last difficulty, for the arête, though narrow, gives good hand and foot-hold, and we pressed eagerly onwards. In a few minutes it became more level, and there, sure enough, were the three stone-men, only separated from us by some easy rocks and snow, which we went at with a rush, and at 2.25 we stood on the highest point of the Meije. "Knowing that it would be useless for us to try and descend further than the Glacier Carré that day, and as it was pleasanter on the top than there, we went in for a long halt. Untying the rope--for the top is broad enough to be safe--we examined the central cairn, where the tokens are kept. We found a tin box, containing the names of our predecessors; a bottle, hanging by a string, the property of Mr Coolidge; a tri-coloured flag; and a scented pocket-handkerchief belonging to M. Guillemin, still retaining its former fragrance, which it had not 'wasted on the desert air.' We tore a corner off each, leaving a red-and-yellow rag in exchange; put our names in the tin, and an English penny with a hole bored through it. "Then, after repairing the rather dilapidated southern cairn, we sat down to smoke and enjoy the view, which the fact of the mountain standing on the outside of the group, the tremendous depth to which the eye plunges on each side, the expansive panorama of the Dauphiné and neighbouring Alps, and the beautiful distant view of the Pennine chain from Mont Blanc to Monte Rosa, combine to make one of the finest in the Alps. "At four o'clock, after an hour and a half on the top, we started downwards, soon arriving at the spot where it was necessary to leave the arête; however, before doing so, we went along it to where it was cut off, to see if we could let ourselves straight down into the gap, and so avoid the detour by the northern face, but it was impracticable; so, putting the middle of the spare rope round a projecting rock on the arête, we let ourselves down to where we had gone along on the level, pulling the rope down after us; then regaining the gap by the morning's route, we crossed it, and leisurely descended the south-western face to the Glacier Carré, filling our now empty wine tin with water on the way down. We reached the glacier at 6.30. In skirting the base of the Pic du Glacier we found a nice hollow in the snow, which looked a good place to sleep in. Gardiner wanted one of us to stop and build a stone-wall, whilst the others fetched the bag and provisions from the bottom of the glacier. Lawrence was neutral; I was rather against it, having slept on snow before. At last we all went down to the rocky platform where our luggage had been left. We cleared a place for the bag, but it all sloped so much, and the edge of the precipice was so near, that we dared not lie down. We looked for a good rock to tie ourselves to; even that could not be found. Then some one thought we might scrape a hole in the steep snow above us, and get into it. That, of course, was quite out of the question. Nothing therefore remained for us but Gardiner's hollow above--the only level place we had seen above M. Duhamel's cairn large enough for us to lay our bag on. There was no time to be lost; it was getting dark; a sharp frost had already set in: so we at once shouldered our traps and trudged wearily up the glacier once more, wishing now that we had left somebody to build a wall. "On reaching the hollow we put the ropes, axes, hats, and knapsack on the snow as a sort of carpet, placed the bag on the top, then, pulling off our boots for pillows, and putting on the comfortable woollen helmets given to us by Mrs Hartley, got into the bag to have our supper. Fortunately there was not much wind; but it was rather difficult to open the meat tin. We did as well as we could, however, and after supper tried to smoke; but the cold air got into the bag and made that a failure; so we looked at the scene instead. "The moon was half full, and shone upon us as we lay, making everything look very beautiful. We could see the snow just in front of us, and then, far away through the frosty air all the mountains on the other side of the Vallon des Etançons, with the silver-grey peak of the Ecrins behind, its icy ridges standing out sharply against the clear sky; and deep down in the dark valley below was the signal fire of our porters. As this could only be seen by sitting bolt upright, we got tired of looking at it, and the last link connecting us with the lower world being broken, we felt our utter loneliness. "The moon soon going behind a rocky spur of the Pic du Glacier, we lay down and tried to get warm by pulling the string round the neck of the bag as tight as possible and breathing inside; but somehow the outside air got in also. So closing it as well as we could, with only our heads out, we went to sleep, but not for long. The side on which we lay soon got chilled. Now, as the bag was narrow, we all had to face one way on account of our knees; so the one who happened to be the soonest chilled through would give the word, and we all turned together. I suppose we must have changed sides every half-hour through the long night. We got some sleep, however, and felt all right when the first glimmering of dawn came over the mountains on our left. As soon as we could see we had breakfast; but the curried fowl was frozen, and the bread could only be cut with difficulty, as a shivering seized one every minute. We had the greatest trouble in getting our boots on. They were pressed out of shape, and, in spite of having been under our heads, were hard frozen. At last, by burning paper inside, and using them as lantern for our candle, we thawed them enough to get them on, and then spent a quarter of an hour stamping about to thaw ourselves. We rolled the bag up and tied it fast to a projecting rock, hanging the meat tin near as a guide to anyone looking for it. "At 4.30 we set off, very thankful that we had a fine day before us. We soon went down the glacier, and down and across to the shelf of rock where the real descent of the wall was to begin. A few feet below was a jagged tooth of rock which we could not move; so to it we tied one end of the 100 feet of rope, taking care to protect the rope where it pressed on the sharp edges, with pieces of an old handkerchief; the other end we threw over the edge, and by leaning over we could just see the tail of it on some rocks below the bad part,[9] so we knew it was long enough. "After a short discussion we arranged to go down one at a time, as there were places where we expected to throw all our weight on the rope. Gardiner was to go first as he was the heaviest; my brother next, carrying all the traps and the three axes, as he had the strongest pair of hands and arms in the party; whilst I as the lightest, was to bring down the rear. So tying the climbing rope round his waist as an extra help, Gardiner started, whilst we paid it out. He soon disappeared, but we knew how he was getting on, and when he was in the worst places, by the 'Lower,' 'A little lower,' 'Hold,' 'Hold hard,' which came up from below, getting fainter as he got lower. Fifty feet of the rope passed through our hands before he stopped going. 'Can you hold there?' we asked. 'No. Hold me while I rest a little, and then give me 10 feet more if you can.' So after a while we got notice to lower, and down he went again until nearly all our rope was gone; then it slackened. He told us he was fast, and that we could pull up the rope. "Then Lawrence shouldered his burdens, the three axes being tied below him with a short piece of rope. The same thing happened again, only it was more exciting, for every now and then the axes caught and loosened with a jerk, which I felt on the rope I was paying out, although it was tied to him. At first I thought it was a slip, but soon got used to it. Lawrence did not go so far as Gardiner, but stopped to help me at the bottom of the worst piece. "It was now my turn. Tying the other end of the loose rope round me, I crawled cautiously down to where the tight rope was fixed. The others told me afterwards they did not like it. I certainly did not. The upper part was all right; but lower down the rocks were so steep that if I put much weight on the rope it pulled me off them, and gave a tendency to swing over towards the Glacier Carré, which, as only one hand was left for climbing with, was rather difficult to resist. I remember very well sitting on a projecting rock, with nothing below it but air for at least 100 feet. Leaving this, Lawrence half pulled me towards him with the loose rope. A few steps more and I was beside him, and we descended together to Gardiner, cutting off the fixed rope high up, so as to leave as little as possible, and in a few minutes more we all three reached the small shelf of rocks above the smooth slabs by which we had descended the day before. It was the place where we had spent some time trying to avoid the steep bit we had just descended, and which had taken us nearly two hours. "This ledge is about 3 feet broad. We had got down the only place on the mountain that had given us any anxiety. It was warm and pleasant; all the day was before us; so we took more than an hour to lunch and rest. "On starting again we ought to have stuck to our old route and descended by the slabs, as we could easily have done; but after a brief discussion we arranged to take a short cut, by fixing a second rope and letting ourselves straight down the drop on to the lower slanting ledge, at a point a few feet higher than where we had left it on the ascent. "We descended one at a time, as before, and, what with tying and untying, took much longer than we should have done had we gone the other way. On gaining the ledge we turned to our left and soon came across one of our marks; then striking down sooner than our old route would have taken us, we gave a wider berth to the falling ice, and got into the traverse leading to the top of the buttress. Along it we went; but it looked different, had less snow, and when we came near the end a steep rock, with a nasty drop below, blocked the way. It appeared so bad that I said we were wrong. As the others were not sure, we retraced our steps, and by a very difficult descent gained a lower ledge. There was no snow on this, but the melting of the snow above made the rocks we had to take hold of so wet that we often got a stream of water down our arms and necks. "At last, after nearly crossing, it became quite impossible, and we turned back, having gained nothing but a wetting. "Below it was far too steep. Immediately above was the place we had tried just before. We could not make it out; we had been so positive about the place above. "We were just thinking of trying it again more carefully, when Lawrence pointed up at something, and there, sure enough, was the bit of red rag left the day before to show the commencement of the traverse. "We marked where it was, and then crawled back along the ledge on which we were. Scrambling up the steep drop, we made quickly upwards, and, turning towards our flag, found that the only way to it was along the very ledge where we had first tried, and which proved to be the traverse after all. "We were very glad to get into it once more, as for the last three hours we had been on the look-out for falling ice. Some had already shot over our heads, sending showers of splinters on to us, and one piece as big as one's fist had come rather closer than was pleasant. On our left, the Glacier Carré kept up a regular fire of it, the ice following with tremendous noise on to the rocks below. Every time it gave us a start, as we could not always see at once where the fall had taken place; and although the danger was more imaginary than real, it is not pleasant to be constantly on the look-out, and flattening one's self against the rocks to avoid being hit. "We soon crossed the snowy part of the traverse, and were again in front of the rock which had turned us back before. It looked no better; but on going close up we found a small crack near the top, just large enough to get our fingers into, giving excellent hold. By this we swung ourselves up and across the worst part. "We thought we had only two hours more easy descent, and our work would be done. But we made a mistake. "At first we went rapidly down, and were soon cheered by the sight of M. Duhamel's cairn, looking about five minutes off. I was in front at the time, and was just getting on to a short snow-slope by which we had ascended the day before, when, doubting its safety, I asked the others to hold fast whilst I tried it. The moment I put my foot on the snow, all the top went away, slowly at first, then, taking to the left, went down the couloir with a rush. We tried again where the upper layer had gone away, but it was all unsafe; so we had to spend half an hour getting down the rocks, where we had ascended in ten minutes, and it was not until 2.30 that we reached the cairn. "It was 3.30 before we continued the descent. The couloir was not in good order and required care. Gardiner, who was in front, did not get on as well as usual. At last, thinking we might get impatient, he showed us his fingers, which were bleeding in several places, and awfully raw and sore. He had pluckily kept it all to himself until the real difficulties were over; but the snow of the couloir had softened his hands, and these last rocks were weathered granite, and very sharp and cutting; so he had to go very gingerly. "At the bottom of the buttress a surprise awaited us, for as we descended the last 20 feet, the weather-beaten face of old Lagier, our porter, appeared above the rocks. The faithful old fellow said he had traced our descent by the occasional flashing of the wine tin in the sun, and had come alone to meet us, bringing us provisions as he thought we might have run short. He had waited six hours for us, and had iced the bottle of champagne which had been left on the ascent. We opened it and then hurried down to the glacier, taking off the rope at the moraine, and ran all the rest of the way on the snow to our bivouac, like a lot of colts turned loose in a field, feeling it a great relief to get on to something on which we could tumble about as we liked without falling over a precipice." That the Meije is a really difficult mountain may be assumed from the fact that for some years after its first ascent, no party succeeded in getting up and down it on the same day. When every step of the way became well known, of course much quicker times were possible, and when, on 16th September 1892, I went up it with the famous Dauphiné guide, Maximin Gaspard, and Roman Imboden (the latter aged twenty-three, and perhaps the finest rock climber in Switzerland), we had all in our favour. There was neither ice nor snow on the rocks, and no icicles hung from the Glacier Carré, while the weather was still and cloudless. We slept at the bottom of the buttress--just at the spot where Mr Pilkington met his porter--and from here were exactly four hours (including a halt of one hour) reaching the top of the Meije. It is now the fashion to cross the Meije from La Bérarde to La Grave, the descent on the other side being also extremely hard. For a couple of hours after leaving the summit a narrow ridge is traversed with several formidable gaps in it. FOOTNOTE: [9] The remains of this rope hung for years where Mr Pilkington had placed it, and when I ascended the Meije I saw the bleached end of it hanging over as sickening looking a place as I have ever desired to avoid. The ordinary route passes more to the west. CHAPTER XVI THE PIZ SCERSCEN TWICE IN FOUR DAYS--THE FIRST ASCENT OF MONT BLANC BY A WOMAN. It was a mad thing to do. I realised that when thinking of it afterwards; but this is how it happened. I had arranged with a friend, Mr Edmund Garwood, to try a hitherto unattempted route on a mountain not far from Maloja. He was to bring his guide, young Roman Imboden; I was to furnish a second man, Wieland, of St Moritz. [Illustration: WIELAND ON THE HIGHEST POINT OF PIZ SCERSCEN (page 200).] [Illustration: A PARTY ON A MOUNTAIN TOP.] [Illustration: THE OTHER PARTY DESCENDING PIZ BERNINA (page 202).] [Illustration: A PARTY COMMENCING THE DESCENT OF A SNOW RIDGE.] The hour had come to start, the carriage was at the door and the provisions were in it, and Wieland and I were in readiness when, to our surprise, Roman turned up without Mr Garwood. A note which he brought explained that the latter was not well, but hoped I would make the expedition all the same, and take Roman with me. I was unwilling to monopolise a new ascent, though probably only an easy one, so I refused to go till my friend was better, and asked the guides to suggest something else. The weather was lovely and our food ready, and it seemed a pity to waste either. Wieland could not think of a suitable climb, so I turned to Roman, who had only arrived at Pontresina two days before, and asked him his ideas. He very sensibly inquired: "What peaks have you not done yet here, ma'am?" "All but the Scerscen." "Then we go for the--whatever you call it." "Oh, but Roman," I exclaimed, "the Scerscen is very difficult, and there is 3 feet of fresh snow on the mountains, and it is out of the question!" "I don't believe any of these mountains are difficult," said Roman doggedly, with that contempt for all Engadine climbing shown by guides from the other side of Switzerland. "Ask Wieland," I suggested. Wieland smiled at the question, and said he did not at all mind going to look at the Scerscen, but, as to ascending it under the present conditions, of course it was absurd. "Besides," he added, "we are much too late to go to the Marinelli Hut to-day." "Why not do it from the Mortel Hut?" I remarked, on the "in for a penny in for a pound" principle. He smiled again; indeed, I think he laughed, and agreed that, as anyhow we could not go up the Scerscen, we might as well sleep at the Mortel Hut as anywhere else. "Have you ever been up it?" Roman inquired. Wieland answered that he had not. Roman turned to me: "Can you find the mountain? Should you know it if you saw it? Don't let us go up the wrong one, ma'am!" I promised to lead them to the foot of the peak, and Roman repeated his conviction that all Engadine mountains were perfectly easy, and that we should find ourselves on the top of the Scerscen next morning. However, he made no objection to taking an extra rope of 100 feet, and, telling one friend our plan in strictest confidence, we climbed into the carriage. We duly arrived at the Mortel Hut and were early in bed, as Roman wished us to set out at an early hour, or a late one, if I may thus allude to 11 P.M. He was still firmly convinced that to the top of the Scerscen we should go, and wanted every moment in hand, in spite of his recent criticisms of Engadine mountains. There was a very useful moon, and by its light we promised Roman to take him to the foot of the peak, where its rocky sides rise abruptly from the Scerscen Glacier. I must here explain that there are several ways up the Scerscen. I wished to ascend by the rocks on the south side, which, though harder, were safer than the other routes. As for the descent (if we got up!) we intended coming down the way we had ascended, little knowing not only that no one had been down by this route, but also that a party had attempted to get down it and had been driven back. As for finding our way up, some notes in the _Alpine Journal_ were our only guide. The mountain had been previously ascended but a few times altogether, and only, I think, once or twice by the south face. No lady had up till then tried it. We were off punctually at 11 P.M., and by the brilliant light of the moon made good time over the glacier and up the snow slopes leading to the Sella Pass. This we reached in three hours, without a pause, from the hut, and, making no halt there, immediately plunged into the softer snow on the Italian side, and began to skirt the precipices on our left. Even in midsummer, it was still dark at this early hour, and the moon had already set. A great rocky peak rose near us, and Wieland gave it as his opinion that it was the Scerscen. I differed from him, believing our mountain to be some distance farther, so it was mutually agreed that we should halt for food, after which we should have more light to enable us to determine our position. Gradually the warmth of dawn crept over the sky, and soon the beautiful spectacle of an Alpine sunrise was before us, with the wonderful "flush of adoration" on the mountain heads. There was no doubt now where we were; our peak was some way beyond, and the only question was, how to go up it? I repeated to Roman the information I had gleaned from the Journal, and he thanked me, doubtless having his own ideas, which he intended alone to be guided by. Luckily, as we advanced the mountain became visible from base to summit, so that Roman could trace out his way up it as upon a map. We walked up the glacier to the foot of the mighty wall, and soon began to go up it, advancing for some time with fair rapidity, in spite of the fresh snow. After, perhaps, a couple of hours or so, we came to our first real difficulty. This was a tall, red cliff, with a cleft up part of it, and, as there was an evil-looking and nearly perpendicular gully of ice to the right and overhanging rocks to the left, we had either to go straight up or abandon the expedition. The cleft was large and was garnished with a sturdy icicle, or column of ice, some 5 feet or more in diameter. Bidding me wedge myself into a firm place, Roman began to cut footholds up the icicle, and then, when after a few steps the cleft or chimney ended, he turned to his right and wormed himself along the very face of the cliff, holding on by the merest irregularities, which can hardly be termed ledges. After a couple of yards he struck straight up, and wriggling somehow on the surface, rendered horribly slippery by the snow, he at last, after what seemed an age, called on Wieland to follow. What was a _tour de force_ for the first man was comparatively easy for the second, and soon my turn came to try my hand--or rather my feet and knees and any other adhesive portion of my person--on the business. The first part was the worst, for, as the rope came from the side and not above till the traverse was made, I had no help. Eventually I, too, emerged on to the wall, and saw right over me the rope passing through a gap, behind which, excellently placed, were the guides. I helped myself to the utmost of my capacity, but a pull was not unwelcome towards the end, when, exhausted and breathless, I could struggle no more. As I joined the guides they moved to give me space on the ledge, and we spent a well-earned quarter of an hour in rest and refreshment. The worst was now over, but owing to the snow, which covered much of the rock to a depth of about 2 or 3 feet, the remainder of the way was distinctly difficult, and as the mountain was totally unknown to us we never could tell what troubles might be in store. However, having left the foot of the actual peak at 5.40 A.M., we arrived on the top at 10.40 A.M., and as we lifted our heads above the final rocks, hardly daring to believe that we really were on the summit, a distant cheer was borne to our ears from Piz Bernina, and we knew that our arrival had been observed by another party. So formidable did we consider the descent that we only allowed ourselves ten minutes on the top, and then we prepared to go. Could we cross the ridge to Piz Bernina and so avoid the chimney? It had a great reputation, and we feared to embark on the unknown. So at 10.50 A.M. we began the descent, moving one at a time with the utmost caution. Before long the difficulties increased as we reached the steeper part of the mountain. The rocks now streamed with water from the rapidly melting snow, under the rays of an August sun. As I held on, streams ran in at my wristbands, and soon I was soaked through. But the work demanded such close attention that a mere matter of discomfort was nothing. Presently we had to uncoil our spare 100 feet of rope, and now our progress grew slower and slower. After some hours we came to the chimney. No suitable rock could be found to attach the rope to, so Roman sat down and thought the matter out. The difficulty was to get the last man down; for the two first, held from above, the descent was easy. Roman soon hit upon an ingenious idea. Wieland and I were to go down to the bottom of the cleft. Wieland was to unrope me and, leaving me, was to cut steps _across_ the ice-slope to our left till leverage was obtainable for the rope across the boss of rock where Roman stood, and where it would remain in position so long as it was kept taut, with Roman at one end and Wieland slowly paying out from below. The manoeuvre succeeded, and after about two hours' work Wieland had hewn a large platform in the ice and prepared to gradually let out the rope as Roman came down. He descended in grand form, puffing at his pipe and declared the difficulty grossly over-rated, though he did not despise the precaution. At 2.30 A.M. we re-entered the Mortel Hut, somewhat tired, but much pleased with the success of our expedition. Our second ascent of Piz Scerscen is soon told. Four days later Roman casually remarked to me: "It is a pity, ma'am, we have not crossed the Scerscen to the Bernina." "It is," I replied. "Let us start at once and do it." Wieland was consulted, and was only too delighted to go anywhere under Roman's leadership. Our times will give an idea of the changed state of the mountain, for, leaving the Mortel Hut at 12.30 midnight, we were on the top of the Scerscen at 8 A.M. At nine we set off, and taking things leisurely, with halts for food, we passed along the famous arête, and, thanks to Roman's choice of route, met with not one really hard step. At 2.30 P.M. we found ourselves on the top of Piz Bernina, and had a chat with another party, who had arrived not long before. I waited to see them start, and rejoiced that I had kept two plates. Then we, too, set forth, and were in the valley by 7 P.M. THE FIRST ASCENT OF MONT BLANC BY A WOMAN, AND SOME SUBSEQUENT ASCENTS The first woman who reached the summit of Mont Blanc was a native of Chamonix, Maria Paradis by name. Her account of her expedition is so admirably graphic and picturesque that I shall give a translation of it as like the original as I can. Though it was so far back as the year 1809, Maria writes quite in the spirit of modern journalism. She begins:--"I was only a poor servant. One day the guides said to me, 'We are going up there, come with us. Travellers will come and see you afterwards and give you presents.' That decided me, and I set out with them. When I reached the Grand Plateau I could not walk any longer. I felt very ill, and I lay down on the snow. I panted like a chicken in the heat. They held me up by my arms on each side and dragged me along. But at the Rochers-Rouge I could get no further, and I said to them 'Chuck me into a crevasse and go on yourselves.' "'You must go to the top,' answered the guides. They seized hold of me, they dragged me, they pushed me, they carried me, and at last we arrived. Once at the summit, I could see nothing clearly, I could not breathe, I could not speak." Maria was thirty years of age, and made quite a fortune out of her achievement. From that time, tourists returning from Mont Blanc noticed with surprise, as they passed through the pine woods, a feast spread out under the shade of a huge tree. Cream, fruit, etc., were tastefully displayed on the white cloth. A neat-looking peasant woman urged them to partake. "It is Maria of Mont Blanc!" the guides would cry, and the travellers halted to hear the story of her ascent and to refresh themselves. The second woman, and the first lady to climb Mont Blanc, was a Frenchwoman, Mademoiselle d'Angeville. For years she had determined to make the attempt, but it was only in 1838, when she was 44 years of age, that she came to Chamonix with the intention of immediately setting out for the great mountain. She had many difficulties to surmount. The guides feared the responsibility of taking up a woman, many of the Chamonix people thought her mad, and while one was ready to offer a thousand francs to five that she would not reach the top, another was prepared to accept heavy odds that there would be a catastrophe. At last, however, all was ready, and she started. Two other parties offered to join her. She declined with thanks. After half an hour on the glacier she detached herself from the rope and would accept no help. This was far from being out of sheer bravado, it was simply that she desired to inspire confidence in her powers. During the night on the rocks of the Grands Mulets she suffered terribly from cold and could not snatch a moment's sleep. When the party stopped for breakfast at the Grand Plateau, she could eat nothing. At the Corridor, feverishness, and fearful thirst overcame her; she fell to the ground from weakness and drowsiness. After a little rest, however, she was able to go on, but at the Mur de la Cote she felt desperately ill. Violent palpitation seized on her and her limbs felt like lead. With a tremendous effort she moved on. The beatings of her heart became more suffocating, her pulse was too rapid to count, she could not take more than ten steps without stopping. One thing only remained strong in her--the _will_. During these frequent halts she heard the murmuring of talk between the guides, as in a dream. "We shall fail! Look at her, she has fallen asleep! Shall we try and carry her?" while Couttet cried, "If ever I find myself again with a lady on Mont Blanc!" At these words Mademoiselle d'Angeville, with a desperate effort, shook off her torpor and stood up. She clung with desperate energy to the one idea: "If I die," she said to the guides, "promise to carry me up there and bury me on the top!" And the men, stupified with such persistence, answered gravely, "Make your mind easy, mademoiselle, you shall go there, dead or alive!" [Illustration: HARD WORK.] [Illustration: MRS AUBREY LE BLOND SETS OUT IN A LONG SKIRT (page 87).] As she approached the top she felt better, and was able to advance without support, and when she stepped on to the summit, and knew that her great wish was at last accomplished, all sensation of illness vanished as if by enchantment. "And now, mademoiselle, you shall go higher than Mont Blanc!" exclaimed the guides, and joining hands they lifted her above their shoulders. One more ascent by a lady deserves mention here, that of Miss Stratton, on 31st January 1876. She was the first person to reach the summit of Mont Blanc in mid-winter. It is difficult to understand why these early climbers of Mont Blanc, men as well as women, suffered so terribly from mountain sickness, a disease one rarely hears of nowadays in the Alps. The question is too vexed a one for me to discuss it here, but I may say that want of training and unsuitable food bring it on in most cases. "The stagnation of the air in valleys above the snow-line," was believed to produce it, and I cannot help thinking that this does have some effect. The first time I went up Mont Blanc I did not feel well on the Grand Plateau, but was all right when I reached the breezy ridge of the Bosses. The second time, ascending by the route on the Italian side of the peak, where there are no snowy valleys, I did not suffer at all. The third time I felt uncomfortable on the slope leading to the Corridor, but quite myself again above. CHAPTER XVII THE ASCENT OF A WALL OF ICE Of all the writers on Alpine matters none has a more charming style, or has described his adventures in a more modest manner, than Sir Leslie Stephen. Perhaps the most delightful passages in his _Playground of Europe_ are those in which he tells how, in company with the Messrs Mathews, he managed to get up the great wall of ice between the Mönch and the Eiger, known as the Eigerjoch. The Messrs Mathews had with them two Chamonix guides, while Mr Leslie Stephen had engaged the gigantic Oberlander Ulrich Lauener. In those days there was often keen rivalry--and something more--between French and German-speaking guides, and Lauener was apt to be rather an autocrat on the mountains. "As, however, he could not speak a word of French, nor they of German, he was obliged to convey his 'sentiments' in pantomime, which, perhaps, did not soften 'their vigour.' I was accordingly prepared for a few disputes next day. "About four on the morning of 7th August we got off from the inn on the Wengern Alp, notwithstanding a few delays, and steered straight for the foot of the Eiger. In the early morning the rocks around the glacier and the lateral moraines were hard and slippery. Before long, however, we found ourselves well on the ice, near the central axis of the Eiger Glacier, and looking up at the great terrace-shaped ice-masses, separated by deep crevasses, which rose threateningly over our heads, one above another, like the defences of some vast fortification. And here began the first little dispute between Oberland and Chamouni. The Chamouni men proposed a direct assault on the network of crevasses above us. Lauener said that we ought to turn them by crossing to the south-west side, immediately below the Mönch. My friends and their guides forming a majority, and seeming to have little respect for the arguments urged by the minority, we gave in and followed them, with many muttered remarks from Lauener. We soon found ourselves performing a series of manoeuvres like those required for the ascent of the Col du Géant. At times we were lying flat in little gutters on the faces of the _séracs_, worming ourselves along like boa-constrictors. At the next moment we were balancing ourselves on a knife-edge of ice between two crevasses, or plunging into the very bowels of the glacier, with a natural arch of ice meeting above our heads. I need not attempt to describe difficulties and dangers familiar to all ice-travellers. Like other such difficulties, they were exciting, and even rather amusing for a time, but, unfortunately, they seemed inclined to last rather too long. Some of the deep crevasses apparently stretched almost from side to side of the glacier, rending its whole mass into distorted fragments. In attempting to find a way through them, we seemed to be going nearly as far backwards as forwards, and the labyrinth in which we were involved was as hopelessly intricate after a long struggle as it had been at first. Moreover, the sun had long touched the higher snow-fields, and was creeping down to us step by step. As soon as it reached the huge masses amongst which we were painfully toiling, some of them would begin to jump about like hailstones in a shower, and our position would become really dangerous. The Chamouni guides, in fact, declared it to be dangerous already, and warned us not to speak, for fear of bringing some of the nicely-poised ice-masses down on our heads. On my translating this well-meant piece of advice to Lauener, he immediately selected the most dangerous looking pinnacle in sight, and mounting to the top of it sent forth a series of screams, loud enough, I should have thought, to bring down the top of the Mönch. They failed, however, to dislodge any _séracs_, and Lauener, going to the front, called to us to follow him. By this time we were all glad to follow any one who was confident enough to lead. Turning to our right, we crossed the glacier in a direction parallel to the deep crevasses, and therefore unobstructed by any serious obstacles, till we found ourselves immediately beneath the great cliffs of the Mönch. Our prospects changed at once. A great fold in the glacier produces a kind of diagonal pathway, stretching upwards from the point where we stood towards the rocks of the Eiger--not that it was exactly a carriage-road--but along the line which divides two different systems of crevasse, the glacier seemed to have been crushed into smaller fragments, producing, as it were, a kind of incipient macadamisation. The masses, instead of being divided by long regular trenches, were crumbled and jammed together so as to form a road, easy and pleasant enough by comparison with our former difficulties. Pressing rapidly up this rough path, we soon found ourselves in the very heart of the glacier, with a broken wilderness of ice on every side. We were in one of the grandest positions I have ever seen for observing the wonders of the ice-world; but those wonders were not all of an encouraging nature. For, looking up to the snow-fields now close above us, an obstacle appeared which made us think that all our previous labours had been in vain. From side to side of the glacier a vast _chevaux de frise_ of blue ice-pinnacles struck up through the white layers of _névé_ formed by the first plunge of the glacier down its waterfall of ice. Some of them rose in fantastic shapes--huge blocks balanced on narrow footstalks, and only waiting for the first touch of the sun to fall in ruins down the slope below. Others rose like church spires, or like square towers, defended by trenches of unfathomable depths. Once beyond this barrier we should be safe upon the highest plateau of the glacier at the foot of the last snow-slope. But it was obviously necessary to turn them by some judicious strategical movement. One plan was to climb the lower rocks of the Eiger; but, after a moment's hesitation, we fortunately followed Lauener towards the other side of the glacier, where a small gap between the _séracs_ and the lower slopes of the Mönch seemed to be the entrance to a ravine that might lead us upwards. Such it turned out to be. Instead of the rough footing in which we had hitherto been unwillingly restricted, we found ourselves ascending a narrow gorge, with the giant cliffs of the Mönch on our right, and the toppling ice-pinnacles on our left. A beautifully even surface of snow, scarcely marked by a single crevasse, lay beneath our feet. We pressed rapidly up this strange little pathway, as it wound steeply upwards between the rocks and the ice, expecting at every moment to see it thin out, or break off at some impassable crevasse. It was, I presume, formed by the sliding of avalanches from the slopes of the Mönch. At any rate, to our delight, it led us gradually round the barrier of _séracs_, till in a few minutes we found ourselves on the highest plateau of the glacier, the crevasses fairly beaten, and a level plain of snow stretching from our feet to the last snow-slope. "We were now standing on the edge of a small level plateau. One, and only one, gigantic crevasse of really surpassing beauty stretched right across it. This was, we guessed, some 300 feet deep, and its sides passed gradually into the lovely blues and greens of semi-transparent ice, whilst long rows and clusters of huge icicles imitated (as Lauener remarked) the carvings and ecclesiastical furniture of some great cathedral. "To reach our pass, we had the choice either of at once attacking the long steep slopes which led directly to the shoulder of the Mönch, or of first climbing the gentle slope near the Eiger, and then forcing our way along the backbone of the ridge. We resolved to try the last plan first. "Accordingly, after a hasty breakfast at 9.30, we started across our little snow-plain and commenced the ascent. After a short climb of no great difficulty, merely pausing to chip a few steps out of the hard crust of snow, we successively stepped safely on to the top of the ridge. As each of my predecessors did so, I observed that he first looked along the arête, then down the cliffs before him, and then turned with a very blank expression of face to his neighbour. From our feet the bare cliffs sank down, covered with loose rocks, but too steep to hold more than patches of snow, and presenting right dangerous climbing for many hundred feet towards the Grindelwald glaciers. The arête offered a prospect not much better: a long ridge of snow, sharp as the blade of a knife, was playfully alternated with great rocky teeth, striking up through their icy covering, like the edge of a saw. We held a council standing, and considered the following propositions:--First, Lauener coolly proposed, and nobody seconded, a descent of the precipices towards Grindelwald. This proposition produced a subdued shudder from the travellers and a volley of unreportable language from the Chamouni guides. It was liable, amongst other things, to the trifling objection that it would take us just the way we did not want to go. The Chamouni men now proposed that we should follow the arête. This was disposed of by Lauener's objection that it would take at least six hours. We should have had to cut steps down the slope and up again round each of the rocky teeth I have mentioned; and I believe that this calculation of time was very probably correct. Finally, we unanimously resolved upon the only course open to us--to descend once more into our little valley, and thence to cut our way straight up the long slopes to the shoulder of the Mönch. "Considerably disappointed at this unexpected check, we retired to the foot of the slopes, feeling that we had no time to lose, but still hoping that a couple of hours more might see us at the top of the pass. It was just eleven as we crossed a small bergschrund and began the ascent. Lauener led the way to cut the steps, followed by the two other guides, who deepened and polished them up. Just as we started, I remarked a kind of bright tract drawn down the ice in front of us, apparently by the frozen remains of some small rivulet which had been trickling down it. I guessed it would take some fifty steps and half-an-hour's work to reach it. We cut about fifty steps, however, in the first half-hour, and were not a quarter of the way to my mark; and as even when there we should not be half-way to the top, matters began to look serious. The ice was very hard, and it was necessary, as Lauener observed, to cut steps in it as big as soup-tureens, for the result of a slip would in all probability have been that the rest of our lives would have been spent in sliding down a snow-slope, and that that employment would not have lasted long enough to become at all monotonous. Time slipped by, and I gradually became weary of a sound to which at first I always listened with pleasure--the chipping of the axe, and the hiss of the fragments as they skip down the long incline below us. Moreover, the sun was very hot, and reflected with oppressive power from the bright and polished surface of the ice. I could see that a certain flask was circulating with great steadiness amongst the guides, and the work of cutting the steps seemed to be extremely severe. I was counting the 250th step, when we at last reached the little line I had been so long watching, and it even then required a glance back at the long line of steps behind to convince me that we had in fact made any progress. The action of resting one's whole weight on one leg for about a minute, and then slowly transferring it to the other, becomes wearisome when protracted for hours. Still the excitement and interest made the time pass quickly. I was in constant suspense lest Lauener should pronounce for a retreat, which would have been not merely humiliating, but not improbably dangerous, amidst the crumbling _séracs_ in the afternoon sun. I listened with some amusement to the low moanings of little Charlet, who was apparently bewailing his position to Croz, and being heartless chaffed in return. One or two measurements with a clinometer of Mathews' gave inclinations of 51° or 52°, and the slope was perhaps occasionally a little more. [Illustration: A VERY STEEP ICE SLOPE.] [Illustration: HARD SNOW IN THE EARLY MORNING ON THE TOP OF A GLACIER PASS NEARLY 12,000 FEET ABOVE SEA.] "At last, as I was counting the 580th step, we reached a little patch of rock, and felt ourselves once more on solid ground, with no small satisfaction. Not that the ground was specially solid. It was a small crumbling patch of rock, and every stone we dislodged went bounding rapidly down the side of the slope, diminishing in apparent size till it disappeared in the bergschrund, hundreds of feet below. However, each of us managed to find some nook in which he could stow himself away, whilst the Chamouni men took their turn in front, and cut steps straight upwards to the top of the slope. By this means they kept along a kind of rocky rib, of which our patch was the lowest point, and we thus could occasionally get a footstep on rock instead of ice. Once on the top of the slope, we could see no obstacle intervening between us and the point over which our pass must lie. "Meanwhile we meditated on our position. It was already four o'clock. After twelve hours' unceasing labour, we were still a long way on the wrong side of the pass. We were clinging to a ledge in the mighty snow-wall which sank sheer down below us and rose steeply above our heads. Beneath our feet the whole plain of Switzerland lay with a faint purple haze drawn over it like a veil, a few green sparkles just pointing out the Lake of Thun. Nearer, and apparently almost immediately below us, lay the Wengern Alp, and the little inn we had left twelve hours before, whilst we could just see the back of the labyrinth of crevasses where we had wandered so long. Through a telescope I could even distinguish people standing about the inn, who no doubt were contemplating our motions. As we rested, the Chamouni guides had cut a staircase up the slope, and we prepared to follow. It was harder work than before, for the whole slope was now covered with a kind of granular snow, and resembled a huge pile of hailstones. The hailstones poured into every footstep as it was cut, and had to be cleared out with hands and feet before we could get even a slippery foothold. As we crept cautiously up this treacherous staircase, I could not help reflecting on the lively bounds with which the stones and fragments of ice had gone spinning from our last halting place down to the yawning bergschrund below. We succeeded, however, in avoiding their example, and a staircase of about one hundred steps brought us to the top of the ridge, but at a point still at some distance from the pass. It was necessary to turn along the arête towards the Mönch. We were preparing to do this by keeping on the snow-ridge, when Lauener, jumping down about 6 feet on the side opposite to that by which we had ascended, lighted upon a little ledge of rock, and called to us to follow. He assured us that it was granite, and that therefore there was no danger of slipping. It was caused by the sun having melted the snow on the southern side of the ridge, so that it no longer quite covered the inclined plane of rock upon which it rested. It was narrow and treacherous enough in appearance at first; soon, however, it grew broader, and, compared with our ice-climb, afforded capital footing. The precipice beneath us thinned out as the Viescher Glacier rose towards our pass, and at last we found ourselves at the edge of a little mound of snow, through which a few plunging steps brought us, just at six o'clock, to the long-desired shoulder of the Mönch. "I cannot describe the pleasure with which we stepped at last on to the little saddle of snow, and felt that we had won the victory." CHAPTER XVIII THE AIGUILLE DU DRU Few mountains have been the object of such repeated attempts by experienced climbers to reach their summits, as was the rocky pinnacle of the Aiguille du Dru, at Chamonix. While the name of Whymper will always be associated with the Matterhorn, so will that of Clinton Dent be with the Aiguille du Dru, and the accounts given by him in his delightful little work, _Above the Snow Line_, of his sixteen unavailing scrambles on the peak, followed by the stirring description of how at last he got up it, are amongst the romances of mountaineering. I have space for only a few extracts describing Mr Dent's early attempts, which even the non-climber would find very entertaining to read about in the work from which I quote. The Chamonix people, annoyed that foreign guides should monopolise the peak, threw cold water on the idea of ascending it, and were ready, if they got a chance, to deny that it had been ascended. An honourable exception to the attitude adopted by these gentry, was, however, furnished by that splendid guide, Edouard Cupelin, who always asserted that the peak was climbable, and into whose big mind no trace of jealousy was ever known to enter. Very witty are some of the accounts of Mr Dent's earlier starts for the Aiguille du Dru. On one occasion, starting in the small hours of the morning from Chamonix, he reached the Montanvert at 3.30 A.M. "The landlord at once appeared in full costume," he writes; "indeed I observed that during the summer it was impossible to tell from his attire whether he had risen immediately from bed or no. Our friend had cultivated to great perfection the art of half sleeping during his waking hours--that is, during such time as he might be called upon to provide entertainment for man and beast. Now, at the Montanvert, during the tourists' season, this period extended over the whole twenty-four hours. It was necessary, therefore, in order that he might enjoy a proper physiological period of rest, for him to remain in a dozing state--a sort of æstival hybernation--for the whole time, which in fact he did; or else he was by nature a very dull person, and had actually a very restricted stock of ideas. "The sight of a tourist with an ice-axe led by a kind of reflex process to the landlord's unburdening his mind with his usual remarks. Like other natives of the valley he had but two ideas of 'extraordinary' expeditions. 'Monsieur is going to the Jardin?' he remarked. 'No, monsieur isn't.' 'Then, beyond a doubt, monsieur will cross the Col du Géant?' he said, playing his trump card. 'No, monsieur will not.' 'Pardon--where does monsieur expect to go?' 'On the present occasion we go to try the Aiguille du Dru.' The landlord smiled in an aggravating manner. 'Does monsieur think he will get up?' 'Time will show.' 'Ah!' The landlord, who had a chronic cold in the head, searched for his pocket-handkerchief, but not finding it, modified the necessary sniff into one of derision." On this day the party did not get up, nor did they gain the summit a little later when they made another attempt. They then had with them a porter who gave occasion for an excellent bit of character-sketching. "He was," says Mr Dent, "as silent as an oyster, though a strong and skilful climber, and like an oyster when its youth is passed, he was continually on the gape." They mounted higher and higher, and began at last to think that success awaited them. "Old Franz chattered away to himself, as was his wont when matters went well, and on looking back on one occasion I perceived the strange phenomenon of a smile illuminating the porter's features. However, this worthy spoke no words of satisfaction, but pulled ever at his empty pipe. "By dint of wriggling over a smooth sloping stone slab, we had got into a steep rock gully which promised to lead us to a good height. Burgener, assisted by much pushing and prodding from below, and aided on his own part by much snorting and some strong language, had managed to climb on to a great overhanging boulder that cut off the view from the rest of the party below. As he disappeared from sight we watched the paying out of the rope with as much anxiety as a fisherman eyes his vanishing line when the salmon runs. Presently the rope ceased to move, and we waited for a few moments in suspense. We felt that the critical moment of the expedition had arrived, and the fact that our own view was exceedingly limited, made us all the more anxious to hear the verdict. 'How does it look?' we called out. The answer came back in _patois_, a bad sign in such emergencies. For a minute or two an animated conversation was kept up; then we decided to take another opinion, and accordingly hoisted up our second guides. The chatter was redoubled. 'What does it look like?' we shouted again. 'Not possible from where we are,' was the melancholy answer, and in a tone that crushed at once all our previous elation. I could not find words at the moment to express my disappointment; but the porter could, and gallantly he came to the rescue. He opened his mouth for the first time and spoke, and he said very loud indeed that it was 'verdammt.' Precisely: that is just what it was." [Illustration: ON A VERY STEEP, SMOOTH SLAB OF ROCK.] [Illustration: NEGOTIATING STEEP PASSAGES OF ROCK.] It was not till 1878 that Mr Dent was able to return to Chamonix. He had now one fixed determination with regard to the Dru:--either he would get to the top or prove that the ascent was impossible. His first few attempts that season were frustrated by bad weather, and so persistently did the rain continue to fall that for a couple of weeks no high ascents could be thought of. During this time, Mr Maund, who had been with Mr Dent on many of his attempts, was obliged to return to England. "On a mountain such as we knew the Aiguille du Dru to be, it would not have been wise to make any attempt with a party of more than four. No doubt three--that is, an amateur with two guides--would have been better still, but I had, during the enforced inaction through which we had been passing, become so convinced of ultimate success, that I was anxious to find a companion to share it. Fortunately, J. Walker Hartley, a highly skilful and practised mountaineer, was at Chamouni, and it required but little persuasion to induce him to join our party. Seizing an opportunity one August day, when the rain had stopped for a short while, we decided to try once more, or, at any rate, to see what effects the climatic phases through which we had been passing had produced on the Aiguille. With Alexander Burgener and Andreas Maurer still as guides, we ascended once again the slopes by the side of the Charpoua Glacier, and succeeded in discovering a still more eligible site for a bivouac than on our previous attempts. A little before four the next morning we extracted each other from our respective sleeping bags, and made our way rapidly up the glacier. The snow still lay thick everywhere on the rocks, which were fearfully cold, and glazed with thin layers of slippery ice; but our purpose was very serious that day, and we were not to be deterred by anything short of unwarrantable risk. We intended the climb to be merely one of exploration, but were resolved to make it as thorough as possible, and with the best results. From the middle of the slope leading up to the ridge the guides went on alone, while we stayed to inspect and work out bit by bit the best routes over such parts of the mountain as lay within view. In an hour or two Burgener and Maurer came back to us, and the former invited me to go on with him back to the point from which he had just descended. His invitation was couched in gloomy terms, but there was a twinkle at the same time in his eye which it was easy to interpret--_ce n'est que l'oeil qui rit_. We started off, and climbed without the rope up the way which was now so familiar, but which on this occasion, in consequence of the glazed condition of the rocks, was as difficult as it could well be; but for a growing conviction that the upper crags were not so bad as they looked, we should scarcely have persevered. 'Wait a little,' said Burgener, 'I will show you something presently.' We reached at last a great knob of rock close below the ridge, and for a long time sat a little distance apart silently staring at the precipices of the upper peak. I asked Burgener what it might be that he had to show me. He pointed to a little crack some way off, and begged that I would study it, and then fell again to gazing at it very hard himself. Though we scarcely knew it at the time this was the turning point of our year's climbing. Up to that moment I had only felt doubts as to the inaccessibility of the mountain. Now a certain feeling of confident elation began to creep over me. The fact is, that we gradually worked ourselves up into the right mental condition, and the aspect of a mountain varies marvellously according to the beholder's frame of mind. These same crags had been by each of us independently, at one time or another, deliberately pronounced impossible. They were in no better condition that day than usual, in fact, in much worse order than we had often seen them before. Yet, notwithstanding that good judges had ridiculed the idea of finding a way up the precipitous wall, the prospect looked different that day as turn by turn we screwed our determination up to the sticking point. Here and there we could clearly trace short bits of practicable rock ledges along which a man might walk, or over which at any rate he might transport himself, while cracks and irregularities seemed to develop as we looked. Gradually, uniting and communicating passages appeared to form. Faster and faster did our thoughts travel, and at last we rose and turned to each other. The same train of ideas had independently been passing through our minds. Burgener's face flushed, his eyes brightened, and he struck a great blow with his axe as we exclaimed almost together, 'It must, and it shall be done!' "The rest of the day was devoted to bringing down the long ladder, which had previously been deposited close below the summit of the ridge, to a point much lower and nearer to the main peak. This ladder had not hitherto been of the slightest assistance on the rocks, and had, indeed, proved a source of constant anxiety and worry, for it was ever prone to precipitate its lumbering form headlong down the slope. We had, it is true, used it occasionally on the glacier to bridge over the crevasses, and had saved some time thereby. Still, we were loth to discard its aid altogether, and accordingly devoted much time and no little exertion to hauling it about and fixing it in a place of security. It was late in the evening before we had made all our preparations for the next assault and turned to the descent, which proved to be exceedingly difficult on this occasion. The snow had become very soft during the day; the late hour and the melting above caused the stones to fall so freely down the gully that we gave up that line of descent and made our way over the face. Often, in travelling down, we were buried up to the waist in soft snow overlying rock slabs, of which we knew no more than that they were very smooth and inclined at a highly inconvenient angle. It was imperative for one only to move at a time, and the perpetual roping and unroping was most wearisome. In one place it was necessary to pay out 150 feet of rope between one position of comparative security and the one next below it, till the individual who was thus lowered looked like a bait at the end of a deep sea-line. One step and the snow would crunch up in a wholesome manner and yield firm support. The next, and the leg plunged in as far as it could reach, while the submerged climber would, literally, struggle in vain to collect himself. Of course those above, to whom the duty of paying out the rope was entrusted, would seize the occasion to jerk as violently at the cord as a cabman does at his horse's mouth when he has misguided the animal round a corner. Now another step, and a layer of snow not more than a foot deep would slide off with a gentle hiss, exposing bare, black ice beneath, or treacherous loose stones. Nor were our difficulties at an end when we reached the foot of the rocks, for the head of the glacier had fallen away from the main mass of the mountain, even as an ill-constructed bow-window occasionally dissociates itself from the façade of a jerry-built villa, and some very complicated manoeuvring was necessary in order to reach the snow slopes. It was not till late in the evening that we reached Chamouni; but it would have mattered nothing to us even had we been benighted, for we had seen all that we had wanted to see, and I would have staked my existence now on the possibility of ascending the peak. But the moment was not yet at hand, and our fortress held out against surrender to the very last by calling in its old allies, sou'-westerly winds and rainy weather. The whirligig of time had not yet revolved so as to bring us in our revenge. * * * * * "Perhaps the monotonous repetition of failures on the peak influences my recollection of what took place subsequently to the expedition last mentioned. Perhaps (as I sometimes think even now) an intense desire to accomplish our ambition ripened into a realisation of actual occurrences which really were only efforts of imagination. This much I know, that when on 7th September we sat once more round a blazing wood fire at the familiar bivouac gazing pensively at the crackling fuel, it seemed hard to persuade one's self that so much had taken place since our last attempt. Leaning back against the rock and closing the eyes for a moment it seemed but a dream, whose reality could be disproved by an effort of the will, that we had gone to Zermatt in a storm and hurried back again in a drizzle on hearing that some other climbers were intent on our peak; that we had left Chamouni in rain and tried, for the seventeenth time, in a tempest; that matters had seemed so utterly hopeless, seeing that the season was far advanced and the days but short, as to induce me to return to England, leaving minute directions that if the snow should chance to melt and the weather to mend I might be summoned back at once; that after eight-and-forty hours of sojourn in the fogs of my native land an intimation had come by telegraph of glad tidings; that I had posted off straightway by _grande vitesse_ back to Chamouni; that I had arrived there at four in the morning." Once more the party mounted the now familiar slopes above their bivouac, and somehow on this occasion they all felt that something definite would come of the expedition, even if they did not on that occasion actually reach the top. I give the remainder of the account in Mr Dent's own words: "Now, personal considerations had to a great extent to be lost sight of in the desire to make the most of the day, and the result was that Hartley must have had a very bad time of it. Unfortunately, perhaps for him, he was by far the lightest member of the party; accordingly we argued that he was far less likely to break the rickety old ladder than we were. Again, as the lightest weight, he was most conveniently lowered down first over awkward places when they occurred. "In the times which are spoken of as old, and which have also, for some not very definable reason, the prefix good, if you wanted your chimneys swept you did not employ an individual now dignified by the title of a Ramoneur, but you adopted the simpler plan of calling in a master sweep. This person would come attended by a satellite, who wore the outward form of a boy and was gifted with certain special physical attributes. Especially was it necessary that the boy should be of such a size and shape as to fit nicely to the chimney, not so loosely on the one hand as to have any difficulty in ascending by means of his knees and elbows, nor so tightly on the other as to run any peril of being wedged in. The boy was then inserted into the chimney and did all the work, while the master remained below or sat expectant on the roof to encourage, to preside over, and subsequently to profit by, his apprentice's exertions. We adopted much the same principle. Hartley, as the lightest, was cast for the _rôle_ of the _jeune premier_, or boy, while Burgener and I on physical grounds alone filled the part, however unworthily, of the master sweep. As a play not infrequently owes its success to one actor so did our _jeune premier_, sometimes very literally, pull us through on the present occasion. Gallantly indeed did he fulfil his duty. Whether climbing up a ladder slightly out of the perpendicular, leaning against nothing in particular and with overhanging rocks above; whether let down by a rope tied round his waist, so that he dangled like the sign of the 'Golden Fleece' outside a haberdasher's shop, or hauled up smooth slabs of rock with his raiment in an untidy heap around his neck; in each and all of these exercises he was equally at home, and would be let down or would come up smiling. One place gave us great difficulty. An excessively steep wall of rock presented itself and seemed to bar the way to a higher level. A narrow crack ran some little way up the face, but above the rock was slightly overhanging, and the water trickling from some higher point had led to the formation of a huge bunch of gigantic icicles, which hung down from above. It was necessary to get past these, but impossible to cut them away, as they would have fallen on us below. Burgener climbed a little way up the face, planted his back against it, and held on to the ladder in front of him, while I did the same just below: by this means we kept the ladder almost perpendicular, but feared to press the highest rung heavily against the icicles above lest we should break them off. We now invited Hartley to mount up. For the first few steps it was easy enough; but the leverage was more and more against us as he climbed higher, seeing that he could not touch the rock, and the strain on our arms below was very severe. However, he got safely to the top and disappeared from view. The performance was a brilliant one, but, fortunately, had not to be repeated; as on a subsequent occasion, by a deviation of about 15 or 20 feet, we climbed to the same spot in a few minutes with perfect ease and without using any ladder at all. On this occasion, however, we must have spent fully an hour while Hartley performed his feats, which were not unworthy of a Japanese acrobat. Every few feet of the mountain at this part gave us difficulty, and it was curious to notice how, on this the first occasion of travelling over the rock face, we often selected the wrong route in points of detail. We ascended from 20 to 25 feet, then surveyed right and left, up and down, before going any further. The minutes slipped by fast, but I have no doubt now that if we had had time we might have ascended to the final arête on this occasion. We had often to retrace our steps, and whenever we did so found some slightly different line by which time could have been saved. Though the way was always difficult nothing was impossible, and when the word at last was given, owing to the failing light, to descend, we had every reason to be satisfied with the result of the day's exploration. There seemed to be little doubt that we had traversed the most difficult part of the mountain, and, indeed, we found on a later occasion, with one or two notable exceptions, that such was the case. "However, at the time we did not think that, even if it were possible, it would be at all advisable to make our next attempt without a second guide. A telegram had been sent to Kaspar Maurer, instructing him to join us at the bivouac with all possible expedition. The excitement was thus kept up to the very last, for we knew not whether the message might have reached him, and the days of fine weather were precious. "It was late in the evening when we reached again the head of the glacier, and the point where we had left the feeble creature who had started with us as a second guide. On beholding us once more he wept copiously, but whether his tears were those of gratitude for release from the cramped position in which he had spent his entire day, or of joy at seeing us safe again, or whether they were the natural overflow of an imbecile intellect stirred by any emotion whatever, it were hard to say; at any rate he wept, and then fell to a description of some interesting details concerning the proper mode of bringing up infants, and the duties of parents towards their children; the most important of which, in his estimation, was that the father of a family should run no risk whatever on a mountain. Reaching our bivouac, we looked anxiously down over the glacier for any signs of Kaspar Maurer. Two or three parties were seen crawling homewards towards the Montanvert over the ice-fields, but no signs of our guide were visible. As the shades of night, however, were falling, we were able indistinctly to see in the far-off distance a little black dot skipping over the Mer de Glace with great activity. Most eagerly did we watch the apparition, and when finally it headed in our direction, and all doubt was removed as to the personality, we felt that our constant ill-luck was at last on the eve of changing. However, it was not till two days later that we left Chamouni once more for the nineteenth, and, as it proved, for the last time to try the peak. "On 11th September we sat on the rocks a few feet above the camping-place. Never before had we been so confident of success. The next day's climb was no longer to be one of exploration. We were to start as early as the light would permit, and we were to go up and always up, if necessary till the light should fail. Possibly we might have succeeded long before if we had had the same amount of determination to do so that we were possessed with on this occasion. We had made up our minds to succeed, and felt as if all our previous attempts had been but a sort of training for this special occasion. We had gone so far as to instruct our friends below to look out for us on the summit between twelve and two the next day. We had even gone to the length of bringing a stick wherewith to make a flagstaff on the top. Still one, and that a very familiar source of disquietude, harassed us as our eyes turned anxiously to the west. A single huge band of cloud hung heavily right across the sky, and looked like a harbinger of evil, for it was of a livid colour above, and tinged with a deep crimson red below. My companion was despondent at the prospect it suggested, and the guides tapped their teeth with their forefingers when they looked in that direction; but it was suggested by a more sanguine person that its form and very watery look suggested a Band of Hope. An insinuating smell of savoury soup was wafted up gently from below-- 'Stealing and giving odour.' We took courage; then descended to the tent, and took sustenance. "There was no difficulty experienced in making an early start the next day, and the moment the grey light allowed us to see our way we set off. On such occasions, when the mind is strung up to a high pitch of excitement, odd and trivial little details and incidents fix themselves indelibly on the memory. I can recall as distinctly now, as if it had only happened a moment ago, the exact tone of voice in which Burgener, on looking out of the tent, announced that the weather would do. Burgener and Kaspar Maurer were now our guides, for our old enemy with the family ties had been paid off and sent away with a flea in his ear--an almost unnecessary adjunct, as anyone who had slept in the same tent with him could testify. Notwithstanding that Maurer was far from well, and, rather weak, we mounted rapidly at first, for the way was by this time familiar enough, and we all meant business. "Our position now was this. By our exploration on the last occasion we had ascertained that it was possible to ascend to a great height on the main mass of the mountain. From the slope of the rocks, and from the shape of the mountain, we felt sure that the final crest would be easy enough. We had then to find a way still up the face, from the point where we had turned back on our last attempt, to some point on the final ridge of the mountain. The rocks on this part we had never been able to examine very closely, for it is necessary to cross well over to the south-eastern face while ascending from the ridge between the Aiguille du Dru and the Aiguille Verte. A great projecting buttress of rock, some two or three hundred feet in height, cuts off the view of that part of the mountain over which we now hoped to make our way. By turning up straight behind this buttress, we hoped to hit off and reach the final crest just above the point where it merges into the precipitous north-eastern wall visible from the Chapeau. This part of the mountain can only be seen from the very head of the Glacier de la Charpoua just under the mass of the Aiguille Verte. But this point of view is too far off for accurate observations, and the strip of mountain was practically, therefore, a _terra incognita_ to us. "We followed the gully running up from the head of the glacier towards the ridge above mentioned, keeping well to the left. Before long it was necessary to cross the gully on to the main peak. To make the topography clearer a somewhat prosaic and domestic simile may be employed. The Aiguille du Dru and the Aiguille Verte are connected by a long sharp ridge, towards which we were now climbing; and this ridge is let in, as it were, into the south-eastern side of the Aiguille du Dru, much as a comb may be stuck into the middle of a hairbrush, the latter article representing the main peak. Here we employed the ladder which had been placed in the right position the day previously. Right glad were we to see the rickety old structure, which had now spent four years on the mountain, and was much the worse for it. It creaked and groaned dismally under our weight, and ran sharp splinters into us at all points of contact, but yet there was a certain companionship about the old ladder, and we seemed almost to regret that it was not destined to share more in our prospective success. A few steps on and we came to a rough cleft some five-and-twenty feet in depth, which had to be descended. A double rope was fastened to a projecting crag, and we swung ourselves down as if we were barrels of split peas going into a ship's hold; then to the ascent again, and the excitement waxed stronger as we drew nearer to the doubtful part of the mountain. Still, we did not anticipate insuperable obstacles; for I think we were possessed with a determination to succeed, which is a sensation often spoken of as a presentiment of success. A short climb up an easy broken gully, and of a sudden we seemed to be brought to a stand still. A little ledge at our feet curled round a projecting crag on the left. 'What are we to do now?' said Burgener, but with a smile on his face that left no doubt as to the answer. He lay flat down on the ledge and wriggled round the projection, disappearing suddenly from view, as if the rock had swallowed him up. A shout proclaimed that his expectations had not been deceived, and we were bidden to follow; and follow we did, sticking to the flat face of the rock with all our power, and progressing like the skates down the glass sides of an aquarium tank. When the last man joined us we found ourselves all huddled together on a very little ledge indeed, while an overhanging rock above compelled us to assume the anomalous attitude enforced on the occupant of a little-ease dungeon. What next? An eager look up solved part of the doubt. 'There is the way,' said Burgener, leaning back to get a view. 'Oh, indeed,' we answered. No doubt there was a way, and we were glad to hear that it was possible to get up it. The attractions of the route consisted of a narrow flat gully plastered up with ice, exceeding straight and steep, and crowned at the top with a pendulous mass of enormous icicles. The gully resembled a half-open book standing up on end. Enthusiasts in rock-climbing who have ascended the Riffelhorn from the Gorner Glacier side will have met with a similar gully, but, as a rule, free from ice, which, in the present instance, constituted the chief difficulty. The ice, filling up the receding angle from top to bottom, rendered it impossible to find handhold on the rocks, and it was exceedingly difficult to cut steps in such a place, for the slabs of ice were prone to break away entire. However, the guides said they could get up, and asked us to keep out of the way of chance fragments of ice which might fall down as they ascended. So we tucked ourselves away on one side, and they fell to as difficult a business as could well be imagined. The rope was discarded, and slowly they worked up, their backs and elbows against one sloping wall, their feet against the other. But the angle was too wide to give security to this position, the more especially that with shortened axes they were compelled to hack out enough of the ice to reveal the rock below. In such places the ice is but loosely adherent, being raised up from the face much as pie-crust dissociates itself from the fruit beneath under the influence of the oven. Strike lightly with the axe, and a hollow sound is yielded without much impression on the ice; strike hard, and the whole mass breaks away. But the latter method is the right one to adopt, though it necessitates very hard work. No steps are really reliable when cut in ice of this description. "The masses of ice, coming down harder and harder as they ascended without intermission, showed how they were working, and the only consolation we had during a time that we felt to be critical, was that the guides were not likely to expend so much labour unless they thought that some good result would come of it. Suddenly there came a sharp shout and cry; then a crash as a great slab of ice, falling from above, was dashed into pieces at our feet and leaped into the air; then a brief pause, and we knew not what would happen next. Either the gully had been ascended or the guides had been pounded, and failure here might be failure altogether. It is true that Hartley and I had urged the guides to find a way some little distance to the right of the line on which they were now working; but they had reported that, though easy below, the route we had pointed out was impossible above.[10] A faint scratching noise close above us, as of a mouse perambulating behind a wainscot. We look up. It is the end of a rope. We seize it, and our pull from below is answered by a triumphant yell from above as the line is drawn taut. Fastening the end around my waist, I started forth. The gully was a scene of ruin, and I could hardly have believed that two axes in so short a time could have dealt so much destruction. Nowhere were the guides visible, and in another moment there was a curious sense of solitariness as I battled with the obstacles, aided in no small degree by the rope. The top of the gully was blocked up by a great cube of rock, dripping still where the icicles had just been broken off. The situation appeared to me to demand deliberation, though it was not accorded. 'Come on,' said voices from above. 'Up you go,' said a voice from below. I leaned as far back as I could, and felt about for a handhold. There was none. Everything seemed smooth. Then right, then left; still none. So I smiled feebly to myself, and called out, 'Wait a minute.' This was, of course, taken as an invitation to pull vigorously, and, struggling and kicking like a spider irritated by tobacco smoke, I topped the rock, and lent a hand on the rope for Hartley to follow. Then we learnt that a great mass of ice had broken away under Maurer's feet while they were in the gully, and that he must have fallen had not Burgener pinned him to the rock with one hand. From the number of times that this escape was described to us during that day and the next, I am inclined to think that it was rather a near thing. At the time, and often since, I have questioned myself as to whether we could have got up this passage without the rope let down from above. I think either of us could have done it in time with a companion. It was necessary for two to be in the gully at the same time, to assist each other. It was necessary, also, to discard the rope, which in such a place could only be a source of danger. But no amateur should have tried the passage on that occasion without confidence in his own powers, and without absolute knowledge of the limit of his own powers. If the gully had been free from ice it would have been much easier. "'The worst is over now,' said Burgener. I was glad to hear it, but looking upwards, had my doubts. The higher we went the bigger the rocks seemed to be. Still there was a way, and it was not so very unlike what I had, times out of mind, pictured to myself in imagination. Another tough scramble, and we stood on a comparatively extensive ledge. With elation we observed that we had now climbed more than half of the only part of the mountain of the nature of which we were uncertain. A few steps on and Burgener grasped me suddenly by the arm. 'Do you see the great red rock up yonder?' he whispered, hoarse with excitement-- 'in ten minutes we shall be there and on the arête, and then----' Nothing could stop us now; but a feverish anxiety to see what lay beyond, to look on the final slope which we knew must be easy, impelled us on, and we worked harder than ever to overcome the last few obstacles. The ten minutes expanded into something like thirty before we really reached the rock. Of a sudden the mountain seemed to change its form. For hours we had been climbing the hard, dry rocks. Now these appeared suddenly to vanish from under our feet, and once again our eyes fell on snow which lay thick, half hiding, half revealing, the final slope of the ridge. A glance along it showed that we had not misjudged. Even the cautious Maurer admitted that, as far as we could see, all appeared promising. And now, with the prize almost within our grasp, a strange desire to halt and hang back came on. Burgener tapped the rock with his axe, and we seemed somehow to regret that the way in front of us must prove comparatively easy. Our foe had almost yielded, and it appeared something like cruelty to administer the final _coup de grâce_. We could already anticipate the half-sad feeling with which we should reach the top itself. It needed but little to make the feeling give way. Some one cried 'Forward,' and instantly we were all in our places again, and the leader's axe crashed through the layers of snow into the hard blue ice beneath. A dozen steps, and then a short bit of rock scramble; then more steps along the south side of the ridge, followed by more rock, and the ridge beyond, which had been hidden for a minute or two, stretched out before us again as we topped the first eminence. Better and better it looked as we went on. 'See there,' cried Burgener suddenly, 'the actual top!' "There was no possibility of mistaking the two huge stones we had so often looked at from below. They seemed, in the excitement of the moment, misty and blurred for a brief space, but grew clear again as I passed my hand over my eyes, and seemed to swallow something. A few feet below the pinnacles and on the left was one of those strange arches formed by a great transverse boulder, so common near the summits of these aiguilles, and through the hole we could see blue sky. Nothing could lay beyond, and, still better, nothing could be above. On again, while we could scarcely stand still in the great steps the leader set his teeth to hack out. Then there came a short troublesome bit of snow scramble, where the heaped-up cornice had fallen back from the final rock. There we paused for a moment, for the summit was but a few feet from us, and Hartley, who was ahead, courteously allowed me to unrope and go on first. In a few seconds I clutched at the last broken rocks, and hauled myself up on to the sloping summit. There for a moment I stood alone gazing down on Chamouni. The holiday dream of five years was accomplished; the Aiguille du Dru was climbed. Where in the wide world will you find a sport able to yield pleasure like this?" FOOTNOTE: [10] It has transpired since that our judgment happened to be right in this matter, and we might probably have saved an hour or more at this part of the ascent. CHAPTER XIX THE MOST FAMOUS MOUNTAIN IN THE ALPS--THE CONQUEST OF THE MATTERHORN The story of the Matterhorn must always be one of unique attraction. Like a good play, it resumes and concentrates in itself the incidents of a prolonged struggle--the conquest of the Alps. The strange mountain stood forth as a Goliath in front of the Alpine host, and when it found its conqueror there was a general feeling that the subjugation of the High Alps by human effort was decided, a feeling which has been amply justified by events. The contest itself was an eventful one. It was marked by a race between eager rivals, and the final victory was marred by the most terrible of Alpine accidents. [Illustration: MR AND MRS SEILER AND THREE OF THEIR DAUGHTERS. ZERMATT, 1890.] [Illustration: GOING LEISURELY TO ZERMATT WITH A MULE FOR THE LUGGAGE IN THE OLDEN DAYS.] "As a writer, Mr Whymper has proved himself equal to his subject. His serious, emphatic style, his concentration on his object, take hold of his readers and make them follow his campaigns with as much interest as if some great stake depended on the result. No one can fail to remark the contrast between the many unsuccessful attacks which preceded the fall of the Matterhorn, and the frequency with which it is now climbed by amateurs, some of whom it would be courtesy to call indifferent climbers. The moral element has, of course, much to do with this. But allowance must also be made for the fact that the Breil ridge, which looks the easiest, is still the most difficult, and in its unbechained state was far the most difficult. The terrible appearance of the Zermatt and Zmutt ridges long deterred climbers, yet both have now yielded to the first serious attack." These words, taken from a review of Mr Whymper's _Ascent of the Matterhorn_, occur in vol. ix. on page 441 of _The Alpine Journal_. They are as true now as on the day when they appeared, but could the writer have known the future history of the great peak, and the appalling vengeance it called down over and over again on "amateurs" and the guides who, themselves unfit, tempted their ignorant charges to go blindly to their deaths, one feels he would have stood aghast at the contemplation of the tragedies to be enacted on the blood-stained precipices of that hoary peak. THE CONQUEST OF THE MATTERHORN When one remembers all the facilities for climbing which are found at present in every Alpine centre, the experienced guides who may be had, the comfortable huts which obviate the need for a bivouac out of doors, the knowledge of the art of mountaineering which is available if any desire to acquire it, one marvels more and more at the undaunted persistence displayed by the pioneers of present-day mountaineering in their struggle with the immense difficulties which beset them on every side. When, in 1861, Mr Whymper made his first attempt on the Matterhorn, the first problem he had to solve was that of obtaining a skilful guide. Michael Croz of Chamonix believed the ascent to be impossible. Bennen thought the same. Jean Antoine Carrel was dictatorial and unreasonable in his demands, though convinced that the summit could be gained. Peter Taugwalder asked 200 francs whether the top was reached or not. "Almer asked, with more point than politeness, 'Why don't you try to go up a mountain which _can_ be ascended?'" In 1862 Mr Whymper, who had three times during the previous summer tried to get up the mountain, returned to Breuil on the Italian side, and thence made five plucky attempts, sometimes with Carrel, and once alone, to go to the highest point it was possible to reach. On the occasion of his solitary climb, Mr Whymper had set out from Breuil to see if his tent, left on a ledge of the mountain, was still, in spite of recent storms, safely in its place. He found all in good order, and tempted to linger by the lovely weather, time slipped away, and he at last decided to sleep that night in the tent, which contained ample provisions for several days. The next morning Mr Whymper could not resist an attempt to explore the route towards the summit, and eventually he managed to reach a considerable height, much above that attained by any of his predecessors. Exulting in the hope of entire success in the near future, he returned to the tent. "My exultation was a little premature," he writes, and goes on to describe what befell him on the way down. I give the thrilling account of his adventure in his own words:-- "About 5 P.M. I left the tent again, and thought myself as good as at Breuil. The friendly rope and claw had done good service, and had smoothened all the difficulties. I lowered myself through the chimney, however, by making a fixture of the rope, which I then cut off, and left behind, as there was enough and to spare. My axe had proved a great nuisance in coming down, and I left it in the tent. It was not attached to the bâton, but was a separate affair--an old navy boarding-axe. While cutting up the different snow-beds on the ascent, the bâton trailed behind fastened to the rope; and, when climbing, the axe was carried behind, run through the rope tied round my waist, and was sufficiently out of the way; but in descending when coming down face outwards (as is always best where it is possible), the head or the handle of the weapon caught frequently against the rocks, and several times nearly upset me. So, out of laziness if you will, it was left in the tent. I paid dearly for the imprudence. "The Col du Lion was passed, and fifty yards more would have placed me on the 'Great Staircase,' down which one can run. But, on arriving at an angle of the cliffs of the Tête du Lion, while skirting the upper edge of the snow which abuts against them, I found that the heat of the two past days had nearly obliterated the steps which had been cut when coming up. The rocks happened to be impracticable just at this corner, and it was necessary to make the steps afresh. The snow was too hard to beat or tread down, and at the angle it was all but ice; half a dozen steps only were required, and then the ledges could be followed again. So I held to the rock with my right hand, and prodded at the snow with the point of my stick until a good step was made, and then, leaning round the angle, did the same for the other side. So far well, but in attempting to pass the corner (to the present moment I cannot tell how it happened), I slipped and fell. "The slope was steep on which this took place, and was at the top of a gully that led down through two subordinate buttresses towards the Glacier du Lion--which was just seen a thousand feet below. The gully narrowed and narrowed, until there was a mere thread of snow lying between two walls of rock, which came to an abrupt termination at the top of a precipice that intervened between it and the glacier. Imagine a funnel cut in half through its length, placed at an angle of 45° with its point below, and its concave side uppermost, and you will have a fair idea of the place. "The knapsack brought my head down first, and I pitched into some rocks about a dozen feet below; they caught something and tumbled me off the edge, head over heels, into the gully; the bâton was dashed from my hands, and I whirled downwards in a series of bounds, each longer than the last; now over ice, now into rocks; striking my head four or five times, each time with increased force. The last bound sent me spinning through the air, in a leap of 50 or 60 feet, from one side of the gully to the other, and I struck the rocks, luckily, with the whole of my left side. They caught my clothes for a moment, and I fell back on to the snow with motion arrested. My head, fortunately, came the right side up, and a few frantic catches brought me to a halt in the neck of the gully, and on the verge of the precipice. Bâton, hat, and veil skimmed by and disappeared, and the crash of the rocks--which I had started--as they fell on to the glacier, told how narrow had been the escape from utter destruction. As it was, I fell nearly 200 feet in seven or eight bounds. Ten feet more would have taken me in one gigantic leap of 800 feet on to the glacier below. "The situation was sufficiently serious. The rocks could not be let go for a moment, and the blood was spirting out of more than twenty cuts. The most serious ones were in the head, and I vainly tried to close them with one hand, whilst holding on with the other. It was useless; the blood jerked out in blinding jets at each pulsation. At last, in a moment of inspiration, I kicked out a big lump of snow, and stuck it as a plaster on my head. The idea was a happy one, and the flow of blood diminished. Then, scrambling up, I got, not a moment too soon, to a place of safety, and fainted away. The sun was setting when consciousness returned, and it was pitch dark before the Great Staircase was descended; but, by a combination of luck and care, the whole 4900 feet of descent to Breuil was accomplished without a slip, or once missing the way. I slunk past the cabin of the cowherds, who were talking and laughing inside, utterly ashamed of the state to which I had been brought by my imbecility, and entered the inn stealthily, wishing to escape to my room unnoticed. But Favre met me in the passage, demanded 'Who is it?' screamed with fright when he got a light, and aroused the household. Two dozen heads then held solemn council over mine, with more talk than action. The natives were unanimous in recommending that hot wine mixed with salt should be rubbed into the cuts; I protested, but they insisted. It was all the doctoring they received. Whether their rapid healing was to be attributed to that simple remedy or to a good state of health is a question. They closed up remarkably quickly, and in a few days I was able to move again." In 1863 Mr Whymper once more returned to the attack, but still without success. In 1864 he was unable to visit the neighbourhood of the Matterhorn, but in 1865 he made his eighth and last attempt on the Breuil, or Italian side. The time had now come when Mr Whymper became convinced that it was an error to think the Italian side the easier. It certainly looked far less steep than the north, or Zermatt side, but on mountains quality counts for far more than quantity; and though the ledges above Breuil might sometimes be broader than those on the Swiss side, and the general slope of the mountain appear at a distance to be gentler, yet the rock had an unpleasant outward dip, giving sloping, precarious hold for hand or foot, and every now and then there were abrupt walls of rock which it was hardly possible to ascend, and out of the question to descend without fixing ropes or chains. [Illustration: THE GUIDES' WALL, ZERMATT.] Now the Swiss side of the great peak differs greatly from its Italian face. The slope is really less steep, and the ledges, if narrow, slope inward, and are good to step on or grasp. Mr Whymper had noticed that large patches of snow lay on the mountain all the summer, which they could not do if the north face was a precipice. He determined, therefore, to make his next attempt on that side. He had, in 1865, intended to climb with Michel Croz, but some misunderstanding had arisen, and Croz, believing that he was free, had engaged himself to another traveller. His letter, "the last one he wrote to me," says Mr Whymper, is "an interesting souvenir of a brave and upright man." The following is an extract from it: "enfin, Monsieur, je regrette beaucoup d'être engagè avec votre compatriote et de ne pouvoir vous accompagner dans vos conquetes mais dès qu'on a donnè sa parole on doit la tenir et être homme. "Ainsi, prenez patience pour cette campagne et esperons que plus tard nous nous retrouverons. "En attendant recevez les humbles salutations de votre tout devoué. "CROZ MICHEL-AUGUSTE." By an extraordinary series of chances, however, when Mr Whymper reached Zermatt, whom should he see sitting on the guides' wall but Croz! His employer had been taken ill, and had returned home, and the great guide was immediately engaged by the Rev. Charles Hudson for an attempt on the Matterhorn! Mr Whymper had been joined by Lord Francis Douglas and the Taugwalders, father and son, and thus two parties were about to start for the Matterhorn at the same hour next day. This was thought inadvisable, and eventually they joined forces and decided to set out the following morning together. Mr Hudson had a young man travelling with him, by name Mr Hadow, and when Mr Whymper enquired if he were sufficiently experienced to take part in the expedition, Mr Hudson replied in the affirmative, though the fact that Mr Hadow had recently made a very rapid ascent of Mont Blanc really proved nothing. Here was the weakest spot in the whole business, the presence of a youth, untried on difficult peaks, on a climb which might involve work of a most unusual kind. Further, we should now-a-days consider the party both far too large and wrongly constituted, consisting as it did of four amateurs, two good guides, and a porter. On 13th July, 1865, at 5.30 A.M., they started from Zermatt in cloudless weather. They took things leisurely that day, for they only intended going a short distance above the base of the peak, and by 12 o'clock they had found a good position for the tent at about 11,000 feet above sea. The guides went on some way to explore, and on their return about 3 P.M. declared that they had not found a single difficulty, and that success was assured. [Illustration: THE ZERMATT SIDE OF THE MATTERHORN. The route now usually followed has been kindly marked by Sir W. Martin Conway. The first party, on reaching the snow patch near the top, bore somewhat to their right to avoid a nearly vertical wall of rock, where now hangs a chain. _From a Photograph by the late W. F. Donkin._] [Illustration: RISING MISTS.] The following morning, as soon as it was light enough to start, they set out, and without trouble they mounted the formidable-looking north face, and approached the steep bit of rock which it is now customary to ascend straight up by means of a fixed chain. But they were obliged to avoid it by diverging to their right on to the slope overhanging the Zermatt side of the mountain. This involved somewhat difficult climbing, made especially awkward by the thin film of ice which at places overlay the rocks. "It was a place over which any fair mountaineer might pass in safety," writes Mr Whymper, and neither here nor anywhere else on the peak did Mr Hudson require the slightest help. With Mr Hadow, however, the case was different, his inexperience necessitating continual assistance. Before long this solitary difficulty was passed, and, turning a rather awkward corner, the party saw with delight that only 200 feet or so of easy snow separated them from the top! Yet even then it was not certain that they had not been beaten, for a few days before another party, led by Jean Antoine Carrel, had started from Breuil, and might have reached the much-desired summit before them. The slope eased off more and more, and at last Mr Whymper and Croz, casting off the rope, ran a neck and neck race to the top. Hurrah! not a footstep could be seen, and the snow at both ends of the ridge was absolutely untrampled. "Where were the men?" Mr Whymper wondered, and peering over the cliffs of the Italian side he saw them as dots far down. They were 1250 feet below, yet they heard the cries of the successful party on the top, and knew that victory was not for them. Still a measure of success awaited them too, for the next day the bold Carrel, with J. B. Bich, in his turn reached the summit by the far more difficult route on the side of his native valley. Carrel was the one man who had always believed that the Matterhorn could be climbed, and one can well understand Mr Whymper's generous wish that he could have shared in the first ascent. One short hour was spent on the summit. Then began the ever-eventful descent. The climbers commenced to go down the difficult piece in the following order: Croz first, Hadow next, then Mr Hudson, after him Lord Francis Douglas, then old Taugwalder, and lastly Mr Whymper, who gives an account of what happened almost immediately after in the following words: "A few minutes later a sharp-eyed lad ran into the Monte Rosa Hotel to Seiler, saying that he had seen an avalanche falling from the summit of the Matterhorn on to the Matterhorngletscher. The boy was reproved for telling idle stories; he was right, nevertheless, and this was what he saw: "Michel Croz had laid aside his axe, and in order to give Mr Hadow greater security, was absolutely taking hold of his legs, and putting his feet, one by one, into their proper positions.[11] So far as I know, no one was actually descending. I cannot speak with certainty, because the two leading men were partially hidden from my sight by an intervening mass of rock, but it is my belief, from the movements of their shoulders, that Croz, having done as I have said, was in the act of turning round, to go down a step or two himself; at this moment Mr Hadow slipped, fell against him, and knocked him over. I heard one startled exclamation from Croz, then saw him and Mr Hadow flying downwards. In another moment Hudson was dragged from his steps, and Lord Francis Douglas immediately after him.[12] All this was the work of a moment. Immediately we heard Croz's exclamation old Peter and I planted ourselves as firmly as the rocks would permit;[13] the rope was taut between us, and the jerk came on us both as on one man. We held, but the rope broke midway between Taugwalder and Lord Francis Douglas. For a few seconds we saw our unfortunate companions sliding downwards on their backs, and spreading out their hands, endeavouring to save themselves. They passed from our sight uninjured, disappeared one by one, and fell from precipice to precipice on to the Matterhorngletscher below, a distance of nearly 4000 feet in height. From the moment the rope broke it was impossible to help them. So perished our comrades!" [Illustration: A BITTERLY COLD DAY, 13,000 FEET ABOVE SEA.] [Illustration: The Matterhorn from the Zmutt side. The dotted line shows the course which the unfortunate party probably took in their fatal fall.] A more terrible position than that of Mr Whymper and the Taugwalders it is difficult to imagine. The Englishman kept his head, however, though the two guides, absolutely paralysed with terror, lost all control over themselves, and for a long time could not be induced to move. At last old Peter changed his position, and soon the three stood close together. Mr Whymper then examined the broken rope, and found to his horror that it was the weakest of the three ropes, and had only been intended as a reserve to fix to rocks and leave behind. How it came to have been used will always remain a mystery, but that it broke and was not cut there is no doubt. Taugwalder's neighbours at Zermatt persisted in asserting that he severed the rope. "In regard to this infamous charge," writes Mr Whymper, "I say that he _could_ not do so at the moment of the slip, and that the end of the rope in my possession shows that he did not do so beforehand." At 6 P.M., after a terribly trying descent, during any moment of which the Taugwalders, still completely unnerved, might have slipped and carried the whole party to destruction, they arrived on "the ridge descending towards Zermatt, and all peril was over." But it was still a long way to the valley, and an hour after nightfall the climbers were obliged to seek a resting-place, and upon a slab barely large enough to hold the three they spent six miserable hours. At daybreak they started again, and descended rapidly to Zermatt. "Seiler met me at the door. 'What is the matter?' 'The Taugwalders and I have returned.' He did not need more, and burst into tears." At 2 A.M. on Sunday the 16th, Mr Whymper and two other Englishmen, with a number of Chamonix and Oberland guides, set out to discover the bodies. The Zermatt men, threatened with excommunication by their priests if they failed to attend early Mass were unable to accompany them, and to some of them this was a severe trial. By 8.30 they reached the plateau at the top of the glacier, and came within sight of the spot where their companions must be. "As we saw one weather-beaten man after another raise the telescope, turn deadly pale, and pass it on without a word to the next, we knew that all hope was gone." They drew near, and found the bodies of Croz, Hadow and Hudson close together, but of Lord Francis Douglas they could see nothing, though a pair of gloves, a belt and a boot belonging to him were found. The boots of all the victims were off, and lying on the snow close by. This frequently happens when persons have fallen a long distance down rocks. Eventually the remains were brought down to Zermatt, a sad and dangerous task. So ends the story of the conquest of the Matterhorn. Its future history is marred by many a tragedy, of which perhaps none are more pathetic, or were more wholly unnecessary, than what is known as the Borckhardt accident. FOOTNOTES: [11] Not at all an unusual proceeding, even between born mountaineers. I wish to convey the impression that Croz was using all pains, rather than to indicate inability on the part of Mr Hadow. The insertion of the word "absolutely" makes the passage, perhaps, rather ambiguous. I retain it now in order to offer the above explanation. [12] At the moment of the accident Croz, Hadow, and Hudson were close together. Between Hudson and Lord Francis Douglas the rope was all but taut, and the same between all the others who were above. Croz was standing by the side of a rock which afforded good hold, and if he had been aware, or had suspected that anything was about to occur, he might and would have gripped it, and would have prevented any mischief. He was taken totally by surprise. Mr Hadow slipped off his feet on to his back, his feet struck Croz in the small of the back, and knocked him right over, head first. Croz's axe was out of his reach, and without it he managed to get his head uppermost before he disappeared from our sight. If it had been in his hand I have no doubt that he would have stopped himself and Mr Hadow. Mr Hadow, at the moment of the slip, was not occupying a bad position. He could have moved either up or down, and could touch with his hand the rock of which I have spoken. Hudson was not so well placed, but he had liberty of motion. The rope was not taut from him to Hadow, and the two men fell 10 or 12 feet before the jerk came upon him. Lord Francis Douglas was not favourably placed, and could neither move up nor down. Old Peter was firmly planted, and stood just beneath a large rock, which he hugged with both arms. I enter into these details to make it more apparent that the position occupied by the party at the moment of the accident was not by any means excessively trying. We were compelled to pass over the exact spot where the slip occurred, and we found--even with shaken nerves--that _it_ was not a difficult place to pass. I have described the _slope generally_ as difficult, and it is so undoubtedly to most persons, but it must be distinctly understood that Mr Hadow slipped at a comparatively easy part. [13] Or, more correctly, we held on as tightly as possible. There was no time to change our position. CHAPTER XX SOME TRAGEDIES ON THE MATTERHORN By the summer of 1886 it had become common for totally inexperienced persons with incompetent guides (for no first-rate guide would undertake such a task) to make the ascent of the Matterhorn. In fine settled weather they contrived to get safely up and down the mountain. But like all high peaks the Matterhorn is subject to sudden atmospheric changes, and a high wind or falling snow will in an hour or less change the whole character of the work and make the descent one of extreme difficulty even for experienced mountaineers. Practically unused to Alpine climbing, thinly clothed, and accompanied by young guides of third-rate ability, what wonder is it that when caught in a storm, a member of the party, whose expedition is described below, perished? [Illustration: JOST, FOR MANY YEARS PORTER OF THE MONTE ROSA HOTEL, ZERMATT. ] The editor of _The Alpine Journal_ writes: "On the morning of 17th August last four parties of travellers left the lower hut on the mountain and attained the summit. One of them, that of Mr Mercer, reached Zermatt the same night. The three others were much delayed by a sudden storm which came on during the descent. Two Dutch gentlemen, led by Moser and Peter Taugwald, regained the lower hut at an advanced hour of the night; but Monsieur A. de Falkner and his son (with J. P. and Daniel Maquignaz, and Angelo Ferrari, of Pinzolo), and Messrs John Davies and Frederick Charles Borckhardt (with Fridolin Kronig and Peter Aufdemblatten), were forced to spend the night out; the latter party, indeed, spent part of the next day (18th August) out as well, and Mr Borckhardt unfortunately succumbed to the exposure in the afternoon. He was the youngest son of the late vicar of Lydden, and forty-eight years of age. Neither he nor Mr Davies was a member of the Alpine Club." _The Pall Mall Gazette_ published on 24th August the account given by Mr Davies to an interviewer. It is as follows, and the inexperience of the climbers is made clear in every line:- "We left Zermatt about 2 o'clock on Monday afternoon in capital spirits. The weather was lovely, and everything promised a favourable ascent. We had two guides whose names were on the official list, whose references were satisfactory, and who were twice over recommended to us by Herr Seiler, whose advice we sought before we engaged them, and who gave them excellent credentials. We placed ourselves in their hands, as is the rule in such cases, ordered the provisions and wine which they declared to be necessary, and made ready for the ascent. I had lived among hills from my boyhood. I had some experience of mountaineering in the Pyrenees, where I ascended the highest and other peaks. In the Engadine I have also done some climbing; and last week, together with Mr Borckhardt, who was one of my oldest friends, I made the ascent of the Titlis, and made other excursions among the hills. Mr Borckhardt was slightly my senior, but as a walker he was quite equal to me in endurance. When we arrived at Zermatt last Saturday we found that parties were going up the Matterhorn on Monday. We knew that ladies had made the ascent, and youths; and the mountain besides had been climbed by friends of ours whose physical strength, to say the least, was not superior to ours. It was a regular thing to go up the Matterhorn, and we accordingly determined to make the ascent. "We started next morning at half-past two or three. We were the third party to leave the cabin, but, making good speed over the first stage of the ascent, we reached the second when the others were breakfasting there, and then resumed the climb. Mr Mercer, with his party, followed by the Dutch party, started shortly before us. We met them about a quarter-past eight returning from the top. They said that they had been there half an hour, and that there was no view. We passed them, followed by the Italians, and reached the summit about a quarter to nine. The ascent, though toilsome, had not exhausted us in the least. Both Mr Borckhardt and myself were quite fresh, although we had made the summit before the Italians, who started together with us from the second hut. Had the weather remained favourable, we could have made the descent with ease.[14] "Even while we were on the summit I felt hail begin to fall, and before we were five minutes on our way down it was hailing heavily. It was a fine hail, and inches of it fell in a very short time, and the track was obliterated. We pressed steadily downwards, followed by the Italians, nor did it occur to me at that time that there was any danger. We got past the ropes and chains safely, and reached the snowy slope on the shoulder. At this point we were leading. But as the Italians had three guides, and we only two, we changed places, so that their third guide could lead. They climbed down the slope, cutting steps for their feet in the ice. We trod closely after the Italians, but the snow and hail filled up the holes so rapidly, that, in order to make a safe descent, our guides had to recut the steps. This took much time--as much as two hours I should say--and every hour the snow was getting deeper. At last we got down the snow-slope on to the steep rocks below. The Italians were still in front of us, and we all kept on steadily descending. We were still in good spirits, nor did we feel any doubt that we should reach the bottom. Our first alarm was occasioned by the Italians losing their way. They found their progress barred by precipitous rocks, and their guides came back to ours to consult as to the road. Our guides insisted that the path lay down the side of a steep couloir. Their guides demurred; but after going down some ten feet, they cried out that our guides were right, and they went on--we followed. By this time it was getting dark. The hail continued increasing. We began to get alarmed. It seemed impossible to make our way to the cabin that night. We had turned to the right after leaving the couloir, crossed some slippery rocks, and after a short descent turned to the left and came to the edge of the precipice where Mosely fell, where there was some very slight shelter afforded by an overhanging rock, and there we prepared to pass the night, seeing that all further progress was hopeless. We were covered with ice. The night was dark. The air was filled with hail. We were too cold to eat. The Italians were about an hour below us on the mountain side. We could hear their voices and exchanged shouts. Excepting them, we were thousands of feet above any other human being. I found that while Borckhardt had emptied his brandy-flask, mine was full. I gave him half of mine. That lasted us through the night. We did not try the wine till the morning, and then we found that it was frozen solid. "Never have I had a more awful experience than that desolate night on the Matterhorn. We were chilled to the bone, and too exhausted to stand. The wind rose, and each gust drove the hail into our faces, cutting us like a knife. Our guides did everything that man could do to save us. Aufdemblatten did his best to make us believe that there was no danger. 'Only keep yourselves warm; keep moving; and we shall go down all right to-morrow, when the sun rises.' 'It is of no use,' I replied; 'we shall die here!' They chafed our limbs, and did their best to make us stand up; but it was in vain. I felt angry at their interference. Why could they not leave us alone to die? I remember striking wildly but feebly at my guide as he insisted on rubbing me. Every movement gave me such agony, I was racked with pain, especially in my back and loins--pain so intense as to make me cry out. The guides had fastened the rope round the rock to hold on by, while they jumped to keep up the circulation of the blood. They brought us to it, and made us jump twice or thrice. Move we could not; we lay back prostrate on the snow and ice, while the guides varied their jumping by rubbing our limbs and endeavouring to make us move our arms and legs. They were getting feebler and feebler. Borckhardt and I, as soon as we were fully convinced that death was imminent for us, did our best to persuade our guides to leave us where we lay and make their way down the hill. They were married men with families. To save us was impossible; they might at least save themselves. We begged them to consider their wives and children and to go. This was at the beginning of the night. They refused. They would rather die with us, they said; they would remain and do their best. [Illustration: Hoar Frost in the Alps.] [Illustration: Hoar Frost in the Alps.] "Borckhardt and I talked a little as men might do who are at the point of death. He bore without complaining pain that made me cry out from time to time. We both left directions with the guides that we were to be buried at Zermatt. Borckhardt spoke of his friends and his family affairs, facing his death with manly resignation and composure. As the night wore on I became weaker and weaker. I could not even make the effort necessary to flick the snow off my companion's face. By degrees the guides began to lose hope. The cold was so intense, we crouched together for warmth. They lay beside us to try and impart some heat. It was in vain. 'We shall die!' 'We are lost!' 'Yes,' said Aufdemblatten, 'very likely we shall.' He was so weak, poor fellow, he could hardly keep his feet; but still he tried to keep me moving. It was a relief not to be touched. I longed for death, but death would not come. "Towards half-past two on Wednesday morning--so we reckoned, for all our watches had stopped with the cold--the snow ceased, and the air became clear. It had been snowing or hailing without intermission for eighteen hours. It was very dark below, but above all was clear, although the wind still blew. When the sun rose, we saw just a gleam of light. Then a dark cloud came from the hollow below, and our hopes went out. 'Oh, if only the sun would come out!' we said to each other, I do not know how many times. But it did not, and instead of the sun came the snow once more. Towards seven, as near as I can make it, a desperate attempt was made to get us to walk. The guides took Borckhardt, and between them propped him on his feet and made him stagger on a few steps. They failed to keep him moving more than a step or two. The moment they let go he dropped. They repeated the same with me. Neither could I stand. I remember four distinct times they drove us forward, only to see us drop helpless after each step. It was evidently no use. Borckhardt had joined again with me in repeatedly urging the guides to leave us and to save themselves. They had refused, and continued to do all that their failing strength allowed to protect us from the bitter cold. As the morning wore on, my friend, who during the night had been much more composed and tranquil than I, began to grow perceptibly weaker. We were quite resigned to die, and had, in fact, lost all hope. We had been on the mountain from about 3 A.M. on Tuesday to 1 P.M. on Wednesday--thirty-four hours in all. Eighteen of these were spent in a blinding snowstorm, and we had hardly tasted food since we left the summit at nine on the Tuesday morning. At length (about one) we heard shouts far down the mountain. The guides said they probably proceeded from a search party sent out to save us. I again urged the guides to go down by themselves to meet the searchers, and to hurry them up. This they refused to do unless I accompanied them. Borckhardt was at this time too much exhausted to stand upright, and was lying in a helpless condition. The guides, although completely worn out, wished to attempt the descent with me, and they considered that by so doing we should be able to indicate to the searchers the precise spot where my friend lay, and to hasten their efforts to reach him with stimulants. Since early morning the snow had ceased falling. We began the descent, and at first I required much assistance from the guides, but by degrees became better able to move, and the hope of soon procuring help from the approaching party for my poor friend sustained us. After a most laborious descent of about an hour and a half, we reached the first members of the rescue party, and directed them to where Borckhardt lay, requesting them to proceed there with all haste, and, after giving him stimulants, to bring him down to the lower hut in whatever condition they found him. We went on to the hut to await his arrival, meeting on the way Mr King, of the English Alpine Club, with his guides, who were hurrying up with warm clothing. A few hours later we heard the terrible news that the relief party had found him dead." A letter to _The Times_, written by Mr (now Sir Henry Seymour) King comments as follows on this deplorable accident. It is endorsed by all the members of the Alpine Club then at Zermatt. After describing the circumstances of the ascent, the writer continues: "Instead of staying all together, as more experienced guides would have done, and keeping Mr Borckhardt warm and awake until help came, they determined at about 1 P.M. to leave him alone on the mountain. According to their account, the snow had ceased and the sun had begun to shine when they left him. At that moment a relief party was not far off, as the guides must have known. They heard the shouts of the relief party soon after leaving Mr Borckhardt, and there was, as far as I can see, no pressing reason for their departure. They reached the lower hut at about 5 P.M., and at about the same time a rescue party from Zermatt, which had met them descending, reached Mr Borckhardt, and found him dead, stiff, and quite cold, and partly covered with freshly-fallen snow. No doubt he had succumbed to drowsiness soon after he was left. "The moral of this most lamentable event is plain. The Matterhorn is not a mountain to be played with; it is not a peak which men ought to attempt until they have had some experience of climbing. Above all, it is not a peak which should ever be attempted except with thoroughly competent guides. In a snowstorm no member of a party should ever be left behind and alone. He will almost certainly fall into a sleep, from which it is notorious that he will never awake. If he will not walk, he must be carried. If he sits down, he must be made to get up. Guides have to do this not unfrequently. A stronger and more experienced party would undoubtedly have reached Zermatt without misfortune. In fact, one party which was on the mountain on the same day did reach Zermatt in good time." It is fitting that this short, and necessarily incomplete, account of the conquest of the Matterhorn, and events occurring subsequently on it, should conclude with the recital of a magnificent act of heroism performed by Jean-Antoine Carrel, whose name, more than that of any other guide, is associated with the history of the peak. No more striking instance of the devotion of a guide to his employers could be chosen to bring these true tales of the hills to an appropriate end. I take the account from _Scrambles Among the Alps_. "When telegrams came in, at the beginning of September 1890, stating that Jean-Antoine Carrel had died from fatigue on the south side of the Matterhorn, those who knew the man scarcely credited the report. It was not likely that this tough and hardy mountaineer would die from fatigue anywhere, still less that he would succumb upon 'his own mountain.' But it was true. Jean-Antoine perished from the combined effects of cold, hunger, and fatigue, upon his own side of his own mountain, almost within sight of his own home. He started on the 23rd of August from Breuil, with an Italian gentleman and Charles Gorret (brother of the Abbé Gorret), with the intention of crossing the Matterhorn in one day. The weather at the time of their departure was the very best, and it changed in the course of the day to the very worst. They were shut up in the _cabane_ at the foot of the Great Tower during the 24th, with scarcely any food, and on the 25th retreated to Breuil. Although Jean-Antoine (upon whom, as leading guide, the chief labour and responsibility naturally devolved) ultimately succeeded in getting his party safely off the mountain, he himself was so overcome by fatigue, cold, and want of food, that he died on the spot." Jean-Antoine Carrel entered his sixty-second year in January 1901,[15] and was in the field throughout the summer. On 21st August, having just returned from an ascent of Mont Blanc, he was engaged at Courmayeur by Signor Leone Sinigaglia, of Turin, for an ascent of the Matterhorn. He proceeded to the Val Tournanche, and on the 23rd set out with him and Charles Gorret, for the last time, to ascend his own mountain by his own route. A long and clear account of what happened was communicated by Signor Sinigaglia to the Italian Alpine Club, and from this the following relation is condensed: "We started for the Cervin at 2.15 A.M. on the 23rd, in splendid weather, with the intention of descending the same night to the hut at the Hörnli on the Swiss side. We proceeded pretty well, but the glaze of ice on the rocks near the Col du Lion retarded our march somewhat, and when we arrived at the hut at the foot of the Great Tower, prudence counselled the postponement of the ascent until the next day, for the sky was becoming overcast. We decided upon this, and stopped. "Here I ought to mention that both I and Gorret noticed with uneasiness that Carrel showed signs of fatigue upon leaving the Col du Lion. I attributed this to temporary weakness. As soon as we reached the hut he lay down and slept profoundly for two hours, and awoke much restored. In the meantime the weather was rapidly changing. Storm clouds coming from the direction of Mont Blanc hung over the Dent d'Hérens, but we regarded them as transitory, and trusted to the north wind, which was still continuing to blow. Meanwhile, three of the Maquignazs and Edward Bich, whom we found at the hut, returned from looking after the ropes, started downwards for Breuil, at parting wishing us a happy ascent, and holding out hopes of a splendid day for the morrow. "But, after their departure, the weather grew worse very rapidly; the wind changed, and towards evening there broke upon us a most violent hurricane of hail and snow, accompanied by frequent flashes of lightning. The air was so charged with electricity that for two consecutive hours in the night one could see in the hut as in broad daylight. The storm continued to rage all night, and the day and night following, continuously, with incredible violence. The temperature in the hut fell to 3 degrees. "The situation was becoming somewhat alarming, for the provisions were getting low, and we had already begun to use the seats of the hut as firewood. The rocks were in an extremely bad state, and we were afraid that if we stopped longer, and the storm continued, we should be blocked up in the hut for several days. This being the state of affairs, it was decided among the guides that if the wind should abate we should descend on the following morning; and, as the wind did abate somewhat, on the morning of the 25th (the weather, however, still remaining very bad) it was unanimously settled to make a retreat. "At 9 A.M. we left the hut. I will not speak of the difficulties and dangers in descending the _arête_ to the Col du Lion, which we reached at 2.30 P.M. The ropes were half frozen, the rocks were covered with a glaze of ice, and fresh snow hid all points of support. Some spots were really as bad as could be, and I owe much to the prudence and coolness of the two guides that we got over them without mishap. "At the Col du Lion, where we hoped the wind would moderate, a dreadful hurricane recommenced, and in crossing the snowy passages we were nearly _suffocated_ by the wind and snow which attacked us on all sides.[16] Through the loss of a glove, Gorret, half an hour after leaving the hut, had already got a hand frost-bitten. The cold was terrible here. Every moment we had to remove the ice from our eyes, and it was with the utmost difficulty that we could speak so as to understand one another. "Nevertheless, Carrel continued to direct the descent in a most admirable manner, with a coolness, ability, and energy above all praise. I was delighted to see the change, and Gorret assisted him splendidly. This part of the descent presented unexpected difficulties, and at several points great dangers, the more so because the _tourmente_ prevented Carrel from being sure of the right direction, in spite of his consummate knowledge of the Matterhorn. At 11 P.M. (or thereabouts, it was impossible to look at our watches, as all our clothes were half frozen) we were still toiling down the rocks. The guides sometimes asked each other where they were; then we went forward again--to stop, indeed, would have been impossible. Carrel at last, by marvellous instinct, discovered the passage up which we had come, and in a sort of grotto we stopped a minute to take some brandy. "While crossing some snow we saw Carrel slacken his pace, and then fall back two or three times to the ground. Gorret asked him what was the matter, and he said 'nothing,' but he went on with difficulty. Attributing this to fatigue through the excessive toil, Gorret put himself at the head of the caravan, and Carrel, after the change, seemed better, and walked well, though with more circumspection than usual. From this place a short and steep passage takes one down to the pastures, where there is safety. Gorret descended first, and I after him. We were nearly at the bottom when I felt the rope pulled. We stopped, awkwardly placed as we were, and cried out to Carrel several times to come down, but we received no answer. Alarmed, we went up a little way, and heard him say, in a faint voice, 'Come up and fetch me; I have no strength left.' "We went up and found that he was lying with his stomach to the ground, holding on to a rock, in a semi-conscious state, and unable to get up or to move a step. With extreme difficulty we carried him to a safe place, and asked him what was the matter. His only answer was, 'I know no longer where I am.' His hands were getting colder and colder, his speech weaker and more broken, and his body more still. We did all we could for him, putting with great difficulty the rest of the cognac into his mouth. He said something, and appeared to revive, but this did not last long. We tried rubbing him with snow, and shaking him, and calling to him continually, but he could only answer with moans. "We tried to lift him, but it was impossible--he was getting stiff. We stooped down, and asked in his ear if he wished to commend his soul to God. With a last effort he answered 'Yes,' and then fell on his back, dead, upon the snow. "Such was the end of Jean-Antoine Carrel--a man who was possessed with a pure and genuine love of mountains; a man of originality and resource, courage and determination, who delighted in exploration. His special qualities marked him out as a fit person to take part in new enterprises, and I preferred him to all others as a companion and assistant upon my journey amongst the Great Andes of the Equator. Going to a new country, on a new continent, he encountered much that was strange and unforeseen; yet when he turned his face homewards he had the satisfaction of knowing that he left no failures behind him.[17] After parting at Guayaquil in 1880 we did not meet again. In his latter years, I am told, he showed signs of age, and from information which has been communicated to me it is clear that he had arrived at a time when it would have been prudent to retire--if he could have done so. It was not in his nature to spare himself, and he worked to the very last. The manner of his death strikes a chord in hearts he never knew. He recognised to the fullest extent the duties of his position, and in the closing act of his life set a brilliant example of fidelity and devotion. For it cannot be doubted that, enfeebled as he was, he could have saved himself had he given his attention to self-preservation. He took a nobler course; and, accepting his responsibility, devoted his whole soul to the welfare of his comrades, until, utterly exhausted, he fell staggering on the snow. He was already dying. Life was flickering, yet the brave spirit said 'It is _nothing_.' They placed him in the rear to ease his work. He was no longer able even to support himself; he dropped to the ground, and in a few minutes expired."[18] FOOTNOTES: [14] Here the whole contention that the party was a competent one falls to the ground. No one without a reserve of strength and skill to meet possible bad weather should embark on an important ascent. Fair-weather guides and climbers should keep to easy excursions. [15] The exact date of his birth does not seem to be known. He was christened at the Church of St Antoine, Val Tournanche, on 17th January 1829. [16] Signor Peraldo, the innkeeper at Breuil, stated that a relief party was in readiness during the whole of 25th August (the day on which the descent was made), and was prevented from starting by the violence of the tempest. [17] See _Travels amongst the Great Andes of the Equator_, 1892. [18] Signor Sinigaglia wrote a letter to a friend, from which I am permitted to quote: "I don't try to tell you of my intense pain for Carrel's death. He fell after having saved me, and no guide could have done more than he did." Charles Gorret, through his brother the Abbé, wrote to me that he entirely endorsed what had been said by Signor Sinigaglia, and added, "We would have given our own lives to have saved his." Jean-Antoine died at the foot of "the little Staircase." On the 26th of August his body was brought to Breuil, and upon 29th it was interred at Valtournanche. At the beginning of July 1893 an iron cross was placed on the spot where he expired at the expense of Signor Sinigaglia, who went in person, along with Charles Gorret, to superintend its erection. CHAPTER XXI THE WHOLE DUTY OF THE CLIMBER--ALPINE DISTRESS SIGNALS I cannot bring this book to a more fitting end than by quoting the closing words of a famous article in _The Alpine Journal_ by Mr C. E. Mathews entitled "The Alpine Obituary." It was written twenty years ago, but every season it becomes if possible more true. May all who go amongst the mountains lay it to heart! "Mountaineering is extremely dangerous in the case of incapable, of imprudent, of thoughtless men. But I venture to state that of all the accidents in our sad obituary, there is hardly one which need have happened; there is hardly one which could not have been easily prevented by proper caution and proper care. Men get careless and too confident. This does not matter or the other does not matter. The fact is, that everything matters; precautions should be not only ample but excessive. 'The little more, and how much it is, And the little less and what worlds away.' "Mountaineering is not dangerous, provided that the climber knows his business and takes the necessary precautions--all within his own control--to make danger impossible. The prudent climber will recollect what he owes to his family and to his friends. He will also recollect that he owes something to the Alps, and will scorn to bring them into disrepute. He will not go on a glacier without a rope. He will not climb alone, or with a single companion. He will treat a great mountain with the respect it deserves, and not try to rush a dangerous peak with inadequate guiding power. He will turn his back steadfastly upon mist and storm. He will not go where avalanches are in the habit of falling after fresh snow, or wander about beneath an overhanging glacier in the heat of a summer afternoon. Above all, if he loves the mountains for their own sake, for the lessons they can teach and the happiness they can bring, he will do nothing that can discredit his manly pursuit or bring down the ridicule of the undiscerning upon the noblest pastime in the world." ALPINE DISTRESS SIGNALS No book on climbing should be issued without a reminder to its readers that tourists (who may need it even oftener than mountaineers) have a means ready to hand by which help can be signalled for if they are in difficulties. That in many cases a signal might not be seen is no reason for neglecting to learn and use the simple code given below and recommended by the Alpine Club. It has now been adopted by all societies of climbers. The signal is the repetition of a sound, a wave of a flag, or a flash of a lantern _at regular intervals_ at the rate of six signals per minute, followed by a pause of a minute, and then repeated every alternate minute. The reply is the same, except that three and not six signals are made in a minute. The regular minute's interval is essential to the clearness of the code. GLOSSARY AND INDEX GLOSSARY. ALP A summer pasture. ARÊTE The crest of a ridge. Sometimes spoken of as a knife-edge, if very narrow. BERGSCHRUND A crevasse forming between the snow still clinging to the face of a peak, and that which has broken away from it. COL A pass between two peaks. COULOIR A gully filled with snow or stones. GRAT The same as _arête_. JOCH The same as _col_. KAMM The same as _arête_. MORAINE See chapter on glaciers, page 7. MOULIN See chapter on glaciers, page 7. NÉVÉ See chapter on glaciers, page 7. PITZ An Engadine name for a peak. SCHRUND A crevasse. SÉRAC A cube of ice, formed by intersecting crevasses where a glacier is very steep. Called thus after a sort of Chamonix cheese, which it is said to resemble. A Albula Pass, 20 Aletsch glacier, 12, 142 Almer, Christian, 29, 50, 51, 71, 126, 134 Almer, Ulrich, 42 Altels, Ice-avalanche of the, 78 Anderegg, Jacob, 162 Anderegg, Melchior, 24, 50, 113, 162 d'Angeville, Mademoiselle, 204 Ardon, 59 Arkwright, Henry, 98 Aufdemblatten, Peter, 269 Avalanches, different kinds of, 15 B Balmat, 52 Barnes, Mr G. S., 32 Bean, Mr, 108 Bennen, 59, 113, 252 Bich, J. B., 262 Bionnassay, Aiguille de, 169 Birkbeck, Mr, 113 Blanc, Mont, 3, 92, 107, 162, 203 Bohren, 52 Boissonnet, Monsieur, 59 Borchart, Dr, 150 Borckhardt, F. C., 269 Bossons, Glacier des, 9 Breil, 253 Brenva Glacier, Ascent of Mont Blanc by, 162 Burckhardt, Herr F., 147 Burgener, Alexander, 226 C Carré, Glacier, 172 Carrel, J. A., 252, 259, 261, death of, 280 Coolidge, Rev. W. A. B., 30, 171 Couttet, Sylvain, 89, 99, 109 Croda Grande, feat of endurance on, 48 Croz, Michel, 126, 134, 252 D Davies, John, 269 Dent, Clinton, 58, 221 Douglas, Lord Francis, 45, 259 Distress Signals, Alpine, 291 Dru, Aiguille du, 221 E Eigerjoch, 208 F Falkner, Monsieur de, 269 Föhn Wind, Note on the, 80 G Gabelhorn, Ober, 42, 45 Gardiner, Mr, 170 Garwood, Mr Edmund, 194 Glacier tables, 11 Gorret, Charles, 281 Gosaldo, 48 Gosset, Mr Philip, 59 Grass, Hans and Christian, 44 Greenland, Glaciers of, 7 Guntner, Dr, 33 H Hadow, Mr, 260 Hamel, Dr Joseph, 92 Hartley, Mr Walker, 226 Haut-de-Cry, 59 Hinchliff, Mr T. W., 122 Hudson, Rev. C., 113, 269 I Imboden, Joseph, 5, 30, 35, 38, 40, 84 Imboden, Roman, 32, 84, 194 J Jungfrau, 147 K King, Sir H. Seymour, 278 Klimmer, 150 Kronig, F., 269 L Lammer, Herr, 72 Lauener, 41, 52, 66, 208 Longman, W., 142 Lorria, Herr, 72 M M'Corkindale, Mr, 108 Mammoth, 105 Maquignaz, J. P. and D., 269 Martin, Jean, 154 Mather, Mr, 113 Mathews, Mr C. E., 289 Mathews, Messrs, 208 Matterhorn, 23, 72, 250 Maurer, Andreas, 46, 226 Maurer, Kaspar, 239 Meije, 170 Mercer, Mr, 269 Miage, Col de, 114 Moming, Pass, 126 Moore, Mr, 126, 134, 162 Moraines, 10 Moser, 269 N Nasse, Herr, 150 P Palü, Piz, 44, 150 Paradis, Maria, 203 Penhall, Mr, 72 Perren, 113 Pigeon, The Misses, 153 Pilatte, Col de, 134 Pilkington, Messrs, 170 Plan, Aiguille du, 46 R Randall, Mr, 108 Rey, Emile, 46 Reynaud, Monsieur, 135 Richardson, Miss K., 169 Riva, Valley Susa, 18 Rochat, Mademoiselle E. de, 169 S Saas, Prättigau, 17 Schallihorn, 83 Schnitzler, 150 Schuster, Oscar, 48 Scerscen, Piz, 194 Sesia, Joch, 153 Sinigaglia, Leone, 281 Stephen, Sir Leslie, 113, 208 Stratton, Miss, 206 T Taugwald, Peter, 269 Taugwalder, 259 Trift Pass, 112 Tuckett, Mr F. F., 66, 113 W Wainwright, Mrs and Dr, 44 Walker, Mr, 50, 134, 162 Wetterhorn, 51 Wieland, 194 Wills, Chief Justice, 51 Whymper, Mr C., 126, 134, 250 Z Zecchini, G., 48 Printed at The Edinburgh Press 9 & 11 Young Street 
43314	----	ADVENTURES ON THE ROOF OF THE WORLD SOME BOOKS ON MOUNTAINEERING =The Annals of Mont Blanc=: A Monograph. By C. E. MATHEWS, sometime President of the Alpine Club. With Map, 6 Swan-types and other Illustrations, and Facsimiles. Demy 8vo, cloth gilt, 21s. net. =The Life of Man on the High Alps=: Studies made on Monte Rosa. By ANGELO MOSSO. Translated from the Second Edition of the Italian by E. LOUGH KIESOW, in collaboration with F. KIESOW. With numerous Illustrations and Diagrams. Royal 8vo, cloth, 21s. =The Early Mountaineers=: The Stories of their Lives. By FRANCIS GRIBBLE. Fully Illustrated. Demy 8vo, cloth gilt, 21s. =The Climbs of Norman-Neruda.= Edited, with an Account of his last Climb, by MAY NORMAN-NERUDA. Demy 8vo, cloth, 21s. =In the Ice World of Himalaya.= By FANNY BULLOCK WORKMAN and WILLIAM HUNTER WORKMAN. With four large Maps and nearly 100 Illustrations. Demy 8vo, cloth gilt, 16s. Also a 6s. Edition. =From the Alps to the Andes.= By MATHIAS ZURBRIGGEN. Demy 8vo, cloth, 10s. 6d. net. =Mountaineering in the Sierra Nevada.= By CLARENCE KING. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. net. =True Tales of Mountain Adventure= (for Non-Climbers, Young and Old). By Mrs AUBREY LE BLOND (Mrs Main). Demy 8vo, cloth, 10s. 6d. net. LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN. [Illustration: THE FINDING OF THE LAST BIVOUAC OF MESSRS. DONKIN AND FOX IN THE CAUCASUS. (P. 116.) From a drawing by Mr. Willink after a sketch by Captain Powell. Taken, by kind permission of Mr. Douglas Freshfield, from "The Exploration of the Caucasus." _Frontispiece._] ADVENTURES ON THE ROOF OF THE WORLD BY MRS AUBREY LE BLOND (MRS MAIN) AUTHOR OF "MY HOME IN THE ALPS," "TRUE TALES OF MOUNTAIN ADVENTURE," ETC. _ILLUSTRATED_ [Illustration: colophon] LONDON T. FISHER UNWIN PATERNOSTER SQUARE 1904 (_All rights reserved._) TO JOSEPH IMBODEN MY GUIDE AND FRIEND FOR TWENTY YEARS, I dedicate THESE RECORDS OF A PASTIME IN WHICH I OWE MY SHARE TO HIS SKILL, COURAGE, AND HELPFUL COMPANIONSHIP. PREFACE "Dear heart," said Tommy, when Mr Barlow had finished his narrative, "what a number of accidents people are subject to in this world!" "It is very true," answered Mr Barlow, "but as that is the case, it is necessary to improve ourselves in every possible manner, so that we may be able to struggle against them." Thus quoted, from _Sandford and Merton_, a president of the Alpine Club. The following True Tales from the Hills, if they serve to emphasise not only the perils of mountaineering but the means by which they can be lessened, will have accomplished the aim of their editor. This book is not intended for the climber. To him most of the tales will be familiar in the volumes on the shelves of his library or on the lips of his companions during restful hours in the Alps. But the non-climber rarely sees _The Alpine Journal_ and the less popular books on mountaineering, nor would he probably care to search in their pages for narratives likely to interest him. To seek out tales of adventure easily intelligible to the non-climber, to edit them in popular form, to point out the lessons which most adventures can teach to those who may climb themselves one day, has occupied many pleasant hours, rendered doubly so by the feeling that I shall again come into touch with the readers who gave so kindly a greeting to my _True Tales of Mountain Adventure_. In that work I tried to explain the principles of mountaineering and something of the nature of glaciers and avalanches. Those chapters will, I think, be found helpful by non-climbers who read the present volume. For much kindly advice and help in compiling this work I am indebted to Mr Henry Mayhew, of the British Museum, and to Mr Clinton Dent. Mrs Maund has enabled me to quote from a striking article by her late husband. Sir W. Martin Conway, Sir H. Seymour King, Messrs Tuckett, G. E. Foster, Cecil Slingsby, Harold Spender, and Edward Fitzgerald have been good enough to allow me to make long extracts from their writings. Messrs Newnes have generously permitted me to quote from articles which appeared in their publications, and the editor of _The Cornhill_ has sanctioned my reprinting portions of a paper from his magazine. I am also indebted to the editor of _M'Clure's Magazine_ for a similar courtesy. Mons. A. Campagne, Inspector of Water and Forests (France), allows me to make use of two very interesting photographs from his work on the Valley of Barège. Several friends have lent me photographs for reproduction in this work, and their names appear under each of the illustrations I owe to them. Messrs Spooner have kindly allowed me to use several by the late Mr W. F. Donkin. When not otherwise stated, the photographs are from my own negatives. I take this opportunity of heartily thanking those climbers, some of them personally unknown to me, whose assistance has rendered this work possible. E. LE BLOND. 67 THE DRIVE, BRIGHTON, _December 1903_. CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE PREFACE ix I. SOME TALES OF ALPINE GUIDES 1 II. TWO DAYS ON AN ICE-SLOPE 23 III. SOME AVALANCHE ADVENTURES 51 IV. A MONTH BENEATH AN AVALANCHE 65 V. A MONTH BENEATH AN AVALANCHE (_continued_) 81 VI. AN EXCITING CAUCASIAN ASCENT 99 VII. A MELANCHOLY QUEST 116 VIII. SOME NARROW ESCAPES AND FATAL ACCIDENTS 124 IX. A NIGHT ADVENTURE ON THE DENT BLANCHE 152 X. ALONE ON THE DENT BLANCHE 167 XI. A STIRRING DAY ON THE ROSETTA 182 XII. THE ZINAL ROTHHORN TWICE IN ONE DAY 195 XIII. BENIGHTED ON A SNOW PEAK 208 XIV. THE STORY OF A BIG JUMP 222 XV. A PERILOUS FIRST ASCENT 235 XVI. THUNDERSTORMS IN THE ALPS 257 XVII. LANDSLIPS IN THE MOUNTAINS 275 XVIII. SOME TERRIBLE EXPERIENCES 291 XIX. FALLING STONES AND FALLING BODIES 310 GLOSSARY 327 INDEX 329 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS The last bivouac of Messrs Donkin and Fox in the Caucasus _Frontispiece_ Christian Almer, Joseph Imboden, Jean Antoine Carrel, Alexander Burgener _To face page_ 3 The last steep bit near the top--At the end of a hot day--An instant's halt to choose the best way up a steep wall of rock--The ice-axes are stowed away in a crack, to be brought up by the last man " " 6 Auguste Gentinetta--Auguste Gentinetta on the way to the Matterhorn--The beginning of the climb up the Matterhorn--The spot where was the _bergschrund_ into which Mr Sloggett's party fell " " 8 Auguste Gentinetta on a mountain-top--The ice-cliffs over which Mr Sloggett's party would have fallen had they not been dashed into the _bergschrund_--The ruined chapel by the Schwarzsee--The last resting-place at Zermatt of some English climbers " " 11 On a snow ridge--A halt for lunch above the snow-line--Mrs Aubrey Le Blond " " 51 A cutting through an avalanche--The remains of an avalanche--An avalanche of stones--A mountain chapel " " 59 A mountain path--Peasants of the mountains--A village buried beneath an avalanche--Terraces planted to prevent avalanches " " 65 A typical Caucasian landscape " " 105 Melchior Anderegg, his son and grandchild " " 124 Crevasses and séracs--On the border of a crevasse--A snow bridge--Soft snow in the afternoon " " 133 The Bétemps Hut--Ski-ing--A fall on Skis--A great crevasse " " 137 The balloon "Stella" getting ready to start (p. 301)--A bivouac in the olden days--Boulder practice--The last rocks descending " " 148 Provisions for a mountain hotel--An outlook over rock and snow--Dent Blanche from Schwarzsee (winter)--Dent Blanche from Theodule Glacier (summer) " " 152 Hut on Col de Bértol--Ascending the Aiguilles Rouges--Summit of the Dent Blanche--Cornice on the Dent Blanche " " 156 Ambrose Supersax (p. 209)--View from the Rosetta " " 182 Climbing party leaving Zermatt--The Gandegg Hut--The Trift Hotel--Zinal Rothhorn from Trift Valley " " 195 Zinal Rothhorn--Top of a Chamonix Aiguille--A steep face of rock--"Leading strings" " " 202 A _bergschrund_--Homewards over the snow-slopes " " 230 The Ecrins--Clouds breaking over a ridge--Summit of the Jungfrau--Wind-blown snow " " 235 The Ecrins from the Glacier Blanc " " 247 Slab climbing--A rock ridge--On the Dent du Géant--The top at last " " 252 The second largest glacier in the Alps--On a ridge in the Oberland " " 259 Thirteen thousand feet above the sea--On the Furggen Grat--A "personally conducted" party on the Breithorn--Packing the knapsack " " 269 Monte Rosa from the Furggen Grat--The Matterhorn from the Wellenkuppe " " 272 A glacier lake--Amongst the séracs--Taking off the rope--Water at last! " " 297 The balloon "Stella" starting from Zermatt--A moment after " " 298 The Matterhorn from the Hörnli Ridge--The Matterhorn from the Furgg Glacier--Joseph Biner--The Matterhorn Hut " " 302 A hot day on a mountain-top--A summit near Saas--Luncheon _en route_ (winter)--Luncheon on a glacier pass (summer) " " 310 A tedious snow-slope--A sitting glissade--A glacier-capped summit--On the frontier " " 312 Unpleasant going--On the crest of an old moraine " " 317 An awkward bit of climbing--Guides at Zermatt--The Boval Hut--_Au revoir!_ " " 322 ADVENTURES ON THE ROOF OF THE WORLD CHAPTER I SOME TALES OF ALPINE GUIDES In a former work, I have given some details of the training of an Alpine guide, so I will not repeat them here. The mountain guides of Switzerland form a class unlike any other, yet in the high standard of honour and devotion they display towards those in their charge, one is reminded of two bodies of men especially deserving of respect and confidence, namely, the Civil Guards of Spain and the Royal Irish Constabulary. Like these, the Alpine guide oftentimes risks his health, strength--even his life--for persons who are sometimes in themselves the cause of the peril encountered. Like these, mere bodily strength and the best will in the world need to be associated with intelligence and foresight. Like these, also, keen, fully-developed powers of observation are essential. A certain climber of early days has wittily related in _The Alpine Journal_ a little anecdote which bears on this point. "Some years ago," writes the late Mr F. Craufurd Grove, "a member of this Club was ascending a small and easy peak in company with a famous Oberland guide. Part of their course lay over a snow-field sinking gradually on one side, sharply ended by a precipice on the other. The two were walking along, not far from the edge of this precipice, when the Englishman, thinking that an easier path might be made by going still nearer the edge, diverged a little from his companion's track. To his considerable surprise, the guide immediately caught hold of him, and pulled him back with a great deal more vigour than ceremony, well-nigh throwing him down in the operation. Wrathful, and not disinclined to return the compliment, the Englishman remonstrated. The guide's only answer was to point to a small crack, apparently like scores of other cracks in the _névé_, which ran for some distance parallel to the edge of the precipice, and about 15 feet from it. [Illustration: JEAN ANTOINE CARREL OF VALOURNANCHE. By Signor Vittorio Sella.] [Illustration: CHRISTIAN ALMER OF GRINDELWALD.] [Illustration: ALEXANDER BURGENER OF EISTEN (SAASTHAL).] [Illustration: JOSEPH IMBODEN OF ST. NICHOLAS. _To face p. 3._] "The traveller was not satisfied, but he was too wise a man to spend time in arguing and disputing, while a desired summit was still some distance above him. They went on their way, gained the top, and the traveller's equanimity was restored by a splendid view. When, on the descent, the scene of the morning's incident was reached, the guide pointed to the little crack in the _névé_, which had grown perceptibly wider. 'This marks,' he said, 'the place where the true snow-field ends. I feel certain that the ice from here to the edge is nothing but an unsupported cornice hanging over the tremendous precipice beneath. It might possibly have borne your weight in the early morning, though I don't think it would. As to what it will bear now that a powerful sun has been on it for some time--why, let us see.' Therewith he struck the _névé_ on the further side of the ice sharply with his axe. A huge mass, some 20 or 30 feet long, immediately broke away, and went roaring down the cliff in angry avalanche. Whereat the traveller was full of amazement and admiration, and thought how there, on an easy mountain and in smiling weather, he had not been very far from making himself into an avalanche, to his own great discomfort and to the infinite tribulation of the Alpine Club." A fatal accident was only narrowly averted by the skill of the famous guide Zurbriggen when making an ascent in the New Zealand Alps with Mr Edward Fitzgerald. I am indebted to this gentleman for permission to quote the account from his article in _The Alpine Journal_. The party were making the ascent of Mount Sefton, and were much troubled by the looseness of the rock on the almost vertical face which they had to climb. However, at last they reached a ridge, "along which," writes Mr Fitzgerald, "we proceeded between two precipices, descending to the Copland and to the Mueller valleys--some 6000 feet sheer drop on either hand. "We had next to climb about 300 feet of almost perpendicular cliff. The rocks were peculiarly insecure, and we were obliged to move by turns, wherever possible throwing down such rocks as seemed most dangerous. At times even this resource was denied us, so dangerous was the violent concussion with which these falling masses would shake the ridge to which we clung. I carried both the ice axes, so as to leave Zurbriggen both hands free to test each rock as he slowly worked his way upwards, while I did my utmost to avoid being in a position vertically beneath him. "Suddenly, as I was coming up a steep bit, while Zurbriggen waited for me a few steps above, a large boulder, which I touched with my right hand, gave way with a crash and fell, striking my chest. I had been just on the point of passing up the two ice axes to Zurbriggen, that he might place them in a cleft of rock a little higher up, and thus leave me both hands free for my climb. He was in the act of stooping and stretching out his arms to take them from my uplifted left hand, and the slack rope between us lay coiled at his feet. The falling boulder hurled me down head foremost, and I fell about 8 feet, turning a complete somersault in the air. Suddenly I felt the rope jerk, and I struck against the side of the mountain with great force. I feared I should be stunned and drop the two ice axes, and I knew that on these our lives depended. Without them we should never have succeeded in getting down the glacier, through all the intricate ice-fall. "After the rope had jerked me up I felt it again slip and give way, and I came down slowly for a couple of yards. I took this to mean that Zurbriggen was being wrenched from his foot-hold, and I was just contemplating how I should feel dashing down the 6000 feet below, and wondering vaguely how many times I should strike the rocks on the way. I saw the block that I had dislodged going down in huge bounds; it struck the side three or four times, and then, taking an enormous plunge of about 2000 feet, embedded itself in the glacier now called the Tuckett Glacier. "I felt the rope stop and pull me up short. I called to Zurbriggen and asked him if he were solidly placed. I was now swinging in the air like a pendulum, with my back to the mountain, scarcely touching the rock face. It would have required a great effort to turn round and grasp the rock, and I was afraid the strain which would thus necessarily be placed on the rope might dislodge Zurbriggen. "His first fear was that I had been half killed, for he saw the rock fall almost on top of me; but, as a matter of fact, after striking my chest it had glanced off to the right and passed under my right arm; it had started from a point so very near to me that it had not time to gain sufficient impetus to strike me with great force. Zurbriggen's first words were, 'Are you very much hurt?' I answered, 'No,' and again I asked him whether he were firmly placed. 'No,' he replied, 'I am very badly situated here. Turn round as soon as you can; I cannot hold you much longer.' I gave a kick at the rocks with one foot, and with a great effort managed to swing myself round. "Luckily there was a ledge near me, and so, getting some hand-hold, I was soon able to ease the strain on the rope. A few moments later I struggled a little way up, and at last handed to Zurbriggen the ice axes, which I had managed to keep hold of throughout my fall. In fact, my thoughts had been centred on them during the whole of the time. We were in too bad a place to stop to speak to one another; but Zurbriggen, climbing up a bit further, got himself into a firm position, and I scrambled up after him, so that in about ten minutes we had passed this steep bit. [Illustration: The last steep bit near the top.] [Illustration: An instant's halt to choose the best way up a steep wall of rock.] [Illustration: At the end of a hot day.] [Illustration: The ice-axes are stowed away in a crack, to be brought up by the last man. _To face p. 6._] "We now sat for a moment to recover ourselves, for our nerves had been badly shaken by what had so nearly proved a fatal accident. At the time everything happened so rapidly that we had not thought much of it, more especially as we knew that we needed to keep our nerve and take immediate action; but once it was all over we both felt the effects, and sat for about half an hour before we could even move again. I learned that Zurbriggen, the moment I fell, had snatched up the coil of rope which lay at his feet, and had luckily succeeded in getting hold of the right end first, so that he was soon able to bring me nearly to rest; but the pull upon him was so great, and he was so badly placed, that he had to let the rope slip through his fingers, removing all the skin, in order to ease the strain while he braced himself in a better position, from which he was able finally to stop me. He told me that had I not been able to turn and grasp the rocks he must inevitably have been dragged from his foot-hold, as the ledge upon which he stood was literally crumbling away beneath his feet. We discovered that two strands of the rope had been cut through by the falling rock, so that I had been suspended in mid-air by a single strand." The remainder of the way was far from easy, but without further mishap the party eventually gained the summit. That there are many grades of Alpine guides was amusingly exemplified once upon a time at the Montanvert, where in front of the hotel stood the famous Courmazeur guide, Emil Rey (afterwards killed on the Dent du Géant), talking to the Duke of Abruzzi and other first-rate climbers, while a little way off lounged some extremely indifferent specimens of the Chamonix _Societé des Guides_. Presently a tourist, got up with much elegance, and leaning on a tall stick surmounted by a chamois horn, appeared upon the scene, and addressed himself to Emil Rey. "Combien pour traverser la Mer de Glace?" he enquired. "Monsieur," replied Rey, removing his hat with one hand and with the other indicating the group hard by, "voila les guides pour la Mer de Glace! Moi, je suis pour la grande montagne!" [Illustration: Auguste Gentinetta, of Zermatt, 1903.] [Illustration: The climb up the Matterhorn by the ordinary Swiss route begins at the rocky corner to the left of the picture.] [Illustration: Auguste Gentinetta on the way to the Matterhorn.] [Illustration: The BERGSCHRUND, open when the accident to Mr. Sloggett's party took place, was above the ice cliff below which the man is standing. _To face p. 8._] One of the most wonderful escapes in the whole annals of mountaineering was that of a young Englishman, Mr Sloggett, and the well-known guide, Auguste Gentinetta, the second guide, Alphons Fürrer, being killed on the spot. They had made a successful ascent of the Matterhorn on 27th July 1900, and were the first of three parties on the descent. When nearly down the mountain, not far from the Hörnli ridge, an avalanche of stones and rocks swept them off their feet. Fürrer's skull was smashed, and he was killed immediately, and the three, roped together, were precipitated down a wall of ice. Their axes were wrenched from their grasp, and they could do nothing to check themselves. Gentinetta retained full consciousness during the whole of that awful descent, and while without the slightest hope that they could escape with their lives, he in no way lost his presence of mind. About 800 feet below the spot where their fall commenced was a small _Bergschrund_, or crack across the ice. This was full of stones and sand, and into it the helpless climbers were flung; had they shot over it nothing in this world could have saved them. Gentinetta, though much bruised and knocked about, had no bones broken, and he at once took means to prevent an even worse disaster than that which had already happened, for Mr Sloggett had fallen head downwards, with his face buried in sand, and was on the point of suffocation. Well was it for him that his guide was a man of promptness and courage. Without losing an instant Gentinetta pulled up his traveller and got his face free, clearing the sand out of his mouth, and doing all that mortal could for him. Mr Sloggett's jaw and two of his teeth were broken, but his other injuries were far less than might have been expected. Nevertheless, the position of the two survivors was still a most perilous one. They were exactly at the spot on to which almost every stone which detached itself from that side of the mountain was sure to fall, and their ice axes were lost, rendering it almost impossible for them to work their way to a place of safety. Still, to his infinite credit, the guide did not lose heart. By some means, which he now declares he is unable to understand, he contrived to climb, and to assist his gentleman, up that glassy, blood-stained wall, which even for a party uninjured, and properly equipped, it would have been no light task to surmount. This desperate achievement was rendered doubly trying by Gentinetta's being perfectly aware that if any more stones fell the two mountaineers must inevitably be swept away for the second time. At last they gained their tracks and sought a sheltered spot, where they could safely rest a little. Here they were joined by the other parties, who rendered invaluable help during the rest of the descent. The two sufferers finally arrived at the Schwarzsee Hotel, whence they were carried down the same evening to Zermatt. [Illustration: Auguste Gentinetta on a Mountain Top, 1903.] [Illustration: The ruined Chapel by the Schwarzsee.] [Illustration: The cliff of ice over which Mr. Sloggett's party must have precipitated if they had not been dashed into the BERGSCHRUND.] [Illustration: The last resting place at Zermatt of some English climbers. _To face p. 11._] The next day a strong party started for the scene of the accident to recover the body of the dead guide, Fürrer. It was a difficult and a dangerous task, and those who examined the wall down which the fall took place expressed their amazement that two wounded men, without axes, should have performed what seemed the incredible feat of getting up it. Both Mr Sloggett and Gentinetta made an excellent recovery, though they were laid up for many weeks after their memorable descent of the Matterhorn. The qualities found in a first-class guide include not only skill in climbing, but the ability to form a sound conclusion when overtaken by storm and mist. The following experience which took place in 1874, and which I am permitted by Mrs Maund to quote from her late husband's article in _The Alpine Journal_, proves, by its happy termination, that Maurer's judgment in a critical position was thoroughly to be relied on. Mr Maund had just arrived at La Bérarde, in Dauphiné, and he writes:-- "The morning of the 29th broke wet and stormy, and Rodier strongly advised me not to start; this, however, was out of the question, as I was due at La Grave on that day to keep my appointment with Mr Middlemore. After waiting an hour, to give the weather a chance, we started in drizzling rain at 5 A.M. Desolate as the Val des Étançons must always look, it appeared doubly gloomy that morning, with its never-ending monotony of rock and moraine unrelieved by a single patch of green. As we neared the glacier, the weather fortunately cleared, and the clouds, which till then had enveloped everything, began to mount with that marvellous rapidity only noticeable in mountain districts, leaving half revealed the mighty cliffs of the Meije towering 5000 feet almost sheer above us. As the wind caught and carried into the air the frozen sheets of snow on his summit, the old mountain looked like some giant bill distributer throwing his advertisements about. Entirely protected from the wind, we whiled away an hour and a half, searching with our telescope for any feasible line of attack. Having satisfied ourselves that on this side the mountain presented enormous, if not insurmountable, difficulties, we shouldered our packs and made tracks for the Brèche, which we reached at 11.45. "Meanwhile the weather had become worse again, and during the last part of the ascent it was snowing heavily; the wind too, from which we had been protected on the south side of the col, was so strong that we were absolutely obliged to crawl over to the north side. Our position was by no means a pleasant one; neither Martin nor I knew anything of the pass, and Rodier, who had told us overnight that he had crossed it more than once, seemed to know no more, and although sure of the exact bearing of La Grave, we could not, owing to the fast falling snow, see further than 300 or 400 yards in advance; added to this, it was intensely cold. Having paid Rodier 20 francs (a perfect waste of money, as it is impossible to mistake the way to the Brèche from the Val des Étançons, and, as I have said, he could not give us the least clue to the descent on the La Grave side), we dismissed him, hoping devoutly that he might break his--well, his ice axe, we'll say--on the way down. By keeping away to the right of the Brèche and down a steep slope, we crossed the crevasses which lay at its base without difficulty. We then bore to the left across a plateau, on which the snow lay very deep; floundering through this sometimes waist deep, we reached the upper ice-fall of the glacier, and after crossing several crevasses became involved in a perfect net-work of them. After a consultation, we determined to try to the right, but met with no better success, as again we were checked by an absolute labyrinth. At last, about five o'clock, we took to some rocks which divide the glacier into two branches. Meanwhile the snow was falling thicker and thicker, and, driven by the strong N.W. wind which caught up and eddied about what had already fallen, it appeared to come from every quarter at once. It was impossible to see more than a few yards in advance, and the rocks which under ordinary circumstances would have been easy, were, with their coating of at least 4 inches of snow, much the reverse, as it was quite impossible to see where to put hand or foot. Our only trust was in our compass, which assured us that while keeping to the backbone of this ridge we were descending in an almost direct line towards La Grave. "We had at most two hours of daylight before us, but there was still a hope that by following our present line we should get off the glacier before dark. How I regretted now the time lost in the morning. A little before seven we were brought to a standstill; our further direct descent was cut off by a precipice, while the rocks on either side fell almost sheer to the glaciers beneath. It was too late to think of looking for another road, so nothing now remained but to find the best shelter we could and bivouac for the night. We re-ascended to a small platform we had passed a short time before, and selecting the biggest and most sheltered bit of rock on it, we piled up the few movable stones there were about, to form the outside wall to our shelter, and having cleared away as much of the snow as we could from the inside, laid our ice axes across the top as rafters, with a sodden mackintosh--ironically called a waterproof by Mr Carter--over all for a roof. Despite this garment, I was wet to the skin. Luckily, we had each of us a spare flannel shirt and stockings in our knapsacks, but as the meagre dimensions of our shelter would not admit of the struggles attendant on a change, we were obliged to go through the operation outside. I tried to be cheerful, and Martin tried to be facetious as we wrung out our wet shirts while the snow beat on our bare backs, but both attempts were lamentable failures. If up to the present time my readers have not stripped in a snow-storm, let me strongly advise them never to attempt it. Having got through the performance as quickly as possible, we crawled into our shelter, but here again my ill luck followed me, for in entering I managed to tread on the tin wine-flask which Martin had thrown aside, and, my weight forcing out the cork, every drop of wine escaped. After packing myself away as well as I could in the shape of a pot-hook, Martin followed, and pot-hooked himself alongside me. We were obliged to assume this elementary shape, as the size of our shelter would not admit of our lying straight. All the provisions that remained were then produced. They consisted of a bit of bread about the size of a breakfast-roll, one-third of a small pot of preserved meat, about two ounces of raw bacon with the hide on, and half a small flask of a filthy compound called Genèpie, a sort of liqueur; besides this, we mustered between us barely a pipe-full of tobacco, and eight matches in a metal-box. The provisions I divided into three equal parts--one-third for that night's supper, and the remaining two-thirds for the next day. I need not enlarge on the miseries of that night. The wind blew through the chinks between the stones, bringing the snow with it, until the place seemed all chinks; then the mackintosh with its weight of snow would come in upon us, and we had with infinite difficulty to prop it up again, only to go through the same operation an hour later; at last, in sheer despair, we let it lie where it fell, and found to our relief it kept us warmer in that position. The snow never ceased one moment although the wind had fallen, and when morning broke there must have been nearly a foot of it around and over us. A more desolate picture than that dawn I have never seen. Snow everywhere. The rocks buried in it, and not a point peeping out to relieve the unbroken monotony. The sky full of it, without a break to relieve its leaden sameness, and the heavy flakes falling with that persistent silence which adds so much to the desolation of such a scene. "I was all for starting; for making some attempt either to get down, or to recross the col. Martin was dead against it--and I think now he was right. First of all, we could not have seen more than a few yards ahead; the rocks would have been considerably worse than they were the evening before, and if we had once got involved amongst the crevasses it was on the cards that we shouldn't get clear of them again; added to this, even if we could hit off the col, what with want of sleep and food, and the fatigue consequent on several hours' floundering in deep snow, we might not have strength to reach it. At any rate, we decided not to start until it cleared sufficiently to let us see where we were going. Our meagre stock of provisions was redivided into three parts, one of which we ate for breakfast. I then produced the pipe, but to our horror we found the matches were still damp. Martin, who is a man of resource, immediately opened his shirt and put the box containing them under his arm to dry. Meanwhile the snow never ceased, and the day wore on without a sign of the weather breaking. If it had not been for the excitement of those matches, I do not know how we should have got through that day; at last, however, after about six hours of Martin's fond embrace, one consented to burn, and I succeeded in lighting the pipe. We took turns at twelve whiffs each, and no smoke, I can conscientiously say, have I ever enjoyed like that one. During this never-ending day we got a few snatches of sleep, but the cold consequent on our wet clothes was so great, our position so cramped, and the rocks on which we lay so abominably sharp, that these naps were of the shortest duration. "A little before six the snow ceased, and for a moment the sun tried to wink at us through a chink in his snow-charged blanket, before he went to bed--long enough, however, for us to see La Grave far below, with every alp almost down to the village itself covered with its white mantle. "And then, as our second night closes in, the snow recommences, and we draw closer together even than before; for we feel that during the long hours to come we must economise to the fullest the little animal heat left in us. "That night I learnt to shiver, not the ordinary shivers, but fits lasting a quarter of an hour, during which no amount of moral persuasion could keep your limbs under control; and it was so catching! If either of us began a solo, the other was sure to join in, and we shivered a duet until quite exhausted. As we had nothing to drink, I had swallowed a considerable quantity of snow to quench my thirst, and this, acting on an almost empty stomach, produced burning heat within, while the cold, which was now intense, acting externally, induced fever and light-headedness, and once or twice I caught myself rambling. Martin, too, was affected in the same way. The long hours wore on, and still there was no sign of better weather. Towards midnight things looked very serious. Martin, who had behaved like a brick, thought 'it was very hard to perish like this in the flower of his age,' and I, too, thought of writing a line as well as I was able in my pocket-book, bequeathing its contents to my finder, then of sleeping if I could and waking up with the Houris; but I had the laugh of him afterwards, because he thought aloud and I to myself. However, this mood did not last long, and after shaking hands, I do not quite know why, because we had not quarrelled, we cuddled up again, and determined, whatever the weather, to start at daybreak. In half an hour the snow ceased, the wind backed to the S., and the temperature rose as if by magic; while the snow melting above trickled down in little streams upon us. We cleared the snow off the mackintosh, and putting it over us again, slept like logs in comparative warmth. When I awoke the sun was well up, and on looking round I could hardly realise the scene. Not a cloud in the sky! Not a breath of wind! The rocks around us, which yesterday were absolutely buried, were showing their black heads everywhere, and only a few inches of snow remained, so rapid had been the thaw; while far away to the N. the snow-capped summits of the Pennine Alps stood out in bold relief against the cloudless sky. "I woke Martin, and at a quarter to six, after thirty-five hours' burial, we crawled out of our shelter. At first neither of us could stand, so chilled were we by long exposure, and so cramped by our enforced position, but after a good thaw in the hot sun we managed to hobble about, and pack the knapsacks. After eating the few scraps that remained, we started at seven o'clock up the ridge that we had descended two days before. "We were very shaky on our legs at first, but at each step the stiffness seemed to wear off, and after half an hour we quite recovered their use; but there remained an all-pervading sense of emptiness inside that was not exhilarating. After ascending a short distance, and with my telescope carefully examining the rocks, we determined to descend to the glacier below us (the western branch), and crossing this get on to some more rocks beneath the lower ice-fall. If we could get down these our way seemed clear. "I won't trouble you with the details of the descent: suffice it to say that, without encountering any difficulty, we stepped on to grass about twelve o'clock, and descending green slopes, still patched here and there with snow (which would have provided sufficient Edelweiss for all the hats of the S.A.C.), we arrived safely at La Grave, after a pleasant little outing of fifty-six hours. Mr Middlemore, despairing of my coming, had started for England the night before, and had left Jaun to await my arrival. "After a hot bath, and some bread-crumbs soaked in warm wine, I went to bed, and the next morning I awoke as well as I am now, with the exception of stiffness in the knees, and a slight frost-bite on one hand. Martin, however, who, I suspect, had eaten a good deal on his arrival, was seized with severe cramp, and for some hours was very ill. "Two days' rest put us all to rights again." Though rivalry may be keen between first-class guides, and bitter things be said now and then in the heat of the struggle for first place, yet when a great guide has passed away, it is seldom that one hears anything but good of him. A pretty story is told--and I believe it is true--of the son of old Maquignaz of Valtournanche, which exemplifies this chivalrous trait. Maquignaz and Jean Antoine Carrel were often in competition in the early days of systematic climbing, and if not enemies, they were at any rate hardly bosom friends. Carrel's tragic and noble death on the Matterhorn will be recalled by readers of my _True Tales of Mountain Adventure_. Not very long ago a French climber was making an ascent of the Italian side of the Matterhorn, with "young" Maquignaz as guide. "Where did Carrel fall?" he innocently enquired, as they ascended the precipitous cliffs on the Breuil side of the mountain. Young Maquignaz turned sharply to him and exclaimed: "Carrel n'est pas tombé! _Il est mort!_" CHAPTER II TWO DAYS ON AN ICE-SLOPE There are few instances so striking of the capacity of a party of thoroughly experienced mountaineers to get out of a really tight place, as was the outcome of the two days spent by Messrs Mummery, Slingsby, and Ellis Carr, on an ice slope in the Mont Blanc district. The party intended trying to ascend the Aiguille du Plan direct from the Chamonix valley. Mr Ellis Carr has generously given me permission to make use of his account, which I quote from _The Alpine Journal_. He relates the adventures of himself and his two friends, whose names are household words to climbers, as follows:-- "Mummery, Slingsby, and I started at 4 P.M., with a porter carrying the material for our camp. This comprised a silk tent of Mummery's pattern, only weighing 1½ to 2 lbs.; three eider-down sleeping-bags, 9 lbs.; cooking apparatus of thin tin, 1½ lbs.; or, with ropes, rucksacks, and sundries, about 25 lbs., in addition to the weight of the provisions. Though not unduly burdened, the porter found the valley of boulders exceedingly troublesome, and in spite of three distinct varieties of advice as to the easiest route across them, made such miserably slow progress, often totally disappearing amongst the rocks like a water-logged ship in a trough of the sea, that we were forced to pitch our tents on the right moraine of the Nantillons Glacier, instead of near the base of our peak, as intended. The _gîte_, built up with stones on the slope of the moraine, with earth raked into the interstices, was sufficiently comfortable to afford Mummery and myself some sleep. A stone, however, far surpassing the traditional _gîte_ lump in aggressive activity, seemed, most undeservedly, to have singled out Slingsby as its innocent victim, and, judging by the convulsions of his sleeping-bag, and the sighs and thumps which were in full swing every time I woke up, it must have kept him pretty busy all night dodging its attacks from side to side. His account of his sufferings next morning, when Mummery and I were admittedly awake, fully confirmed and explained these phenomena, but on going for the enemy by daylight, he had the satisfaction of finding that he had suffered quite needlessly, the stone being loose and easily removed. We used Mummery's silk tent for the first time, and found that it afforded ample room for three men to lie at full length without crowding. The night, however, was too fine and still to test the weather-resisting power of the material, and as this was thin enough to admit sufficient moonlight to illuminate the interior of the tent, and make candle or lamp superfluous, we inferred that it might possibly prove to be equally accommodating in the case of rain and wind. It was necessary, moreover, on entering or leaving the tent, to adopt that form of locomotion to which the serpent was condemned to avoid the risk of unconsciously carrying away the whole structure on one's back. We started next morning about three o'clock, leaving the camp kit ready packed for the porter, whom we had instructed to fetch it during the day, and pushed on to the glacier at the foot of our mountain at a steady pace, maintained in my case with much greater ease than would have otherwise been possible by virtue of some long, single-pointed screw spikes inserted overnight in my boot soles; and I may here venture to remark that a few of these spikes, screwed into the boots before starting on an expedition where much ice-work is expected, appear to offer a welcome compromise between ponderous crampons and ordinary nails. They do not, I think, if not too numerous, interfere with rock-climbing, and can be repeatedly renewed when worn down. A slight modification in the shape would further facilitate their being screwed in with a box key made to fit.[1] "Leaving the rock buttress, the scene of our reconnaissance on the 11th, on the right, we struck straight up the glacier basin between it and the Aiguille de Blaitiére, which glacier appeared to me to be largely composed of broken fragments of ice mixed with avalanche snow from the hanging glaciers and slopes above. Keeping somewhat to the left, we reached the _bergschrund_, which proved to be of considerable size, extending along the whole base of the couloir, and crossed it at a point immediately adjoining the rocks on the left. The axe at once came into requisition, and we cut steadily in hard ice up and across the couloir towards the small rib or island of rock before-mentioned as dividing it higher up into two portions. The rocks at the base of this rib, though steep, gritty, and loose, offered more rapid going than the ice, and we climbed then to a gap on the ridge above, commanding a near view of the perpendicular country in front of us. Far above us, and immediately over the top of the right-hand section of the couloir, towered the ice cliffs of the hanging glacier we had tried to reach on the 11th, and beyond these again, in the grey morning light, we caught the glimpse of a second and even a third rank of _séracs_ in lofty vista higher up the mountain. As before observed, this section of the couloir seemed admirably placed for receiving ice-falls, and we now saw that it formed part of the natural channel for snow and _débris_ from each and all of these glaciers. We therefore directed our attention to our friend on the left, and after a halt for breakfast, traversed the still remaining portion of the dividing ridge, turning a small rock pinnacle on its right, and recommenced cutting steps in the hard ice which faced us. As has been before remarked, it is difficult to avoid over-estimating the steepness of ice-slopes, but, allowing for any tendency towards exaggeration, I do not think I am wrong in fixing the angle of the couloir from this point as not less than 50°. We kept the axe steadily going, and with an occasional change of leader, after some hours' unceasing work, found ourselves approaching the base of the upper portion of the couloir, which from below had appeared perpendicular. We paused to consider the situation. For at least 80 to 100 feet the ice rose at an angle of 60° to 70°, cutting off all view of the face above, with no flanking wall of rock on the right, but bounded on the left by an overhanging cliff, which dripped slightly with water from melting snow above. The morning was well advanced, and we kept a sharp look-out aloft for any stray stones which might fancy a descent in our direction. None came, and we felt gratified at this confirmation of our judgment as to the safety of this part of the couloir. However, the time for chuckling had not yet come. As I stated, we had halted to inspect the problem before us. Look as we might we could discover no possibility of turning the ice wall either to the right or left, and though, as we fondly believed and hoped, it formed the only barrier to easier going above, the terrible straightness and narrowness of the way was sufficient to make the very boldest pause to consider the strength of his resources. "How long _I_ should have paused before beating a retreat, if asked to lead the way up such a place, I will not stop to enquire, but I clearly remember that my efforts to form some estimate of the probable demand on my powers such a feat would involve were cut short by Mummery's quiet announcement that he was ready to make the attempt. Let me here state that amongst Mummery's other mountaineering qualifications not the least remarkable is his power of inspiring confidence in those who are climbing with him, and that both Slingsby and I experienced this is proved by the fact that we at once proceeded, without misgiving or hesitation, to follow his lead. We had hitherto used an 80-feet rope, but now, by attaching a spare 100-feet length of thin rope, used double, we afforded the leader an additional 50 feet. Mummery commenced cutting, and we soon approached the lower portion of the actual ice wall, where the angle of the slope cannot have been less than 60°. "I am not aware that any authority has fixed the exact degree of steepness at which it becomes impossible to use the ice axe with both hands, but, whatever portion of a right angle the limit may be, Mummery very soon reached it, and commenced excavating with his right hand caves in the ice, each with an internal lateral recess by which to support his weight with his left. Slingsby and I, meanwhile possessing our souls in patience, stood in our respective steps, as on a ladder, and watched his steady progress with admiration, so far as permitted us by the falling ice dislodged by the axe. "Above our heads the top of the wall was crowned by a single projecting stone towards which the leader cut, and which, when reached, just afforded sufficient standing-room for both feet. The ice immediately below this stone, for a height of 12 or 14 feet, was practically perpendicular, and Slingsby's definition of it as a 'frozen waterfall' is the most appropriate I can find. Here and there Mummery found it necessary to cut through its entire thickness, exposing the face of the rock behind. "On reaching the projecting stone the leader was again able to use the axe with both hands, and slowly disappeared from view; thus completing, without pause or hitch of any kind, the most extraordinary feat of mountaineering skill and nerve it has ever been my privilege to witness. "The top of the wall surmounted, Slingsby and I expected every moment to hear the welcome summons to follow to easier realms above. None came. Time passed, the only sounds besides the occasional drip of water from the rocks on our left, or the growl of a distant avalanche, being that of the axe and the falling chips of ice, as they whizzed by or struck our heads or arms with increasing force. The sounds of the axe strokes gradually became inaudible, but the shower continued to pound us without mercy for more than an hour of inaction, perhaps more trying to the nerves, in such a position, than the task of leading. The monotony was to some extent varied by efforts to ward off from our heads the blows of the falling ice, and by the excitement, at intervals, of seeing the slack rope hauled up a foot or so at a time. It had almost become taut, and we were preparing to follow, when a shout from above, which sounded from where we stood muffled and far away, for more rope, kept us in our places. It was all very well to demand more rope, but not so easy to comply. The only possible way to give extra length was to employ the 100 feet of thin rope single, instead of double, at which we hesitated at first, but, as Mummery shouted that it was absolutely necessary, we managed to make the change, though it involved Slingsby's getting out of the rope entirely during the operation. To any one who has not tried it I should hardly venture to recommend, as an enjoyable diversion, the process, which must necessarily occupy both hands, of removing and re-adjusting 180 feet of rope on an ice slope exceeding 60° at the top of a steep couloir some 1000 feet high. The task accomplished, we had not much longer to wait before the shout to come on announced the termination of our martyrdom. We went on, but, on passing in turn the projecting stone, and catching sight of the slope above, we saw at a glance that our hopes of easy going must, for the present, be postponed. Mummery, who had halted at the full extent of his tether of about 120 feet of rope, was standing in his steps on an ice slope quite as steep as that below the foot of the wall we had just surmounted. He had been cutting without intermission for two hours, and suggested a change. Being last on the rope, I therefore went ahead, cutting steps to pass, and took up the work with the axe. The ice here was occasionally in double layer, the outer one some 3 or 4 inches in thickness, which, when cut through, revealed a space of about equal depth behind, an arrangement at times very convenient, as affording good hand-holes without extra labour. I went on for some time cutting pigeon-holes on the right side of the couloir, and, at the risk of being unorthodox, I would venture to point out what appears to me the advantages of this kind of step on very steep ice. Cut in two perpendicular rows, alternately for each foot, the time lost in zigzags is saved, and no turning steps are necessary; they do not require the ice to be cut away so much for the leg as in the case of lateral steps, and are therefore less easily filled up by falling chips and snow. Being on account of their shape more protected from the sun's heat, they are less liable to be spoiled by melting, and have the further advantage of keeping the members of the party in the same perpendicular line, and consequently in a safer position. They also may serve as hand-holds. To cut such steps satisfactorily it is necessary that the axe be provided with a point long enough to penetrate to the full depth required for the accommodation of the foot up to the instep, without risk of injury to the shaft by repeated contact with the ice. "As we had now been going for several hours without food, and since leaving the rock rib, where we had breakfasted, had come across no ledge or irregularity of any kind affording a resting-place, it was with no little satisfaction that I descried, on the opposite side of the couloir, at a spot about 30 or 40 feet above, where the cliff on our left somewhat receded, several broken fragments of rock cropping out of the ice, of size and shape to provide seats for the whole party. We cut up and across to them, and sat down, or rather hooked ourselves on, for a second breakfast. We were here approximately on a level with the summit of our rock buttress of the 11th, and saw that it was only connected with the mountain by a broken and dangerous-looking ridge of ice and _névé_ running up to an ice-slope at the foot of the glacier cliffs. The gap in the latter was not visible from our position. The tower we had tried to turn appeared far below, and the intervening rocks of the buttress, though not jagged, were steep and smooth like a roof. The first gleams of sunshine now arrived to cheer us, and, getting under way once more, we pushed on hopefully, as the couloir was rapidly widening and the face of the mountain almost in full view. We had also surmounted the rock wall which had so long shut out the prospect on our left, and it was at this point that, happening to glance across the slabs, we caught sight of a large flat rock rapidly descending. It did not bound nor roll, but slid quietly down with a kind of stealthy haste, as if it thought, though rather late, it might still catch us, and was anxious not to alarm us prematurely. It fell harmlessly into the couloir, striking the ice near the rock rib within a few feet of our tracks, and we saw no other falling stones while we were on the mountain. "Leaving the welcome resting-place, Mummery again took the lead, and cut up and across the couloir, now becoming less steep, to a rib or patch of rocks higher up on the right, which we climbed to its upper extremity, a distance of some 70 or 80 feet. "Here, taking to the ice once more, we soon approached the foot of the first great snow-slope on the face, and rejoiced in the near prospect of easier going. At the top of this slope, several hundred feet straight before us, was a low cliff or band of rocks, for which we decided to aim, there being throughout the entire length of the intervening slope no suspicious grey patches to indicate ice. The angle was, moreover, much less severe, and it being once more my turn to lead, I went at it with the zealous intention of making up time. My ardour was, however, considerably checked at finding, when but a short distance up the slope, that the coating of _névé_ was so exceedingly thin as to be insufficient for good footing without cutting through the hard ice below. Instead, therefore, of continuing in a straight line for the rocks, we took an oblique course to the right, towards one of the hanging glaciers before referred to, and crossing a longitudinal crevasse, climbed without much difficulty up its sloping bank of _névé_. Hurrah! here was good snow at last, only requiring at most a couple of slashes with the adze end of the axe for each step. If this continued we had a comparatively easy task before us, as the rocks above, though smooth and steep, were broken up here and there by bands and streaks of snow. Taking full advantage of this our first opportunity for making speed, we cut as fast as possible and made height rapidly. We still aimed to strike the band of rocks before described, though at a point much more to the right, and nearer to where its extremity was bounded by the ice-cliffs of another hanging glacier; but, alas! as we approached nearer and nearer to the base of the cliffs, looming apparently higher and higher over our heads, the favouring _névé_, over which we had been making such rapid progress, again began to fail, and before we could reach the top of the once more steepening slope the necessity of again resorting to the pick end of the axe brought home the unwelcome conviction that our temporary respite had come to an end, and that, instead of snow above, and apart from what help the smooth rocks might afford, nothing was to be expected but hard, unmitigated ice. "We immediately felt that, as it was already past noon, the establishment of this fact would put a totally different complexion on our prospects of success, and, instead of reaching the summit, we might have to content ourselves with merely crossing the ridge. We continued cutting, however, and reached the rocks, the last part of the slope having once more become exceedingly steep. To turn the cliff, here unclimbable, we first spent over half an hour in prospecting to the right, where a steep ice-gully appeared between the rocks and the hanging glacier; but, abandoning this, we struck off to the left, cutting a long traverse, during which we were able to hitch the rope to rocks cropping out through the ice. The traverse landed us in a kind of gully, where, taking to the rocks whenever practicable, though climbing chiefly by the ice, we reached a broken stony ledge, large and flat enough to serve as a luncheon place, the only spot we had come across since leaving the rock rib, where it was possible really to rest sitting. Luncheon over, we proceeded as before, choosing the rocks as far as possible by way of change, though continually obliged to take to the ice-streaks by which they were everywhere intersected. This went on all the rest of the afternoon, till, when daylight began to wane, we had attained an elevation considerably above the gap between our mountain and the Aiguille de Blaitiére, or more than 10,900 feet above the sea. "The persistent steepness and difficulty of the mountain had already put our reaching the ridge before dark entirely out of the question, though we decided to keep going as long as daylight lasted, so as to leave as little work as possible for the morrow. "The day had been gloriously fine, practically cloudless throughout, and I shall never forget the weird look of the ice-slopes beneath, turning yellow in the evening light, and plunging down and disappearing far below in the mists which were gathering at the base of the mountain; also, far, far away, we caught a glimpse of the Lake of Geneva, somewhere near Lausanne. I had turned away from the retrospect, when an exclamation from Slingsby called me to look once more. A gap had appeared in the mists, and there, some 2700 feet below us, as it were on an inferior stage of the world, we caught a glimpse of the snow-field at the very foot of the mountain, dusky yellow in the last rays of the sun. Mummery was in the meantime continuing the everlasting chopping, in the intervals of crawling up disobliging slabs of rock, till twilight began to deepen into darkness, and we had to look about for a perch on which to roost for the night. The only spot we could find, sufficiently large for all three of us to sit, was a small patch of lumps of rocks, more or less loose, some 20 or 30 feet below where we stood, and we succeeded, just as the light failed, or about 8.30 P.M., and after some engineering, in seating ourselves side by side upon it. Our boots were wet through by long standing in ice-steps, and we took them off and wrung the water out of our stockings. The others put theirs on again, but, as a precaution against frost-bite, having pocketed my stockings, I put my feet, wrapped in a woollen cap, inside the rucksack, with the result that they remained warm through the night. The half hour which it took me next morning to pull on the frozen boots proved, however, an adequate price for the privilege of having warm feet. As a precaution against falling off our shelf we hitched the rope over a rock above and passed it round us, and to make sure of not losing my boots (awful thought!), I tied them to it by the laces. "After dinner we settled down to spend the evening. The weather fortunately remained perfect, and the moon had risen, though hidden from us by our mountain. Immediately below lay Chamonix, like a cheap illumination, gradually growing more patchy as the night advanced and the candles went out one by one, while above the stars looked down as if silently wondering why in the world we were sitting there. The first two hours were passed without very much discomfort, but having left behind our extra wraps to save weight, as time wore on the cold began to make itself felt, and though fortunately never severe enough to be dangerous, made us sufficiently miserable. Packed as we were, we were unable to indulge in those exercises generally adopted to induce warmth, and we shivered so vigorously at intervals that, when all vibrating in unison, we wondered how it might affect the stability of our perch. Sudden cramp in a leg, too, could only be relieved by concerted action, it being necessary for the whole party to rise solemnly together like a bench of judges, while the limb was stretched out over the valley of Chamonix till the pain abated, and it could be folded up and packed away once more. We sang songs, told anecdotes, and watched the ghostly effect of the moonlight on a subsidiary pinnacle of the mountain, the illuminated point of which, in reality but a short distance away, looked like a phantom Matterhorn seen afar off over an inky black _arête_ formed by the shadow thrown across its base by the adjoining ridge. We had all solemnly vowed not to drop asleep, and for me this was essential, as my centre of gravity was only just within the base of support; but while endeavouring to give effect to another chorus, in spite of the very troublesome _vibrato_ before referred to, I was grieved and startled at the sudden superfluous interpolation of two sustained melancholy bass notes, each in a different key and ominously suggestive of snoring. The pensive attitude of my companions' heads being in keeping with their song, in accordance with a previous understanding, I imparted to Mummery, who sat next to me, a judicious shock, but, as in the case of a row of billiard balls in contact, the effect was most noticeable at the far end, and _Slingsby_ awoke, heartily agreeing with me how weak it was of Mummery to give way thus. The frequent necessity for repeating this operation, with strengthening variations as the effect wore off, soon stopped the chorus which, like Sullivan's 'Lost Chord,' trembled away into silence. "The lights of Chamonix had by this time shrunk to a mere moth-eaten skeleton of their earlier glory, and I became weakly conscious of a sort of resentment at the callous selfishness of those who could thus sneak into their undeserved beds, without a thought of the three devoted explorers gazing down at them from their eyrie on the icy rocks. "From 2 to 4 o'clock the cold became more intense, aggravated by a slight 'breeze of morning,' and while waiting for dawn we noticed that it was light enough to see. "Daylight, however, did not help Mummery to find his hat, and we concluded it had retired into the _bergschrund_ under cover of darkness. "We helped each other into a standing position, and decided to start for the next patch of rocks above, from there to determine what chance of success there might be in making a dash for the summit, or, failing this, of simply crossing the ridge and descending to the Col du Géant. There was very little food left, and, as we had brought no wine, breakfast was reduced to a slight sketch, executed with little taste and in a few very dry touches. Owing to the time required to disentangle virulently kinked and frozen ropes, etc., the sun was well above the horizon when we once more started upwards, though unfortunately, just at this time, when his life-giving rays would have been most acceptable, they were entirely intercepted by the ridge of the Blaitiére. We started on the line of steps cut the night before, but soon after Mummery had recommenced cutting, the cold, or rather the impossibility, owing to the enforced inaction, to get warm, produced such an overpowering feeling of drowsiness that Slingsby and I, at Mummery's suggestion, returned to the perch, and jamming ourselves into the space which had before accommodated our six legs, endeavoured to have it out in forty winks. Mummery meanwhile continued step-cutting, and at the end of about half an hour, during which Slingsby and I were somewhat restored by a fitful dose, returned, and we tied on again for another attempt. "Surmounting the patches of rock immediately above our dormitory, we arrived at the foot of another slope of terribly steep, hard ice, some 200 feet in height. At the top of this again was a vertical crag 14 or 15 feet high, forming the outworks of the next superior band of rocks, which was interspersed with ice-streaks as before. A few feet from the base of this crag was a narrow ledge about 1 foot in width, where we were able to sit after scraping it clear of snow. Slingsby gave Mummery a leg up round a very nasty corner, and he climbed to a point above the crag, whence he was able to assist us with the rope up a still higher and narrower ledge. Beyond was another steep slope of hard ice, topped by a belt of rocks, as before. "Before reaching this point the cold had again begun to tell upon me, and I bitterly regretted the mistaken policy of leaving behind our extra wraps, especially as the coat I was wearing was not lined. As there was no probability of a change for the better in the nature of the going before the ridge was reached, I began to doubt the wisdom of proceeding, affected as I was, where a false step might send the whole party into the _bergschrund_ 3000 feet below; but it was very hard, with the summit in view and the most laborious part of the ascent already accomplished, to be the first to cry 'Hold!' I hesitated for some time before doing so, and the others meanwhile had proceeded up the slope. The rope was almost taut when I shouted to them the state of the case, and called a council of war. They returned to me, and we discussed what was practically something of the nature of a dilemma. To go on at the same slow rate of progress and without the sun's warmth meant, on the one hand, the possible collapse of at least one of the party from cold, while, on the other hand, to turn back involved the descent of nearly 3000 feet of ice, and the passage, if we could not turn it, of the couloir and its ghastly ice-wall. Partly, I think, to delay for a time the adoption of the latter formidable alternative, partly to set at rest any doubt which might still remain as to the nature of the going above, Mummery volunteered to ascend alone to the rocks at the summit of the ice-slope, though the chance of their offering any improved conditions was generally felt to be a forlorn hope. He untied the rope, threw the end down to us, and retraced his steps up the slope, in due time reaching the rocks some 100 or 130 feet above, but, after prospecting in more than one direction, returned to us with the report that they offered no improvement, and that the intersecting streaks were nothing but hard ice. He, however, was prepared to continue the attempt if we felt equal to the task. If we could at that moment have commanded a cup of hot soup or tea, or the woollen jackets which in our confidence in being able to reach the ridge we had left behind, I am convinced I should have been quite able to proceed, and that the day and the mountain would have been ours; but in the absence of these reviving influences and that of the sun, I was conscious that in my own case, at any rate, it would be folly to persist, so gave my vote for descending. As the food was practically exhausted, the others agreed that it would be wiser to face the terrible ordeal which retracing our steps involved (we did not then know that it meant recutting them), rather than continue the ascent with weakened resources and without absolute certainty of the accessibility of the summit ridge. "As Slingsby on the previous day had insisted on being regarded merely as a passenger, and had therefore not shared in the step-cutting, it was now arranged that he should lead, while Mummery, as a tower of strength, brought up the rear. Though it was past five o'clock, and of course broad daylight, a bright star could be seen just over the ridge of our mountain, not far from the summit--alas! the only one anywhere near it on that day. We started downwards at a steady pace, and soon were rejoicing in the returning warmth induced by the more continuous movement. Before we had gone far, however, we found that most of the steps were partially filled up with ice, water having flowed into them during the previous afternoon, and the work of trimming or practically recutting these was at times exceedingly trying, owing to their distance apart, and the consequent necessity of working in a stooping and cramped position. "But if the work was tough the worker, fortunately, was tougher still, and Mummery and I congratulated ourselves on being able to send such powerful reserves to the front. "The morning was well advanced before the sun surmounted the cold screen of the Blaitiére, but having once got to work he certainly made up by intensity for his tardy appearance. "The provisions, with the exception of a scrap or two of cheese and a morsel of chocolate, being exhausted, and having, as before stated, nothing with us in the form of drink, nothing was to be gained by a halt, though, as we descended with as much speed as possible, we kept a sharp look-out for any signs of trickling water with which to quench the thirst, which was becoming distressing. "Since finally deciding to return, we had cherished the hope that it might still be possible to turn the ice-wall by way of the great rock buttress, and made up our minds at any rate to inspect it from above. With this in view, when the point was reached where we had on the previous day struck the flank of the hanging glacier instead of continuing in the tracks which trended to the right across the long ice-slope, we cut straight down by the side of the glacier to its foot, and over the slope below, in the direction of the _séracs_ immediately crowning the summit of the buttress. "On nearer approach, however, it was manifest that even if by hours of step-cutting a passage from the ice to the rocky crest below could be successfully forced, descent by the latter was more than doubtful, while the consequences of failure were not to be thought of. "Driven, therefore, finally to descend by the couloir, we cut a horizontal traverse which brought us back into the old tracks, a short way above the point where the ice began to steepen for the final plunge, where we braced ourselves for the last and steepest 1000 feet of ice. Slingsby still led, and, on arriving at the spot below our second breakfast-place, where I had last cut pigeon-holes, joyfully announced that one of them contained water. He left his drinking cup in an adjoining step for our use as we passed the spot in turn, and the fact that it was only visible when on a level with our faces may give some idea of the steepness of the descent. The delight of that drink was something to remember, though only obtainable in thimblefuls, and I continued dipping so long that Mummery became alarmed, being under the impression that the cup was filled each time. "Mummery had previously volunteered, in case we were driven to return by the couloir, to descend first, and recut the steps and hand-holes in the ice-wall, and as we approached the brink we looked about for some projecting stone or knob of rock which might serve as a hitch for the rope during the operation. The only available projection was a pointed stone of doubtful security, somewhat removed from the line of descent, standing out of the ice at the foot of a smooth vertical slab of rock on the left. Round this we hitched the rope, Slingsby untying to give the necessary length. With our feet firmly planted, each in its own ice-step, we paid out the rope as Mummery descended and disappeared over the edge. It was an hour before he re-appeared, and this period of enforced inaction was to me, and I think to Slingsby, the most trying of the whole expedition. The want of food was beginning to tell on our strength, the overpowering drowsiness returned, and though it was absolutely essential for the safety of the party to stand firmly in the ice-steps, it required a strong effort to avoid dropping off to sleep in that position. We were fortunately able to steady ourselves by grasping the upper edge of the ice where it adjoined the rocky slab under which we stood. This weariness, however, must have been quite as much mental as physical from the long-continued monotony of the work, for when Mummery at last reappeared we felt perfectly equal to the task of descending. The rope was passed behind a boss of _névé_ ingeniously worked by Mummery as a hitch to keep it perpendicular, and I descended first, but had no occasion to rely upon it for more than its moral support, as the steps and hand-holds had been so carefully cut. I climbed cautiously down the icy cataract till I reached a point where hand-holds were not essential to maintain the balance, and waited with my face almost against the ice till Slingsby joined me. Mummery soon followed, and rather than leave the spare rope behind detached it from the stone and descended without its aid, his nerve being to all appearance unimpaired by the fatigues he had gone through. I had before had evidence of his indifference while on the mountains to all forms of food or drink, with the single exception, by the way, of strawberry jam, on the production of which he generally capitulates. "Rejoicing at having successfully passed the steepest portion of the ice-wall without the smallest hitch of the wrong sort, we steadily descended the face of the couloir. "Here and there, where a few of the steps had been hewn unusually far apart, I was fain to cut a notch or two for the fingers before lowering myself into the next one below. At last the rock rib was reached, and we indulged in a rest for the first time since turning to descend. "Time, however, was precious, and we were soon under way again, retracing our steps over the steep loose rocks at the base of the rib till forced again on to the ice. "Oh, that everlasting hard ice-slope, so trustworthy yet so relentlessly exacting! "Before we could clear the rocks, and as if by way of hint that the mountain had had enough of us, and of me in particular (I could have assured it the feeling was mutual), a flick of the rope sent my hat and goggles flying down to keep company with Mummery's in the _bergschrund_, and a sharp rolling stone, which I foolishly extended my hand to check, gashed me so severely as to put climbing out of the question for more than a week. As small pieces of ice had been whizzing down for some time from above, though we saw no stones, it was satisfactory to find our steps across the lower part of the couloir in sufficiently good order to allow of our putting on a good pace, and we soon reached the sheltering rock on the opposite side and the slopes below the _bergschrund_ wherein our hats, after losing their heads, had found a grave. The intense feeling of relief on regaining, at 5.55 P.M., safe and easy ground, where the lives of the party were not staked on every step, is difficult to describe, and was such as I had never before experienced. I think the others felt something like the same sensation. Fatigue, kept at bay so long as the stern necessity for caution lasted, seemed to come upon us with a rush, though tempered with the sense of freedom from care aforesaid, and I fancy our progress down the glacier snow was for a time rather staggery. Though tired, we were by no means exhausted, and after a short rest on a flat rock and a drink from a glacier runnel, found ourselves sufficiently vigorous to make good use of the remaining daylight to cross the intervening glaciers, moraines, and valley of boulders, before commencing to skirt the tedious and, in the dark, exasperating stony wastes of the Charmoz ridge. Sternly disregarding the allurements of numerous stonemen, which here seem to grow wild, to the confusion of those weak enough to trust them, we stumbled along amongst the stones to the brow of the hill overlooking the hotel, where shouts from friends greeted the appearance of our lantern, and, descending by the footpath, we arrived among them at 10.30 P.M., more than fifty-four hours after our departure on the 12th." [Illustration: ON A SNOW RIDGE.] [Illustration: MRS. AUBREY LE BLOND, 1903. By Royston Le Blond.] [Illustration: A HALT FOR LUNCH ABOVE THE SNOW LINE.] [Illustration: MRS. AUBREY LE BLOND. By Joseph Imboden. _To face_ p. 51.] CHAPTER III SOME AVALANCHE ADVENTURES We should never have got into such a position, but when definite orders are not carried out the General must not be blamed. The adventure might easily have cost all three of us our lives. This is how we came to be imperilling our necks on an incoherent snow-ridge 13,000 feet above the sea. It was the end of September, and my two guides and I were waiting at Zermatt to try the Dent Blanche, a proceeding which, later on, was amply justified by success. Much fresh snow had recently fallen, and the slopes of the mountains were running down towards the valleys faster than the most active chamois could have galloped up them. Idleness is an abomination to the keen climber, and doubly so if he be an enthusiastic photographer, and the sun shone each day from a cloudless sky. Something had to be done, but what could we choose? All the safe second-class ascents up which one might wade through fresh snow without risk, we had accomplished over and over again. Something new to us was what we wanted, and what eventually we found in the stately Hohberghorn. Now this peak is seldom ascended. It is overtopped by two big neighbours, and until these have been done, no one is likely to climb the less imposing peak. Furthermore, the Hohberghorn is a grind, and though we got enough excitement and to spare out of it, yet in our case the circumstances were peculiar. The view was certain to be grand, and, _faute de mieux_, we decided to start for it. On this occasion, in addition to my guide of many years' standing, the famous Joseph Imboden of St Nicholas, I had a second man, who had a great local reputation in his native valley at the other end of Switzerland (and deservedly so, as far as his actual climbing ability was concerned), but who had never been on a rope with Imboden before. This was the cause of the appalling risk we ran during our expedition. We arrived in good time at the hut, and found another party, who proposed going up the Dom, the highest mountain entirely in Switzerland (14,900 feet) next day. Our way lay together for a couple of hours over the great glacier, and we proceeded the following morning in magnificent weather towards our respective peaks. It was heavy work ploughing our way through the soft new snow, and we could not advance except very slowly. As a result, it was already mid-day when we gained the ridge of the Hohberghorn, not far below the summit. The sun streamed pitilessly down, the snow cracked and slipped at every step. To understand what followed, our position must now be made clear. Imboden, who led, was on the very crest of the ridge. Next to him on the rope, at a distance of about 20 feet, was my place, also on the ridge. At an equal distance behind me was the second guide. He was a trifle below the ridge, on the side to our left. We stood still for a moment, and then Imboden distinctly but very quietly remarked to the other man, "Be on your guard. At any moment now we may expect an avalanche." I never to this day can understand how he failed to grasp what this meant. It should have been obvious that it was a warning to look out, and at the first sign of approaching danger to step down on to the other side of the ridge. Had not this been a perfectly simple thing to do, we should not have continued the ascent, but the second guide failed us hopelessly when the critical moment came. Imboden, to avoid a small cornice or overhanging eave of snow to our right, now took a few steps along and below the ridge to the left, while the man behind me came in the tracks to the crest, and I followed the leader. From this position the last man could in an instant have been down the slope to his right, and have held us with the greatest ease. We advanced a yard or two further, and then the entire surface upon which we stood commenced to move! A moment more and we were struggling for our lives, dashing our axes through the rushing snow, and endeavouring to arrest our wild career, which, unless checked at once, would cause us to be precipitated down the entire face of the mountain, to the glacier below. Then it was that the firm bed of snow beneath the newer layer stood us in good stead. Our axes held, and, breathless, bruised and startled, we found ourselves clinging to the slope, while the avalanche, momentarily increasing in volume, thundered down towards the snow-fields below, where at length, heaped high against the mountain-side, it came to rest. We now took stock of the position. We were practically unhurt, but so confused and rapid had been the slip that the rope was entangled round us in a manner wonderful to behold. There was nothing to prevent us reaching the summit, for every atom of fresh snow had been swept away from the slope, so we continued our climb, and soon were able to rest on the top. To this day, Imboden and I always look back to our adventure on the Hohberghorn as the greatest peril either of us has ever faced. More than one instance has been recorded where, owing to the prompt action of the last man on the rope, fatal accidents on snow-ridges have been avoided. The two most famous occasions in Alpine annals[2] were when Hans Grass saved his party on Piz Palü, and when Ulrich Almer performed his marvellous feat on the Gabelhorn. It is true that in both these cases the risk was due to the breaking away of a snow-cornice, but the remedy was exactly the same as it ought to have been when our avalanche was started. I have only to add that we found the other party at the hut, much exhausted by their unsuccessful attempt on the Dom, and very anxious on our account, as they both heard and saw the avalanche which had so nearly ended our mountaineering career. The famous climber, Mr Tuckett, has very kindly allowed me to quote from _Peaks, Passes, and Glaciers_, the following description of a narrow escape from an avalanche while descending the Aletschhorn: "We had accomplished in safety a distance of scarcely more than 150 yards when, as I was looking at the Jungfrau, my attention was attracted by a sudden exclamation from Victor, who appeared to stagger and all but lose his balance. At first, the idea of some sort of seizure or an attack of giddiness presented itself, but, without stopping to enquire, I at once turned round, drove my good 8-foot ash-pole as deeply as possible through the surface layer of fresh snow into the firmer stratum beneath, tightened the rope to give Victor support, and shouted to Peter to do the same. All this was the work of an instant, and a glance at once showed me what had happened. Victor was safe for the moment, but a layer or _couche_ of snow, 10 inches to a foot in thickness, had given way exactly beneath his feet, and first gently, and then fleet as an arrow, went gliding down, with that unpleasant sound somewhat resembling the escape of steam, which is so trying to the nerves of the bravest man, when he knows its full and true significance. At first a mass 80 to 100 yards in breadth and 10 or 15 in length alone gave way, but the contagion spread, and ere another minute had elapsed the slopes right and left of us for an extent of at least half a mile, were in movement, and, like a frozen Niagara, went crashing down the ice-precipices and _séracs_ that still lay between us and the Aletsch glacier, 1800 to 2000 feet below. The spectacle was indescribably sublime, and the suspense for a moment rather awful, as we were clinging to an incline at least as steep as that on the Grindelwald side of the Strahleck--to name a familiar example--and it was questionable whether escape would be possible, if the layer of snow on the portion of the slope we had just been traversing should give way before we could retrace our steps. "Not a moment was to be lost; no word was spoken after the first exclamation, and hastily uttered, 'Au col! et vite!' and then in dead silence, with _bâtons_ held aloft like harpoons, ready to be plunged into the lower and older layers of snow, we stole quietly but rapidly up towards the now friendly-looking _corniche_, and in a few minutes stood once more in safety on the ridge, with feelings of gratitude for our great deliverance, which, though they did not find utterance in words, were, I believe, none the less sincerely felt by all of us. 'Il n'a manqué que peu à un grand malheur,' quietly remarked Victor, who looked exhausted, as well he might be after what he had gone through; but a _goutte_ of cognac all round soon set us right again, and shouting to Bennen, who was still in sight, though dwindled in size to a mere point, we were soon beside him, running down the _névé_ of our old friend, the Aren Glacier. The snow was now soft and the heat tremendous, and both Bennen and Bohren showed signs of fatigue; but a rapid pace was still maintained in spite of the frequent crevasses. Some were cleared in a series of flying leaps, whilst into others which the snow concealed, one and another would occasionally sink, amid shouts of laughter from his companions, who, in their turn, underwent a similar fate. To the carefully secured rope, which, with the alpenstock and ice axe, are the mountaineer's best friends, we owed it that these sudden immersions were a mere matter of joke; but even the sense of security which it confers does not altogether prevent a 'creepy' sensation from being experienced, as the legs dangle in vacancy, and the sharp metallic ring of the icy fragments is heard as they clatter down into the dark blue depths below." The higher and more snow-laden the mountain chain, the more risk is there from avalanches. It seems practically certain that Mr Mummery met his death in the Himalayas from an avalanche, and that Messrs Donkin and Fox and their two Swiss guides perished in the Caucasus from a like cause. Sir W. Martin Conway, in his book on the Himalayas, makes several allusions to avalanches, and on at least one occasion, some members of his party had a narrow escape. He relates the adventure as follows: [Illustration: A cutting through an immense avalanche which fell some months previously.] [Illustration: The remains of a large avalanche.] [Illustration: An avalanche of stones.] [Illustration: A mountain chapel near Zermatt where special prayers are offered for defence against avalanche. _To face_ p. 59.] "Zurbriggen and I had no more than set foot upon the grass, when we beheld a huge avalanche-cloud descending over the whole width of the ice-fall, utterly enveloping both it and a small rock-rib and couloir beside it. Bruce and the Gurkhas were below the rib, and could only see up the couloir. They thought the avalanche was a small one confined to it, and so they turned back and ran towards the foot of the ice-fall. This was no improvement in position, and there was nothing for them to do then but to run straight away from it, and get as far out to the flat glacier as they could. The fall started from the very top of the Lower Burchi peak, and tumbled on to the plateau above the ice-fall; it flowed over this, and came down the ice-fall itself. We saw the cloud before we heard the noise, and then it only reached us as a distant rumble. We had no means of guessing the amount of solid snow and ice that there might be in the heart of the cloud. The rumble increased in loudness, and was soon a thunder that swallowed up our puny shouts, so that Bruce could not hear our warning. Had he heard he could easily have reached the sheltered position we gained before the cloud came on him. Zurbriggen and I cast ourselves upon our faces, but only the edge of the cloud and an ordinary strong wind reached us. Our companions were entirely enveloped in it. They afterwards described to us how they raced away like wild men, jumping crevasses which they could not have cleared in cold blood. When the snow just enveloped them, the wind raised by it cast them headlong on the ice. This, however, was the worst that happened. The snow peppered them all over, and soaked them to the skin, but the solid part of the avalanche was happily arrested in the midst of the ice-fall, and never came in sight. When the fog cleared they were all so out of breath that for some minutes they could only stand and regard one another in panting silence. They presently rejoined us, and we halted for a time on the pleasant grass." In the olden days, before the great Alpine lines had tunnelled beneath the mountains and made a journey from one side of the range to the other in midwinter as safe and as comfortable as a run from London to Brighton, passengers obliged to cross the Alps in winter or spring were exposed to very real peril from avalanches. Messrs Newnes have courteously allowed me to make a short extract from an article which appeared in one of their publications, and in which is described the adventures of two English ladies who were obliged to return home suddenly from Innsbruck on account of the illness of a near relative. Their shortest route was by _diligence_ to Constance, over the Arlberg Pass, and although it was considered extremely dangerous at that time of year--the beginning of May 1880--they resolved to make the attempt. Much anxiety with regard to avalanches was felt in neighbouring villages, as the sun had lately been very hot, and the snow had become rotten and undermined. Owing to heavy falls during the previous winter, the accumulation of snow was enormous, and thus the two travellers set out under the worst possible auspices. The conductor of the _diligence_ warned them of the danger, and told them on no account to open a window or to make any movement which could shake the coach. He got in with them and sat opposite, looking very worried and anxious. They reached the critical part of their journey, and, to quote Mrs Brewer's words: "Suddenly a low, booming sound, like that of a cannon on a battlefield or a tremendous peal of thunder, broke on our ears, swelling into a deafening crash; and in a moment we were buried in a vast mass of snow. One of the immense piles from the mountain above had crashed down upon us, carrying everything with it. At the same moment we felt a violent jerk of the coach, and heard a kind of sound which expressed terror; but, happily, our vehicle did not turn over, as it seemed likely to do for a minute or so. There we sat--for how long I know not--scarcely able to breathe, the snow pressing heavily against the windows, and utterly blocking out light and air, so that breathing was a painful effort. And now came a curious sensation. It was an utter suspension of thought, and of every mental and physical faculty. "True, in a sort of unconscious way I became aware that the guard was sobbing out a prayer for his wife and children; but it had not the slightest effect on me. "We might have been buried days and nights for all I knew, for I kept no count of time. In reality, I believe it was but a couple of hours between the fall of the avalanche and the first moment of hope, which came in the form of men striking with pickaxes. The sound seemed to come from a long distance--almost, as it were, from another world. "The guard, roused by the noise, said earnestly: 'Ach Gott! I thank Thee.' And then, speaking to us, he said: 'Ladies, help is near!' "Gradually the sound of the digging and the voices of the men grew nearer, till at length one window was open--the one overlooking the valley; and the life-giving air stole softly in upon us. Even now, however, we were told not to move; not that we had any inclination to do so, for we were in a dazed, half-conscious condition. When at length we used our eyes, it was to note that the valley did not seem so deep, and that the villages with their church spires had disappeared; the meaning of it was not far to seek. "We were both good German scholars, and knew several of the dialects, so that we were able to learn a good deal of what had happened by listening to the men's talk. The school inspector in his terror had lost all self-control, and forgetful of the warnings given him, threw himself off the seat and leaped into space, thereby endangering the safety of all. He mercifully fell into one of the clumps of trees some distance down the slope, and so escaped without very much damage to himself, except shock to the system and bruises. The poor horses, however, fared infinitely worse. The weight of the snow lifted the rings from the hooks on the carriage, and at the same time carried the poor brutes down with it into the valley--never again to do a day's work. "The difficulties still before us were very serious. We could neither go backward nor forward, and there was danger of more avalanches falling. The next posting village was still far ahead, and there was no chance of our advancing a step until the brave body of men could cut a way through or make a clearance, and even then time would be required to bring back horses." The ladies were at last extricated from their still dangerous position, and amid a scene of the greatest excitement, arrived at a little Tyrolese village. The people could not do enough to welcome them, and every kindness was shown to them. Thus ended a wonderfully narrow escape for all who were concerned in the adventure. [Illustration: A mountain path.] [Illustration: A village completely buried beneath an avalanche.] [Illustration: Peasants of the mountains.] [Illustration: Terraces cut on the hill sides and planted with trees to prevent the fall of avalanches. _To face_ p. 65.] CHAPTER IV A MONTH BENEATH AN AVALANCHE One of the treasures of collectors of Alpine books is a small volume in Italian by Ignazio Somis. The British Museum has not only a copy of the original, but also a couple of translations, from one of which, published in 1768, I take the following account. I have left the quaint old spelling and punctuation just as they were; they accentuate the vividness and evident truth of this "True and Particular Account of the most Surprising preservation and happy deliverance of three women," who were buried for a month under an avalanche. The occurrence was fully investigated by Ignazio Somis, who visited the village of Bergemoletto, and obtained his narrative from the lips of one of the survivors. "In the month of February and March of the year 1755, we had in Turin, a great fall of rain, the sky having been almost constantly overcast from the ninth of February till the twenty-fourth of March. During this interval, it rained almost every day, but snowed only on the morning of the twenty-first of February, when the liquor of Reaumur's thermometer stood but one degree above the freezing point. Now, as it often snows in the mountains, when it only rains in the plain; it cannot appear surprising that during this interval, there fell vast quantities of snow in the mountains that surround us, and in course, several valancas[3] were formed. In fact, there happened so many in different places on the side of Aosta, Lanzo, Susa, Savoy, and the county of Nice, that by the end of March, no less than two hundred persons had the misfortune of losing their lives by them. Of these overwhelmed by these valancas, three persons, however, Mary Anne Roccia Bruno, Anne Roccia, and Margaret Roccia, had reason to think themselves in other respects, extremely happy, having been dug alive on the twenty-fifth of April, out of a stable, under the ruins of which, they had been buried, the nineteenth of March, about nine in the morning, by a valanca of snow, forty-two feet higher than the roof, to the incredible surprise of all those who saw them, and afterwards heard them relate how they lived all this while, with death, as we may say, continually staring them in the face. "The road from Demonte to the higher valley of Stura, runs amidst many mountains, which, joining one another, and sometimes rising to a great height, form a part of those Alps, by historians and geographers, called maritime Alps, separating the valley of Stura and Piedmont, from Dauphiny and the county of Nice. Towards the middle of the road leading to the top of these mountains, and on the left of the river Stura, we meet with a village called Bergemolo, passing through which village, and still keeping the road through the said valley, we, at about a mile distance, arrive at a little hamlet called Bergemoletto, containing about one hundred and fifty souls. From this place there run two narrow lanes, both to the right and left, one less steep and fatiguing than the other, and in some measure along two valleys, to the mountains. The summit of the mountain makes the horizon an angle much greater than 45°, and so much greater in some places, as to be in a manner perpendicular, so that it is a very difficult matter to climb it, even by a winding path. Now it was from the summit of the aforesaid mountains that fell the valancas of snow, which did so much mischief, and almost entirely destroyed the hamlet of Bergemoletto. "The bad weather which prevailed in so many other places, prevailed likewise in the Foresta of Bergemoletto. By this word Foresta, the Alpineers understand the villages dispersed over the vallies covered with small trees and bushes, and surrounded with high mountains; for it began to snow early in March, and the fall increased so much on the 16, 17, 18 and 19, that many of the inhabitants began to apprehend, and not without reason, that the weight of that which was already fallen, and still continued to fall, might crush their houses, built with stones peculiar to the country, cemented by nothing but mud, and a very small portion of lime, and covered with thatch laid on a roof of shingles and large thin stones, supported by thick beams. They, therefore, got upon their roofs to lighten them of the snow. At a little distance from the church, stood the house of Joseph Roccia, a man of about fifty, husband of Mary Anne, born in Demonte, of the family of Bruno; who, with his son James, a lad of fifteen, had, like his neighbours, got upon the roof of his house on the 19th in the morning in order to lessen the weight on it, and thereby prevent its destruction. In the meantime the clergyman who lived in the neighbourhood, and was about leaving home, in order to repair to the church, and gather his people together to hear mass; perceiving a noise towards the top of the mountains, and turning his trembling eyes towards the quarter from whence he thought it came, discovered two valancas driving headlong towards the village. Wherefore raising his voice he gave Joseph notice, instantly to come down from the roof, to avoid the impending danger, and then immediately retreated himself into his own house. "These two valancas met and united, so as to form but one valanca which continued to descend towards the valley, where, on account of the increase of its bulk, the diminution of its velocity and the insensible declivity of the plane it stopped and arrested by the neighbouring mountain, though it covered a large tract of land, did no damage either to the houses or the inhabitants. Joseph Roccia, who had formerly observed that the fall of one valanca was often attended with that of others, immediately came off the roof at the priest's notice, and with his son fled as hard as he could towards the church, without well knowing, however, which way he went; as is usually the case with the Alpineers, when they guess by the report in the air, that some valanca is falling or seeing it fall with their own eyes. The poor man had scarce advanced forty steps, when hearing his son fall just at his heels, he turned about to assist him, and taking him up, saw the spot on which his house, his stable, and those of some of his neighbours stood, converted into a huge heap of snow, without the least sign of either walls or roofs. Such was his agony at this sight, and at the thoughts of having lost in an instant, his wife, his sister, his family, and all the little he had saved, with many years increasing labour and economy, that hale and hearty, as he was, he immediately, as if heaven and earth were come together, lost his senses, swooned away, and tumbled upon the snow. His son now helped him, and he came to himself little by little; till at last, by leaning upon him, he found himself in a condition to get on the valanca, and, in order to re-establish his health there, set out for the house of his friend, Spirito Roccia, about one hundred feet distant from the spot, where he fell. Mary Anne, his wife, who was standing with her sister-in-law Anne, her daughter Margaret, and her son Anthony, a little boy two years old, at the door of the stable, looking at the people throwing the snow from off the houses, and waiting for the ringing of the bell that was to call them to prayers, was about taking a turn to the house, in order to light a fire, and air a shirt for her husband, who could not but want that refreshment after his hard labour. But before she could set out, she heard the priest cry out to them to come down quickly, and raising her trembling eyes, saw the foresaid valancas set off, and roll down the side of the mountain, and at the same instant heard a horrible report from another quarter, which made her retreat back quickly with her family, and shut the door of the stable. Happy it was for her, that she had time to do so; this noise being occasioned by another immense valanca, the whole cause of all the misery and distress, she had to suffer for so long a time. And it was this very valanca, over which Joseph, her husband was obliged to pass after his fit, in his way to the house of Spirito Roccia. "Some minutes after the fall of the valanca another huge one broke off driving along the valley and beat down the houses which it met in its course. This valanca increased greatly, by the snow over which it passed, in its headlong course, and soon reached with so much impetuosity, the first fallen valanca, it carried away great part of it; then returning back with this reinforcement, it demolished the houses, stopping in the valley which it had already overwhelmed in its first progress. So that the height of the snow, Paris measure, amounted to more than seventy-seven feet; the length of it to more than four hundred and twenty-seven and the breadth above ninety-four. Some people affirm that the concussion of the air occasioned by this valanca, was so great, that it was heard at Bergemolo, and even burst open some doors and windows at that place. This I know that nothing escaped it in Bergemoletto, but a few houses, the church, and the house of John Arnaud. "Being therefore gathered together, in order to sum up their misfortunes, the inhabitants first counted thirty houses overwhelmed; and then every one calling over those he knew, twenty-two souls were missing, of which number, was D. Giulio Caesare Emanuel, their parish priest, who had lived among them forty years. The news of this terrible disaster, soon spread itself over the neighbourhood, striking all those who heard it, with grief and compassion. All the friends and relations of the sufferers, and many others, flocked of their own accord, from Bergemolo and Demonte; and many were dispatched by the magistrates of these places, to try if they could give any relief to so many poor creatures, who, perhaps, were already suffocated by the vast heap of snow that lay upon them; so that by the day following, the number assembled on this melancholy occasion amounted to three hundred. Joseph Roccia, notwithstanding his great love for his wife and family, and his desire to recover part of what he had lost, was in no condition to assist them for five days, owing to the great fright and grief, occasioned by so shocking an event, and the swoon which overtook him at the first sight of it. In the meantime, the rest were trying, if, by driving iron-rods through the hardened snow, they could discover any roofs; but they tried in vain. The great solidity and compactness of the valanca, the vast extent of it in length, breadth and heighth, together with the snow, that still continued to fall in great quantities, eluded all their efforts; so that after some days' labour, they thought proper to desist from their trials, finding that it was throwing away their time and trouble to no purpose. The husband of poor Mary Anne, no sooner recovered his strength, than in company with his son, and Anthony and Joseph Bruno, his brothers-in-law who had come to his assistance from Demonte, where they lived, did all that lay in his power to discover the spot, under which his house, and the stable belonging to it, were situated. But neither himself, nor his relations, could make any discovery capable of affording them the smallest ray of comfort; though they worked hard for many days, now in one place, and now in another, unable to give up the thoughts of knowing for certain, whether any of their family was still alive, or if they had under the snow and the ruins of the stable, found, at once, both death and a grave. But it was all labour lost, so that, at length, he thought proper to return to the house of Spirito Roccia, and there wait, till, the weather growing milder, the melting of the snow should give him an opportunity of paying the last duty to his family, and recovering what little of his substance might have escaped this terrible calamity. "Towards the end of March, the weather, through the lengthening of the days, and the setting in of the warm winds, which continued to blow till about the twentieth of April, began to grow mild and warm; and, of course, the great valanca to fall away by the melting of the snow and ice that composed it; so that little by little, the valley began to assume its pristine form. This change was very sensible, especially by the eighteenth of April, so that the time seemed to be at hand for the surviving inhabitants of Bergemoletto to resume their interrupted labours, with some certainty of recovering a good part of what they had lost on the unfortunately memorable morning of the nineteenth of March. Accordingly, they dispersed themselves over the valanca, some trying in one place, and some in another, now with long spades, and another time with thick rods of iron, and other instruments proper to break the indurated snow. One of the first houses they discovered by this means, was that of Louisa Roccia, in which they found her dead body, and that of one of her sons. Next day, in the house called the confreria, that had two rooms on the ground floor, and one above them, they found the body of D. Giulio Caesare Emanuel, with his beads in his hand. Joseph Roccia, animated by these discoveries, set himself with new spirits about discovering the situation of his house, and the stable belonging to it; and with spades and iron crows, made several and deep holes in the snow, throwing great quantities of earth into them; earth mixed with water, being very powerful in destroying the strong cohesion of snow and ice. On the twenty-fourth, having made himself an opening two feet deep into the valanca, he began to find the snow softer and less difficult to penetrate; wherefore, driving down a long stick, he had the good fortune of touching the ground with it. "It was no small addition to Joseph's strength and spirit, to be thus able to reach the bottom; so that he would have joyfully continued his labour, and might perhaps on that very day, had it not been too far advanced, have recovered some part of what he was looking for, and found that which, assuredly, he by no means expected to meet with. When, therefore, he desisted for that time, it was with much greater reluctance than he had done any of the preceding days. The anxiety of Joseph, during the following night, may well be compared to that of the weather-beaten mariner, who finding himself, after a long voyage, at the mouth of his desired port, is yet, by the coming on of night obliged to remain on the inconstant waves till next morning. Wherefore, at the first gleam of light, he, with his son, hastened back to the spot, where the preceding day he had reached the ground with the stick, and began to work upon it again; but he had not worked long, when lo, to his great surprise, who should he see coming to his assistance but his two brothers-in-law Joseph and Anthony Bruno. "Anthony, it seems, the night between the preceding Thursday and Friday, being then in Delmonte, dreamed that there appeared to him, with a pale and troubled countenance, his sister Mary Anne Roccia, who, with an earnestness intermixed with grief and hope, called upon him for assistance in the following words: "'Anthony, though you all look upon me as dead in the stable where the valanca of snow overwhelmed me on the nineteenth of March, God has kept me alive. Hasten therefore to my assistance, and to relieve me from my present wretched condition; in you, my brother, have I placed all my hopes, dont abandon me; help, help I beseech you.' Anthony's imagination, was so affected by the thoughts of thus seeing his sister, and hearing her utter these piteous words, that he immediately started up, and calling out to his brother Joseph, he acquainted him with what he had seen and heard. They both, therefore, as soon as it was day, set out for Bergemoletto, where they arrived a little before eight, tired and out of breath, for they seemed to have their sister continually before their eyes, pressing them for help and assistance. Having therefore taken a little rest and refreshment, they set out again for the place, where Joseph Roccia, and many others, were hard at work in looking for the wrecks of their houses. Joseph had left the spot, where, the day before he thought he had reached the ground, and was trying to reach it in other places. His brothers-in-law immediately fell to work with him, and making many new holes in the snow, the interior parts of which were not so very hard, with the same iron rods, with earth and with long poles, they at last, about ten, discovered the so long sought for house, but found no dead bodies in it. Knowing that the stable did not lie one hundred feet from the house, they immediately directed their search towards it, and proceeding in the same manner, about noon, they got a long pole through a hole, from whence issued a hoarse and languid voice, which seemed to say: 'help, my dear husband, help, my dear brother, help.' The husband and brother thunderstruck, and at the same time encouraged by these words, fell to their work with redoubled ardour, in order to clear away the snow, and open a sufficient way for themselves, to the place from whence the voice came, and which grew more and more distinct as the work advanced. It was not long, therefore, before they had made a pretty large opening, through which (none minding the danger he exposed himself to) Anthony descended, as into a dark pit, asking who it was, that could be alive in such a place. Mary Anne knew him by his voice, and answered with a trembling and broken accent, intermixed with tears of joy. 'Tis I, my dear brother, who am still alive in company with my daughter and my sister-in-law, who are at my elbow. God, in whom I have always trusted, still hoping that he would inspire you with the thought of coming to our assistance, has been graciously pleased to keep us alive.' God, who had preserved them to this moment, and was willing they should live, inspired Anthony with such strength and spirits, that, notwithstanding the surprise and tenderness with which so joyful and at the same time so sad a sight must have affected him, had presence of mind enough to acquaint his fellow-labourers, all anxiously waiting for the report of his success, that Mary Anne, Margaret, and Anne Roccia were still alive. Whereupon Joseph Roccia, and Joseph Bruno, enlarging the passage as well as they could, immediately followed him into the ruins; whilst the other Alpineers, scattered over the valanca in quest of their lost substance, and the dead bodies of their relations, on the son's calling out to them, flocked round the mouth of the pit, to behold so extraordinary a sight; not a little heightened by that of two live goats scampering out of the opening. In the meantime, those who had descended into the hole, were contriving how to take out of it the poor and more than half dead prisoners, and convey them to some place, where they might recover themselves. The first thing they did was to raise them up, and take them out of the manger in which they had been so long stowed. They then placed them one by one on their shoulders, and lifted them up to those who stood round the mouth of the pit, who with very great difficulty took hold of them by the arms, and drew them out of their dark habitation. Mary Anne, on being exposed to the open air, and seeing the light, was attacked by a very acute pain in the eyes, which greatly weakened her sight, and was attended with so violent a fainting fit, that she had almost like to have lost, in the first moment of her deliverance, that life, which she had so long and with such difficulty preserved. But this was a consequence that might be easily foreseen. She had been thirty-seven days, secluded, in a manner entirely, from the open air; nor had the least ray of light, in all that time, penetrated her pupils. "Her son found means to bring her to herself with a little melted snow, there being nothing else at hand fit for the purpose, and the accident that happened her was improved into a rule for treating the companions of her misfortune. They, therefore, covered all their faces, and wrapped them up so well, as to leave them but just room to breathe, and in this condition took them to the house of John Arnaud, where Mary Anne was entirely recovered from her fit, by a little generous wine. They then directly placed them in some little beds put up in the stable, which was moderately warm, and almost entirely without light, and prepared for them a mess of rye meal gruel, mixed with a little butter; but they could swallow but very little of it." CHAPTER V A MONTH BENEATH AN AVALANCHE--(_continued_) "It is now proper I should say something of the most marvellous circumstance, attending this very singular and surprising accident, I mean their manner of supporting life, during so long and close a confinement. I shall relate what I have heard of it from their own mouths, being the same, in substance, with what Count Nicholas de Brandizzo, intendant of the city and province of Cuneo, heard from them on the sixteenth of May, when, by order of our most benevolent sovereign, he repaired to Bergemoletto, effectually to relieve these poor women, and the rest of the inhabitants, who had suffered by the valanca. "To begin then; on the morning of the twenty-ninth of March, our three poor women, expecting every minute to hear the bell toll for prayers, had in the mean time, taken shelter from the rigour of the weather, in a stable built with stones, such as are usually found in these quarters, with a roof composed of large thin stones, not unlike slate, laid on a beam ten inches square, and covered with a small quantity of straw, and with a pitch sufficient to carry off the rain, hail or snow, that might fall upon it. In the same stable were six goats, (four of which I heard nothing of) an ass and some hens. Adjoining to this stable, was a little room, in which they had fixed a bed, and used to lay up some provisions, in order to sleep in it in bad weather without being obliged to go for anything to the dwelling-house, which lay about one hundred feet from it. I have already taken notice, that Mary Anne was looking from the door of the stable at her husband and son, who were clearing the roof of its snow, when warned by a horrible noise, the signal by which the Alpineer knows the tumbling of the valancas, she immediately took herself in with her sister-in-law, her daughter, and her little boy of two years old, and shut the door, telling them the reason for doing it in such a hurry. Soon after they heard a great part of the roof give way, and some stones fall on the ground, and found themselves involved on all sides with a pitchy darkness; all which they attributed, and with good reason, to the fall of some valanca. Upon this, they for some time thought proper to keep a profound silence, to try if they could hear any noise, and by that means have the comfort of knowing that help was at hand, but they could hear nothing. They therefore set themselves to grope about the stable, but without being able to meet with anything but solid snow. Anne light upon the door, and opened it, hoping she had found out the way to escape the imminent danger they thought they were in of the buildings tumbling about their ears; but she could not distinguish the least ray of light, nor feel any thing but a hard and impenetrable wall of snow, with which she acquainted her fellow prisoners. They, therefore, immediately began to bawl out with all their might; 'help, help, we are still alive'; repeating it several times; but not hearing any answer, Anne put the door to again. They continued to grope about the stable, and Mary Anne having light upon the manger, it occurred to her, that, as it was full of hay, they might take up their quarters there, and enjoy some repose, till it should please the Almighty to send them assistance. The manger was about twenty inches broad, and lay along a wall, which, by being on one side supported by an arch, was enabled to withstand the shock, and upheld the chief beam of the roof, in such a manner, as to prevent the poor women from being crushed to pieces by the ruins. Mary Anne placed herself in the manger, putting her son by her, and then advised her daughter and her sister-in-law to do so too. Upon this, the ass which was tied to the manger, frightened by the noise, began to bray and prance at a great rate; so that, fearing lest he should bring the parapet of the manger, or even the wall itself about their ears; they immediately untied the halter, and turned him adrift. In going from the manger, he stumbled upon a kettle that happened to lie in the middle of the stable, which put Mary Anne upon picking it up, and laying it by her, as it might serve to melt the snow in for their drink, in case they should happen to be confined long enough to want that resource. Anne, approving this thought, got down, and groping on the floor till she had found it, came back to the manger. "In this situation the good women continued many hours, every moment expecting to be relieved from it; but, at last, being too well convinced, that they had no immediate relief to expect, they began to consider how they might support life, and what provisions they had with them for that purpose. Anne recollected that the day before she had put some chestnuts into her pocket, but, on counting them, found they amounted only to fifteen. Their chief hopes, therefore, and with great reason now rested on thirty or forty cakes, which two days before had been laid up in the adjoining room. The reader may well imagine, though Anne had never told me a word of it, with what speed and alertness she must, on recollecting these cakes, have got out of the manger, to see and find out the door of the room where they lay; but it was to no purpose; she roved and roved about the stable to find out what she wanted, so that she was obliged to come as she went, and take up her seat again amongst her fellow-sufferers, who still comforted themselves with the hopes of being speedily delivered from that dark and narrow prison. In the mean while, finding their appetite return, they had recourse to their chestnuts. The rest of the chestnuts they reserved for a future occasion. They then addressed themselves to God, humbly beseeching him to take compassion on them, and vouchsafe in his great mercy to rescue them from their dark grave, and from the great miseries they must unavoidably suffer, in case it did not please him to send them immediate assistance. They spent many hours in ejaculations of this kind, and then thinking it must be night, they endeavoured to compose themselves. Margaret and the little boy, whose tender years prevented their having any idea of what they had to suffer in their wretched situation, or any thought of death, and of what they must suffer, before they could be relieved, fell asleep. But it was otherwise with Mary Anne and Anne, who could not get the least rest, and spent the whole night in prayer, or in speaking of their wretched condition, and comforting one another with the hopes of being speedily delivered from it. As it seemed to them, after many hours, that it was day again, they endeavoured to keep up their spirits with the thoughts, that Joseph with the rest of their friends and relations not getting any intelligence of their situation, would not fail of doing all that lay in their power to come at them. The sensation of hunger was earliest felt by the two youngest; and the little boy crying out for something to eat, and there being nothing for him but the chestnuts, Anne gave him three. "I said, that these women seemed to have some notion of the approach of day and night, but I should never have dreamed in what manner this idea could be excited in them, shut up as they were in a body of ice, impervious to the least ray of light, had not they themselves related it to me. The hens shut up in the same prison, were it seems the clocks, which by their clucking all together, made them think the first day that it was night, and then again after some interval that it was day again. This is all the notion they had of day and night for two weeks together; after which, not hearing the hens make any more noise, they no longer knew when it was day or night. "This day the poor women and the boy supported themselves with their chestnuts; and at the return of the usual signal of night, the boy and Margaret went to sleep; while the mother and aunt spent it in conversation and prayer. On the next day the ass by his braying, gave now and then, for the last time, some signs of life. On the other hand, the poor prisoners had something to comfort themselves with; for they discovered two goats making up to the manger. This, therefore, was a joyful event, and they gave the goats some of the hay they sat upon in the manger, shrunk up with their knees to their noses. It then came into Anne's head to try if she could not get some milk from the milch goat; and recollecting that they used to keep a porringer under the manger for that purpose, she immediately got down to look for it, and happily found it. The goat suffered herself to be milked, and yielded almost enough to fill the cup which contained above a pint. On this they lived the third day. The night following the boy and the girl slept as usual, while neither of the two others closed their eyes. Who can imagine how long the time must have appeared to them, and how impatient they must have been to see an end to their sufferings? This, after offering their prayers to the Almighty, was the constant subject of their conversation. 'O, my husband,' Mary Anne used to cry out, 'if you two are not buried under some of the valancas and dead; why do not you make haste to give me, your sister, and children, that assistance which we so much stand in need of? We are thank God, still alive, but cannot hold out much longer, so it will soon be too late to think of us.' 'Ah, my dear brother,' added Anne, 'in you next to God, have we placed all our trust. We are alive, indeed, and it depends upon you to preserve our lives, by digging us out of the snow and the ruins, in which we lie buried.' 'But let us still hope,' both of them added, 'that as God has been pleased to spare our lives, and provide us with the means of prolonging it, he will still in his great mercy put it into the hearts of our friends and relations to use all their endeavours to save us.' To this discourse succeeded new prayers, after which they composed themselves as well as they could, in order to get, if possible, a little sleep. "The hens having given the usual signal of the return of day, they began again to think on the means of spinning out their lives. Mary Anne bethought herself anew of the cakes put up in the adjacent room; and upon which, could they but get at them, they might subsist a great while without any other nourishment. On the first day of their confinement, they had found in the manger a pitch fork, which they knew used to be employed in cleaning out the stable, and drawing down hay through a large hole in the hay-loft, which lay over the vault. Anne observed, that such an instrument might be of service in breaking the snow, and getting at the cakes, could they but recover the door leading into the little room. She, therefore, immediately got out of the manger, from which she had not stirred since the first day, and groping about, sometimes meeting with nothing but snow, sometimes with the wall, and sometimes loose stones, she, at length, light upon a door, which she took for the stable door, and endeavoured to open it as she had done the first day, but without success; an evident sign that the superincumbent snow had acquired a greater degree of density, and pressed more forcibly against it. She, therefore, made step by step, the best of her way back to the manger, all the time conversing with her fellow-sufferers; and taking the fork with her, continued to rove and grope about, till at last she light upon a smooth and broad piece of wood, which to the touch had so much the appearance of the little door, as to make her hope she had at last found what she had been so earnestly looking for. She then endeavoured to open it with her hand, but finding it impossible, told the rest that she had a mind to employ the pitch fork; but Mary Anne dissuaded her from doing so. 'Let us,' said she, 'leave the cakes where they are a little longer, and not endanger our lives any further, by endeavouring to preserve them. Who knows but with the fork, you might make such destruction, as to bring down upon our heads, that part of the stable that still continues together, and which, in its fall, could not fail of crushing us to pieces. No, God keep us from that misfortune. Lay down your fork Anne, and come back to us, submitting yourself to the holy will of the Almighty, and patiently accept at his hands whatever he may please to send us.' Anne, moved by such sound and affecting arguments and reasons, immediately let the fork fall out of her hands, and returned to the manger. 'Let us,' continued Mary Anne, 'let us make as much as we can of our nursing goats, and endeavour to keep them alive by supplying them with hay. Here is a good deal in the manger, and it occurs to me, that when that is gone, we may supply them from another quarter, for by putting up my hand, trying what was above me, I have discovered that there is hay in the loft, and that the hole to it is open, and just over our heads; so that we have nothing to do, but to pull it down for the goats, whose milk we may subsist upon, till it shall please God to dispose otherwise of us." This reasoning was not only sound in itself, but supported by facts; for ever since their confinement, they had heard stones fall from time to time upon the ground, and these stones could be no others than those of the building, which the shock of the valanca had first loosened, and which the weight it every day acquired by encreasing in density, afterwards enabled it to displace. Wherefore, had she happened to disturb with the pitch-fork, as there was the greatest reason to fear she might, any of those parts, which, united together, served to keep up the beam that supported the great body of snow, under which they lay buried, the fall of the stable, and their own destruction, must have infallibly been the consequence of it. "This day the sensation of hunger was more and more lively and troublesome, without their having anything to allay it with but snow, and the milk yielded them by one of the goats their fellow prisoners. I say one of the goats for as yet they had milked but one of them, thinking it would be useless, or rather hurtful, even if they could, to take any milk from that in kid. Anne had recourse to the other, and in the whole day, got from her about two pints of milk, on which, with the addition of a little snow, they subsisted." The little boy, unable to struggle against the terrible conditions, grew rapidly weaker and weaker, and the time had now come when he passed painlessly away. "The death of this poor child proved the severest trial that the three women, the two eldest especially, had to suffer during their long confinement; and from this unfortunate day, the fear of death, which they considered as at no great distance, began to haunt them more and more. The little nourishment, which the goat yielded the poor women, had made them suffer greatly on the preceding days; they were, besides, benumbed, or rather frozen with the intense cold. Add to this the necessary, but inconvenient and tormenting posture of their feet, knees, and every other part of their bodies; the snow, which melting over their heads, perpetually trickled down their backs, so that their clothes, and their whole bodies were perfectly drenched with it: they were often on the point of swooning away, and obliged to keep themselves from fainting, by handling the snow, and putting some of it into their mouths; the thirst with which their mouths were constantly burnt up; the thoughts, that in all this time no one had been at the pains to look for and relieve them; the consideration, that all they had hitherto suffered, was nothing in comparison of what they had still to suffer before they could recover their liberty, or sink under the weight of all the evils which encompassed them; all these, certainly, were circumstances sufficient to render them to the last degree, wretched and miserable. Add to this, that the milk of their fond and loving nurse, fell away little by little, till at length, instead of about two pints, which she, in the beginning used to yield, they could not now get so much as a pint from her. The hay that lay in the manger was all out, and it was but little the poor women could draw out of the hole which lay above them; so that as the goats had but little fodder, little sustenance could be expected from that which they thought proper to milk. These animals were become so tame and familiar, in consequence of the fondness shewn them, that they always came on the first call to the person that was to milk them, affectionately licking her face and hands. Anne, encouraged by this tameness of theirs, bethought herself of accustoming them to leap upon the manger, and from thence upon her shoulders, so as to reach the hole of the hay-loft, and feed themselves; so apt is hard necessity to inspire strength and ingenuity. She began by the goat that yielded them milk, helping her up into the manger, and then putting her upon her shoulders. This had the desired effect, the animal being thereby enabled to reach much further with its head, than they could with their hands. They did then the same by the other goat, from whom, as soon as she should drop her kid, they expected new relief. She, too, in the same manner, found means to get at the hay, which afforded the poor women some relief in the midst of their pressing necessity. After this day, the goats required no further assistance, they so soon learned to leap of themselves on the manger, and from thence on the women's shoulders. But we must not conclude that hunger was the chief of the poor women's sufferings; far from it. After the first days, during which it proved a sore torment to them, they through necessity, grew so accustomed to very little and very light nourishment, that they no longer felt any sensation of that kind, but lived contentedly on the small quantity of milk they could get from their goat, mixed with a little snow. Their breath was what gave them most uneasiness; for it began to be very difficult on the fifth or sixth day, every inspiration being attended with the sensation of a very heavy and almost insupportable load upon them. "They now had lost all means of guessing at the returns of night and day, and their only employment was to recommend themselves fervently to God, beseeching him to take compassion of them, and at length, put an end to their miseries, which increased from day to day. At last, their nurse growing dry, they found themselves without any milk, and obliged to live upon snow alone for two or three days, Mary Anne not approving an expedient proposed by her sister. This was to endeavour to find the carcasses of the hens; for as they had not heard them for some days past, they had sufficient reason to think they were dead; and then eat them, as the only thing with which they could prolong life. But Mary Anne, rightly judging that it would be almost impossible to strip them clean of their feathers, and that besides, the flesh might be so far putrified, as to do them more harm than good, thought proper to dissuade her sister from having recourse to this expedient. But the unspeakable providence of God, whose will it was that they should live, provided them with new means of subsistence, when least they expected it, by the kidding of the other goat. By this event, they judged themselves to be about the middle of April; wherefore, after offering God their most humble thanks, for having preserved them so long, in the midst of so many, and such great difficulties they again beseeched him to assist them effectually, till they could find an opportunity of escaping their doleful prison, and see an end to their great sufferings. Their hopes of this their humble supplication being heard, were raised on the appearance of this new supply, and on their reflecting that the snow begins to thaw in April, in consequence of which that about the stable would soon dissolve enough to let some ray of light break in upon them. Mary Anne told me, that, though she was thoroughly sensible of the badness of her condition, in which it was impossible for her to hold out much longer, and saw it every day grow worse and worse; she never, however, despaired of her living to be delivered. For my part, I cannot sufficiently admire the courage and intrepidity of Anne, who told me, that in all this time she never let a tear escape her but once. This was on its occurring to her, that, as they must at length perish for want, it might fall to her lot to die last. For the thought of finding herself amidst the dead bodies of her sister and her niece, herself too in a dying condition, terrified and afflicted her to such a degree, that she could no longer command her tears, but wept bitterly. "I observed, that the goat had kidded. This event afforded the poor women a new supply of milk, Anne for a while getting two porringers at a time from her, with which they recruited themselves a little. But as the goats began to fall short of hay, the milk of the only one that gave them any, began to lessen in proportion, so that at length they saw themselves reduced to a single, and even half a porringer. It was, therefore, happy for them, that the time drew nigh, in which God had purposed to rescue them from their horrible prison and confinement, and put an end to their sufferings. One time they thought they could hear a noise of some continuance at no great distance from them. This was probably the 20th, when the parish priest's body was found. And, upon it, they all together raised their weak and hoarse voices, crying out, 'Help, help!' but the noise ceased, and they this time neither saw nor heard anything else that might serve as a token of their deliverance being at hand. However, this noise alone was sufficient to make them address God with greater fervour than ever, beseeching him to have compassion on them, and to confirm them still more and more in their warm hopes, that the end of their long misery was not far off. In fact, they again heard another noise, and that nearer them, as though something had fallen to the ground. On this they again raised their voices, and again cried out, 'Help, help': but no one answered, and soon after the noise itself entirely ceased. Their opinion concerning this noise, and in this they certainly were not mistaken, was that it came from the people, who were at work to find them, and who left off at the approach of night, and went home with a design to return to their labour the next morning. After the noise of the body fallen to the ground in their neighbourhood, they seemed for the first time to perceive some glimpse of light. The appearance of it scared Anne and Margaret to the last degree, as they took it for a sure fore-runner of death, and thought it was occasioned by the dead bodies; for it is a common opinion with the peasants that those wandering wild-fires, which one frequently sees in the open country, are a sure presage of death to the persons constantly attended by them, which ever way they turn themselves; and they accordingly call them death fires. But Mary Anne, was very far from giving in to so silly a notion. On the contrary the light inspired her with new courage, and she did all that lay in her power to dissipate the fears of her sister and daughter, revive their hopes in God, and persuade them that their deliverance and the end of all their sufferings was at hand; insisting that this light could be no other than the light of heaven, which had, at last, reached the stable, in consequence of the valanca's melting, and still more in consequence of the constant boring and digging into it by their relations, in order to come at their dead bodies. Mary Anne guessed right for it was the next day that Anthony descended into the ruins of the stable, and to his unspeakable surprise found the poor women alive, blessing and exalting the most high, and restored them from darkness to light, from danger to security, from death to life, by drawing them out of the manger, and removing them to the house of Joseph Arnaud, where they continued to the end of July. "Thirty-seven entire days did these poor women live in the most horrible sufferings occasioned no less by filth and the disagreeable posture they were confined to, than by cold and hunger; but the Lord was with them. He kept them alive, and they are still living, in a new cottage built the same year in the Foresta of Bergemoletto, at no great distance from their former habitation." CHAPTER VI AN EXCITING CAUCASIAN ASCENT The following account of the ascent of Gestola, in the Central Caucasus, is taken from _The Alpine Journal_, and the author, Mr C. T. Dent, has most kindly revised it for this work, and has added a note as follows: "At the time (1886) when this expedition was made, the topography of the district was very imperfectly understood. The mountain climbed was originally described as Tetnuld Tau--Tau = Mountain. Since the publication of the original paper a new survey of the whole district has been carried out by the Russian Government and the nomenclature much altered. The peak of Tetnuld is really to the south of Gestola. The nomenclature has in the following extract been altered so as to correspond with that at present in use and officially sanctioned." The party consisted of Mr Dent, the late Mr W. F. Donkin, and two Swiss guides. They had safely accomplished the first part of their ascent of a hitherto unclimbed peak, and were on the ridge and face to face with the problem of how to reach the highest point. After describing the glorious scenery which lay around them, Mr Dent writes: "Woven in between all these peaks lay a wilderness of crevassed slopes, jagged rock ridges, and stretching glaciers, bewildering in their beauty and complexity. To see the wondrous sights that were crowded into those few minutes while we remained on the ridge, we would willingly have gone five times further and fared ten times worse. In high spirits we turned to the left (S.S.E.), and began our journey along the ridge which was to lead us to Gestola, ever keeping an eye on the snowy form of Tetnuld, and marvelling whether it would overtop our peak or not. For a few steps, and for a few only, all went well. The snow was in good order on the ridge, but we had to leave this almost immediately and make S.W. in order to skirt the heights which still intervened between us and our peak. The ice began to change its character. Two or three steps were cut with a few strokes of the axe, and then all went well again for a time. Then more steps, and a more ringing sound as the axe fell. We seemed, too, however we might press on, to make no impression on this first slope. Our doubt returned; the leader paused, drew up the rope, and bit at a fragment of ice as he gazed anxiously upwards over the face. No! we were on the right track, and must stick to it if we would succeed. For an hour and a quarter we kept at it in silence, save for the constant ringing blows of the axe. Our courage gradually oozed out, for when we had worked back to the ridge again, we seemed to have made no progress at all. The top of the mountain far above was already swathed in cloud, and a distant storm on the south side was only too obvious. Another little peak was won before we looked about again, but the summit seemed no nearer. The exertion had begun to tell and the pace became slower. Some one remarked that he felt hungry, and we all thereupon realised our empty state, so we fortified ourselves for further efforts on a dainty repast of steinbock, black bread a week old, and water--invigorating victuals and exhilarating drink, rather appropriate to the treadmill kind of exercise demanded. It is under conditions such as these that strange diet tells on the climber; but even more trying and more weakening than the poor quality of the food was the want of sleep from which we had suffered for a good many nights. In the language of science, our vital force and nervous energy were becoming rather rapidly exhausted, or, to put it more colloquially and briefly, we were awfully done. Three hours more at least was the estimate, and meanwhile the weather was growing worse and worse. Reflecting that all points fall to him who knows how to wait and stick to it, we pressed on harder to escape from the dispiriting thoughts that suggested themselves, and almost of a sudden recognised that the last of the deceptive little tops had been left behind us, and that we were fighting our way up the final peak. Better still, Tetnuld, which for so long had seemed to tower above us, was fast sinking in importance, and there really seemed now, as we measured the peak with the clinometer between the intervals of step-cutting, to be little difference between the two points. The air was so warm and oppressive that we were able to dispense with gloves. One of the guides suffered from intense headache, but the rest of us, I fancy, felt only in much the same condition as a man does at the finish of a hard-run mile race. The clouds parted above us for a while, mysteriously, as it seemed, for there was no wind to move them; but we could only see the slope stretching upwards, and still upwards. Yet we could not be far off now. Again we halted for a few seconds, and as we glanced above, we mentally took stock of our strength, for there was no question the pleasure had been laborious. Some one moved, and we were all ready on the instant. To it once more, and to the very last victory was doubtful. True, the summit had seemed close enough when the last break in the swirling clouds had enabled us to catch a glimpse of what still towered above; but our experience of Swiss snow mountains was long enough to make us sceptical as to apparent tops, and possibly the Caucasian giants were as prone to deceive as the human pigmies that crawled and burrowed at their bases. "Still anxious, still questioning success, we stepped on, and the pace increased as the doubt persisted. It is often said to be impossible, by those who don't try, to explain why the second ascent of a mountain always appears so much easier than the first; some explanation may be found in the fact that on a virgin peak the uncertainty is really increasing during the whole time, and the climax comes in the last few seconds. Every step upwards make success more probable, and at the same time, would make failure more disappointing. In fact, the only periods when we are morally certain of success on a new expedition are before the start and when victory is actually won. Still, we could hardly believe that any insuperable obstacle would now turn us back; yet all was new and uncertain, and the conditions of weather intensified the anxiety. The heavy stillness of the air seemed unnatural, and made the mind work quicker. The sensibility became so acute that if we ceased working and moving for a moment the silence around was unendurable, and seemed to seize hold of us. A distant roll of thunder came almost as a relief. A step or two had to be cut, and the delay appeared interminable. Suddenly, a glimpse of a dark patch of rocks appeared above looming through the mist. The slope of the ridge became more gentle for a few yards. Our attention was all fixed above, and we ascended some distance without noticing the change. Another short rise, and we were walking quickly along the ridge. We stopped suddenly; the rocks we had seen so recently, had sunk below us on our left, while in front the _arête_ could be followed with the eye, sloping away gradually for a few yards, and then plunging sharply down to a great depth. It was all over; through fair weather and through foul we had succeeded; and there was yet another peak to the credit of the Alpine Club. [Illustration: A TYPICAL CAUCASIAN LANDSCAPE. _To face_ p. 105. By Signor Vittorio Sella.] "It was not a time for words. Burgener turned to us and touched the snow with his hand, and we sat down in silence. Almost on the instant as we took our places a great burst of thunder rolled and echoed around--a grim salvo of Nature's artillery. The sudden sense of rest heightened the effect of the oppressive stillness that followed. Never have I felt the sense of isolation so complete. Gazing in front into the thin mists, the very presence of my companions seemed an unreality. The veil of wreathing vapour screened the huge panorama of the ice-world from our sight. The black thunderclouds drifting sullenly shut out the world below. No man knew where we were; we had reached our furthest point in a strange land. We were alone with Nature, far from home, and far from all that we were familiar with. Strange emotions thrilled the frame and quickened the pulse. Weird thoughts crowded through the mind--it was not a time for words. Believe me, under such conditions a man will see further across the threshold of the unknown than all the book-reading or psychological speculation in the world will ever reveal to him. "Coming back to considerations more prosaic and practical, we found that it was 1.15 P.M. We realised, too, that the ascent had been very laborious and exhausting, while there was no doubt that evil times were in store for us. There were no rocks at hand to build a cairn, but we reflected that the snow was soft, and that our footsteps would easily be seen on the morrow. The aneroid marked the height we had attained as 16,550 feet.[4] A momentary break in the mist gave us a view of Dych Tau, and we had just time to get a compass observation. After a stay of fifteen minutes we rose and girded ourselves for the descent. I think we all felt that the chief difficulty was yet to come, but we had little idea of what was actually to follow. Directly after we had left the summit a few puffs of wind began to play around and some light snow fell. Still, it was not very cold, and if the storm would only keep its distance all might be well. Down the first slope we made our way rapidly enough, and could have gone faster had we not deemed it wise to husband our strength as much as possible. In an hour and twenty minutes we reached the place where we had left the provisions and the camera. The feast was spread, but did not find favour. Never did food look so revolting. The bread seemed to have turned absolutely black, while the steinbock meat looked unfit to keep company with garbage in a gutter; so we packed it up again at once, more from a desire to hide it from our eyes than from any idea that it might look more appetising later on. Andenmatten's headache had become much worse, and he could scarcely at starting stand steady in his steps. Possibly his suffering was due to an hour or two of intensely hot sun, which had struck straight down on us during the ascent. I could not at the moment awaken much professional interest in his case, but the symptoms, so far as I could judge, were more like those experienced by people in diving-bells--were pressure effects in short--for the pain was chiefly in the skull cavities. I may not here enter into technical details, and can only remark now that though Andenmatten suffered the most it by no means followed on that account that his head was emptier than anybody else's. In due course we came to the ice-slope up and across which we had cut our way so laboriously in the morning; here, at least, we thought we should make good progress with little trouble; but the sun had struck full on this part of the mountain, and all the steps were flattened out and useless. Every single step ought to have been worked at with as much labour as in the morning, but it was impossible to do more than just scratch out a slight foothold, as we made our way round again to the ridge. Below, on the west side, the slope plunged down into the Ewigkeit, and our very best attention had to be given in order to avoid doing the same. It was one of the worst snow faces I ever found myself on, perhaps, under the conditions, the worst. The direction in which we were travelling and the angle of the slope made the rope utterly useless. Close attention is very exhausting: much more exertion is required to walk ten steps, bestowing the utmost possible care on each movement, than to walk a hundred up or down a much steeper incline when the angle demands a more accustomed balance. Not for an instant might we relax our vigilance till, at 5.30 P.M., we reached once more the ridge close to the place where we had forced our way through the cornice in the morning. "We had little time to spare, and hurrying up to the point, looked anxiously down the snow wall. A glance was sufficient to show that the whole aspect of the snow had entirely altered since the morning. Burgener's expression changed suddenly, and a startled exclamation, which I trust was allowed to pass unrecorded, escaped from him. Andenmatten brought up some stones and rolled them down over the edge; each missile carried down a broad hissing band of the encrusting snow which had given us foot-hold in the morning, and swept the ice-slope beneath as black and bare as a frozen pond; here and there near rocks the stones stopped and sank deeply and gently into the soft, treacherous compound. The light had begun to fail, and snow was falling more heavily as we pressed on to try for some other line of descent. A hundred yards further along the ridge we looked over again; the condition of the snow was almost the same, but the wall was steeper, and looked at its very worst as seen through the mist. Some one now suggested that we might work to the north-west end of the ridge and make our way down to the pass by the ice-fall. We tramped on as hard as possible, only to find at the end of our journey that the whole mass seemed abruptly cut away far above the Adine Col, and no line of descent whatever was visible. We doubled back on our tracks till we came within a few yards of the summit of a small peak on the ridge, the height of which was probably not less than 15,000 feet. Already the cold was numbing and our wet clothes began to stiffen; again we peered over the wall, but the rocks were glazed, snow-covered, and impossible. The leader stopped, looked right and left along the ridge, and said, 'I don't know what to do!' For the moment we seemed hopelessly entrapped; the only conceivable place of shelter for the night was a patch of rocks close to the summit of the peak near at hand, and for these we made. It was an utter waste of time. Apart from sleeping, we could not have remained there an hour, for we met the full force of the wind, which by this time had risen considerably, and was whirling the driving snow into every crack and cranny. What might have begun as a temporary rest would infallibly have ended in a permanent occupation. Indeed, the cold would have been far too intense that night for us to have lived on any part of the bleak ridge. The situation was becoming desperate. 'We must get down off the ridge and out of the wind.' 'Ay,' said Burgener, 'we must, I know; but where?' The circumstances did not call for reasonable answers, and so we said, 'Anywhere! To stay up here now means that we shall never get down at all.' Burgener looked up quickly as if to say no, but hesitated, and then muttered, 'That is true. Then what will you do? There is no way down anywhere along the wall with the snow as it is now. There are great ice-slopes a little way down.' As he spoke he leant over and looked along the wall for confirmation of his opinions. A little way off a rib of rock, blacker than the rest, showed through the mist. We both saw it at the same time; Burgener hesitated, looked at it again, and then facing round glanced at the prospect above. The wind was stronger and colder and the snow was driving more heavily. There was no room for doubt. We must put it to the touch and take the risk. We turned again, and in a few minutes had squeezed ourselves through the cornice, and were fairly launched on the descent. "We were now at a much higher level on the ridge than at the point we had struck in ascending. It was only possible to see a few yards down; the rocks looked appallingly steep, glazed, and grizzly, and we knew not what we were coming to. But at any rate we were moving, and in a stiller atmosphere soon forgot the cold. We went fast, but only by means of doing all we knew, for the climbing was really difficult. It was a case of every man for himself, and every man for the rest of the party. Now was the time to utilise all that we had ever learned of mountain craft. Never before, speaking for myself only, have I felt so keenly the pleasure of being united to thoroughly trustworthy and good mountaineers; it was like the rush of an eight-oar, where the sense of motion and the swish through the water alone are sufficient to make every member of the crew put all his strength into each stroke. The mind was too active to appreciate the pain of fatigue, and so we seemed strong again. Now on the rocks, which were loose and crumbly in parts, elsewhere big and glazed, now in deep snow, now on hard crusts, we fought our way down. So rapid was the descent that, when the opportunity offered, we looked anxiously through the mist in the hope of seeing the glacier beneath. Surely we had hit on a possible line of descent to the very bottom. But there was not a moment for the grateful repose so often engendered by enquiring minds on the mountains. We were racing against time, or at least against the malevolent powers of darkness. Down a narrow flat couloir of rock of no slight difficulty we seemed to go with perfect ease, but the rocks suddenly ceased and gave way to an ill-favoured snow-slope. The leader stopped abruptly and turned sharp to the right. A smooth ice-gully some 30 feet wide separated us from the next ridge of rock. The reason for the change of direction was evident enough when Burgener pointed it out. As long as the line of descent kept to the side that was more sheltered during the day from the sun, so long was the snow fairly good. Our leader judged quickly, and with the soundest reasoning, as it proved directly afterwards, that the line we had been following would infallibly lead, if pursued further, to snow as treacherous as that with which we were now so familiar. Across the ice-slope then we must cut, perhaps a dozen or fifteen steps. "The first two or three Burgener made vigorously enough, but when within 10 or 15 feet of the rocks the extra effort told. He faltered suddenly; his blow fell listlessly, and he leant against the slope, resting hands and head on his axe. 'I am almost exhausted,' he said faintly, as he turned round to us, while his quivering hands and white lips bore evidence to the severity of the exertion. So for a minute or two we stood in our tracks. A word of encouragement called up what seemed almost a last effort, some little notches were cut, and we gained the rocks again. A trickling stream of water was coursing down a slab of rock, and at this we gulped as eagerly as a fevered patient. Standing on the projecting buttress, we looked anxiously down, and caught sight at last of the glacier. It seemed close to us; the first few steps showed that Burgener's judgment was right; he had changed the line of descent at exactly the right moment, and at the best possible place. Down the last few hundred feet we were able to go as fast as before. The level glacier beneath seemed in the darkness to rise up suddenly and meet us. We tumbled over the _bergschrund_, ran down a short slope on the farther side of it, and stood in safety on the glacier, saved by as fine a piece of guiding as I have ever seen in the mountains. We looked up at the slope. To our astonishment all was clear, and I daresay had been so for long. Above, in a blue-black frosty sky, the stars were winking merrily; the mists had all vanished as by magic. No doubt the cold, which would have settled us had we stayed on the ridge, assisted us materially in the descent by improving the snow. "There seemed still just light enough to search for our tracks of the morning across the glacier, and we bore well to the right in the hope of crossing them. I fancy that the marks would have been really of little use, but, anyhow, we could not find them, and so made a wide sweep across the upper part of the snow basin. As a result we were soon in difficulty with the crevasses, and often enough it seemed probable that we should spend the rest of the night in wandering up and down searching for snow bridges. But we reached at last a patch of shale and rock, which we took to be the right bank of the little glacier we had crossed in the morning. Our clothes were wet, and the cold was becoming so sharp that it was wisely decided, against my advice, to push on if possible to the tent at once. For some three or four hours did we blunder and stumble over the moraine, experiencing not a few tolerably severe falls as we did so. Andenmatten selected his own line of descent, and in a few minutes we had entirely lost sight of him. It was too dark to find our way across the glacier, and we could only hope by following the loose stone ridge to make our way to the right place. So we stuck to the rocks, occasionally falling and nearly sticking on their detestably sharp points. Even a Caucasian moraine leads somewhere if you keep to it long enough, and as we turned a corner, the huge glimmering mass of Dych Tau, towering up in front, showed that the end of our journey was not far off. Presently the little white outline of the tent appeared, but we regarded it with apathy, and made no effort to quicken our movements, although the goal was in sight; it seemed to require, in our semi-comatose condition, almost an effort to stop. As we threw open the door of the tent the welcome sight of divers packets, neatly arranged in a corner, met our gaze. The head policeman had proved himself an honour to his sex, an exception to his compatriots, and a credit to the force. There were bread, sugar, rice, meat, and firewood--yet we neither spoke nor were moved. Andenmatten spurned the parcels with his foot and revealed the lowermost. A scream of delight went up, for they had found a packet of tobacco. The spell was broken, and once more all were radiant. Such is man. A strange compound--I refer to the tobacco--it proved to be, that would neither light nor smoke, and possessed as its sole property the power of violently disagreeing with the men. It was past midnight before the expedition was over. There were few preliminaries observed before going to bed. I don't think that even Donkin took more than a quarter of an hour in arranging a couch to his satisfaction, and placing a very diminutive air-cushion on anatomical principles in exactly the right place, while Andenmatten was fast asleep in two minutes, his head pillowed gently on some cold mutton, and his boots reposing under the small of his back. Something weighed on our minds as we too lay down and tried to sleep. The towering cone of Tetnuld, the distant view of Uschba, Elbruz, and the giant Dych Tau, the rock and snow-slopes, pictured themselves one after another as dissolving views on the white walls of the tent. The expedition was over, but the pleasure and the impressions it had evoked were not. Faster and faster followed the visions as in delirium. I sat up, and in the excitement of the moment dealt a great blow at the nearest object, which, as it chanced, was Andenmatten's ribs. I shouted out to my companion. A muffled 'hulloa' was the response, and he too rose up. 'What is it?' 'By Heavens! it is the finest climb we have ever made.' And so it was." CHAPTER VII A MELANCHOLY QUEST The accident in the Caucasus in 1888, by which Messrs Donkin and Fox and their two Swiss guides lost their lives, was one of the saddest that has ever happened in the annals of mountaineering. I will not dwell on it, but will rather pass on to the search expedition, a short account of whose operations will serve to illustrate how a thorough knowledge of mountaineering may be utilised in finding a conjectured spot in an unmapped region in the snow world. The year after the accident--for the season when it occurred was too advanced for a thorough search to be then undertaken--a party of four Englishmen, Messrs Douglas Freshfield, Clinton Dent, Hermann Woolley, and Captain Powell, with Maurer of the Bernese Oberland as leading guide, set out from England to try and ascertain how the accident happened, and, if possible, recover the remains. They succeeded, in the course of a profoundly interesting journey, in finding the last camp of their friends, and from Mr Clinton Dent's fine description in _The Alpine Journal_ I make, with his kind consent, the following extracts. They show how well the old school of climbers learnt all the routine of their art, and how superior is the trained mountaineer of any nationality to the inexperienced dweller amongst mountains, who is utterly unable to advance a single step upon them. Having journeyed to the district and got over all the easier ground at first met with, the party was now fairly embarked in the region of ice and snow. "The day was well advanced," writes Mr Dent, "and it is only on rare occasions in the Central Caucasus that the valleys and sky are free from cloud at such an hour. But not a vestige of mist was to be seen. The conditions were not merely of good omen, but were also in the hightest degree fortunate, for the object of our search seemed very minute in the presence of such gigantic surroundings. The air was clear and soft, and the snow in perfect order for walking. We worked our way due west, and gradually, as we turned the buttress of rock, a steep and broad ice-gully came into view, leading up to the pass. This consisted of a broad snow-topped depression, from 1500 to 1800 feet above the snow-field. On the right or east of the pass the ridge ran sharply up to the pinnacle already mentioned, while on the left the ridge, broken up on its crest by great towers of rock, stretched away to the summit of Dych Tau, the peak of which from our point of view was not visible. A careful inspection of the rocks with the telescope revealed nothing. A possible place for a bivouac might have been found at any point on the rocks below the pass, but no particularly likely spot was evident. It was conceivable too, of course, that the travellers had discovered a more suitable place on the Ullu Auz side, close to the summit of the pass. In any case our plan of action was clear, and we set forth without delay to ascend the wall. Two long ribs of rock lying on the right of the ice-gully offered the best means of access. Both looked feasible, but it was only after a moment's hesitation that the left-hand one was selected, as it seemed more broken, was broader, and ran up higher. If the right-hand rib had been chosen, we might conceivably have missed the object of our search altogether. We made our way up the rocks without any great difficulty. Half-melted masses of snow constantly hissed down the ice-gully as we ascended, and the great chasm that extends along the base of the cliff was choked for the most part with avalanche snow. The rocks were steep, but so broken as to offer good hand-and foot-hold. Still, the mind was sufficiently occupied in attending to the details of climbing to prevent the thoughts from wandering. Insensibly, we began to think little save of the view that would be revealed from the top of the pass. From time to time an opportunity would be found of gazing to the right or left, but progress was tolerably continuous. Maurer, who was leading, looked upwards now and again, as he worked out the best line of ascent, but the rocks were so steep that he could only see a very few feet. Just about mid-day, as he stopped for a moment to look upwards, I saw his expression suddenly change. 'Herr Gott!' he gasped out, 'der Schlafplatz!'[5] I think I shall never forget the thrill the words sent through me. We sprang up, scrambling over the few feet that still intervened, and in a moment were grouped on a little ledge just outside the bivouac. There was little enough to be seen at the first glance save a low horse-shoe shaped wall of stones, measuring some 6 feet by 8, and carefully built against an overhanging rock. The enclosure was full of drifted snow, raised up into a hump at the back, where it covered a large rücksack. On a ledge formed by one of the stones, a little tin snow spectacle-box caught the eye as it reflected the rays of the sun. For a few moments all was excitement as the presence of one object after another was revealed. 'See here,' cried Maurer, as he scooped away the snow with his hands, 'the sleeping-bags!' 'And here a rücksack,' said another. 'Look, they made a fire there,' called out a third, 'and here is the cooking kettle and the revolver.' Then came somewhat of a reaction, and for a few minutes we could but gaze silently at the place that told so clear a tale, and endeavour to realise to the full the evidence that had come upon us with such overwhelming suddenness. * * * * * "It is most probable that the accident occurred on the south side of the cliffs forming the eastern ridge of Dych Tau. The party must have been roped at the moment, and it is very reasonable to suppose that they were engaged in traversing one of the many ice and snow covered slopes that exist on this side. What the exact nature of the accident was matters little; but it may be remembered that the snow on such slopes and ledges often binds very lightly, and that there are no mountains, perhaps, where these places are more numerous or more treacherous than in the Caucasus. It was possibly one of those rare instances in which the rope was a source of danger and not of security to the party as a whole. Yet the rule is clear, and it amounts to this: if a place is too dangerous to cross with a party roped, lest the slip of one drag down all, then it is too dangerous to cross at all. So steep are the cliffs that a fall must have meant instantaneous death. As an example, a torn sleeping-bag which was thrown over the bivouac wall fell to the very bottom of the slope, and we saw it just above the _bergschrund_ as we descended. It was necessary to take down some of the articles discovered, for we might otherwise have found difficulty in convincing the natives of the success of the expedition, and this was an important point. The height of the pass is 14,350 feet, and of the bivouac about 14,000 feet. We left the bivouac at 3.30 P.M., the day being still perfectly cloudless. The ice-fall offered some little difficulty, one or two of the bridges by which we had crossed in the morning having broken down. Still we were able to keep to almost the same line as that adopted in ascending. * * * * * "No one familiar with the Caucasus would be willing to believe that any native could have reached the bivouac. The people are still very timorous on ice, and are wholly incapable of facing an ice-fall, much less of making any way through one. No native could have been got to the place even if in the train of competent mountaineers; alone, he would not have set foot on the glacier at all. "A day or two later we made our way down to the collection of villages known as Balkar, a good three and a half hours' walk from Karaoul. The place is not well spoken of, but we were hospitably received and entertained. In this, as in many other villages subsequently, the story of our search excited much interest. On every occasion the proceedings were almost exactly identical. As usual in the Caucasus, the natives all crowded into our apartment soon after arrival. Powell would then select some Russian-speaking man in authority, and announce through him that the results of our expedition would be made known to all who cared to hear them. The whole story was then told, and admirably Powell used to narrate it, winding up by pointing out how the people of the district were now exonerated from any suspicion that may have lain on them. Such suspicion, he used to add, had never been entertained by any English people. The account was always listened to in breathless silence. At the conclusion it was repeated by the chief to the natives in their own language. Then the rücksack was brought in and the articles found shown. These were always instantly accepted as absolute proof; the rusty revolver especially excited attention. Expressions of sorrow and brief interjections were always heard on all sides. Then the chief spoke to some such effect as follows: 'We are indeed rejoiced that you have found these traces. It relieves our people from an irksome and unjust suspicion. It is well that Englishmen came to our country for this search, for we believe that no others could have accomplished what you have done. We are all very grateful to you. Englishmen are always most welcome in our country. We are glad to receive them. Our houses are theirs, and the best we can do shall always be done for your countrymen.' In several places--at Chegem, for instance--words were added to this effect: 'We remember well Donkin and Fox; they were brave and good men, and we loved them. It is very sad to us to think that they are lost.'" A more detailed account of this melancholy quest will be found in Messrs Douglas Freshfield's and Vittorio Sella's work, _The Exploration of the Caucasus_. It is from this, the most beautifully illustrated of any book on mountaineering, that, with Mr Freshfield's kind permission and that of Mr Willink, I take the picture of the sleeping-place. The finished drawing was made by Mr Willink from a sketch by Captain Powell. CHAPTER VIII SOME NARROW ESCAPES AND FATAL ACCIDENTS Probably not half the narrow escapes experienced by climbers are ever described, even in the pages of the various publications of English and foreign Alpine Clubs, though when an accident by the breaking of a snow-cornice is just avoided, the incident is so terribly impressive that several accounts have found their way into print. Scarcely anything more startling than a certain occurrence on a ridge of the Mönch, which happened to the late Mr Moore and his two guides, Melchior and Jacob Anderegg, has ever been related. The party had succeeded in making the ascent of the Mönch from the Wengern Alp, it being only the third occasion when this long and difficult climb was accomplished, each of their predecessors spending _three days and three nights_ on the expedition. [Illustration: MELCHIOR ANDEREGG, OF MEIRINGEN.] [Illustration: A SON AND A GRANDCHILD OF MELCHIOR ANDEREGG, 1903. _To face_ p. 124.] Having gained the summit, the party proceeded to go down by the usual route towards the Trugberg. This follows a very narrow _arête_. "On the left hand," says Mr Moore in _The Alpine Journal_, "is an absolute precipice; on the right a slope, which might be called precipitous, falls to the Aletsch Glacier. The quantity of snow on the ridge was enormous, and the sun had begun to tell upon it. We knew too much to attempt to approach the upper edge, and kept at a distance of some 12 feet below it on the Aletsch side; lower down we dared not go, owing to the steepness of the slope and the danger of starting an avalanche. With Melchior in front it is unnecessary to say that we moved with the greatest caution. No man is more alive than he to the danger arising from a snow-cornice. He sounded with his axe at every step, and we went steadily along, anxious, but with every reason to believe that we were giving the cornice a wide berth. Suddenly came a startling cry from Melchior. At the same instant I felt myself stagger, and, instinctively swinging ever so slightly to the right, found myself the next moment sitting astride on the ridge. With a thundering roar the cornice on our left for a distance of some 200 yards went crashing down to the depths below, sending up clouds of snow-dust which completely concealed my companions from me. It was only by the absence of all strain on the rope that I knew--though at the moment I scarcely realised the fact--that they were, like myself, safe. As the dust cleared off, Melchior, also sitting astride of the ridge, turned towards me, his face white as the snow which covered us. That it was no personal fear which had blanched our leader's sunburnt cheeks his first words, when he could find utterance, showed. 'God be thanked!' said he; 'I never thought to see either of you there.' We had, in fact, escaped destruction by a hand's-breadth. As I believe, our right feet had been on the ridge, our left on the cornice; we had thus just sufficient firm standing-ground to enable us to make that instinctive movement to the right which had landed us _á cheval_, for Jacob had fallen in the same position as Melchior and myself. Few words were said; but words poorly express the emotions at such a moment. Melchior's axe had been carried down with the cornice as it fell, but had fortunately lodged on the face of the precipice 50 feet below. It was too precious to leave behind, so we let him down by the rope, and descending in a cat-like way peculiar to first-class guides when not hampered by _Herrshaft_, he regained it without difficulty. "Our further descent was uneventful." One of the greatest dangers of mountaineering is from falling stones, yet the number of fatal accidents from this cause is as few as the narrow escapes are many. As exciting an experience as can well be imagined took place on the Aiguille du Midi at Chamonix in 1871. The party consisted of Messrs Horace Walker and G. E. Foster. The latter wrote a graphic account in _The Alpine Journal_, and kindly allows me to make the following extracts. The guides were Jacob Anderegg and Hans Baumann, and the climbers wished to ascend from the Montanvert and be the first to go down the steep face of the mountain on the Chamonix side. After some difficulty in finding the route, for both the guides were unacquainted with the district, and Mr Walker alone knew in a vague sort of way that the peak was somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Géant ice-fall, they eventually stood on the top. It had taken them ten hours, and they sat for some time on the more sheltered Chamonix side, debating by what route they should descend. The slopes below were very steep, so they decided to retrace their steps to the foot of the rocks, and then, turning over on to the Chamonix side of the mountain, make their way as best they could down ice-filled gullies and precipitous rocks. All at first went well, and soon they commenced to cross the face of the cliff to gain a rocky buttress that offered a likely route some hundred feet below the top of the wall. "Jacob was leading," writes Mr Foster, "Walker next, I followed, and Baumann brought up the rear. Only one was moving at a time, and every one had the rope as taut as possible between himself and his neighbour. Jacob was crossing a narrow gully, when suddenly, without any warning, as though he had trod on the keystone of the wall, the whole face for some 30 or 40 feet above him peeled off, and with a crash like thunder, hundreds of tons of rocks precipitated themselves on him. In an instant he was torn from his hold, and hurled down the precipice with them. Fortunately, Walker was able to hold on, though the strain on him was something awful. As the uproar ceased, and silence even more impressive succeeded, we looked in one another's faces with blank dismay. From our position it was impossible to see what had become of Jacob, and only the tight rope told us that his body at least, living or dead, was still fastened to us. In a voice singularly unlike his own, Walker at length cried out, 'Jacob,' and our hearts sank within us as it passed without response. 'Jacob! Ach Jacob!' Walker repeated; and I trust none of my readers may ever know the relief we felt when the reply came back, 'Ich lebe noch.'[6] "From where I was I could not see him, but Walker craned over a rock, and then turned round. 'I see him. He is awfully hurt, and bleeding frightfully.' I then contrived to shift my position, and saw that he was indeed hurt. His face was black with blood and dirt, the skin torn from his bleeding hands, while his clothes in ribands threatened worse injuries still unseen. After a moment, he managed to recover his footing, and then untied the rope with trembling fingers, and crawled along the face of the cliff to the other side of the gully, where some snow offered means to stanch his wounds. "As soon as he was safe, Baumann called on us to stand still, and clambered carefully over the spot where the rocks had given way, our only road lying there. I followed, and then Walker, knotting up the rope to which Jacob had hung, crossed last. With Jacob below us, care was necessary in climbing so as to send no more loose fragments on his head, but we at last reached the spot where he was standing. Thanks to the snow, the bleeding had already stopped to a great extent, and with the aid of some sticking-plaster Walker had with him, and some torn strips from a pocket-handkerchief, we bound up his wounds as well as we could. He had had a marvellous escape; no fragment had struck him fully, the rock that had grazed his face having missed knocking out his brains from his presence of mind in throwing back his head. Fortunately, no bones were broken, though he was badly bruised all over, and after a quarter of an hour's rest and a good pull at the brandy-flask, he said he was ready to start again. "On taking hold of the rope to tie him on again, we were awestruck to find all its strands but one had been severed, so that his whole weight had hung literally on a thread. Strange as it may appear, the rock that had done this had probably saved his life by jerking him out of the line of fire. Still, all honour to Messrs Buckingham for their good workmanship, to which, and Walker's holding powers, we owe our escape from a miserable ending of our day's work. As it was, poor Walker's ribs had suffered sadly, and with two wounded men we recommenced our descent. "Naturally, our trust in the rocks was gone, and we took as soon as possible to the steep snow of the couloir. This, however, lay so thin on the ice, that we found we had only exchanged one danger for another. Baumann led and we followed, driving in our axe-heads at every step, but were soon forced to descend into a narrow gully, cut by avalanches, where the snow was deep enough to give better footing. The sides of this were above our heads, and the bottom not more than a foot wide, so that the danger from avalanches was very great, but for a time we descended safely. Then a startled shout from Walker warned me that something was wrong, and driving my axe desperately into the side, I found myself up to the neck in a snow avalanche. For a moment I thought all was up, but held on to the best of my powers. Then finding the stream did not stop, I looked back, and found Walker and Jacob had contrived to get out of the gully. With a shout to Baumann, I gave a desperate struggle, and followed their example, and instantly saw the snow I had held up surge over Baumann's head. For a moment he held on, then climbed out on my side. We waited till the avalanche had passed, two of us on one side of the gully and two on the other, and then Walker and Jacob jumped into it with a groan, as it shook their bruised bones, and climbed up to our side, and with an occasional look for Baumann's hat, which the avalanche had carried off with it, pursued our way. "So long and steep was the couloir, so thin and treacherous the snow layer on the ice, that a good hour elapsed before we reached the bottom, where a formidable _bergschrund_ cut off access to the glacier. Only at one point could we find a bridge, and that was where our old enemy, the avalanche gully, terminated, choking the crevasse with its snows, and spreading in a fan-like mass below. With some hesitation, as our recollection of it was not pleasant, and it was here all hard ice, Baumann cut his way down into it. We were scarcely all fairly in it, when we heard a tremendous crash above. Clearly, another avalanche was descending, this time composed of rocks. As it was 2000 feet above us, and would take some time to clear the distance, a short race for life ensued. Baumann cut steps with amazing rapidity. Fortunately, some half dozen only were necessary. With one eye on him and one keeping a sharp look-out for the advent of the unwelcome stranger, we hastened down, crossed the bridge, scampered down a slope, and merely stooping down to pick up Baumann's hat, which turned up here, got out of the way just in time, as an enormous mass of snow and rocks dashed over where we had stood not a minute before." This was the last adventure the party had that day from avalanches, but their troubles were as yet by no means over. Some formidable glacier work had to be accomplished before all was plain sailing. "Though we were now tolerably reckless, the difficulties in our way nearly beat us," Mr Foster goes on to say. "Three times we tried, and thrice in vain, though knife edges of the most revolting description were passed, and crevasses of fabulous width and depth jumped or got over as seemed best. Again and again we were forced to return. At length, when we were almost in despair, a way was found, and at 6.30, drenched by the storm which by this time had burst upon us, we reached the little hotel at the Pierrepointue." There are no climbing dangers which skill and care can more surely avert than those which are ever present on a crevassed, but snow-covered glacier. [Illustration: CREVASSES AND SÉRACS ON THE LOWER PART OF A GLACIER.] [Illustration: A SNOW BRIDGE OVER A CREVASSE.] [Illustration: ON THE BORDER OF A CREVASSE ABOVE THE SNOW LINE.] [Illustration: SOFT SNOW IN THE AFTERNOON ON A GLACIER. By Signor R. Cajrati Crivelli Mesmer. _To face_ p. 133.] Should a party fail to arrest the fall of one of its members, and have difficulty in pulling him above ground, however, the position may become most serious. If another party is within hail, matters are generally simple enough, yet even for four or five people it is not always the easiest thing in the world to haul up a companion who has disappeared into the bowels of the earth, especially if the folly of walking unroped has been indulged in. A good description of what might have been a serious business but for the skill and resource of a member of the party is given in the course of a description of some climbs in the Rocky Mountains. The writer, Mr Harold B. Dixon, says in _The Alpine Journal_: "A snow-covered crevasse crossed our route at right angles. The party in front, who were without ropes, saw the crevasse, and proceeded to leap it. All crossed in safety but the last man, who broke through the snow and disappeared. Through the hole the wide mouth of the crevasse was revealed, showing the danger of trusting to the frail bridge. It was obviously dangerous to recross without a rope, so his companions signalled to us for help, but for some time we failed to observe their signals. "Though stunned by the fall our friend was not materially damaged, but he was in a sufficiently awkward fix. Jammed between the narrowing walls of ice, he was unable to move a limb except his right arm. The crevasse did not drop perpendicularly, but the ice-wall bulged out from the side we stood on, and then curved over out of sight; we could not see down more than 18 feet. We stood in a little semicircle at the hole, and one short sentence was spoken: 'Some one must go down.' We looked at each other. Sahrbach and Baker are large and heavy men: it was obvious they must 'pass.' I am of lighter build; I proclaimed my 11 stone and readiness to go. But Collie went better. 'I am 9 stone 6,' was his deliberate statement. There was no means of seeing if this was a bluff, so we threw up our hands--the trick was his. Tying a stirrup loop for one foot and a noose round his waist, Collie attached himself to one rope, which was then joined to a second. Meanwhile the Americans were brought across the crevasse by the aid of another rope, and axes were fixed deep in the snow in suitable positions to fasten the rope to. Then we let Collie down as far as he would go. An anxious moment followed. 'I can't reach him,' came Collie's voice from below. Then, after a few minutes, 'Send down a slip knot on the other rope.' We made the knot and lowered the rope. How Collie managed it I don't know, for he could not reach his man, but he threw the loop round the prisoner's right arm, and then called on us to pull. At the second haul we felt something give, and our friend was pulled into an upright position, when Collie could just reach him with his left hand, and with this he tied a knot above the elbow of his right arm. By this knot we hauled him out of the narrow crevasse and on to the bulge of ice without difficulty. But as we pulled the rope cut into the snow, and we could not raise our burden within 6 feet of the surface. Then, while the rope was held taut, one of us worked the handle of an axe along under the rope by sitting on the snow and pushing it forward with his feet. In this way the rope was loosened, and we could haul up another 3 feet, and then Sahrbach, leaning over, reached his collar, and our half-frozen friend was deposited on the snow with an assortment of flasks, while we fished out Collie from his uncomfortable position. They were both very wet and cold, but no bones were broken." Here we see that even with a large party of competent people, it was no easy matter to rescue a comrade from his icy prison. The details are well given, and may be useful to any one so unfortunate as to require by personal experience a knowledge of what should be done under similar circumstances. The danger of crossing snow-covered glaciers when the party does not number more than two was brought home to those who heard of it by one of the most tragical events which has ever been recorded in the annals of mountaineering. A German, Dr Schäffer, had been celebrating his golden wedding at a small place on the Brenner on 22nd August 1900. He engaged a guide, by name Johann Offerer, and, sleeping at a hut, started early next morning. They reached the Wildlahner Glacier in an hour and a half from their sleeping quarters, and after traversing it for some distance came to a large crevasse. This the guide crossed safely on a snow bridge, but the tourist, a much heavier man, broke through, and pulled his companion down with him. They fell about 100 feet, with the result that the guide had a broken thigh and arm, while Dr Schäffer only bruised his knee. He put his coat round Offerer and left food beside him, and then tried to get out of the crevasse. After hours of toil and pain he managed to reach a ledge not very far below the mouth of the crevasse, but further he could not get. At last he gave up all hope, and sat down to die, first, however, writing a full account of the accident, and leaving a sum of money for the widow of his guide. It is to this pathetic last effort of his life that we owe our knowledge of what happened. The only other instance at all like it is the terrible accident on Mont Blanc in 1870, when eleven persons perished in a snow-storm, one of their number, Mr Bean, leaving details in his diary of the events immediately preceding the catastrophe. [Illustration: THE BETÉMPS HUT.] [Illustration: SKI-ING.] [Illustration: HOW A BEGINNER USUALLY ENDS A RUN.] [Illustration: A GREAT CREVASSE IN THE UPPER SNOW FIELDS. _To face_ p. 137.] It was only on 5th September, after a long search, that the remains of the two unfortunate men were discovered. The following is of special interest, because, of late years, the Norwegian sport of ski-ing has become exceedingly popular in Alpine winter resorts. It is impossible, however, owing to the great length of the ski, to go in difficult places on them, and therefore mountaineers have only used them when intending to ascend to points accessible entirely over snow-slopes, not much broken up by crevasses. The first fatal accident to a climbing party on ski took place in 1902, and may serve as a warning to those intending to traverse glaciers in winter on skis, or indeed even without them. I take my account from a translation from the Italian, which appeared in _The Alpine Journal_. The comments by the editor should be laid to heart. "A party of five gentlemen and four Zermatt guides left Zermatt on 24th February for the Bétemp Hut, with the intention of ascending the Signalkuppe and the Zumstein, _via_ the Grenz Glacier and the Capanna Margherita. "The 25th was spent in ski practice in the neighbourhood of the hut. On the 26th the whole party, with the exception of one guide who had brought a defective pair of skis, left the hut at 3.30 A.M. in weather marked by no adverse conditions of any kind. The Grenz Glacier was reached somewhat west of the point marked 3344 mètres on the Siegfried map. The party unroped, proceeded upwards on their skis towards the point marked 3496 mètres, the surface of the glacier, covered with deep snow, showing no crevasses nor the indications of any. About midway between 3300 mètres and the point 3344 mètres the caravan found itself on a gentle slope, when a muffled crack was heard, and Herr Koenig, Herr Flender, and one of the guides, Hermann Perren, were seen to sink almost simultaneously into a concealed crevasse about 6 feet in width, which ran in a direction parallel with the glacier, carrying with them a mass of snow about 65 feet in length and over 14 feet in thickness. Obviously, no amount of probing would have indicated the presence of the crevasse, and thus by an unfortunate coincidence the three men were standing at the same time over the hidden abyss without knowing it. One of the other guides was instantly lowered into the crevasse by the only available rope (the other being on Herr Flender's back), which proved to be just too short to reach Hermann Perren, who had fallen about 90 feet, and was standing upright against the side of the crevasse, held fast in a mass of snow which had left his head and one arm free. Two of the party hurried down to fetch another rope from the Bétemps Hut. In the meanwhile Perren had managed, after a struggle of two and a half hours, almost to set himself free, and was eventually drawn out safely, practically uninjured, save a slightly frost-bitten hand. The dead body of Herr Flender, found with his neck broken, partially covered with some 2 feet of hard snow, was then extricated, but in spite of persistent efforts the body of Herr Koenig was not recovered until the next day, when he was found lying face downwards under a mass of compact snow over 10 feet thick. Death in his case was instantaneous, caused by suffocation, the body bearing no signs whatever of external injury. Herr Koenig was laid to rest in the English cemetery at Zermatt, while the body of Herr Flender was conveyed by his relatives to its last resting-place at Düsseldorf. This is, we think, the first fatal accident which has occurred to a party of climbers on skis bound on a serious climbing expedition. The party on this occasion cannot with justice be accused of recklessness, for the apparent neglect of the usual precaution of putting on the rope on a snow-covered glacier will not be misunderstood by those accustomed to the use of skis, who will readily understand that the rope is practically impossible, and even dangerous, for a party on skis. "A remarkable feature of the accident was the thickness of the mass of snow which gave way under the three men, and demonstrates the extreme insecurity of winter snow on a crevassed glacier. It is possible that the three men were perhaps too close to each other at the time of the accident. "It is evident that winter climbers who wish to use skis must carry their lives in their own hands, and perhaps the safer plan for future expeditions of this kind will be to make the ascent roped in the usual way on snow _racquettes_ carrying the skis on the back. On the descent the risk of breaking through the snow covering during the rapid progress on skis would of course be very much less than on the ascent." One of the most fruitful causes of accidents on mountains is the underrating of difficulties by ignorant persons who, having been hauled up and let down precipices by a couple of sturdy guides in fine weather, proceed to inform their friends and acquaintances that "Nowadays the Matterhorn is mere child's play, don't cher know." A sorry tale is told by the famous climber, Mr Cecil Slingsby, who, himself accustomed to undertake the hardest climbs without guides, would be the first to discourage imitation in any unfit to follow in his steps. Writing of Skagastöldstind, in Norway, of which he made the first ascent, and which is still considered the most difficult of the fashionable climbs in that country, he says in _The Alpine Journal_: "In 1880 a young tourist, son of a rich banker, whom I will call Nils, desirous of emulating our exploits, attempted the mountain, and with the assistance of two good climbers, who shoved and hauled him up the rocks, succeeded in reaching the summit. Unfortunately, he afterwards wrote a pamphlet of sixty-six pages about the mountain, in which he underrated its difficulties. This pamphlet, I unhesitatingly assert, has been the main cause of a terrible tragedy which took place on Skagastöldstind. It was in this manner. At one of the series of huts built by the tourist club a young man, named Tönsberg, who had been partially deranged, was staying with his wife, and was deriving much benefit from the mountain air. Here he read this pamphlet, and inferred that though Skagastöldstind was undoubtedly a very fine mountain, yet the difficulties of its ascent had been much exaggerated, and that any one might make it. Upon this he set off with a lad seventeen years of age, at 9.30 P.M., in vile weather; walked through the night (in the middle of summer it is never dark), and reached a saetor (or châlet) at 3 A.M.; here they found Peter, one of Nils' guides, who refused to have anything more to do with the mountain. At last, by means of bribes, and by promising to turn back at once if the mountain should prove impracticable, Peter was persuaded to go forward; and at 6 o'clock they sallied out into the wet. Wind and snow soon assailed them, but Tönsberg would persist in his rash work. At 11 they reached the actual base of the peak, 4100 feet below the top. The lad was frost-bitten and could go no further; neither could Peter. They tried to tie the man with ropes, but he was too strong for them, and used his alpenstock against them, and it was no good. Soon afterwards he left them in the mist, and in twenty strides was out of sight. A month or five weeks after this his remains were found in a deep chasm between a glacier and the rocks, amidst crags at least 2000 feet higher up on the mountain. I may add that the valley Midt Maradal, out of which Skagastöldstind rises, is so difficult to approach, that though it contains rich pasturage at its lower end--a mine of wealth in Norway--its owner, a man of forty-five years, who has overlooked it hundreds of times and lives within three miles of it as the crow flies, had never been in it when I saw him last, and has asked me several times to guide him into it." Referring to an expedition from Mouvoison, which began, as do most climbs, over grass slopes, Mr Clinton Dent remarks in _Above the Snow Line_: "One ascent over a grass slope is very much like another, and description in detail would be as wearisome as the slopes themselves often prove. Yet it is worthy of notice that there is an art to be acquired even in climbing grass slopes. We had more than one opportunity on the present occasion of seeing that persons look supremely ridiculous if they stumble about, and we noticed also that, like a bowler when he has delivered a long hop to the off for the third time in one over, the stumbler invariably inspects the nails in his boots, a proceeding which deceives no one. It is quite easy to judge of a man's real mountaineering capacity by the way in which he attacks a steep grass slope. The unskilful person, who fancies himself perfectly at home among the intricacies of an ice-fall, will often candidly admit that he never can walk with well-balanced equilibrium on grass, a form of vegetable which it might be thought in many instances of self-sufficient mountaineers, would naturally suit them. There is often real danger in such places, and not infrequently the wise man will demand the use of the rope, especially when there are any tired members among the party. There is no better way of learning how to preserve a proper balance on a slope than by practising on declivities of moderate steepness, and it is astonishing to find how often those who think they have little to learn, or, still worse, that there is nothing to learn, will find themselves in difficulties on a mountain-side, and forced to realise that they have got themselves into a rather humiliating position. We may have seen, before now, all of us, distinguished cragsmen to whom an ascent of the Weisshorn or Matterhorn was but a mere stroll, utterly pounded in botanical expeditions after Edelweiss, and compelled to regain a position of security by very ungraceful sprawls, or, worse still, have to resort to the unpardonable alternative of asking for assistance." The following accounts of adventures on grass slopes, taken from _The Alpine Journal_, may serve to bear out the truth of Mr Dent's remarks: "On Monday, 31st August, Mr J. F. C. Devas, aged 26, accompanied by a friend, Mr A. G. Ferard, proceeded after lunch to take a stroll from the Riffel-Haus towards the Gorner Glacier by the Théodule path. Before reaching the glacier they returned, Mr Ferard by the ordinary route. Mr Devas, leaving the path to the left, attempted a short cut by climbing some wet and slippery rocks leading to a grass slope above. He reached a difficult place, immediately below the slope, beyond which he was unable to go. Mr Ferard made his way as speedily as possible to the grass slope and to within a few yards of his friend. While Mr Ferard was endeavouring to render assistance, Mr Devas, in trying to pull himself up, lost his footing and slid down about 70 feet to a ledge covered with turf, which it might have been hoped would have arrested his fall. Unfortunately, the impetus was sufficient to carry him over the ledge to a further distance of about 70 feet below. His friend hastened to the Riffel-Haus for assistance, and a number of guides and porters, accompanied by Mr Ferard and a French gentleman, hurried to the scene of the accident. Mr Devas, who had sustained a severe fracture of the skull, was brought back to the Riffel-Haus about 5 P.M., where he received the most unremitting care from M. Seiler's staff of servants. He was unconscious from the moment of the accident till he died at noon of the following day." Another writer gives an account of an adventure on a grass slope which, happily, had a less serious ending. He also attempted to make a short cut. "I entangled myself in an adventure which, as nearly as possible, ended in a catastrophe. Not caring to turn back, I followed a track past the châlets of Cavrera, in hope of being able to find a direct ascent over the steep lower ground that enclosed the head of the valley. It seemed as I advanced that among the ledges of rock and grass at the left-hand corner there would be access to the path above. A dubious and attenuated track which led me up in this direction after giving evidence of design in a few steps notched in the great gneiss slabs, vanished, leaving me to choose between the slabs which sloped up in front and a line of juniper bushes on the left of them. As the slabs at this spot could be walked upon, and higher up seemed to ease off again, I kept to the rocks without investigating the juniper belt. But walking exchanged itself for climbing, and I continued to ascend under the impression that I should shortly gain the inclination above. I came to a spot where I had to raise myself on to a small rounded knob of rock with a slight effort, there being no hand-hold above. From this vantage-ground I was able to repeat the process, still buoyed up with the belief that the easy part would be reached above, and to hoist myself on to the only remaining hold in the neighbourhood--a strong tuft of grass in a sort of half corner in the slabs--which supported one foot well, but one foot only. I now found I could go no further. The strata inclined downwards, so that the smooth and crackless slabs overlay one another like the slates on a house-roof, and there was no more hold for hand or foot apparent, while the slabs were far too steep for unsupported progression. The next discovery was a much more alarming one; I looked below, wondered why on earth I had come up such a place, and saw at a glance that I could not get down again. If I fell, moreover, it would not be by the line of my ascent, but down steeper rocks and to a lower depth. Generally in a dilemma in climbing there is a sort of instinctive feeling that an escape will be made at last, but now, for the first time, I was seized with a sentiment akin to despair. One chance only remained, and that was to take off my boots and stockings and try the slabs above. "The stories of extraordinary predicaments in the Alps one is apt to receive with some incredulity. I never altogether accepted the tale of the chamois-hunter's gashing his feet, and, needless to say, it did not occur to me to imitate him in this particular. For the rest, I can only promise the literal narration of circumstances _as they presented themselves to me at the time_. It is, indeed, sufficiently sensational without exaggeration. Well, it appeared at first impossible to take my boots off; I was facing the rocks with one toe on the turf, and the necessary manipulation could not be accomplished. What was to be done? This was, perhaps, the worst moment of the whole, as far as sensation went. However, by turning round, and planting my heel on the tuft and my back on the rock, I found myself in a secure and tolerably comfortable position. I now set to work and slung my boots separately round my neck as I took them off, pocketing the socks. All was done with deliberation; the laces were as usual untied with the button-hook in my cherished knife, and the latter was carefully returned to my pocket with the thought that if it went down it should be in my company. Meantime the necessary rigidity of position had to be preserved; there was only room in the turf for one heel, and for the point of my ice-axe, for which there was no other possible resting-place. Its preservation, indeed, that day was wonderful; at one time I felt a momentary temptation to throw it down in order to better the hold with the hand, but this would not bear a second thought. "I now lost no time in placing myself on the slabs. I found that I dare not move on them in an upright position, and had to seek support with both hands. My condition was not an enviable one, and in no direction could an effort to proceed be made without danger. The situation was as follows: If I could manage to advance in front, I should, eventually, reach the more easily inclined slabs, on which I could walk; but then it was some way. If I could cross the much shorter interval (some 15 feet) to the right, I should reach a grass band below the rocks at the side; but then there intervened a broad, black, glistening streak, where waters oozed down and where to tread was fatal. Suddenly, without any warning, I found myself going down. I remember no slip, but rather that it was as if all hold gave way at once under the too potent force of gravity. Anyhow I was sliding down the rocks, and that helplessly I made, I believe, little or no attempt to obtain fresh hold; I simply remained rigid in the position in which I was, waiting for the fatal momentum to come which should dash me below. The instants passed, and at each I expected the momentum to begin. I felt quite a surprise when, instead, the sliding mass slowly pulled up and came to a stoppage. The scales of fate had been most delicately balanced, and a hair's weight in the right one decided that this paper should be written. Had I floundered, like a non-swimmer out of his depth, I must have gone down; but the first moments of despondency past the opening for action had once for all brought with it that species of mechanical coolness which is the happy concomitant of so many forms of habitual physical occupation. [Illustration: The balloon "Stella" getting ready to start from Zermatt for the first balloon passage of the Alps, September, 1903. (_P. 301._)] [Illustration: A bivouac in the Alps in the olden days. By the late Mr. W. F. Donkin.] [Illustration: Boulder practice on an off day. _To face_ p 148.] [Illustration: The last rocks on the descent.] "If it be asked, what were my thoughts when I was going down, I can only reply that they chiefly amounted to a sort of dull feeling that I was actually in for a fall, being concentrated on waiting for its inevitable commencement; and that there was no such terror or disagreeable realisation of the situation as people are apt to assign to such moments. Such realisations exist most deeply in the imaginations of the non-combatants outside the fray. During the whole affair my attention was mainly directed to the physical combating with difficulties, and the passing reflections were partly indifferent, partly frivolous. A sort of acceptance of the position, indeed, possessed me, which almost amounted to a melancholy complacency, and, at most, perhaps, the customary 'When I get out of this' was changed as fast as it rose up in my imagination into a sadder 'If ever.' It was the feeling of the gamester or the soldier surprised at last by adverse odds, intent on his craft as at other times, but with a new and melancholy consciousness. "My first thought when I came to a standstill--I cannot have gone more than a couple of feet at most--was what I could do even then, with no more hold than before? But I placed myself again in my old position on the tuft; and reflecting that if I had been intended to go down I should have gone then, and almost feeling as if, having escaped that extremity of risk, I had a sort of security for the rest, I resolved without further hesitation to make a determined effort. I once more raised myself on my feet and decided to make a push across the slabs to the grass belt at all hazards; possibly, in case of slipping on the way, I might be able to make a desperate sort of rush for it. I now found two unevennesses in succession, which would allow the side of the foot to rest in them with some chance of staying, while I moved my body along, there being at no time hold for the hand. The second of these slight hollows was fortunately in the dread bank of moisture itself. Below, the rocks shelved away to a steep fall; in front, the grass tufts smiled on me nearer and nearer. While I was feeling along the slabs with the hand that held my ice-axe, the latter by chance fixed itself in a cavity that would otherwise have escaped my notice. It was just about the size and depth of a half-crown, and could not have been caught by the fingers, but the rigid iron stuck in it. This was perhaps the first bit of direct hold I had. A yard further on was another of the same size. But now I had passed the wet rock and was nearing the grass, and carefully launching my ice-axe, so as not to disturb my balance, I hooked it in the grass, and in another moment had reached its hospitable tufts. Creeping up the side, I at last found _terra firma_." CHAPTER IX A NIGHT ADVENTURE ON THE DENT BLANCHE Mr Cecil Slingsby has kindly allowed me to extract the following admirable account of a guideless ascent with two friends of the Dent Blanche. It will be noticed that during a very cold night they "avoided" their "brandy-flask like poison." When a climber is exhausted and help is near a flask of brandy is invaluable, but when a party has to spend a bitterly cold night in the open, it is madness to touch spirits at all. The effect of a stimulant is to quicken the action of the heart and drive the blood with increased rapidity to the surface. Here it is continually cooled, and before long the heart finds it has to work double hard to keep up the circulation. Therefore to take brandy in order to resist the cold for hours together is like stirring up a cup of hot fluid, whereby fresh surfaces are continually brought in contact with the air and cooled with far greater rapidity than if left quiet. The best companion a climber can have during a night out above the snow-line is a small spirit-lamp. With this he can amuse and fortify himself at intervals, melting snow and making tea or soup, which will be of real help in enabling the party to pass without injury through the ordeal. Doctors and climbers of experience will, I know, bear out what I say. The truth of it was once more shown not very long ago under the following circumstances: [Illustration: PROVISIONS FOR A MOUNTAIN HOTEL. By Royston Le Blond. _To face p. 152._] [Illustration: THE DENT BLANCHE FROM THE THEODULE GLACIER IN SUMMER.] [Illustration: AN OUTLOOK OVER ROCK AND SNOW.] [Illustration: THE DENT BLANCHE FROM THE SCHWARZSEE IN WINTER.] In August 1902 two French tourists with a guide and a porter set out to ascend Mont Blanc. The weather became very bad, nevertheless they pressed on, hoping to reach that veritable death-trap, the Vallot Hut. In this they failed, and as the hour was late they took the fatal course of digging a hole in the snow in which to pass the night. They were provided with brandy, and, doubtless in ignorance of the results it was sure to cause, they shared all they had. Both travellers died before morning, and the guides then attempted to descend to Chamonix. They seem to have been dazed, and to have lost their heads, and within a few minutes of each other each fell into a crevasse. The porter was killed on the spot, the guide was rescued, but little injured, after six hours' imprisonment. Will people ever realise that Mont Blanc, by reason of the very facility by which it may be ascended, is the most dangerous mountain a beginner can ascend? He is almost certain to chance on incompetent guides, and these, if the weather becomes bad, have not the moral force--indeed a first-class man would have something even more compelling--to insist on an immediate return. The size of the mountain is so great that to be lost on it is a risk a really good guide would simply refuse to face. To turn now to Mr Slingsby's narrative. His party had reached the _arête_ of the Dent Blanche without incident, and he writes: "The rocks on the crest of the ridge were in perfect order. The day was magnificent, and there was not the remotest sign of a storm. Climbers who were on neighbouring mountains on this day all speak of the fine weather. My friend, Mr Eric Greenwood, who was on the Rothhorn, told me that that peak was in capital condition, but that there was a strong N.W. wind blowing at the top. We had perfect calm. Mr Greenwood stopped on the snow _arête_ till a late hour in the afternoon, taking photographs, and neither his guides nor he had the slightest expectation of a thunderstorm. "We stuck faithfully to the ridge, and climbed up, and as nearly as possible over, each point as we reached it, because of the ice which shrouded the rocks almost everywhere on the west face. "We were forced on to the face of one little pinnacle, and had to use the greatest care. "Nowhere did we come to any place where we felt that our powers were overtaxed; still, the work was difficult, though not supremely so. "A few days later I met Mr Conway at Breuil, and I asked him what he meant in this case by the term, 'following the _arête_.' His interpretation, which is rather an elastic one, is this: 'Climb over the pinnacles if it is convenient to do so. If not convenient, shirk them by passing below their western bases.' This latter method was most probably impracticable on the occasion of our ascent, which fully accounts for the great difference between Mr Conway's 'times' and our own, as we certainly climbed at least as quickly as an average party on the Dent Blanche during the whole of our ascent. "The time sped merrily and quickly by, and the difficulties decreased as we hastened onward. Just as we left the last rocks a light filmy cloud, sailing up from the north, hovered for an instant over the top of the mountain, and then settled upon it; otherwise, though it had then become exceedingly cold, the sky was clear and the day perfect, and we could not help comparing our good fortune with that of those early climbers who fought their way upwards, step by step, against most ferocious gales. "After some tiring step-cutting on the gentler slopes above the rocks, which, like the west face, were sheathed in ice, we reached at last the south end of the little flat ridge which forms the summit of the Dent Blanche, where a small flagstaff is usually to be seen. Here there was an enormous snow cornice which overhung the eastern side. The little cloud merely clung to the cornice on the ridge, and evidently had no malice in it at all. None of us put down the time at which we reached the top. One of us thinks that it was just after four o'clock, but the memory of the two others is clear that it was between three and four; at any rate, of this we are all agreed, that it was not so late as 4.12, the hour when the author of _Scrambles in the Alps_ reached the summit in bad weather. My watch, being out of order, was left at Zermatt. "We left directly, and in less than a minute were out of the little cloud, which was uncommonly cold, and again we revelled in bright sunshine. We were under no apprehension of danger, nor had we any reason whatever to be anxious, as our way was clear enough: there was no doubt about that. We were in capital training, and we had, most certainly, a sufficiency of daylight still left to allow us to get well beyond every difficulty upon the mountain. Moreover, Solly, with his usual instinctive thoughtfulness, carried a lantern in his pocket, and we had left another lower down. Thus we had a most reasonable expectation of reaching the Stockje that evening, and Zermatt early the next morning. [Illustration: The hut on the Col de Bertol, where climbers now often sleep for the ascent of the Dent Blanche. By Mr. Leonard Rawlence.] [Illustration: A party ascending the Aiguilles Rouges (Arolla). The people can be seen on the sky-line to the left, at the top of the white streak. By Mr. Leonard Rawlence.] [Illustration: The summit of the Dent Blanche. By Mr. Leonard Rawlence.] [Illustration: Cornice on the summit of the Dent Blanche. By Mr. Leonard Rawlence. _To face p. 156._] "When we had come down for about an hour, we saw an occasional flash of lightning playing about the Aiguilles Rouges d'Arolla. This was the first indication that we had of foul weather. Soon afterwards a dark cloud crept up ominously over the shoulder of Mont Collon, and on to the Pigne d'Arolla. Still no cloud seemed to threaten us, but we hurried on very quickly. "On arriving at the col, just above the great rock tower, we turned down a little gully on the west face. Here, though the work was exceedingly difficult, we lost no time whatever, and undoubtedly we chose the best route. The storm, meanwhile, had crossed over the east Arolla ridge, and we saw the lightning flashing about the Aiguille de la Za and Dent Perroc, and the clouds, as they advanced, grew more and more angry looking. "We were advancing as quickly as the nature of the ground would allow on a buttress which supports the great tower on the west. It was then about six o'clock. We had, at the most, only 150 feet of difficult ground to get over, when a dark and dense cloud fell upon us, and it became, suddenly and almost without any warning, prematurely dark. Our axes emitted electric sparks, or rather faint but steady little flames, on both the adze and pick part; so also did our gloves, the hair of which stood out quite straight. A handkerchief, which I had tied over my hat, was like a tiara of light. This was very uncanny, but still deeply interesting. The sparks, when touched by the bare hand or the cheek, gave out no heat. There was no hissing to be heard on our axes or on the rocks, but Solly felt a sort of vibration about the spectacles which were on his forehead that he did not at all like, so he put them under his hat. "Under ordinary circumstances we should have put away our axes until the storm should had passed away. Of course we did not do this, nor indeed would any other member of the Alpine Club have done so if he had had the good fortune to be with us. We wished to get across the 150 feet which was the only difficulty yet remaining before us. Each one of us was quite capable of undertaking the work, and, in spite of the unusual darkness, we had sufficient light for the purpose. "Solly was leading across a difficult bit of rock, and clearing away the ice; Haskett-Smith was paying out the rope as required; I was perched firmly at the bottom end of a narrow and steep ledge round the corner of a crag above them with the rope firmly hitched. We were all working steadily and most carefully, and hoped in a few minutes to clear our last difficulty. All at once the whole mountain side seemed to be ablaze, and at the same time there was a muzzled, muffled, or suppressed peal of thunder, apparently coming out of the interior of the mountain--so much so that, if a great crevice had been opened in the rocks and fire had burst out from it, we should hardly have been more surprised than we were. Solly and Haskett-Smith each exclaimed, 'My axe was struck,' and each of them, naturally enough, let his axe go. Where to none knew. Solly, describing this, says, 'At the moment I was standing with my face towards the mountain, with my right arm stretched out, feeling for a firm foothold with my axe, which I held just under its head. For perhaps a minute the lightning was coming very fast; then came the noise, and I saw a curve of flame on the head of my axe. I involuntarily let it go. The whole place seemed one blaze of light, and I could distinguish nothing. The thought that rushed through my mind was--Am I blinded? the intensity of the light was so terrible. It is difficult to put such events in any order of time; but I think the noise or explosion came first, before the blaze of light, and the light seemed to flicker as if a series of flashes were coming. I hardly know whether my body or any part of my clothing was actually struck. My axe certainly was, and I think the rocks just by me were.' "Haskett-Smith said that his neck was burnt, and we saw later that a dark-brown band, an inch and a quarter wide, had been burnt exactly half way round his neck. I was untouched. All the sparks disappeared with the flash. "Now the matter was serious enough, as we had only one axe, and we felt that we had had a most providential escape. There is little doubt that, if this had occurred upon the crest of the ridge above us, the electric current would have been much stronger, and the consequences much worse. "My two companions then climbed up to the little ledge where I was sitting, to wait at least until the storm should pass away. Whilst Solly was doing this, a tremendous gust of wind swept up from the N.W., and nearly carried him off his feet. "The storm lasted much longer than we expected it to do, and by the time it had vanished it was quite dark. All climbers will readily agree with me when I say that the storm, seen from such a point of view, where the mountain forms are so wild, and their guardian glaciers so vast and glittering, was indescribably grand--so much so that, even under our circumstances, there was a kind of grim enjoyment which we could not help feeling. "I put my axe upon a higher ledge for safety's sake. When the storm had gone by we took stock of our goods. Solly had a lantern. We each had two shirts, scarfs, and unusually warm clothing. We had plenty of food, some cold tea, and a flask of brandy. We knew well that we must stop where we were until morning. It was hard luck certainly, as there was only one narrow prison moat between us and freedom. Once over these 150 feet, we could have reached the Stockje by lantern light. Of this I am certain. But no man living could cross the moat except in daylight. "Haskett-Smith, who is a marvellous man for making all sort of hitches, knots, and nooses, managed to get a capital hitch for our rope, and lashed us to the rock most skilfully. The ledge was steep, and varied from 1½ to 2 feet wide. As we could not sit back to back, which is the best plan when possible, we did the next best thing, and sat, squatted, or leaned, face to back. Solly, who sat at the bottom, had a loose piece of friable rock which supported one foot. I was in the middle, with my knees up to my chin, on a steep slope, but was supported by Solly's back and by a singularly sharp little stone on which I squatted. Haskett-Smith leaned with his back against a corner, and with his knees against my back. Each of us had a rücksack, which helped to keep out the cold. We made a good meal of potted meat, bread, chocolate, and an orange, and left a box of sardines and other food for the morning. "Several short but heavy snow and hail showers fell after the thunderstorm had subsided, but we were thankful that there was no rain. The wind got up too, and whistled wildly through the crags above us. Fortunately, a screen of rock above our ledge partly sheltered us. We faced a grim and grisly little pinnacle on the west face of the mountain, which became, hour after hour, if possible, more ghostly. How we did hate it, to be sure. A light in a châlet near Ferpécle shone like a beacon for some hours, which was a pleasant contrast to the near view of the ghost, but it seemed to be a terribly long way off. We kept up our spirits capitally, and from previous experience I, at least, knew how thankful we ought to be that no member of our party was of a pessimistic turn of mind. At the same time, we were fully aware how serious the matter was, but we were determined to get well through it, helped, we trusted, by a power not our own. "Our greatest trouble during the night arose from the consciousness that Mr Schuster, Herr Seiler, and other friends at Zermatt would be very anxious about us, and we often spoke of it with regret. "We were most careful to keep moving our hands and feet all the night, and, though the temptation to indulge in sleep was very great, we denied ourselves this luxury. After two o'clock an increased vigilance was necessary, as the sky became clearer, and the cold much more intense. Mr Aitkin's guides, who were then bivouacking above the Stockje, 'complained much of the cold.' We probably suffered less than they did, as, at our great altitude, the air was doubtless much drier than below. At the same time, gentlemen who were occupying comfortable beds in luxurious hotels in the Vispthal thought the night was unusually warm. Haskett-Smith imagined the whole night that Solly was another member of the A.C., and invariably addressed him by the wrong name. This hallucination was, no doubt, the result of the electric shock. "Shortly before 5 A.M. we opened our sardine-box, which was no easy task, as our outer gloves were like iron gauntlets. We made a good meal of petrified fish, frozen oranges, and bread. We avoided our brandy-flask like poison on the whole expedition. "We soon discovered the lost axes below us, half embedded in hard snow. Then we began to move. Solly took my axe, and with much difficulty, and at the expense of a good deal of time, cut down to and recovered one of the missing ones. We found, however, that it was then far too cold, and we were too benumbed to work safely, so we returned to our ledge again until eight o'clock. Long before this hour the ghostly pinnacle was gilded by the morning sun, and, if possible, we hated it more than ever, as no warm rays could reach the place where we were for hours to come. On telling several of the leading guides in Zermatt about waiting until eight o'clock on the ledge, they all said that it was quite early enough for us to move after spending a night out in the cold, and that they had done exactly the same under similar circumstances. We were sure we were right; still their testimony is valuable. Messrs Kennedy and Hardy, when they had their 'Night Adventure on the Bristenstock,' say they were 'obliged to stamp about for some twenty minutes in order to restore circulation, or we should not have had sufficient steadiness to have continued our descent in safety.' Well, these gentlemen had neither waistcoats nor neckties, and had only a lump of bread and one bottle of wine. We were at least well fed and warmly clad, but we had no room to stamp about. Having now two axes, we were able to work again with renewed confidence in our powers. We saw the third axe lying half imbedded in the snow a long way below us, and about a rope's length from some firm rocks. The hail and snow, which had partly covered the rocks, increased the difficulty, and the ice in which we had to cut steps was unusually hard. In fact, our 150 feet were gained with much difficulty, and, by the exercise of great caution and severe labour, at last, after much time and manoeuvring, we recovered the third axe, and were indeed happy. "Two minutes later we stood in bright sunshine, and such was its invigorating power that in ten minutes all our stiffness had vanished. My hat blew off here, and rolled on its stiffened brim at a tremendous pace down a couloir of ice. Fortunately, I had a woollen helmet which Miss Richardson had knitted for me. We hastened on very quickly in order to relieve, as soon as possible, the anxiety which we well knew our friends at Zermatt were enduring. "When on the snow ridge between points 3912 mètres and 3729 mètres we heard voices far below us on the west, and soon saw what we knew afterwards to be Mr Aitkin, Imboden, and a porter. They had abandoned their intention of climbing the Dent Blanche 'on account of bad weather.' Indeed, Miss Richardson, who had spent the night at the Stockje, was told by Imboden that 'in such weather it would be impossible, and probably would remain so for a day or two; therefore, they might as well go to Ferpécle and do another col the next day.' "Seeing that the party were above the route to Ferpécle, we knew at once that they were looking for us. Imboden shouted out to us, 'Where do you come from?' We pointed to the Dent Blanche, and they immediately turned towards Zermatt, and we only missed them by about five minutes at the usual breakfast place. "Now, as we knew that there was no need for us to hurry, we rested, and made a most hearty breakfast, as we had left on the rocks a whole chicken, some ham, bread, plums, and a bottle of white wine. "On crossing the glacier to the Wandfluh rocks our axes and rücksacks hissed like serpents for a long time, while we saw in the distance the storm which overtook Mr Macdonald on the Lyskamm that very morning; and none of us liked the renewal of electric energy, which may well be believed. A heavy mist also threatened us. Mr Aitkin had a similar experience to ours. "We descended by way of the Wandfluh, and above the Stockje untied the rope which we had had on for thirty-eight hours; and such is the virtue of the Alpine knot that we were as firmly tied at the end of this time as we were when we first put on the rope. "On the Zmutt Glacier we bathed our hands repeatedly in the glacier pools as a safeguard against possible frost-bites with entirely satisfactory results. On the glacier we were delighted to meet Mr E. T. Hartley, who welcomed us most warmly, and told us of the anxiety of our friends; he, however, and one good lady in Zermatt said all the time that we should return safe and sound again. Just off the glacier we met three porters provided with blankets and provisions sent by the kind thoughtfulness of Mr Schuster and Herr Seiler. "We rested at the Staffel Alp, where we had some most refreshing tea, and reached Zermatt in the evening." CHAPTER X ALONE ON THE DENT BLANCHE I am indebted to Mr Harold Spender, the author of a fine description of the accident in 1899 on the Dent Blanche, for permission to reprint the greater portion of it, and also to the proprietors of _McClure's Magazine_ and of _The Strand Magazine_, in which publications it first appeared. The safe return of one of the party is alluded to in _The Alpine Journal_ as one of the most wonderful escapes in the whole annals of mountaineering. "Mr F. W. Hill, whose narrative in _The Alpine Journal_ necessarily forms the best evidence as to the incidents, says that it was Glynne Jones who wanted to climb the Dent Blanche by its western _arête_--a notably difficult undertaking, and one that has probably only twice been achieved. "Glynne Jones had discussed the possibilities of the undertaking with his own guide, Elias Furrer, of Stalden, and they had come to the conclusion that the conditions were never likely to be more favourable than in this August of 1899. Glynne Jones, therefore, asked Mr Hill to accompany them, and to bring along with him his own guide, Jean Vuignier, of Evolena. Both guides knew their climbers very well; for Furrer had been with Glynne Jones on and off for five years, and Vuignier had climbed at Zermatt with Hill the year before. But Mr Hill, who had promised to take his wife to Zermatt over the Col d'Herens, refused to go. Glynne Jones accordingly secured a second guide in Clemens Zurbriggen, of Saas-Fée, a young member of a great climbing clan. Vuignier, however, was so disappointed at his employer's refusal, that Mr Hill, finding that his wife made no objection, finally consented to join the party. Thus, with the addition of Mr Hill and his guide, the expedition numbered five members. They left Arolla on Sunday morning, 27th August, with a porter carrying blankets. They intended to sleep on the rocks below the _arête_. Arriving at the Bricolla châlets, a few shepherds' huts high up the mountain, at four in the afternoon, they changed their minds, sent the blankets down to Arolla, and slept in the huts. "They started at three o'clock in the morning in two parties, the first consisting of Furrer, Zurbriggen, and Jones, roped in that order, and the second of Vuignier and Hill. They crossed the glacier and reached the ridge in good time. 'It was soon very evident,' says Mr Hill in his narrative, 'that the climbing was going to be difficult, as the rocks were steep slabs, broken and easy occasionally, but, on the whole, far too smooth.' Rock-climbers do not particularly care how steep a rock may be so long as it is broken up into fissures which will give hold to the feet and hands. In the steepest mountains of the Dolomite region, for instance, the rocks are thus broken, and therefore mountains can be climbed easily which, from their bases, look absolutely inaccessible. "As they progressed up and along the ridge the climbing became more and more difficult. They had to go slowly and with extreme caution, and often they were in doubt as to the best way to proceed. Sometimes, indeed, there seemed no possible route. In these places Furrer, who seems to have been accepted as the leader of the party, would detach himself from the rope and go forward to find a passage. "On entering upon this part of the climb the two parties had joined ropes, and were now advancing as one, and roped in this order--Furrer, Zurbriggen, Glynne Jones, Vuignier, and Hill. "It is evident that between nine o'clock and ten climbing had become exceedingly arduous. 'In two or three places,' says Mr Hill, 'the only possible way was over an overhanging rock up which the leader had to be pushed and the others helped from above and below.' This gives us a graphic picture of the nature of the climb. Nothing is more fatiguing than to climb over a rock which is in the least degree overhanging. Mr Hill tells me that Furrer showed him his finger-tips at breakfast-time--9 A.M.--and that they were severely cut. "Yet no one must imagine for an instant that the party was in the least degree puzzled or vexed. There is nothing so exhilarating as the conflict with danger, and it generally happens in climbing a mountain that the party is merriest at the most difficult places. Mr Hill, indeed, tells us that they were in the 'highest spirits.' 'Climbing carefully,' he says, 'but in the highest spirits, we made good progress, for at ten o'clock it was agreed we were within an hour of the summit.' It was at this point and time that the accident occurred. "They had been forced below the ridge by the difficulty of the rocks, and had come to a place where their obvious route lay up a narrow gully, or sloping chimney. On an ordinary day it is possible that they would have found no difficulty in going forward, but a few days before there had been rain, and probably snow, on these high rock summits. At any rate, the rocks were 'glazed'; covered, that is, with a film of ice, probably snow melted and re-frozen, just sufficiently thick to adhere, and sufficiently slippery to make the fingers 'slither' over the rocks. If the climber cannot clear away the ice with his ice-axe, he must go round another way, and if the rocks are steep the first course becomes obviously impossible. That was the condition of affairs at ten o'clock on the morning of 28th August 1899. "In a party of five roped together, with 30 feet of rope between each member, the amount of space covered by the party will obviously be 40 yards; and it frequently happens that those who are roped last cannot see the leaders. Mr Hill, as we have seen, was roped last, and by the time he reached the level of the other climbers Furrer had already turned away from the gully and was attempting to climb to the ridge by another route. To the left of the gully in front of them was a vertical rock face stretching for about 30 feet. Beyond this was a smooth-looking buttress some 10 feet high, by climbing which the party could regain the ridge. When Hill came up with the rest, Furrer was already attempting to climb this buttress. "But the buttress was quite smooth, and Furrer was at a loss to find a hold. Unable to support himself, he called to Zurbriggen to place an axe under his feet for him to stand on. In this way he might be able to reach with his hands to the top of the buttress. There was nothing unusual in this method of procedure. In climbing difficult rocks, when the hand-holds are far up, it is frequently the custom to help the climber by placing an ice-axe under his feet. But in this case Furrer discovered that he could not climb the buttress with the help of Zurbriggen alone, and he would probably have done more wisely if he had abandoned the attempt. But, instead of that, he called Glynne Jones to help Zurbriggen in holding him up. "'Apparently,' says Mr Hill, 'he did not feel safe, for he turned his head and spoke to Glynne Jones, who then went to hold the axe steady.' "From Mr Hill's own explanations the situation was as follows: The leading climber, Furrer, was grasping the rock face, standing on an ice-axe held vertically by Zurbriggen and Glynne Jones. These two were forced, in order to hold the ice-axe securely, to crouch down with their faces to the ground, and were, therefore oblivious of what was going on above them. But the important point is, that their four hands were occupied in holding the ice-axe, and that as they were standing on a narrow ledge, with a very sharp slope immediately below, these two men were in a helpless position. They were unready to stand a shock. Thus, at the critical moment, out of a party of five climbers, three had virtually cast everything on a single die! "Mr Hill, standing level with the rest of the party, could see quite clearly what was happening. He was about 60 feet distant from them, the guide Vuignier being roped between them at an equal distance of some 30 feet from each. Furrer could now stand upright on the axe, which was firmly held by four strong hands, and could reach with his own fingers to the top of the buttress. It was a perilous moment. It is the rule with skilled climbers that you should never leave your foot-hold until you have secured your hand-hold. The natural issue would have been that Furrer, finding it impossible to secure on the smooth rock a steady grip with his hands, should have declined to trust himself. But the science of the study is one thing and the art of the mountain another. There are moments when a man does not know whether he has secured a steady grip or an unsteady, and the question can only be answered by making the attempt. If the party blundered at all, it was in allowing the second and third men to be so completely occupied with holding the axe that there was no reserve of power to hold up Furrer in case of a slip. But it is easy to speak after the event. "What Hill now saw was this: He saw Furrer reach his hands to the top of the buttress, take a grip, and attempt to pull himself up. But his feet never left the ice-axe beneath, for in the process of gripping his hands slipped. And then, as Hill looked, Furrer's body slowly fell back. It seemed, he has told himself, to take quite a long time falling. Furrer fell backwards, right on to the two oblivious men beneath him, causing them to collapse instantly, knocking them off their standing-place, and carrying them with him in his fall from the ridge. 'All three,' says Mr Hill in his narrative, 'fell together.' Instinctively he turned to the wall to get a better hold of the rock, and therefore did not see the next incident in the fatal sequence. Vuignier, as we have seen, was standing 30 feet from the first three, and the weight of three human bodies swinging at the end of the rope must have come directly on him. He was, apparently, taken by surprise, and immediately pulled off the rock. Hill heard that terrible sound--the scuffle and rattle of stones that meant the dragging of a helpless human being into space--and he knew, or thought he knew, that his own turn would come in a moment; but as he clung there to the rock, waiting for the inevitable end, there was a pause. Nothing happened. "After a few endless seconds of time he faced round and found himself alone. Looking down, he saw his four companions sliding down the precipitous slopes at a terrific rate, without a cry, but with arms outstretched, helplessly falling into the abyss. Between him and them, and from his waist, there hung 30 feet of rope swinging slowly to and fro. The faithful Vuignier had probably fastened the rope securely round some point of rock to protect his master. The full weight of the four bodies had probably expended itself on the rock-fastening of the rope, and thereby saved the life of the fifth climber. Dazed and astonished to find himself still in the land of the living, Mr Hill stood for some time watching his comrades fall, until, sickened, he turned away to face his own situation. "It was not very promising. He was without food, drink, or warm clothing. No man alone could climb down by the ridge up which those five experts had climbed in the morning. And in front lay a difficulty which had already destroyed his friends when attempting to overcome it by mutual help. It seemed impossible. "Perhaps it was fortunate that Hill was not only a mathematician, but a man of characteristic mathematical temperament--cool, unemotional, long-headed. Most men in his situation would have gone mad. Some would have waited right there till starvation overcame them or a rescue party arrived. But there was little or no chance of a rescue party, and Mr Hill was certainly not the man to wait for starvation. It was a curious irony that probably at that very moment there was a party on the summit of the Dent Blanche. Mr Hill's party had seen two climbers on the south _arête_ at half-past eight o'clock, and again about an hour later. At this moment they were probably at the summit. But Mr Hill had no means of communicating with them, and the hour's climb which lay between him and them might as well have been the length of Europe. An hour later he himself heard a faint 'cooey' (the party were probably on the way down)--a jovial, generous hail from men unconscious of any catastrophe. "Mr Hill's immediate task was to regain the ridge and reach the summit. At the moment of the accident he was some 60 feet from the fatal buttress, and now wisely made no attempt to get near it. Instead, he moved to circumvent the glazed gully from its other side. After long and tedious efforts, lasting for a period of time which he cannot now even approximately estimate, he succeeded in his flanking movement, and finally, with great labour and peril, climbed back to the ridge by a slope of frozen snow and ice broken with rocks. It would be difficult to imagine anything more terrible than this lonely climb over ice-covered rocks, the painful cutting of steps up an almost precipitous wall, with a precipice many thousand feet deep at his back, down which the smallest slip would send him to certain death. But at last he regained the ridge, and the difficulties of ascent were now mainly overcome. In about another hour he found himself on the summit--a solitary, mournful victor. It was there he heard the shout from the other party. But he could not see them or make them hear, and so he made his way down with all reasonable speed, hoping to overtake them. "Hill had climbed the Dent Blanche in the previous year with a guided party, and therefore, to some extent, knew the route. Without much difficulty he was able to follow the ridge as far as possible down to the lowest _gendarme_, a pile of rock with a deep, narrow fissure. Then a sudden mist hid everything from view, and it was impossible to see the way off the _gendarme_. He tried several routes downward in the mist, but at last wisely resolved to wait till it lifted. While he was searching, a snow-storm and a cold wind came up. 'They drove me,' says Mr Hill in his plain way, 'to seek shelter in the lee of the rocks.' There he tied himself with his rope, and, to avoid the danger of falling off in a moment of sleep, still further secured himself by an ice-axe wedged firmly in front of him--poor protections to a man absolutely without food or wraps, clinging to the side of an abyss in the searching cold and stormy darkness of mist and snow, wedged under the eave of an overhanging rock, and only able to sit in a cramped posture. But Mr Hill was no ordinary man. If the Fates were asking for his life he determined to sell it dearly, sustained in his resolve by the thought of that waiting wife, unconscious of ill, below in Zermatt. "It must have been, at this time, past mid-day on Monday, 28th August. "The storm lasted all that Monday, and Monday night, and Tuesday morning. All through those dreadful hours of darkness Hill sat in the cleft of rock, sleeping most of the time, but always half-frozen with the cold, and whenever he awoke obliged to beat himself to regain his natural warmth. Happily, he was well protected against the falling snow by the eave of the overhanging rock, but it covered his knees and boots, causing him intense cold in the feet. "At last, at mid-day on Tuesday, the mist cleared and the sun shone again in a sky of perfect blue. He could now resume his descent. To climb over snow-covered rocks in a roped party is difficult enough, but to do it alone is to risk your life many times over. But there was no alternative. "At last the rocks ended and the worst of the peril was over. He had reached the snow _arête_, where not even the heavy fall of snow had quite obliterated the tracks of those who had gone in front of him. These helped him to find his way. But the steps had mostly to be recut, and that must have been very fatiguing after his previous experiences. The next difficulty was the lower part of the Wandfluh, a bold wall of rock which leads down first to the Schonbuhl and then to the Zmutt Glaciers, and which, at its base, ends in a steep precipice that can be descended only by one gully. Here Mr Hill's memory failed him. He could not remember which was the right gully. This was, perhaps, the most terrible trial of all. If he could find that gully his task was almost accomplished. The rest of the descent to Zermatt is little more than a walk. But hour after hour passed; he descended gully after gully, only to find himself blocked below by one precipice after another. In one of these attempts he dropped his ice-axe, without which he could never hope to return alive. Unless he could recover it he was a dead man. But, no, it was not quite lost. There it lay, far below him, on the rocks. Slowly and painfully he descended the gully to fetch it. At last he reached it. In this quest he wasted a whole hour! "At last he discovered a series of chimneys to the extreme right of the Wandfluh and leading down to the glacier. Letting himself down these steep chimneys, he found himself at last, on Tuesday evening, on the high moraines of the Zmutt Glacier. He must have reached the glacier about six o'clock, but he had only the sun to reckon by. Here the steep descent ends, and there is but a stony walk of two and a half hours down the glacier by a path which leads to the Staffel Alp Inn. The sun set while he was still on the moraine, and he has a vivid recollection of seeing the red 'Alpengluh' on Monte Rosa. But as the darkness grew it became more and more difficult to keep to the path. "Here at last his marvellous strength began to fail him. He had no snow-glasses, and his eyes were suffering from the prolonged glare of the snow. A sort of waking trance fell on him. As he stumbled forward, over the stones of that horrible moraine, he imagined that his companions were still alive and with him. He kept calling to them to 'come along.' 'It is getting late, you fellows,' he shouted; 'come along.' "At last he was brought up by a great rock. In the darkness he had wandered below the path. The rock entirely barred his way. He had a vague illusion that it was a châlet, and wandered round it searching for a door. At last he settled down by it in a semi-conscious condition. Then he must have fallen asleep, probably about ten o'clock. The sleep lasted about twelve hours, and was better than meat and drink. To most men it would have ended in death. "When he woke up at ten o'clock on Wednesday morning, in broad daylight, he soon saw that he had been sleeping quite near the path. A few minutes' scramble brought him back to it, and he soon came to a little wooden refreshment-house, about an hour below the Staffel Inn, which he had passed in the darkness. He went up to the woman at the hut and asked for some beer! He had only fifty centimes in his pocket; one of his dead companions had held the purse. He volunteered no complaint; but the woman was sympathetic, and soon found out whence he came. She then gave him a little milk and some dry bread--all she had. After a short rest he resumed his way to Zermatt, distant about half an hour, and reached the village at 11.30. As he was walking down the main street past the church he met his wife. "He told her simply what had happened. Then he had lunch. 'I was now ravenous,' he says, 'and devoured a beefsteak, with the help of a glass of whisky and soda, and a bottle of champagne.' Within an hour or two he was entirely recovered." CHAPTER XI A STIRRING DAY ON THE ROSETTA Amongst the many rock scrambles in the neighbourhood of St Martino in the Dolomites of Tyrol, the Rosetta when ascended by the western face can be counted on to awaken an interest in the most stolid of climbers. I am indebted to the courtesy of a girl friend for the loan of her mountaineering diary, and permission to make extracts from its very interesting contents, of which her account of an ascent of the Rosetta will, I feel sure, be read with keen enjoyment by climbers and non-climbers alike. That a young English girl on her first visit to the mountains should carry out with such success so difficult an expedition, is much to the credit of both herself and her guides. Her brother accompanied her, and the climb took place on 10th August 1898. [Illustration: AMBROSE SUPERSAX. (P. 209.)] [Illustration: FROM THE ROSETTA. By Signor Vittorio Sella. _To face_ p. 182.] "A cautious bang at my door, a faint 'Si!' from me, and steps departing. Then I lit a candle and dressed. But it was the critical moment when the dawn comes quickly, and I blew it out in five minutes and watched the blue light brighten on the dusky outlines of the white church and houses. The Cimone was growing pink as I got on my heavy hob-nailed boots, and, taking my tennis shoes also, I tramped softly down to breakfast. Bettega, our leading guide, was there, with his cordial smile and hand-shake, and G---- and Tavernaro soon appeared. We were off before long, taking with us a porter in addition to the two guides, and G---- and I let Bettega see plainly that we thought this a little superfluous, but later on we were glad we had him. I must admit that I never met such good-natured and thoughtful guides, nor such excellent ones. After passing through forest, we had to ascend up steep shingle, and as this steepened I reeled a little, my feet being not as yet well used to this sort of work. Bettega, however, put his hand behind him, I crooked my fingers into his, and that gave me all the balance I needed. Finally we crossed some snow, and sitting on a little platform under a towering rock, we perceived that the way we were to ascend the Rosetta would be a very different experience to the climb by the ordinary route. "At this point I took off my skirt, and removed my boots, putting on tennis shoes instead. The rubber soles of these are far safer than nails on the smooth and slabby Dolomite rock. "The guides jabbered between themselves; Bettega smiled sublimely and looked utterly in his element, but Tavernaro seemed rather subdued; he is under the moral influence of Bettega, for though Tavernaro may have more education and cleverness he rounds upon his comrade at times owing to his excitable disposition. But on the mountains he slinks at Bettega's elbow, as the two roll along with the peculiar mountaineer's bending stride on level ground, and Tavernaro never asks a price or arranges for an excursion without consulting Bettega. But, on the other hand, Bettega lives in fear of Tavernaro's lively tongue, so it is about balanced! "Having finished our meal, we set off. I was roped to Bettega, who led. After about five minutes Bettega, who till then had held in his hand all the rope we were not using, dropped it in a big coil, and told me to 'Remain firm' where I was. He then climbed upwards for a few minutes, but I did not watch, for though my head had not swum at all as yet, I wasn't too sure of it, and the rock face was very sheer, so I neither looked up nor down, but sat with my cheek against the rock and held on! But all went merrily. Tavernaro occasionally placed one of my feet, which was placeless, and we got up the first _camino_, or rocky chimney, fairly well. 'Wait a moment, signorina,' said Bettega, and then he disappeared overhead--literally disappeared, for he was quite hidden when he cried cheerily, 'Come! Come!' I got up, and found a very small _posto_ or tiny platform on which to wait, with a disagreeably obtrusive precipice below it. Above was a second _camino_, which looked smooth and gloomy. I leant affectionately against the rock, pondering deeply of anything except 'empty space.' 'The signorina is all right there?' enquired Bettega solicitously. 'To be sure she is!' cried Tavernaro gaily, as he leant over me against the rock. Then up clomb Bettega, and G---- advanced slowly and surely from below. As the minutes went by I shut my eyes, and was gloomily thankful when the summons came from above. Looking up, I could just see Bettega's bushy black head and flannel cap couched amongst the rocks. Fifteen feet up the _camino_ a big stone was wedged, and between this and the back of the chimney one had to pass, emerging above at the top of the wall. G---- having now reached the _posto_, I began to go up, with Tavernaro closely following me. Bit by bit I climbed; a grab, a hoist, a foot tucked into a crevice on either side of the _camino_, a long reach with my arm, a steady pull--and likewise, it must be confessed, a pull from the rope!--and so up, up again. The rock wall was abominably straight and holeless. Under the stone, with the three members placed on ledges or in cracks, I in vain sought a point of rest for the fourth before hauling. 'Good heavens!' I exclaimed in melancholy undertones, and a gurgling chuckle from below showed that Tavernaro sympathised. 'Here you are, signorina,' he said, giving me his shoulder for a momentary foot-hold. With that instant of support I swung up on to the stone, and so to the next _posto sicuro_, or safe spot. G---- came up without help, but he assured me that it was a really hard place. "Of course I don't pretend I did it all myself. Quite half a dozen times I doubt if I could have got up without material aid from the cord, or from Tavernaro below. Once, in a _camino_, the latter gave me a butt with his head, which made me reflect how great a man was lost to the game of football, while the way he placed my feet was a great help to one who, as a novice, had not yet learnt to study the foot-holds in advance. "We now reached a place where a third _camino_ ran up above us, while an awkward traverse led to another on the right. Here I heard Tavernaro remonstrate with Bettega on the route he had taken, but the latter said, very decidedly, that he intended going straight on, so Tavernaro, as usual, subsided, but became very quiet. He had never before ascended this _camino_, which was a discovery of Bettega's, but no doubt he had heard about it. "We began to climb it, Bettega first and I following him closely. It had rained heavily the previous day, and all the loose stones had been washed to the very edge of the ledges. Not having been cautioned about these, and intent on getting up, I let several fall. 'Hi! Gently with the stones!' gasped Tavernaro from below, and when he reached my side I saw that his knuckles were bleeding. 'Have you hurt yourself?' I enquired. 'No, it is you who have done it, and you've twice nearly killed your brother,' he replied, but G---- told me to tell Tavernaro he had sent down a much worse stone than any of mine, whereat he looked resigned, and remarked, 'Oh, yes, these things can't always be avoided.' "'Stay quietly where you are, and wait till I tell you to come on,' Bettega now remarked. I crouched in a very narrow chimney for a little, watched not--a hundred pities--and heard Bettega go up beyond. Not more than three minutes elapsed before his deep voice sang out: 'Now, come up!' and though I replied: 'I'm coming,' I wondered how I was to do it. We were near the top of the chimney. Further up, it became too narrow for any human form to squeeze into. One had therefore to come out of it to the right and climb up and over a huge bulging mass of rock about 15 feet high, which overhung the precipice. This mass of gently bulging rock was worn smooth by rain and stones. There was no proper foot-hold, hardly the tiniest crack. _How_ had Bettega managed it? I got up the cold, damp chimney as far as I could, leant gasping against the rock, and felt near the end of my courage. Tavernaro was stowed away yards below, G---- also out of sight, Bettega invisible above. There was just the cord, pulling me away from the inhospitable rocks, and at my very heels an abyss of 2000 feet. I made one bold grab on the smooth wall, but speedily retired to the end of the _camino_, and feebly yelled, 'Wait! Ah, I can't do it!' 'All right! Catch hold of this cord!' came the answer, and a loop of rope was let slowly down. I seized it, contrived to get one foot on to a tiny, weeny point, came out of the chimney, and heard Bettega call, 'To the right, signorina!' 'To the right; that's all very well!' I muttered fiercely, and felt my hand slipping; my foot gave, my fingers ran down the rope, the cord round my waist tightened, I pushed my arm through the loop of the free rope with one last effort, and then finding no support of any kind for my feet, was ignominiously pulled, kicking, up the precipice by Bettega, who, firmly fixed with both feet against rocks, hauled me up most joyously hand over hand. "'But, Michele, how did _you_ manage to get up?' I panted, as I sank on a ledge, and gazed in awed admiration at him. 'Well, not like that, signorina!' he said, with his honest laugh; 'I really came up by pressure. There are no hand-grips, so you have to do without.' 'It's marvellous! It's stupendous!' murmured I, really awed by the man's power. Then we both listened for Tavernaro's coming, and a proper little comedy, for us two at least, ensued. Of course one could see nothing, the rock bulged too much, but one could hear Tavernaro's voice some 20 feet below, as he groped about, swearing softly. Five minutes went by and all was still, so Bettega began haranguing him. 'More to the right, Tony; you must come out, don't go too high in the chimney!' Then--'Look out, Tony, I'll send you the rope-end!' But an ominous '_No_,' quickly answered this proposal. A guide's honour is very sensitive on this point. Another three or four minutes passed. 'How is Tavernaro getting on?' I whispered, and Bettega replied, smiling broadly, 'He wishes to try.' "Some gasps from the direction of the chimney were now heard, and Bettega again expostulated gently. 'Look here, Tony, we are old friends; take the rope!' '_No_' in gloomy defiance. 'Oh, if we were alone it would be different, but we must not keep the rest of the party waiting, and the signorina may take cold.' This was all in _patois_, but I caught some of it, and here struck in quickly, 'Oh, not at all!' Bettega looked surprised, and resumed more energetically his exhortations to Tony to pocket his pride and accept the loop of rope. At last Tony, who must have been within 10 feet of the top and so at the worst spot, suddenly jerked on to the proffered cord, and was up the next moment, hatless, with huge beads of sweat on his forehead and his black hair as straight as matches. There was a great rent in the side of one of his hands, which bled profusely. What struck me most, however, was the expression of suffering and shaken confidence on his face. Tavernaro ranks only second to Bettega and Zecchini, and was asked to go to the Caucasus and other distant mountains. He just stumbled to a safe spot, wrung his left hand, and panted out, 'Jesu Maria! it was cruel!' I fear that Bettega's smile was more triumphant than sympathetic. Nevertheless, he enquired kindly for Tavernaro's hand, but for fully two minutes the latter's loquaciousness was lost. The look of anguish on his face meant, I think, that he had seen death pretty near to him. He told us that he went far too much into the crack on the left, and had remained sticking in it till his hands got so cold he feared he would lose his grip. If he had, he was lost, and probably G---- also, so he had actually held on with his head and left his cap jammed in the crack. I called to G---- to hook the rope over a point of rock in case Tavernaro fell, and this he had done, but even so the frightful jerk might have torn him down, and in any case Tavernaro must have been either killed or frightfully hurt, as he had, I should think, about 30 feet of rope out. "While I was in the throes of the difficult part, Papa's cap fell off my head, but Tavernaro caught it and brought it up. He was in an awful state of mind about his own cap, which had his guide's badge, etc., on it, and begged me to call down to my brother about it. I did so, but G---- replied several times with some asperity that he had enough to do to get himself up. 'Why can't he bring it up in his mouth?' cried Tavernaro excitedly, and, in the end, G---- brought it in his belt. "My opinion is that both G---- and Tavernaro ran a great risk, and that Tavernaro was fully aware of it, and, for a few minutes after, was not a little shaken. "After half an hour at this notable spot Bettega resumed the ascent. 'I hope we shall have nothing more so difficult,' I said eagerly, and Bettega replied soothingly that it became 'much less arduous,' but the chimney we were now in was gloomy and slippery, at best very sheer. The guides had resumed their coats, which they had taken off for the bad bit. At the end of the chimney we came to a high overhanging wall, at the foot of which Tavernaro and I reposed, while Bettega climbed over it and disappeared. 'Come!' and I rose wearily. Bettega kept that cord very tight on me, and it certainly, as Tavernaro afterwards said, inclined to pull me to the right, away from the best holds, for the wall was comparatively easy, though perpendicular, and I ought not to have swung out quite free from it! But that is what I did. As I rose from the second grip with the right hand, my muscles suddenly relaxed, I lost hold, gave a sigh to signify 'It's no good!' and swung clear out, dangling over 2000 feet of precipice on a single cord which nearly cut me in two. G---- and Tavernaro were much excited below, suddenly seeing me appear hurtling overhead. Of course, in a moment, I swung in again, grabbed afresh, and with terrific tightening of the rope from Bettega, got up in no time. As I swung in the air, I remember G----, in a curiously calm voice, asking, 'Are you all right?' and Tavernaro crying, 'Don't be afraid, signorina, it's all right!' "Five minutes later we left the huge iron walls of rock, and emerged suddenly on to the flat. Here one realised what breadth and width meant, as opposed to height and profundity. In two seconds Bettega and I romped to the top, where the cairn of stones marking the highest point rose, and shaking hands heartily I gasped with intense feeling, 'O Michele, how grateful I am to you! Twice to-day I owe you my life!' a debt he utterly disclaimed, remarking that whatever he had done was merely in the day's work, and that on him rested the responsibility of bringing us up that way; as of course it did. Our porter was waiting for us on the summit, and we sat down there, while Bettega and Tavernaro, still looking impressed, knelt attentively to take off our light shoes and put on our nailed boots instead." The party descended by the ordinary route, a pleasant change after all the difficult work they had accomplished during the upward climb. The foregoing account gives what is rare amongst the descriptions beginners usually furnish of anything particularly hard they may have undertaken, for the writer has obviously jotted down, within a few hours of her return, an exact impression of how things struck her during the day. It is refreshing to find some one who admits that at certain points her courage nearly gave out, and at others that her guide had to assist her with the rope, for we know that while the very best climbers have had to train their nerves and muscles before they became what they are, some of the very worst are most ready to exclaim that they never felt fear or accepted assistance, and that a certain mountain up which they were heaved like sacks of corn and let down like buckets in a well is "a perfect swindle; any fool could go up it!" Unluckily, every fool does, and each one prepares the way for an appallingly increasing death-roll. The ascent of the Rosetta by the western face must not be condemned as an imprudent expedition on the occasion just mentioned. True, there was a novice in the party, but she was the only inexperienced member of it. They had ample guiding power, they were properly equipped, and they had good weather. Tavernaro had an offer of help at the critical moment, and availed himself of it when he saw there was real danger. It will be noticed that the four climbers were on two separate ropes. This is usual in the Dolomites, but the majority of experienced mountaineers condemn the practice even on rocks, while on snow it is positive madness. It was owing to this, that, as related in the foregoing narrative, the lady's brother and Tavernaro ran a greater risk than was at all necessary. [Illustration: A CLIMBING PARTY STARTING FROM ZERMATT FOR THE HUT.] [Illustration: THE TRIFT HOTEL.] [Illustration: THE GANDEGG HUT, NEAR ZERMATT.] [Illustration: THE ZINAL ROTHHORN (to the right) FROM THE TRIFT VALLEY. _To face p. 195._] CHAPTER XII THE ZINAL ROTHHORN TWICE IN ONE DAY Ignorance of what the future has in store is often not a bad thing. Had I realised that at the hour when we ought to have been at Zinal we should be sitting--and for the second time in one day--on the top of the Rothhorn, we should hardly have set out in so light-hearted a fashion from the little inn in the Trift Valley, above Zermatt, at 4 A.M. on 14th September 1895. The party consisted of my two guides, Joseph and Roman Imboden, father and son, and myself, and our idea was to cross the fine peak of the Rothhorn, 13,855 feet high, from Zermatt to Zinal. I had been up that mountain before, and so, on many previous occasions, had Imboden, but, oddly enough, he had never been down the other side. Roman, however, had once or twice made the traverse, and, in any case, we knew quite enough about the route from hearsay to feel sure we could hit it off even without Roman's experience. Some fresh snow had fallen a few days previously, and the slabby part of the Rothhorn on the north side was unpleasantly white, besides which there was a strong and bitterly cold wind. We pretty well abandoned all idea of getting down on the other side when we saw how unfavourably things were turning out, and though I felt greatly disappointed I never have and never would urge a guide in whom I have confidence to undertake what he considers imprudent. We left the matter open till the last minute, however, and took both the knapsacks to the top, where we arrived at 9.15. Warming ourselves in a sunny and sheltered corner of the by no means inhospitable summit, we had some food and a pleasant rest. I cannot say if the meal and the cheering effects of the sunshine made things look different, but it is a fact that after, perhaps, an hour's halt, Imboden shouldered his knapsack and remarked to me, "Come along, ma'am, as far as the end of the ridge; we will just have a look." Hope awakened in me, and scrambling to my feet I followed him. The wind was certainly high; I had difficulty even on those easy rocks in keeping my footing; how, I wondered, should we manage when the real climbing began? I had read of an _arête_ of rock, little broader than one of the blunt knives we had used at breakfast, and the idea of passing along it with a shrieking gale trying to tear us from our perch was not alluring. Presently we reached the spot where one quits the gentle slope and comparatively broad ridge, and embarks on the profile of a slender and precipitous face of rock, with nearly vertical forehead and small and infrequent cracks for hands and feet. We were going to do more than look at it, apparently; we were about to descend it, for without any further remark Imboden began to get ready, letting Roman pass ahead. Taking hold of the rope between his son and himself he told me to stand aside while he gradually paid it out as Roman went down. The first yard or two consisted of slabs, set at a high angle. Then the ridge abruptly curved over and one saw nothing but air till the eye rested on the glacier thousands of feet below. In a few minutes Roman had disappeared, and the steady paying out of the rope alone indicated that he was climbing downwards. After a time he reached almost the end of his tether of about 30 feet--for we were on a very long rope--and his father called out, "Rope up!" "Let the lady come to the edge and give me a little more," came a voice from far down. Putting the final loop into my hand and bidding me sit down, Imboden held me hard by the cord behind until the tautness of the piece between Roman and me showed it was time to be moving. I then advanced very cautiously to what seemed like the edge of the world. Turning round with my face to the rock I had my first glance below. Far down was the top of Roman's hat, and as he saw the advancing soles of my boots he grinned with appreciation, feeling that now we really were embarked on the enterprise. "There's a good place down here, ma'am, come along!" he called up, with one toe on a ledge 3 inches wide, two fingers thrust into a crack, and the rope held out of his way by being put, the remark concluded, between his teeth. I had no doubt it was a nice place when one got there, but meanwhile I had to make the best use I could of my eyes to find a suitable assortment of hand-and foot-holes. Soon I, too, was clinging to the face of the precipice, and Imboden was left above out of sight and before long almost out of hearing. The wind here was far less trying as we were sheltered by the topmost pinnacle of the mountain. To me the feeling of danger from a gale on a rock peak is due even more to the difficulty of hearing what one's companions are saying than to the risk of one's balance being upset. It is extremely disconcerting, when a climber, descending steep rocks and anxious to make a long but perhaps an easy step downwards to good foot-hold, calls for more rope, and is promptly swung clear out into space by an invisible guide above, who has misunderstood his orders. When a party is accustomed to work together, this sort of thing seldom happens, still it makes all the difference in the pleasure of negotiating difficult rocks if the air is calm. Our only trouble now was owing to the fresh snow, but this had partially consolidated, and we got down steadily and safely, gradually leaving behind the cold wind which whistled amongst the crags above. It was early in the day, and we went slowly, stopping once or twice to photograph where warm and sheltered resting-places of comfortable proportions tempted us to linger. The rocky knife edge was unpleasantly sharp for the arms bent over it, but useful ledges down the side helped to distribute the weight and amuse and occupy the mind. When finally we reached the end of the rocks, and had nothing but snow between us and the Mountet Hut, we considered ourselves as good as there, and made a long halt on the last stones. We were wrong, however. "My boy, I will go ahead now," remarked Imboden, stepping off into the snow. He went a few paces, and then looked first all round him and lastly at us. "_Blue ice!_" he muttered, with intense disgust. "Blue ice right down to the bottom!" We shrugged our shoulders; Imboden was ahead doing the work; we could afford to be philosophical. I should not like to say how many strokes of the axe each step required, but the slope was steep, a slip could not be risked, and Imboden hewed out great foot-holds in the slippery wall. After this had gone on for some time he paused. "Upon my word," remarked he, "it will take us the rest of the day to get down at this rate! I shall try another way." So we turned and remounted the slope, and sitting down once more on the stones, Imboden traced out a possible route down the face of the mountain, bearing diagonally across it. It looked dullish; besides, thought I, after all, we don't particularly want to go to Zinal. Roman put into words what, I think, sprung simultaneously into both our minds. "Let us go back to Zermatt over the top of the Rothhorn again!" "Yes, let us do that!" I exclaimed. Imboden gazed from one to the other of us in amazement. "Go back over the top of the Rothhorn?" he repeated. "Why, we should simply be out all night!" Roman didn't answer, but his eyes wandered persistently up the _arête_. His father now began to calculate, and by some strange process of arithmetic he came to the conclusion that if we hurried very much it was just possible that we might get off the difficult part of the peak before night overtook us. Still, he was far from reconciled to the idea, while every moment Roman and I liked it better. Imboden saw how keen we were, and presently exclaimed: "Well, I'll go if you both want it, but we must be quick; if we spend the night on the top of the Rothhorn and a storm comes on, we may simply lose our lives!" There was no need however, to tell Roman to be quick. He was told off to lead, and I followed, with Imboden last. The memory of that ascent has remained in my mind as a confused dream. Every scrap of my attention was given to holding on and pulling myself upwards, never pausing, except in the very worst places, to see what either of the guides was doing, and, with every foot-and hand-hold fresh in my memory, I was full of a delightful sense of security which muscles in first-class condition and complete absence of any sensation of fatigue fully justified. We rose at an incredible pace, and after an hour and twenty-five minutes of splendid exercise, we threw ourselves once more on the flat little top of the Rothhorn. We had now only the descent by the ordinary route between us and Zermatt, and this seemed a small matter compared to what we had accomplished that day. We did not remain long on the summit, and the first part of the descent was quickly ended. We had now reached that point on the mountain where it is necessary to leave the ridge and go down for some distance on the precipitous north face. This bit of the climb, always requiring great care on account of the smoothness and steepness of the rock, was on this occasion particularly difficult because of the powdery snow which covered everything, and the bitterly cold wind to which here, and, luckily for us, here only, we were exposed. The associations of these slabs are not of a nature to reassure the timid climber. Many years ago, in fact on the very first occasion when the Rothhorn was ascended from the Zermatt side, a startling incident took place near this spot. The party consisted of Messrs Dent and Passingham, with Alexander Burgener, Ferdinand Imseng, and Franz Andermatten as guides, and they were descending the mountain when the exciting occurrence described by Mr Dent happened.[7] He has kindly allowed me to reprint his account. [Illustration: THE ZINAL ROTHHORN FROM THE BREAKFAST PLACE ON THE WELLENKUPPE.] [Illustration: A STEEP FACE OF ROCK. _To face p. 202._] [Illustration: THE TOP OF A CHAMONIX AIGUILLE. By Signor Cajrati Crivelli Mesmer] [Illustration: "LEADING STRINGS."] "Down the first portion of the steep rock slope we passed with great caution, some of the blocks of stone being treacherously loose, or only lightly frozen to the face. We had arrived at the most difficult part of the whole climb, and at a rock passage which at that time we considered was the nastiest we had ever encountered. The smooth, almost unbroken face of the slope scarcely afforded any foot-hold, and our security almost entirely depended on the rope we had laid down in our ascent. Had not the rope been in position we should have varied our route, and no doubt found a line of descent over this part much easier than the one we actually made for, even without any help from the fixed cord. Imseng was far below, working his way back to the _arête_, while the rest of the party were holding on, moving but slowly, with their faces to the mountain. Suddenly I heard a shout from above; those below glanced up at once: a large flat slab of rock, that had afforded us good hold in ascending, but proved now to have been only frozen in to a shallow basin of ice, had been dislodged by the slightest touch from one of the party above, and was sliding down straight at us. It seemed an age, though the stone could not have had to fall more than 10 feet or so, before it reached us. Just above me it turned its course slightly; Franz, who was just below, more in its direct line of descent, attempted to stop the mass, but it ground his hands against the rock and swept by straight at Imseng. A yell from us hardly awoke him to the danger; the slab slid on faster and faster, but just as we expected to see our guide swept away, the rock gave a bound for the first time, and as, with a startled expression, he flung himself against the rock face, it leapt up, and, flying by within a few inches of his head, thundered down below. A moment or two of silence followed, and then a modified cheer from Imseng, as subdued as that of a 'super' welcoming a theatrical king, announced his safety, and he looked up at us with a serious expression on his face. Franz's escape had been a remarkably lucky one, but his hands were badly cut about and bruised. In fact, it was a near thing for all of us, and the mere recollection will still call up that odd sort of thrill a man experiences on suddenly recollecting at 11 P.M. that he ought to have dined out that evening with some very particular people. Had not the rock turned its course just before it reached Franz, and bounded from the face of the mountain over Imseng's head, one or more of the party must unquestionably have been swept away. The place was rather an exceptional one, and the rock glided a remarkably long distance without a bound, but still the incident may serve to show that falling stones are not a wholly imaginary danger." A far more serious occurrence, however, took place on the north side of the Rothhorn in 1894, involving the loss of a life, the rest of the party escaping in a miraculous manner. I take my account of the disaster from _The Alpine Journal_. "On 20th September an accident occurred on the Zinal Rothhorn, in which Joseph Marie Biner, a well-known Zermatt guide, lost his life. The other members of the party were Dr Peter Horrocks and Peter Perren, both of whom are to be congratulated on their very narrow escape. The party had already effected the ascent of the mountain, and were descending towards Zermatt. On reaching the well-known _Blatte_ overlooking the Durand Glacier, the usual precautions were observed. Biner, who was leading, crossed the awkward slab, and planted himself firmly on the opposite side. Perren, who was last, was standing behind and holding on to a fair-sized rock, round which he was paying out the rope; while Dr Horrocks crossed the slab, and Biner gradually pulled in the slack. Suddenly, the rock in which Perren placed such confidence came out, and bounded down the mountain side. Perren slid rapidly down the steep rocks; Dr Horrocks, who had no foot-hold and very little hand-hold, was jerked from his position, turning a somersault, and becoming momentarily stunned from his head striking against the rock. The strain on the rope was too great for Biner to withstand, and he was dragged down too. The whole party half tumbled, half slid, down the very steep smooth rocks for 30 feet or 40 feet, when the rope between Dr Horrocks and Perren caught behind a projecting rock, and brought them both to a standstill. Perren found himself landed in a small patch of soft snow some 15 feet below the rock, which had so fortunately engaged the rope, while Dr Horrocks, some 7 feet higher up, though at first suspended with his back to the steep rocks, was very soon able to get more or less foot-hold. Poor Biner had the extra length of his own rope still to fall, and, when the strain came, the rope broke, according to one account, half-way between him and Dr Horrocks; according to another, rather nearer to the latter. Biner fell down on to the Durand Glacier, some 2000 feet below, whence his mutilated body was recovered by a search party which crossed the Trift Pass, carried the body down to Zinal, and so by road and train brought it to Zermatt, where the funeral took place. Dr Horrocks and Perren were rescued from their dangerous position some ten or twelve minutes after the accident occurred, by the guides Emile Gentinetta and Edouard Julen, who were following down the mountain with another party." To return to ourselves. We steadily progressed down the cold and snowy face, with rope kept taut and paid out slowly as, one by one, we moved lower. I need not follow our climb, which was without incident, and while it was still daylight, we reached the snow ridge, on the stones just below, which in ascending it is usual to pause for breakfast. We were particularly anxious to be off the stony rocks below and to gain the little glacier and pass over the moraine before dark, but this we could not manage, so in spite of our lantern we wandered about on those odious rocks for hours before we found the gully by which alone it is possible to get off them. Our various attempts entailed the descent of slippery chimneys leading to the top of black precipices, with nothing to be done but scramble up again, merely to embark in other chimneys with precisely similar consequences. I got so sick of the whole thing that I would gladly have dozed under a rock and awaited daylight. The guides, however, stuck to the business, and after a positive nightmare of gullies they at last hit off the right and only one. I have seldom felt greater satisfaction than when I stepped off those detestable rocks on to the snow, shimmering beneath our feet in the starlight. We had now only to cross the glacier and make our way down an exceedingly steep but well-defined foot-path over the sharply-crested moraine. Once we had left this behind us we had nothing more than grass-slopes between us and the Trift Inn. As soon as we reached this final stage in our day's work, we selected the most comfortable-looking hollow, and hanging the lantern to an axe stuck upright in the ground, we prepared, at a somewhat unorthodox hour and within only thirty minutes of the hotel, to enjoy a well-earned meal. CHAPTER XIII BENIGHTED ON A SNOW PEAK In a most interesting account of a mountain adventure which, by the courtesy of the writer, Sir H. Seymour King, I am enabled to reprint from _The Alpine Journal_, we are once more reminded that a party of thoroughly competent and robust mountaineers can come without evil after-effects out of a night of great hardship which would have undoubtedly proved fatal to ill-equipped and inexperienced amateurs and guides, such as those accompanying Mr Burckhardt, who perished from exposure on the Matterhorn.[8] After describing a previous ascent, Sir H. Seymour King goes on to say: "A few days later we went to Mürren, with the intention of carrying out a long-cherished plan of mine and testing the possibility of ascending the Silberhorn from the Roththal. Previous ascents had proved so lengthy, necessitating, I think, in nearly every case, the passing of a night on the rocks or the glacier, that I thought it would be highly desirable if some shorter route could be discovered. I had an idea that the route by the western _arête_ would prove to be the one sought for. Unfortunately, we were delayed in making an attempt by bad weather until the 23rd of September, which is undoubtedly too late in the year for so difficult an expedition. "I left the Hôtel Silberhorn with Ambrose Supersax and Louis Zurbrücken as guides, and a porter, at ten o'clock on the morning of the 23rd of September, and followed for some distance the usual path to the Jungfrau Hut; at length, leaving the Roththal path on the right, we struck off into a goat track, which leads by narrow ledges round the shoulder of the great bluffs forming the northern boundary of the Roththal. In this way gaining the face of the alp fronting Mürren, we made our way to the base of the 'Strahlplatten,' where we had determined to encamp for the night. "The nights were already lengthening out, and where we were it was not light before six, and it was not possible to move earlier than five; punctually at that hour we started. We took only one knapsack with us, leaving the rest of the things with the porter, whom we instructed to stay where he was until he saw whether we were going to return the same way or not, as we thought it was quite possible we might have to pass another night at the same place. We therefore arranged with him that when we got to a certain point on the ridge, if we intended to return, we would wave our hats; but if we made no sign, he might pack up his things and go home, as in that case he might understand that we had determined either to descend from the Silberhorn across the glacier to the Wengern Alp, or else make our way over the Jungfrau, and pass the night in the Bergli Hut. "Now let me try for a moment to describe the appearance of the rock face up which we purposed making our way on to the _arête_. From where we were the _arête_ appeared to run nearly due east and west. At the west it terminated in the precipices which face Mürren, and at the east with the peak whence we had arranged to signal to our porter. From this peak a ridge descended towards the valley bounding the side facing us. On that side the rock face itself was divided into two compartments by a well-marked ridge running down the middle, giving the appearance of two couloirs leading to the _arête_; the whole side was composed of extremely smooth rocks, with very little foot-hold or hand-hold which would be extremely dangerous, if not impossible, to attempt, if they were not dry. Fortunately, we found them perfectly free from either water or ice, and, with the exception of one difficult piece, which it took us some little time to surmount, we found nothing to check us until we were just under the _arête_. We ascended by the right-hand couloir, if I may so term it, and then made for the gap on the ridge at the extreme westerly end. Just below this gap we experienced some difficulty, owing to the excessive smoothness of the rocks, but finally reached the gap I have mentioned a little before nine. "I need not say that our hopes rose high, and that we were in the very best of spirits, and when we finally stood in the gap itself we began to think the worst part of the work was over. We soon found, however, that it had hardly begun; it was all very well being in the gap, but the problem was how to get from there on to the _arête_ itself; for, though the latter was not more than 20 feet above us, the peculiar formation of the rocks rendered every attempt to get on to it fruitless. The rocks hung over on every side. We exhausted ourselves in vain attempts to surmount them. An hour soon passed away, and after each of us in turn had failed, we sat down disconsolately to consider the situation under the lee of the ridge, so as to be out of the way of the biting north wind which was blowing. Looking round as we sat mournfully consuming some breakfast, I spied a bottle in a crevice, and found it contained the names of Mr C. E. Matthews and Herr E. von Fellenberg, with Melchior Anderegg and two other guides; it was undated, but recounted how they had reached this spot and had been obliged to return without achieving their object, which apparently was identical with our own. This was the last straw, and exasperated Ambrose to the highest degree. That we should have gone through so much only to have gained the same spot where another party several years before had arrived was too much for his equanimity. He vowed he would never go back, and nothing under heaven should turn him back, he would get on to the ridge. We might do as we liked, he meant to stay there until he had. All of which I pointed out to him was very fine talk, but, as men were at present constructed, it did not appear to me possible to climb an acute angle. Ambrose, however, persisted that he would make another attempt to get on to the ridge, and, as it was quite hopeless anywhere on the side by which we had ascended, he roped himself, and insisted on being let down the northern face of the mountain. "With great skill he managed to work himself along the face for the full length of the rope, and the first 100 feet being exhausted, a second of 80 feet was tied to it, and this again paid out to its utmost length; still he could find no way up to the ridge. He thereupon demanded that the rope should be let go, and, in spite of our remonstrances at the danger he was running, he pulled it in, slung it on his back, and proceeded, while we sat down and waited with no little anxiety lest some accident should befall him. "For half an hour we neither saw nor heard anything of him, and our shouts remained unanswered. Zurbrücken muttered at intervals something about 'Dummheit,' and was evidently very uneasy. Suddenly we heard a shout from above, which told us he had succeeded in ascending the wall above him, and getting on to the ridge, down which he was actually coming at the moment, and the next minute he was peering over the point where we had been stuck. "It was really a magnificent exhibition both of pluck and skill, and Ambrose deserves the highest credit for his success. Letting the rope over, and fastening it well to a piece of rock, he first hauled up the ice axes and knapsacks, and then we each in turn were half hauled, and half climbed to the place where he stood. I know when I arrived at the top I was nearly speechless from the terrible exertion it was necessary to make, and the pressure of the rope on my ribs; I could only lie on my back and gasp feebly for brandy! "However, it was imperative to proceed; more than two hours had been wasted here, and it was nearly eleven o'clock. The way in front of us looked fairly plain and easy, and our hopes once again began to rise; but soon, as we proceeded along the ridge, it became narrower and narrower, until from walking we were reduced to kneeling, and at last could only proceed _à cheval_; in this elegant position we struggled along for some little distance, until the _arête_ widening out again permitted us once more to stand up; but here we found the rocks much more difficult, and finally absolutely impossible. At the foot of the peak at the easterly end of the ridge which I have before mentioned we were forced off the _arête_ on to a wall of ice which led to the summit; the slope was at a very sharp angle, the ice very hard and blue, and at last became so steep that we were forced back on to the rocks, and with some considerable difficulty reached the summit; from there we could see the Silberhorn in front of us jutting out like a great white promontory into a frozen sea. It being then one o'clock, we saw there was no possibility of our getting back the same way that evening, so we made no sign to our porter, whom we could see watching us far down below. "The formation of the ridge here is somewhat curious. After a slight descent it broadens out into a small and much crevassed glacier, shut in on the further side by a level snow wall, the promontory which I have mentioned above. The _arête_ of this wall appears to run level from the rock ridge to its northern termination; indeed, I am of opinion that the highest point is on the rock ridge itself, and that the extreme end of the ridge facing the Wengern Alp is a few feet lower than the rocks overlooking the Roththal. "We speedily crossed the little intervening glacier, or snow-field, and commenced to ascend diagonally the snow wall, but found the snow in such a dangerous condition, lying as it was loosely on the surface of ice, that from the fear of starting an avalanche we once more made our way back to the ridge which formed the continuation of the _arête_ along which we had been climbing. Here the rocks were extremely difficult, being interspersed with ice and very rotten. I think this was one of the most difficult parts of the expedition. It was half-past three when we reached the final summit, and then made our way along the snow ridge nearly to its extremity. The snow _arête_ was very narrow, and in its then condition not very pleasant to traverse; the day too was far advanced, and we had no time to spend in much exploration, so we returned as quickly as we could to the ridge which leads down to the Silberlücke; we were already getting very doubtful as to whether we should get any shelter for the night. We had reached the narrow rock _arête_ joining the Silberhorn with the precipices of the Jungfrau; in the middle was the narrow gap called the Silberlücke, and to that we crawled down and halted a moment to consider whether it would not be better to descend on to the glacier and strike across to the Wengern Alp; but we knew from the results of previous expeditions that crossing the glacier would probably take four, if not five hours. None of us had ever been across it; it was then four o'clock, and it would be dark at six. Our only hope lay in getting across the Jungfrau before the daylight finally died out. In the gap we found a ladder left by some previous explorer, and two or three pieces of wood; and after debating whether we had not better pass the night there, finally decided to push on for the Jungfrau. "Our chance of escaping a night in the open air depended mainly on two points: first, whether the snow leading to the Jungfrau was in fairly good condition; and, secondly, whether anybody whose steps we could make use of for descending had been on the mountain that day. A few minutes settled the first question; we found that the slopes leading up to the upper snow-field which circles round the base of the Jungfrau were hard as ice, and we were soon laboriously cutting steps upwards. We pushed on with all speed, but step-cutting is at the best a slow operation, and before we got into the Roththal track the lengthening shadows had almost overtaken us. We hurried on and managed to get across the _bergschrund_ before the last rays of sunlight left the summit of the Jungfrau. As we surmounted the final rocks I turned for a minute to look across Switzerland, and was rewarded by one of the most beautiful spectacles it has ever been my good fortune to witness. The valleys were filled with mist, but the setting sun tinged their surface with a deep crimson glow; the last rays were still lingering round Mont Blanc and one or two of the higher mountains; where we stood was still filled with golden light from the last rays of the sinking sun. The sky was perfectly clear, and the panorama which unrolled itself before our eyes with its mingled light and shadow was one of the most wonderful that lover of mountain scenery could desire to gaze on. A justification for the erection of a hut on the summit of the Jungfrau might almost be found in the possibility of obtaining such a view. "But we had no time for indulging in rhapsodies; a bitter north wind was still blowing so keenly, that the upper leather of our boots had frozen stiff as boards while we walked. The moon was well up, and if only our second hope were realised, and some one had been on the mountain that day, we might find a refuge from the wind in the Bergli or Concordia Huts. We tumbled rather than scrambled down the rocks by the flickering moonlight, until we reached the well-known point where it is necessary to strike across the face just above the Roththal Sattel. Our last hope was dashed to the ground. No one had been there that day, and if we were to get down it must be by our own efforts. So Ambrose at once set to work to cut steps across the face. We had been there a fortnight before, and gone up and down the Jungfrau without cutting hardly a step; now the face was all blue ice, and in five minutes I made up my mind that the risk of such a descent was too much to take. "The wall above the great _bergschrund_ was in shadow, the _bergschrund_ last year was especially formidable, and we were all too exhausted safely to face the freezing wind on such a steep ice-slope in the dark. We returned, therefore, to the rocks, and, after a brief consultation, decided to pass the night there as best we could. We managed to find a corner shut in on two sides by rock about 5 feet high, from the floor of which we set to work to rake out the snow with our axes. The snow had drifted to a considerable depth, and its excavation gave us a good quantity of heat to start the night with, but our boots refused to thaw, and do what we would our feet would not get warm. "Our provisions being nearly exhausted, we agreed only to take a mouthful of brandy and a little bread that night, and keep the bulk of the provisions until next morning, when we expected to be in a more or less exhausted condition, as the cold was very great, and it was obvious that we had a pretty severe ordeal before us. It was by this time half-past seven o'clock. We put on our gloves and gaiters, buttoned up our coats, and after making a seat apiece out of three smooth stones, sat down as close together as we could, and commenced to smoke. "The night was beautifully clear, but far away to the south we could see a great thunderstorm raging over the Italian hills, and were in no little trepidation lest it should be coming up in our direction, as indeed a storm had done in exactly a similar way a week before; but the north wind kept it at bay, and we luckily had not a snow-storm to face in addition to the other discomforts. "The night passed slowly enough; it was necessary to keep shuffling our feet and beating our arms together the whole night long without cessation, in order to prevent being frost-bitten, and it was even more difficult to keep awake. The hours, however, passed somehow, and at half-past four the first primrose streaks in the sky heralded the coming day. By five o'clock the welcome face of the sun peeped over the Trugberg, and we began to prepare for a start. "Our first thought was breakfast, but this solace was denied us; the wine and brandy had frozen during the night, and were solid lumps of ice; the bread required nothing less than an ice-axe to cut it, and then probably would have flown into chips like a log of wood; the three remaining eggs we possessed had been converted during the night into icicles; there was nothing for it, therefore, but to start hungry and thirsty. Ambrose proposed that he and Zurbrücken should first cut the steps, and then come back for me, but after a very few minutes' exposure to the wind they were obliged to return and wait until the sun had warmed them a little, the biting cold of the night and exhaustion from want of sleep rendered it impossible to face the work of step-cutting in such a bitter wind. We resumed our seats, therefore, and waited another hour, and then commenced our descent to the _bergschrund_. We had to cut steps the whole way down, and very glad I was we had not attempted it in the dark, as I think it would have been almost impossible to get over without an accident. "We pushed on steadily, but the night had taken all the spurt out of us, and our progress across the Jungfrau Firn was not very rapid. We hoped to find water under the Mönch Joch, where we had found a good supply a fortnight previously, but the wind had prevented the snow melting at the time we reached the spot, and there was nothing for it but to press on to Grindelwald, and it was not until we reached the end of the Viescher Glacier that we found any water to drink. At the Bäregg we got some ginger nuts to eat, and by three o'clock in the afternoon were being hospitably welcomed by the Bosses at the 'Bär,' whose welcome was never more appreciated. These estimable hosts soon had an excellent dinner ready, and by half-past four I was driving to Interlaken to rejoin the rest of my party." CHAPTER XIV THE STORY OF A BIG JUMP Through the kindness of Dr Kennedy, I am enabled to reprint from his new edition of _The Alps in 1864_, by the late Mr A. W. Moore, an admirable account of the first passage of the Col de la Pilatte in Dauphiné. This expedition has become classical, thanks to Mr Whymper's fine description of it,[9] so it is interesting to read what impression the adventures of the day made on another member of the party. The first part of the expedition was easy, but, wrote Mr Moore, "before getting near the foot of the couloir, we had something to do in threading a way up and through the huge chasms into which the glacier was broken. Croz was here thoroughly in his element, and led the way with great skill and determination, passing one obstacle after another, and bearing gradually to the left towards the enemy. At every step we took, it became more apparent that nature had never intended any one to pass this way, and had accordingly taken more than usual pains to render the approach to the couloir difficult and dangerous. Below the highest _bergschrund_ were a series of smaller ones, arranged systematically one above the other, stretching completely across a very steep slope, so that they could not be turned, but must each in succession be attacked _en face_. Fortunately at this early period of the season, and with so much snow, the difficulty was less considerable than it would have been under other circumstances, and, exercising every precaution, we finally passed the last of the outer lines of defence, and had nothing but a short steep slope between us and the final _schrund_, above which the couloir rose more unfriendly than ever, as we approached it nearer. I had been sorely puzzled in my mind how we were going to get across this chasm, as from below it appeared to have a uniform width of about 10 feet, the upper edge, as usual, much higher than the lower, and no visible bridge at any point. On getting up to it, however, we found that on the extreme right it had been choked by a considerable mass of snow, the small remains of which at one point formed a narrow, rotten, and most insecure bridge, over which Croz cautiously passed, and made himself firm in the soft snow above. Walker, Whymper, Mons. Renaud, myself, and Almer, then followed, as if we were treading on eggs, and all got safely over, much to our relief, as there really appeared no small chance of the bridge going to grief before we were all across, which would have been awkward for those on the wrong side. "It was just 9.30 when we fairly took to this extraordinary gully, which, above the _bergschrund_ was certainly not more than 12 feet wide, and gradually narrowed in its upward course. For the first few steps we trod in a sufficiency of soft snow in good condition, but, to our dismay, this soon sensibly diminished both in quantity and quality, until at last there was nothing but the old, disgusting, powdery snow resting on hard ice. The axe accordingly came into play; but if steps were cut of the ordinary size, we should never get to the top till night, so Croz just hacked out sufficient space for the feet to cling to, and worked away as fast as possible, cautioning us emphatically to look out, and to hold on well with our axes while each step was being cut. Another argument in favour of rapid progress arose from the palpable danger in which we were. The centre of the couloir was occupied by a deeply-scored trough, evidently a channel for stones and avalanches, while the space on either side was so narrow that in case of a large fall we could scarcely expect to escape unharmed. Looking up to see what was likely to come down, we discovered at the very head of the couloir a perpendicular or slightly overhanging wall of _névé_, some 30 feet in height, and lower down, projecting over the rocks on our left, an enormous mass of icicles, on which the sun was playing, and, of course, momentarily loosening their tenure to the rocks. At the moment we were exactly in the line which they must follow, if they fell, as they evidently would before long, so we lost no time in crossing the stone channel to the other side, where the great mass was scarcely likely to come, and we might probably ward off any stray fragments. I received a lively hint as to the effect of a _large_ mass of ice coming suddenly down on one's head, by the effect of a blow from a comparatively small piece, which Croz hewed out from one of the steps. Being so far down in the line, it had time to gain momentum before it struck me, which it did on the head with such violence that for a few moments I felt quite sick and stupid. The incident will give a very good idea of the steepness of the slope on which we were. I had too much to think of to measure it with a clinometer, but it was certainly steeper than any part of the couloir leading to the Col des Ecrins, the greatest inclination of which was 54°. At one point a little water trickled over the rocks, which the two front men managed to get a suck at, but those behind were out of reach, and the footing was too precarious for more than a minute's halt, not to mention occasional volleys of small stones which shot by us, and might be the precursors of large ones. I don't think that I ever experienced a greater feeling of insecurity than during the whole of this ascent, which was unavoidably long. What with the extreme steepness of the slope, and the necessary vagueness of the steps, which were made additionally unsafe by the powdery snow which filled them up as soon as they were cut, I felt that a slip was a by no means unlikely contingency, and was glad enough upon occasions to find Almer's hand behind, giving me a friendly push whenever a particularly long stride had to be made. When we were nearing the top, our attention was attracted by a tremendous uproar behind us, and, looking round, we were just in time to see a prodigious avalanche falling over the cliffs of the Pic de Bonvoisin, on the other side of the valley. It was at least a quarter of a mile in length, and many minutes elapsed before the last echoes of its fall died away. We were now so near the great snow-wall that it was time to begin to circumvent it; so, crossing the couloir again, we clambered up the rocks on that side in order to get out of it, hoping to be able from them to get on to the main ridge to the left of the wall, which itself was quite impassable. As Almer had expected, the snow was here very thin over the rocks, and what little there was, was converted into ice, so that the climbing was most difficult and perilous, and we had no small trouble to get on at all. However, we managed to scramble up, and found ourselves overlooking a gully running parallel, and of a similar character, to the one we had been ascending, but free from snow and ice, and much more precipitous. On our side it was quite impossible to get on to the main ridge as an impracticable rock rose above our heads, and it was, therefore, necessary to step across this second couloir. I never made a nastier step; the stride was exceedingly long, there was nothing in particular to stand on, and nothing at all but a smooth face of rock to hold on by, so that we had literally to trust to the natural adhesiveness of our hands. Fortunately, there was sufficient rope to allow the man in front to cross and get on to the main ridge, and make himself fast before his successor followed, so we attacked the difficulty in turn. I got over somehow, but did not like it at all; lifted myself on to the ridge, Almer followed, and at 10.45 A.M., the Col was gained. "During our ascent of the couloir, the weather, though doubtful, had not been unfavourable, but, just as we got on to the ridge, a cloud swooped down, and enveloped us in its dense folds, and at the same moment it began to snow violently. Luckily Croz, who was first on the top, had been able to satisfy himself that we _were_ above the Glacier de la Pilatte, and got a glimpse of what lay between us and it; but the state of the atmosphere was, nevertheless, sufficiently disappointing, as we were unable to fix with accuracy the exact position of our gap with reference to the peak of Les Bans, and the highest point of the Boeufs Rouges, or to determine its height. From the Brèche de la Meije, we had seen clearly that we were then considerably lower than any point on the ridge south of the Glacier de la Pilatte, and, taking this into consideration, together with the apparent height of our gap, seen from the valley below, we estimated the height of the Col, which we proposed to call Col de la Pilatte, at about 11,500 feet. It is certainly not much below this, and is, therefore, probably the highest pass yet effected in the Dauphiné Alps. [Illustration: A VERY TAME BERGSCHRUND. By Mr. Leonard Rawlence.] [Illustration: HOMEWARD OVER THE SNOW-SLOPES.] "It was no less provoking to have missed the view of the Ecrins and Ailefroide, which we had expected to be particularly fine. But there was no help for it, and no prospect of immediate improvement; so, without halting for a minute, we commenced the descent in the same order as before. All we could see was a steep ice-wall, stretching downwards from our feet, the actual ridge not being more than a couple of feet wide. What was the length of the wall, or what lay below it, we could not discover, but had a shrewd suspicion that we should anyhow find a considerable _bergschrund_. Croz steered to the left, and began cutting steps diagonally downwards. The snow was in a much worse condition than it had been in the couloir; there was more of it, but it was so exceedingly soft, that our feet pressed through it to the hard ice, as though it had been water, and we were very rarely able to trust to it without cutting a step. We should have been better pleased had there been no snow at all, as the whole slope, the angle of which was about 50°, was in just the proper condition for an avalanche. I never saw Almer so nervous, and with reason; for, as he himself said, while he implored us not to move from one step into another before we felt that one foot at least was secured, this was just one of those places where no amount of skill on the part of Croz or himself could entirely prevent the chance of a serious accident. It was a wonder how we did manage to stick to some of the steps, the objectionable character of which was increased from their being cut along the side of the slope, a position in which it is always more difficult to get from one to the other than when they are cut straight up or down. As we got lower down there was more snow, which, though softer than ever, was so steep that we could tread tolerably secure steps on it, by help of which we worked down, until we found ourselves brought up short on the upper edge of the expected _bergschrund_. Croz had hoped to hit this at a point where it was partially choked, but he was disappointed, as the chasm yawned below us, entirely unbridged. A glance right and left showed that there was no more assailable point within reach, so Croz gave out the unwelcome intelligence that if we wished to get over we must jump and take our chance. The obstacle appeared to be about 10 feet wide, of uncomfortable depth, and the drop from the upper to the lower edge about 15 feet. From the lower edge the glacier sloped away, only less steep than the wall on which we were, of which it was a continuation, but cut off by this sudden break. There was, however, so much soft snow that we should fall easy, and the only difficulty, therefore, was to take a sufficiently fair spring to clear the chasm; for, good as I believed my rope to be, I should have been sorry to see any one suspended by it, with a sudden jerk, over such a gulf as that we had beneath us. Walker was untied, so as to give rope enough to Croz, who then boldly sprung over, and landed heavily on the lower edge in the snow, where he stood to receive the rest of the party. Walker followed, and then Whymper, leaving Mons. Renaud, myself, and Almer above. Mons. Renaud advanced to the edge, looked, hesitated, drew back, and finally declared that he could not jump it; he felt perfectly convinced that he should be unable to clear the distance, and should jump in instead of over. We encouraged him, but without effect, and at last proposed to lower him down, when the others would hook hold of his legs somehow and pull him across. Almer and I, therefore, made our footing as secure as possible, anchored ourselves with our axes, and made all ready to lower our friend, but his courage failed him at the last moment, and he refused to go. We were now obliged to use stronger arguments, as it was snowing fast, and time was passing, so we pointed out that, if we wished to return ever so much, we could not get the others back across the _schrund_, and that, in point of fact, there was no chance--over he _must_ go. Again did he advance to the edge, again draw back, but finally, with a despairing groan, leaped, and just landed clear of the chasm, but, instead of letting his rope hang loose, he held it in one hand, and thereby nearly pulled me over head foremost. Then came my turn, and I must confess that, when I stood in the last step from which I had to spring, I did not like the look of the place at all, and, in fact, felt undeniably nervous. But I had not been one of the least backward in objurgating Mons. Renaud, so felt constrained to manifest no hesitation myself, whatever might be my private feelings. I, therefore, threw over my axe and spectacles, gathered myself up, and took the leap. The sensation was most peculiar. I had not the faintest idea whether I should or should not clear the chasm, but the doubt was soon solved by my landing heavily on the further side, rather to the right of the rest of the party. The heavy load on my back sent me forwards on my face, and I shot down the slope with tremendous velocity, head foremost, until I was suddenly stopped by the tightening round my waist of the rope, the other end of which was held by Almer above. My first impression was, that half my ribs were crushed in; as it was, my wind was so completely bagged by the severity of the jerk that I could not speak, but laughed hysterically, until nature's bellows had replenished my unlucky carcass. The incident was so far satisfactory that it showed the enormous strength of the rope, and also how severe a shock a man like Almer, standing in a most insecure position, can bear unmoved when he is prepared for it. My weight, unloaded, is 10½ stone, and the strain on the rope was certainly nearly as great as though I _had_ jumped into the crevasse. Almer now followed us over, and at 11.35 we were all together without accident below the _schrund_, which, with the wall above it, was as ugly-looking a place as I would wish to see. "We now floundered down the slope of soft snow, without taking much care, as we imagined that henceforward it was all plain sailing, but were abruptly checked in our pace by coming upon a huge crevasse, of great length and breadth, but covered over in places. Several attempts were made to cross at one of these points, but without success, as the breadth was too great, and the snow unsubstantial in the extreme, and a long _détour_ was necessary before we were able to get over near its eastern extremity. This proved to be the beginning of a new series of troubles, as the chasms became more and more numerous and complicated, until the slope which we had imagined would be so easy, resolved itself into a wall of gigantic _séracs_, the passage of which tasked our energies to the utmost. The difficulty of the position was increased by our still being enveloped in a mist so thick that we could not see a distance of 20 feet below us, and were in a happy state of ignorance as to whether we were steering properly, or were only plunging deeper into the mire. Nothing, however, could exceed the energy and skill with which Croz threaded his way through the labyrinth which surrounded us. He never once had to retrace his steps, but, cutting along the sides of some crevasses and underneath others, he steadily gained ground. In spite of the generally deep snow, a good deal of step-cutting was necessary here and there, and we had nearly an hour of most exciting work before the inclination of the glacier diminished, and at 12.30 P.M., for the first time since leaving the Col, we stood at ease upon a flat plain of snow. But how long would it last? A fog on an unknown glacier always suggests to my desponding mind the probability of marching round and round in a circle, and finally having to pass the night in a crevasse, so that I, personally, was particularly relieved when, just as we emerged from the _séracs_, the mist suddenly lifted sufficiently to let us see a long way over the glacier in front, which displayed itself to our admiring eyes perfectly level and uncrevassed." [Illustration: THE ECRINS FROM THE SUMMIT OF THE GRANDE RUINE.] [Illustration: _The summit of the Jungfrau._ (_P. 217._) _To face p. 235._] [Illustration: CLOUDS BREAKING LIKE A GIANT WATERFALL ON A MOUNTAIN RIDGE.] [Illustration: SNOW (NOT CLOUD) BLOWN BY A TERRIFIC WIND FROM A MOUNTAIN RIDGE.] CHAPTER XV A PERILOUS FIRST ASCENT Mr Whymper has also immortalised the first ascent of the Ecrins. Here is the account Mr Moore wrote in his diary of that eventful day: "It must be confessed that the higher we climbed, the greater became our contempt for our peak. It certainly seemed that, once over the _bergschrund_, we ought very soon to be on the top, and so persuaded was I of this, that I hazarded the opinion that by 9.30 we should be seated on the highest point. Whymper alone was less sanguine; and, probably encouraged by the result of his former bet, on hearing my opinion, offered to bet Walker and myself two francs that we should not get up at all, an offer which we promptly accepted. We were now sufficiently near to the _bergschrund_ to be able to form some idea of its nature and difficulty. It certainly was a formidable-looking obstacle running completely along the base of the final peak, or rather ridge from which the peak itself rose. For a long distance the chasm was of great width, and, with its upper edge rising in a wall of ice, fringed with icicles, to a height of, perhaps, 30 feet above the lower edge, was obviously quite impassable. But on the extreme right (looking up), the two lips so nearly met that we thought we might be able to get over, and on the extreme left, it seemed possible, by a considerable _détour_, to circumvent the enemy, and get round his flank. We finally determined on the latter course, as, to the right, the slope above the chasm seemed to be steeper than at any other point. After the first start, we had been steering tolerably straight forwards up the centre of the glacier, and were now approaching the _bergschrund_, just under the highest peak of the mountain, at about its most impracticable point. The more direct course would have been to attack it on the right, but, for the reason above stated, we chose the opposite end, so had to strike well away to the left diagonally up the slope. We here first began to suspect that our progress would not be quite so easy and rapid as we had hoped, as the snow became less abundant, and the use of the axe necessary. Still we worked away steadily, until, at 8.10 A.M., in one hour and forty minutes from the Col, we turned the _bergschrund_, and were fairly on its upper edge, clinging to an ice-step which promised to be only the first of an unpleasantly long series. "Above us the slope stretched up to some rocks, which continued without interruption to the main ridge, a prominent point on which was just above our heads. The rocks looked quite easy, and it seemed that, by making for them just under the small peak, we should be able to work round the latter, and get on to the main ridge to the right of it without serious difficulty. Almer led, and wielded his axe with his usual vigour, but the ice was fearfully hard, and he found the work very severe, as the steps had to be cut sufficiently large and good to serve for our retreat, if need be. After each blow, he showered down storms of fragments which came upon the hands and legs of his followers with a violence that rendered their position the reverse of pleasant. Still the rocks kept their distance, and it was a long time before we scrambled on to the lowest of them, only to find that, although from below they had appeared quite easy, they were in reality very steep, and so smooth that it was scarcely possible to get along them at all, the hold for hands and feet being almost nil. The rocky peak, too, above us turned out to be much further off than we had supposed, and, to reach the point on the main ridge to the right of it, we had before us a long and difficult climb up and along the face of the rocks. The prospect was not pleasant, but we scrambled along the lower part of the rocks for a short time, and then Almer started off alone to reconnoitre, leaving us rather disconsolate, and Walker and myself beginning to think that there was a considerable probability of our francs, after all, finding their way into Whymper's pocket. Croz did not approve of the rocks at all, and strongly urged the propriety of getting down on to the ice-slope again, and cutting along it above the _bergschrund_ until we should be immediately under the peak, and then strike straight up towards it. He accordingly cast loose the rope, and crawling cautiously down, began cutting. I am not very nervous, but, as I saw him creeping alone over the ice-covered rocks, I felt an unpleasant qualm, which I was doomed to experience several times before the end of the day. Just as Croz had begun to work Almer returned, and reported that things ahead were decidedly bad, but that he thought we could get on to the _arête_ by keeping up the rocks. We passed his opinion down to Croz, and, while he was digesting it, we communicated to Almer what Croz had been saying to us. Now, up to the present time no two men could have got on better, nor more thoroughly agreed with each other, than Croz and Almer. We had been slightly afraid that the natural antipathy between an Oberlander and a Chamouniard would break out upon every occasion, and that a constant series of squabbles would be our daily entertainment. We were, however, agreeably disappointed, as Almer displayed such an utter abnegation of self, and such deference to Croz's opinion, that had the latter been the worst-tempered fellow in the world, instead of the really good fellow that he was, he could not have found a cause of quarrel. Upon this occasion, although Almer adhered to his own opinion that it would be better to keep to the rocks, he begged us to follow the advice of Croz, who was equally strong in favour of the ice, should he, on further consideration, prefer that course. Croz protested emphatically against the rocks, but left it to us to decide, but in such a manner that it was plain that a decision adverse to his wishes would produce a rumpus. The position was an awkward one. The idea of cutting along a formidably-steep slope of hard ice immediately above a prodigious _bergschrund_ was most revolting to us, not only on account of the inevitable danger of the proceeding, but also because of the frightful labour which such a course must entail on the two men. On the other hand, a serious difference with Croz would probably destroy all chance of success in our attempt. So convinced, however, were we that the rocks offered the most advisable route that we determined to try the experiment on Croz's temper, and announced our decision accordingly. The effect was electric; Croz came back again in the steps which he had cut, anger depicted on his countenance, giving free vent to the ejaculations of his native land, and requesting us to understand that, as we had so chosen, we might do the work ourselves, that he would do no more. Affairs were evidently serious, so each of us cried _peccavi_, and, to calm his irritation, agreed, it must be confessed against our better judgment, to adopt his route. Almer was more amused than annoyed, and concurred without a word, so the storm blew over; the sky was again clear, and we resumed our labours, which, during the discussion, had been suspended for a few minutes. "The half-dozen steps that led us to the ice were about the most unpleasant I ever took. The rocks were glazed with ice; there was nothing in particular to hold on by, and without the trusty rope I should have looked a long time before trusting myself to move. As it was, I was very considerably relieved when we were all standing in the steps, and Croz, again roped on to us, began at 9.35 to cut in front. I must do him the justice to say that, so soon as we were committed to his line of march, he worked splendidly, bringing the whole force of his arm to bear in the blows with which he hewed the steps. Never halting for a moment nor hesitating, he hacked away, occasionally taking a glance behind to see that all was right. We could not but admire the determination with which he laboured, but the exertion was fearful, and we became momentarily more of opinion that our original decision was the wisest. The slope on which we were was inclined at an angle of 50°, never less, sometimes more, for the most part of hard blue ice, bare of snow. This was bad enough; but far worse were places which we occasionally came to, where there was a layer of soft, dry, powdery snow, without cohesion, so that it gave no footing, and steps had to be cut through it into the ice below, steps which were filled up almost as soon as cut, and which each man had to clear out with his hands before trusting his feet in them. All the time the great _bergschrund_ yawned about 100 feet below us, and the knowledge of this fact kept us well on the alert, although, from the steepness of the slope below, the chasm itself was not visible. One hears people talk occasionally of places where the rope should not be used, because one person slipping might entail the loss of the whole party; but I never heard a guide give vent to any such idea, and certain I am that had any one of us now proposed to take off the rope and go alone on that account, Almer and Croz would never have allowed it, and, indeed, would not have advanced another step. It must be admitted, however, that all along this slope, had one of us unfortunately slipped, the chance of the others being able to hold him up would have been very small, and the probability of the party in their fall being shot over, instead of into, the _bergschrund_, still smaller. But, in my opinion, the use of the rope on such places gives so much more confidence, if it is no real protection, that the chances of a slip are much diminished, and certainly a party can progress more rapidly. For an hour Croz kept on his way unwearied, cutting the steps for the most part beautifully, but occasionally giving us rather a long stride, where every one held on like grim death, while each man in succession passed. But at last even his powerful frame required rest; so Almer relieved him, and went to the front. "All this time we had risen but little, but we were now very nearly under the highest peak, and it was necessary to think of getting on to the ridge; so we at last fairly turned our faces to the slope, and began cutting straight up what appeared to be a great central couloir. Unlike most couloirs, this one did not run without interruption to the ridge above, but came to an abrupt termination at a considerable distance below it, leaving an intervening space of rock, which promised some trouble. But we were yet far from the lowest point of these rocks, and every step towards them cost no small amount of time and labour. I have rarely been on harder ice, and, as blow after blow fell with so little apparent result in raising us towards our goal, an inexpressible weariness of spirit and a feeling of despair took possession of me. Nevertheless we _did_ mount, and at 11.30, after two hours of terribly hard work (for the guides), we grasped with our hands the lowest of the crags. To get on them, however, was no easy task, as they were exceedingly smooth, and coated with ice. Almer scrambled up, how I know not, and, taking as much rope as possible, crawled on until he was _fest_, when, by a combined operation of pulling from above and pushing from below, each of us in turn was raised a few steps. We hoped that this might be an exceptional bit, and that higher up matters would improve. But it was a vain hope; the first few steps were but a foretaste of what was to follow, and every foot of height was gained with the greatest difficulty and exertion. As we climbed with the tips of our fingers in some small crevice, and the tips of our toes just resting on some painfully minute ledge, probably covered with ice or snow, one question gradually forced itself upon us, almost to the exclusion of the previously absorbing one, whether we should get to the top of the mountain, and this was, how on earth we should ever get down again--get down, that is to say, in any other state than that of _débris_. The idea that it would be possible to descend these rocks again, except with a rush in the shape of an avalanche, seemed rather absurd; and at last, some one propounded the question to Almer and Croz, but those worthies shirked the answer, and gave us one of those oracular replies which a good guide always has at the tip of his tongue when he is asked a question to which he does not wish to give a straightforward response, to the effect that we should probably get down somehow. They were, perhaps, of opinion that one thing at a time was sufficient, and that they had work enough to settle the question of how we were to get up. Our progress was unavoidably slow, and the positions in which one was detained, while the man in front was going the full length of his tether, were far from agreeable; while hanging on by my eyelids, the view, seen between my legs, of the smooth wall of rock and ice on which we had been so long engaged, struck me as being singularly impressive, and gave me some occupation in discussing mentally where I should stop, if in an oblivious moment I chanced to let go. But to all things must come an end, and, at 12.30 P.M., with a great sigh of relief, we lifted ourselves by a final effort on to the main ridge, which had so long mocked at our efforts to reach it, and, to our huge delight, saw the summit of the mountain on our right, led up to by a very steep _arête_ of rocks, but evidently within our reach. "The work of the last four hours and a half had been so exciting that we had forgotten to eat, and, indeed, had not felt the want of food; but now the voice of nature made itself heard, and we disposed ourselves in various positions on the ridge, which in many places we might have straddled, and turned our attention to the provisions. As we sat facing the final peak of the Ecrins, we had on our left the precipice which falls to the head of the Glacier Noir. Without any exaggeration, I never saw so sheer a wall; it was so smooth and regular that it might have been cut with a knife, as a cheese is cut in two. Looking over, we saw at once that, as we had thought probable, had we been able to get from La Bérarde on to the ridge at the head of the Glacier du Vallon, it would have been impossible to get down on to the Glacier Noir, as the cliffs are almost as precipitous as those down which we were looking. On the right bank of the Glacier Noir towered the dark crags of the Pelvoux, Crête du Pelvoux, and Ailefroide, a most glorious sight, presenting a combination of, perhaps, the finest rock-forms in the Alps; I certainly never saw so long and steep a line of cliffs, rising so abruptly from a glacier. "At 12.50 we started again, Almer leading. We had first to cross a very short but very narrow neck of snow, and Almer had scarcely set foot on this, when a great mass of snow, which had appeared quite firm and part of the ridge, suddenly gave way, and fell with a roar to the Glacier Noir below. Almer's left foot was actually on this snow when it gave way. He staggered, and we all thought he was over, but he recovered himself and managed to keep steady on the firm ridge. It is true he was roped; but the idea of a man being dropped with a sudden jerk, and then allowed to hang suspended, over that fearful abyss, was almost too much for my equanimity, and for the second time a shudder ran through my veins. This little isthmus crossed, we tackled the rocks which rose very steeply above our heads, and climbed steadily up along the _arête_, generally rather below the edge on the side of the Glacier de l'Encula. The work was hard enough, but easier than what we had gone through below, as the rocks were free from ice, and the hold for hands and feet was much better, so that there was no fear of slipping. I don't think a word was said from the time we quitted our halting-place until we were close to the top, when the guides tried to persuade us to go in front, so as to be the first to set foot on the summit. But this we declined; they had done the work, let them be the first to reap the reward. It was finally settled that we should all go on together as much as possible, as neither party would give way in this amicable contest. A sharp scramble in breathless excitement ensued, until, at 1.25 P.M., the last step was taken, and we stood on the top of the Ecrins, the worthy monarch of the Dauphiné Alps. [Illustration: THE ECRINS (IN THE CENTRE) FROM THE GLACIER BLANC. By Signor Vittorio Sella. _To face p. 247._] "In that supreme moment all our toils and dangers were forgotten in the blissful consciousness of success, and the thrill of exultation that ran through me, as I stood, in my turn, on the very highest point of the higher pinnacle--a little peak of rock with a cap of snow--was cheaply purchased by what we had gone through. Close to us was a precisely similar point, of much the same height, which scarcely came up to the rank of a second summit. It could have been reached in a few seconds from our position, but, as our point was actually the higher of the two, and was also more convenient for sitting down, we remained where we were. I must confess to a total inability to describe the wonderful panorama that lay extended before us. I am not one of those happily constituted individuals who, after many hours of excitement, can calmly sit on the apex of a mountain, and discuss simultaneously cold chicken and points of topography. I am not ashamed to confess that I was far too excited to study, as I ought to have done, the details of a view which, for extent and variety, is altogether without a parallel in my Alpine experience. Suffice it to say that over the whole sky there was not one single cloud, and that we were sitting on the most elevated summit south of Mont Blanc, and it may fairly be left to the imagination to conceive what we saw, as, at an elevation of 13,462 feet, we basked in the sun, without the cold wind usually attendant at these heights. There was not a breath of air, and the flame of a candle would have burnt steadily without a flicker. In our immediate neighbourhood, after the range of the Pelvoux, before described, the most striking object was the great wall of the Meije, the western summit of which, from here, came out distinctly the highest. The Aiguilles d'Arves stood out exceedingly well, and, although 2000 feet lower than our position, looked amazingly high. Almost the only trace of civilisation we could distinctly make out was the Lautaret road, a portion of which, probably near the entrance of the valley leading to the Glacier d'Arsines, was plainly visible. On the side of the mountain towards La Bérarde, what principally struck us was a very great and extensive glacier, apparently not marked on the map, which appeared to be an arm of the Glacier du Vallon, but far more considerable itself than the whole glacier is depicted on the French map. Of the extent of the view, and the wonderfully favourable condition of the atmosphere, a fair idea may be gained from the fact that we clearly identified the forms and ridges of the Matterhorn and Weisshorn, the latter at a distance of 120 miles, as the crow flies, and that those were by no means the most distant objects visible. [Illustration: SLAB CLIMBING. By Mr. Leonard Rawlence.] [Illustration: A NARROW ROCK RIDGE. By Mr. Leonard Rawlence.] [Illustration: ON THE DENT DU GÉANT. By the late Mr. W. F. Donkin.] [Illustration: THE TOP AT LAST! _To face p. 252._] "So soon as the first excitement consequent on success had subsided, we began seriously to meditate upon what during the ascent had frequently troubled us, viz. the descent. With one consent we agreed that unless no other route could be found, it would be most unadvisable to attempt to go down the way we had mounted. The idea of the rocks, to be followed by the ice-slope below--in a doubly dangerous state after being exposed all day to the scorching sun--was not to be entertained without a shudder. The only alternative route lay along the opposite _arête_ to that which had led us to the top, and, although we could not see far in this direction, we determined, after very little discussion, to try it. Accordingly, after twenty minutes' halt, we each pocketed a small fragment of the stone that was lying on the snow, and, regretting that we had no bottle to leave, and no materials with which to construct a cairn, took our departure at 1.45 from the lofty perch which, I fancy, is not likely to receive many subsequent visitors. Passing immediately below the second point before mentioned, so that our hands almost rested on it, and also several similar pinnacles, our work commenced. I never, before or since, was on so narrow an _arête_ of rock, and really from step to step I was at a loss to imagine how we were to get on any further. We kept, as a rule, just below the edge, as before, on the side of the Glacier de l'Encula, along a series of ledges of the narrowest and most insecure character; but we were always sufficiently near the top to be able to look over the ridge, down the appalling precipices which overhang, first the Glacier Noir, and later, the Glacier du Vallon. Of course, every single step had to be taken with the greatest care, only one person moving in turn, and the rest holding on for dear life, Croz coming last to hold all up. In spite of the great difficulty of the route, the obstacles were only such as required more or less time to surmount, and although the slightest nervousness on the part of any one of us would have endangered the whole party and delayed us indefinitely, in the absence of that drawback we got on pretty well. We were beginning to hope that the worst was over, when Almer suddenly stopped short, and looked about him uneasily. On our asking him what was the matter, he answered vaguely that things ahead looked bad, and that he was not sure that we could pass. Croz accordingly undid the rope, as also did Almer, and the two went forward a little, telling us to remain where we were. We could _not_ see what was the nature of the difficulty, but we _could_ see the countenances of the men, which sufficiently showed us that the hitch was serious. Under any other circumstances we should have been amused at Almer's endeavours to communicate his views to Croz in an amazing mixture of pantomime, bad German, and worse French. He evidently was trying to persuade Croz of something, which Croz was not inclined to agree to, and we soon made out that the point at issue was, whether we could get over this particular place, or whether we must return to the summit, and go down the way we had come. Croz was of the latter opinion, while Almer obstinately maintained that, bad as the place was, we _could_ get over it, and proceeded to perform some manoeuvres, which we could not clearly see, by way of showing the correctness of his opinion. Croz, however, was unconvinced, and came back to us, declaring plainly that we should have to return. We shouted to Almer, who was still below, but he evidently had not the slightest intention of returning, and in a few moments called upon us to come on, an injunction which we cheerfully obeyed as, in our opinion, anything would be preferable to a retreat, and Croz perforce followed. A very few steps showed us the nature of the difficulty. The _arête_ suddenly narrowed to a mere knife-edge of _rock_, while on one side a smooth wall, some 4000 feet in height, fell sheer towards the Glacier du Vallon, and on the other side, above the Glacier de l'Encula, the slope was not much less steep and equally smooth. To pass below the ridge on either side was obviously quite impossible; to walk along the ridge, which was by no means level, was equally so, and the only way of getting over the difficulty, therefore, was to straddle it, an operation which the sharpness of the ridge, putting aside all other considerations, would render the reverse of agreeable. However, there, perched in the middle of this fiendish place, sat Almer, with one leg over Glacier du Vallon and the other over the Glacier de l'Encula, calm and unmoved, as if the position was quite an everyday one. He had not got the rope on, and as he began moving along the ridge we shrieked at him to take care, to which he responded with a '_ja, gewiss!_' and a chuckle of satisfaction. We threw him the end of the rope, and then cautiously moved, one at a time, towards him. I must confess that when I found myself actually astride on this dizzy height I felt more inclined to remain there for ever, contemplating the Glacier du Vallon, on to which I might have dropped a stone, than to make my way along it. The encouraging voice of Almer, however, urged me on, and I gradually worked myself along with my hands until I was close up to him and Walker, with no damage save to the seat of my trousers. Whymper and Croz followed. From this point forwards we had for half-an-hour, without exception, the most perilous climbing, I ever did. We crept along the cliffs, sometimes on one side of the ridge, sometimes on the other, frequently passing our arms over the summit, with our feet resting on rather less than nothing. Almer led with wonderful skill and courage, and gradually brought us over the worst portion of the _arête_, below which the climbing was bad enough, but not quite such nervous work as before, and we were able to get along rather quicker. At length, at 3.45, in two hours from the top, we were not far above the well-marked gap in the ridge, between the highest peak and the one marked on the French map 3980 mètres, or 13,058 feet. There we thankfully left the _arête_, and, turning to the right, struck straight down the ice-slope towards the _bergschrund_. Almost every step had to be cut, but, in spite of all he had done, Almer's vigour seemed unimpaired, and resolutely declining Croz's offers to come to the front, he hacked away, so that we descended steadily, if slowly. We could not see the _bergschrund_, and were therefore uncertain for what exact point to steer, for we knew that at only one place would it be possible to get over it at all, where from below we had seen that the two edges nearly met--at all others the breadth and height would be far too great for a jump. For some distance we kept straight down, but after a time bore rather to the left, cutting diagonally along the slope, which was inclined at an angle of 52°, and, below us, curled over so rapidly, that we _could_ see the glacier on to which we wished to descend, but _could not_ see what lay between us and it. Passing over a patch of ice-covered rocks which projected very slightly from the general level of the slope, we were certain that we could not be far above the _schrund_, but did not quite see how we were to get down any further without knowing whether we _were_ above a practicable point or not. It was suggested that one of the party should be let down with a rope, but, while we were discussing who should be the one, Almer cut a few steps more, and then, stooping down and craning over, gave a yell of exultation, and exclaimed that it was all right, and that we might jump over. By a marvellous bit of intuition, or good luck, he had led us to the only point where the two edges of the chasm so nearly met that we could get across. He cut down as low as possible, and then, from the last step, each man, in turn, sprang without difficulty on to the lower edge of the crevasse, and at 4.45 the problem of getting off the mountain was solved. "The return from this point was uneventful." A few days later Mr Moore had an amusing conversation with a chance acquaintance, who made a remark that has since been often quoted. Mr Moore relates it as follows:-- "At the door of the hotel was standing a young Frenchman, with whom we got into conversation, observing that we had just made the ascent of the highest mountain in the country. 'Oh,' replied he, 'sans doute, le Pic de Belledonne'; a rather elevated Rigi in the neighbourhood. We informed him that our conquest was not the Pic de Belladonne, but the Pic des Ecrins, on hearing which he smiled blandly, never having heard the name before, and, evidently meditating how he might avoid showing his ignorance, finally contented himself with a spasmodic 'Ah!' After a short pause, he inquired whether we had been up Mont Blanc, and, on _my_ replying in the negative, went on to say that _he_ had, about ten days before. We were astonished, as, without wishing to reflect on the appearance of the worthy Gaul, I must say that he did not give us the idea of a man capable of such a performance. However, we, in our turn, smiled blandly, and inquired whether, so early in the season, he had found the ascent difficult, and whether he had had a good view from the _summit_. 'From the summit!' said he; 'I did not go to the summit.' We ventured to inquire how high his wanderings had reached. 'Mon Dieu!' replied he, 'jusqu'au Montanvert!' Our politeness was not proof against this, so we broke off the conversation abruptly, and retired to indulge our merriment unchecked." The Ecrins is now frequently climbed. A new way up the rocky south side was discovered by a Frenchman, and is now usually taken for the ascent, the descent being accomplished by the north face which the party that included Mr Moore went up by and which has just been described. The route is now well known, and thus it is possible to hit off the easiest passages, but the traverse of what is known to the guides as 'the Couloir Whymper' always requires the greatest care. CHAPTER XVI THUNDERSTORMS IN THE ALPS The fatal accident caused by lightning on the Wetterhorn in 1902 has emphasized the curious fact that, except on that occasion, and once before, many years ago, when Mrs Arbuthnot was killed on the Schildthorn, no lives[10] have been lost in a thunderstorm on the Alps. This is the more remarkable when we glance through books on mountaineering, and notice how often climbers have been exposed to the full fury of summer storms, and what narrow escapes they have had. In July 1863, Mr and Mrs Spence Watson, with two friends and two guides, made an excursion from the Æggischhorn to the high glacier pass of the Jungfraujoch, an admirable account of the day's adventures having been contributed by Mr Watson to _The Alpine Journal_, from which I extract the following details. After starting on a lovely morning, the weather changed, and when they got to the pass they encountered a severe storm of wind, snow, and hail. They quickly turned to descend, the snow falling so heavily that they could not for a time see their old tracks. Suddenly a loud peal of thunder was heard, "and shortly after," writes Mr Watson, "I observed that a strange singing sound like that of a kettle was issuing from my alpenstock. We halted, and finding that all the axes and stocks emitted the same sound, stuck them into the snow. The guide from the hotel now pulled off his cap, shouting that his head burned, and his hair seemed to have a similar appearance to that which it would have presented had he been on an insulated stool under a powerful electrical machine. We all of us experienced the sensation of pricking or burning in some part of the body, more especially in the head and face, my hair also standing on end in an uncomfortable but very amusing manner. The snow gave out a hissing sound, as though a shower of hail were falling; the veil in the wide-awake of one of the party stood upright in the air; and on waving our hands, the singing sound issued loudly from the fingers. Whenever a peal of thunder was heard the phenomenon ceased, to be resumed before its echoes had died away. At these times we felt shocks, more or less violent, in those portions of the body which were most affected. By one of these shocks my right arm was paralysed so completely that I could neither use nor raise it for several minutes, nor, indeed, till it had been severely rubbed by Claret, and I suffered much pain in it at the shoulder joint for some hours. At half-past twelve the clouds began to pass away, and the phenomenon finally ceased, having lasted twenty-five minutes. We saw no lightning, and were puzzled at first as to whether we should be afraid or amused. The young guide was very much alarmed, but Claret, who had twice previously heard the singing (unaccompanied by the other symptoms), laughed so heartily at the whole affair that he kept up our spirits." [Illustration: ON A RIDGE IN THE OBERLAND.] [Illustration: THE SECOND LARGEST GLACIER IN THE ALPS. By Royston Le Blond. _To face p. 259._] The position of the party, was, however, by no means safe, yet though I have often heard the buzzing of ice-axes and rocks when in a thunderstorm on the mountains, I have never seen any ill effects from it. A little later another description appears in _The Alpine Journal_, by Mr C. Packe, who, during the descent of a peak in the Pyrenees, was astonished to hear a curious creaking sound proceeding from behind him. He was carrying various heavy articles at the time, and imagined that the noise was due to the straining of the straps of his knapsack. He presently unslung his load, and was amazed to find a strange buzzing noise proceeding from his rifle, "as though it had been an air gun trying to discharge itself. As I held it away from me, pointed upwards," he continues, "the noise became stronger, and as I in vain sought to account for it, I thought it possible that some large insect--a bee or beetle--might have got down the barrel, and be trying to escape. I held the barrel downwards, with a view to shake it out; but on lowering the gun the sound at once ceased, but was renewed as often as I raised it." It then began to occur to Mr Packe that the sound was electrical, and he felt sure this was so when he found that his alpenstock had joined in the buzzing. He therefore made a hasty retreat out of the highly charged upper regions. Several peals of thunder had previously been heard but no lightning was seen. A violent storm had, however, been experienced in a neighbouring district. That similar conditions may seem delightful to one man and entirely odious to another will strike whoever reads the following short extract from an account of a climb in the Pyrenees made by Mons. Henri Brulle. It was translated by Count Russell for _The Alpine Journal_, and runs as follows: "Another time I crossed the Vignemale alone, _en col_, under conditions which made this expedition the pleasantest of my souvenirs. A furious storm was raging. Enveloped in the morning in a dense fog, annoyed in the steep couloirs of the Cerbillonas by vultures which swept over me like avalanches, just grazing me with their long wings, assailed during three hours by hailstones of such size that they bruised and stunned me, deafened by thunder, and so electrified that I was hissing and crepitating, I notwithstanding reached the summit at half-past four in the evening, amidst incessant detonations. In descending the glacier I got lost in a labyrinth of crevasses, and while balancing myself on an ice-wave I nearly dropped my ice-axe. As a climax, night came on as black as ink, and I had to grope and feel my way down the endless valley of Ossoue. It was eleven o'clock at night when I reached Gavarnie, almost starved and quite exhausted, but having lived the crowning day of my life." Here is indeed Mark Tapley in the flesh! Captain E. Clayton relates in _The Alpine Journal_ an adventure that nearly cost him his life. "On 17th August last I left the Hochjoch Haus with Gabriel Spechtenhauser with the intention of ascending the Weisskugel at the head of the Oetzthal. The weather for the past week had been very changeable, but when we started at 3 A.M. it was fine and starlight. A German gentleman with two guides and two others with two guides started at the same time. As long as the aid of a lantern was desirable we kept together, but as it grew light Gabriel and I gradually drew ahead. As day broke clouds began to gather, and when we halted for breakfast at 6.10 A.M. they hung so heavy on the Weisskugel that after breakfast, instead of going straight on, we diverged to the top of the rocks leading down towards Kurzras, with the intention of waiting a short time to see what the weather would do, and if it did not mend, of going down to Kurzras, where a friend was awaiting me. "At these rocks we were overtaken by the single German gentleman with his guides, who had outstripped the other party. Before long the weather seemed to improve, the clouds on the Weisskugel got lighter, the sky seemed bright to the north, and we thought that very soon everything would be quite clear. The German quickly made a fresh start, but Gabriel and I waited to finish our pipes. However, we soon passed the other party, and, passing over a minor summit, where we left the rope, reached the real summit at 8.30 A.M. We had heard one or two peals of thunder on the way, but none appeared very close, and they seemed to be getting more distant. The summit was still in cloud, but it did not seem thick, and I thought it would soon blow away. But almost directly we reached the top it began to hail, and we went down a few steps on the rocky ridge that falls towards the Langtauferer Glacier, to be somewhat sheltered. "Here I remember handing Gabriel my map to put in his pocket to keep dry, and knew nothing more till I woke to the consciousness that he was lifting me up from where I was lying on the rocks, some 20 feet, I suppose, lower than the point where we had been standing. I was bleeding from a cut on the head, and my right arm was very painful, and turned out afterwards to be broken. Gabriel said that he had been knocked down also, but not rendered insensible, and, falling on his hands towards the upward slope, was not hurt. He also said that he was to a certain extent conscious of there having been a sudden glare and explosion, but I knew nothing of it. The German and his two guides, who at the time were just below the first summit, but not within sight of us, were so alarmed at the lightning and thunder, that they turned at once and never stopped till they reached Kurzras. The other party, who had not got beyond the rocks where we halted during the ascent, waited there for us, and Joseph Spechtenhauser, one of their guides, came to meet us and see if we wanted assistance. However, I was quite myself when I came to, which was directly Gabriel lifted me up, and the mountain is so easy that my disabled arm was of little consequence. I did not notice any more thunder or lightning after the flash that knocked us down, and the day cleared up to a lovely one. I have every reason to be pleased with Gabriel's kindness and attention to me without regard to himself, and very much regret that my accident prevented me from carrying out any of the other expeditions which I had promised myself the pleasure of making in his company." One of the most exciting accounts of an adventure in the Alps is Mr Tuckett's description of "A Race for Life,"[11] on the Eiger. Hardly less stirring is a paper in _The Alpine Journal_ by the same famous climber, from which he most kindly allows me to give a long quotation, telling of a narrow escape during one of the most appalling thunderstorms that could be experienced. The party were making the ascent of the Roche Melon, a peak 11,593 feet high not far from the Mont Cenis. The weather was unsettled, and grew worse as they mounted. "Proceeding very cautiously through the whirling wreaths of vapour lest we should suddenly drop over upon Italy and hurt it--or ourselves--we struck up the 'final incline'--as an American companion of mine once dubbed the cone of Vesuvius as we looked down upon it from its rim--and at 11.15 stood beside the ruins of the signal and enjoyed a very magnificent view of nothing in particular. As we had plenty of time at our disposal--three and a half hours sufficing for the descent to Susa--and the wind was keen and damp, our first proceeding was to search for the chapel, which we knew must be quite close to the summit of the peak; and, about 30 feet lower down, on the southern side, which was entirely free from snow, we came upon a tight little wooden building, some 6 or 7 feet long and high by 5 broad, very carefully constructed, with flat bands of thin iron on the outside covering the lines of junction of the planks, so as effectually to keep out both wind and moisture. Opposite the door, which we found carefully bolted, was a wooden shelf against the wall serving as an altar, on which stood a small bronze statuette of the Virgin, whilst on either hand hung the usual curious medley of votive paintings, engravings, crosses, tapers etc., not to mention certain pious scribblings. Taking great care to disturb nothing, we arranged a loose board and our packs on the rather damp floor so as to form a seat, and waited for the clouds to disperse and disclose the superb panorama that we knew should here be visible. "Here I may be allowed to mention that a chapel, said to have been originally excavated in the rock, and subsequently buried under ice or snow, was here dedicated to the Virgin by a crusader of Asti, Boniface by name, of the house of Rovero, in fulfilment of a vow made whilst a captive in the hands of the Saracens. More recently the present wooden structure has taken its place, and every year, on 5th August, pilgrims resort to it in considerable numbers. Lower down on the Susa side is a much more substantial structure, at a height of 9396 feet, called the Cà d'Asti, in allusion to the circumstances of its foundation. The last is a solidly, not to say massively, constructed circular edifice of stone and mortar, some 15 or 16 feet in diameter, and perhaps rather more in height, with a vaulted roof of solid masonry covered externally with tiles, and surmounted by an iron cross. Seen from below, it stands out boldly on a mass of crags which conceal the actual summit of the Roche Melon, and close by are some low sheds, which appear ordinarily to serve as shelter for flocks of sheep browsing on the grassy slopes around, but on the night preceding the festa of 5th August, furnish sleeping quarters for the assembled pilgrims, who attend mass in the adjoining chapel, if the weather, as frequently happens, does not permit of its being celebrated on the summit of the mountain, in what is probably the most elevated shrine in Europe. * * * * * "The Roche Melon stands just in the track of the great storms which, brewed in the heated plains of Lombardy and Piedmont, come surging up through the valley of the Dora Riparia, and burst, hurling and crashing over the depression of Mont Cenis, to find or make a watery grave in the valley of the Arc. Of their combined fierceness and grandeur we were soon to have only too favourable an opportunity of judging, for scarcely more than five minutes after we had comfortably established ourselves under shelter, suddenly, without a moment's warning, a perfect _mitraille_ of hail smote the roof above us, tore through the mist like grape-shot through battle-smoke, and whitened the ground like snow. We closed the door carefully, for now came flash after flash of brilliant lightning, with sharp, angry, snapping thunder, which, if we had been a quarter of an hour later, would have made our position on the exposed northern side anything but pleasant. We congratulated ourselves on our good fortune, but were glad to pitch our axes amongst the _débris_ of rock above us and await patiently the hoped-for dispersal of the fog. In a few minutes the hail ceased, the mist became somewhat brighter, rifts appeared in all directions, and, issuing forth, we were amply rewarded by such glimpses of the wonderful view as, if not fully satisfactory for topographical purposes, were, in a picturesque and artistic point of view, indescribably grand and interesting. The extent of level country visible is a remarkable feature in the view from the Roche Melon, as also in that from the summit of the Pourri, where Imseng not a little amused me on first catching sight of the plains of France stretching away till lost in the haze, by shouting in a fit of uncontrollable enthusiasm, 'Ach! Das ist wunderschön!--ganz eben!'[12] "We had not had more than time enough to seize the general features of the panorama and admire the special effects with their ever-changing and kaleidoscopic combinations, when the mist once more swooped upon us, again to be followed by hail, lightning, and thunder, and a fresh clearance. But this second visitation left behind it a further souvenir in the shape of a phenomenon with which most mountaineers are probably more or less familiar, but which I never met with to the same extent before--I allude to an electrified condition of the summit of the mountain and all objects on its surface by conduction. As the clouds swept by, every rock, every loose stone, the uprights of the rude railing outside the chapel, the ruined signal, our axes, my lorgnette and flask, and even my fingers and elbows, set up "'a dismal universal hiss.' It was as though we were in a vast nest of excited snakes, or a battery of frying-pans, or listening at a short distance to the sustained note of a band of _cigali_ in a chestnut wood--a mixture of comparisons which may serve sufficiently to convey the impression that the general effect was indescribable. I listened and looked and tried experiments for some time, but suddenly it burst out with an energy that suggested a coming explosion, or some equally unpleasant _dénouement_, and, dropping my axe, to whose performance I had been listening, I fairly bolted for the chapel. [Illustration: 13,300 FEET ABOVE THE SEA.] [Illustration: ON THE FURGGEN GRAT.] [Illustration: A "PERSONALLY CONDUCTED" PARTY ON THE BREITHORN.] [Illustration: PACKING THE KNAPSACK AFTER LUNCH. _To face p. 269._] "We had now spent a couple of hours on the summit, and had succeeded in getting, bit by bit, a sight of most of the principal features of the very remarkable view, with the exception of Monte Viso, which persistently sulked; so at 1.15, as there seemed a probability of the weather becoming worse before it improved, we quitted our excellent shelter, and, after putting everything in order and carefully closing and bolting the door, sallied forth into the mist, which was again enshrouding the mountain, apparently as the advance guard of the fiercest storm in the neighbourhood, which we had for some time been watching as it swept solemnly towards us down the valley of the Dora. "There is a sort of track, rather than well-defined path, down the bare, rocky, and _débris_-covered southern face of the mountain, but in the fog and momentarily increasing gloom of the coming tempest it was not always very easy to distinguish it. Still, we descended rapidly, and in less than half an hour had dropped down some 2000 feet to a point where, during an instant's lift, we descried the outline of the Cà d'Asti five minutes below us, just as the edge of the coming hail smote us with a fury which it was hard at times to face. We dashed on--it was a regular _sauve qui peut_--blinded and staggering under the pitiless pelting and the fury of the blast, gained the door of the chapel, which faced the storm, deposited our axes outside, and darted in, thankful again to find ourselves under so good a roof just when it was most needed. "For, if there had been at times wild goings on upon the summit during the morning, they were merely a faint prelude to the elemental strife which now raged around. The wind roared and the hail hissed in fiendish rivalry, and yet both seemed silenced when the awful crashes of thunder burst above and about us. We were in the very central track and focus of the storm, and, as we sat crouched upon the floor, the ground and the building seemed to reel beneath the roar of the detonations, and our heads almost to swim with the fierce glare of the lightning. I had carefully closed the door, not only to keep the wind and hail out, but also because lightning is apt to follow a current of air, and, to the right on entering, at about the height of a man, was a small unglazed window some 2 feet square. Opposite the door was the altar, on the step of which I seated myself. Imseng took a place by my side, between me and the window, whilst Christian perched himself on the coil of rope with his back to the wall, not far from the door, and between it and the window. A quarter of a hour may have gone by when a flash of intense vividness seemed almost to dart through the window, and so affected Imseng's nerves that he hastily quitted his seat by me and coiled himself up near Christian, remarking that 'that was rather too close to be pleasant.' Then came four more really awful flashes, followed all but instantaneously by sharp, crackling thunder, which sounded like a volley of bullets against a metal target, and then a fifth with a slightly increased interval between it and the report. I was just remarking to Christian that I thought the worst was past, and that we should soon be liberated, adding, 'How fortunate we are for the second time to-day to get such shelter just in the nick of time,' when--crash! went everything, it seemed, all at once: "'No warning of the approach of flame, Swiftly like sudden death it came.' If some one had struck me from behind on the bump of firmness with a sledge-hammer, or if we had been in the interior of a gigantic percussion shell which an external blow had suddenly exploded, I fancy the sensation might have resembled that which I for the first instant experienced. We were blinded, deafened, smothered, and struck, all in a breath. The place seemed filled with fire, our ears rang with the report, fragments of what looked like incandescent matter rained down upon us as though a meteorite had burst, and a suffocating sulphurous odour--probably due to the sudden production of ozone in large quantities--almost choked us. For an instant we reeled as though stunned, but each sprang to his feet and instinctively made for the door. What my companions' ideas were I cannot tell; mine were few and simple--I had been struck, or was being struck, or both; the roof would be down upon us in another moment; inside was death, outside our only safety. The door opened inwards, and our simultaneous rush delayed our escape; but it was speedily thrown back, and, dashing out into the blinding hail, we plunged, dazed and almost stupefied, into the nearest shed. For the next few minutes the lightning continued to play about us in so awful a manner that we were in no mood calmly to investigate the nature or extent of our injuries. It was enough that we were still among the living, though I must own that, at first, I had a fearful suspicion that poor Imseng was seriously wounded. He held his head between his hands, and rolled it about in so daft a manner, and was so odd and unnatural in his movements generally, that it struck me his brain might have received some injury. I, for my part, was painfully conscious of a good deal of pain in the region of the right instep, and I saw that one of Christian's hands was bleeding, and that he was holding both his thighs as if in suffering. [Illustration: MONTE ROSA FROM THE FURGGEN GRAT.] [Illustration: THE MATTERHORN FROM THE WELLENKUPPE. _To face p. 272_.] "Gradually the storm drew off towards the Mont Cenis, and, with minds free from the tension of imminent peril, we had time to take stock of our condition. It was a relief to see Imseng let go his head and observe that it remained erect; to hear Christian say that his thighs were getting better; and to find, on examining my foot, that the mischief was nothing more than a flesh wound, which was bleeding but slightly. My hat, indeed, was knocked in, my pockets filled with stones and plaster, and my heart, it may be, somewhat nearer my mouth than usual, but otherwise we could congratulate ourselves, with deep thankfulness on a most marvellous escape from serious harm. "On comparing our impressions, Imseng declared that the lightning had entered through the window, struck the altar, glanced off from it to the wall, and then vanished, whilst Christian and I agreed in the belief that the roof had been the part struck, and the flash had descended almost vertically upon us. Quitting our place of refuge and repairing to the chapel, we encountered a scene of ruin which at once confirmed the correctness of our views. The lightning had evidently first struck the iron cross outside and smashed in the roof, dashing fragments of stone and plaster upon us which, brilliantly illuminated, looked to our dazed and confused vision like flakes of fiery matter. It had then encountered the altar, overturning the iron cross and wooden candlesticks only 3 feet from the back of my head as I sat on the step, tearing the wreath of artificial flowers or worsted rosettes strung on copper wire which surrounded the figure of the Virgin, and scattering the fragments in all directions. Next it glanced against the wall, tore down, or otherwise damaged, some of the votive pictures (engravings), and splintered portions of their frames into 'matchwood.' The odour of ozone was still strong, the water from the melting hail was coming freely through the roof, and the walls were in two places cracked to within 5 feet of the ground. In fact, as a chapel, the building was ruined, though showing little traces, externally, of the damage done, so that it is possible--unless a stray shepherd happened to look in--that its condition would for the first time become known upon the arrival of the pilgrims on the eve of 5th August. "We stood long watching our departing foe, and then three very sobered men dropped down silently and quickly that afternoon upon Susa, thinking of what might have been our fate." CHAPTER XVII LANDSLIPS IN THE MOUNTAINS "Sir W. Martin Conway has been good enough to allow me to extract from _The Alps from End to End_ the following account of the destruction of Elm. Mountain falls have a special interest for all who travel in Switzerland, where the remains of so many are visible. "The Himalayas are, from a geological point of view, a young set of mountain ranges; they still tumble about on an embarrassingly large scale. The fall, which recently made such a stir, began on 6th September 1893. That day the Maithana Hill (11,000 feet), a spur of a large mountain mass, pitched bodily rather than slid, into the valley. "'Little could be seen of the terrible occurrence, for clouds of dust instantly arose, which darkened the neighbourhood and fell for miles around, whitening the ground and the trees until all seemed to be snow covered. The foot of the hill had been undermined by springs until there was no longer an adequate base, and in the twinkling of an eye a large part of the mountain slid down, pushed forward, and shot across the valley, presenting to the little river a lofty and impervious wall, against which its waters afterwards gathered. Masses of rocks were hurled a mile away, and knocked down trees on the slopes across the valley. Many blocks of dolomitic limestone, weighing from 30 to 50 tons, were sent like cannon-shots through the air. The noise was terrific, and the frightened natives heard the din repeated at intervals for several days, for the first catastrophe was succeeded by a number of smaller slides. Even five months after the mountain gave way, every rainy day was succeeded by falls of rocks. A careful computation gives the weight of the enormous pile of rubbish at 800,000,000 tons.' "The Himalayas are indeed passing through their dramatic geological period, when they give rise to such landslips as this at relatively frequent intervals. Plenty of landslips quite as big have been recorded in the last half-century, and, amongst the remote and uninhabited regions of the great ranges, numbers more of which no record is made constantly happen. The catastrophic period has ended for the Alps. Landslips on a great scale seldom occur there now; when they do occur, the cause of them is oftener the activity of man than of natural forces. But of a great landslip in the Alps details are sure to be observed, and we are enabled to form a picture of the occurrence. When the Alps tremble the nations quake; the Himalayas may shudder in their solitudes, but the busy occidental world pays scant attention, unless gathering waters threaten to spread ruin afar. Of the Gohna Lake we have been told much, but little of the fall that caused it. Eye-witnesses appear not to have been articulate. We can, however, form some idea of what it was like from the minute and accurate account we possess of a great and famous Alpine landslip. I refer to that which buried part of the village of Elm, in Canton Glarus, on 11th September 1881.[13] "Elm is the highest village in the Sernf Valley. Its position is fixed by the proximity of a meadow-flat of considerable extent. Above this three minor valleys radiate, two of which are separated from one another by a mountain mass, whose last buttress was the Plattenbergkopf, a hill with a precipitous side and a flat and wooded summit, which used to face the traveller coming up the main valley. It was this hill that fell. "The cause of the fall was simple, and reflects little credit on Swiss communal government. About half-way up the hill there dips into it a bed of fine slate, excellent for school-slates. In the year 1868 concessions were given by the commune for working this slate for ten years without any stipulation as to the method to be employed. Immense masses of the rock were removed. A hole was made 180 mètres wide, and no supports were left for the roof. It was pushed into the mountain to a depth of 65 mètres! In 1878, when the concessions lapsed, the commune, by a small majority, decided to work the quarry itself. Every burgher considered that he had a right to work in the quarry when the weather was unsuitable for farm labour. The place was therefore overcrowded on wet days, and burdened with unskilful hands. The quarry, of course, did not pay, and became a charge on the rates, but between eighty and one hundred men drew wages from it intermittently. "The roof by degrees became visibly rotten. Lumps of rock used to fall from it, and many fatal accidents occurred. The mass of the mountain above the quarry showed a tendency to grow unstable, yet blasting went forward merrily, and no precautions were taken. Cracks opened overhead in all directions; water and earth used to ooze down through them. Fifteen hundred feet higher up, above the top of the Plattenbergkopf, the ground began to be rifted. In 1876 a large crack split the rock across above the quarry roof, and four years later the mass thus outlined fell away. In 1879 serious signs were detected of coming ruin on a large scale. A great crack split the mountain across behind the top of the hill. The existence of this crack was well known to the villagers, who had a special name for it. It steadily lengthened and widened. By August 1881 it was over four mètres wide, and swallowed up all the surface drainage. Every one seems then to have agreed that the mountain would ultimately fall, but no one was anxious. The last part of August and the first days of September were very wet. On 7th September masses of rock began to fall from the hill; more fell on the 8th, and strange sounds were heard in the body of the rock; work was at last suspended in the quarry. On the 10th a commission of incompetent people investigated the hill, and pronounced that there was no immediate danger. They, however, ordered that work should cease in the quarry till the following spring, whereat the workmen murmured. All through the 10th and the morning of the 11th falls of rock occurred every quarter of an hour or so. Some were large. They kept coming from new places. The mountain groaned and rumbled incessantly, and there was no longer any doubt that it was rotten through and through. "The 11th of September was a wet Sunday. Rocks and rock-masses kept falling from the Plattenberg. The boys of the village were all agog with excitement, and could hardly be prevented by their parents from going too near the hill. In the afternoon a number of men gathered at an inn in the upper village, just at the foot of the labouring rocks, to watch the falls. They called to Meinrad Rhyner, as he passed, carrying a cheese from an alp, to join them, but he refused, 'not fearing for himself, but for the cheese.' Another group of persons assembled in a relative's house to celebrate a christening. A few houses immediately below the quarry were emptied, but the people from them did not move far. At four o'clock Schoolmaster Wyss was standing at his window, watch in hand, registering the falls and the time of their occurrence. Huntsman Elmer was on his doorstep looking at the quarry through a telescope. Every one was more or less on the _qui vive_, but none foresaw danger to himself. "Many of the people in the lower village, called Müsli, which was the best part of a mile distant from the quarry, and separated from it by a large flat area, were quite uninterested. They were making coffee, milking cows, and doing the like small domestic business. "Suddenly, at a quarter past five, a mass of the mountain broke away from the Plattenbergkopf. The ground bent and broke up, the trees upon it nodded, and folded together, and the rock engulfed them in its bosom as it crashed down over the quarry, shot across the streams, dashing their water in the air, and spread itself out upon the flat. A greyish-black cloud hovered for a while over the ruin, and slowly passed away. No one was killed by this fall, though the _débris_ reached within a dozen yards of the inn where the sightseers were gathered. The inhabitants of the upper village now began to be a little frightened. They made preparations for moving the aged and sick persons, and some of their effects. People also came up from the lower villages to help, and to see the extent of the calamity. Others came together to talk, and the visitors who had quitted the inn returned to it. Some went into their houses to shut the windows and keep out the dust. No one was in any hurry. "This first fall came from the east side of the Plattenbergkopf; seventeen minutes later a second and larger fall descended from the west side. The gashes made by the two united below the peak, and left its enormous mass isolated and without support. The second fall must have been of a startling character, for Schoolmaster Wyss forgot his watch after it. It overwhelmed the inn and four other houses, killed a score of persons, and drove terror into all beholders, so that they started running up the opposite hill. Oswald Kubli, one of the last to leave the inn, saw this fall from close at hand. He was standing outside the inn when he heard some one cry out: 'My God, here comes the whole thing down!' Every one fled, most making for the Düniberg. 'I made four or five strides, and then a stone struck Geiger and he fell without a word. Pieces from the ruined inn flew over my head. My brother Jacob was knocked down by them.' Again a dark cloud of dust enveloped the ruin. As it cleared off, Huntsman Elmer could see, through his glass, the people racing up the hill (the Düniberg) 'like a herd of terrified chamois.' When they had reached a certain height most of them stood still and looked back. Some halted to help their friends, others to take breath. "'Of those who were before me,' relates Meinrad Rhyner, 'some were for turning back to the valley to render help, but I called to them to fly. Heinrich Elmer was carrying boxes, and was only twenty paces behind me when he was killed. There were also an old man and woman, who were helping along their brother, eighty years old; they might have been saved if they had left him. I ran by them, and urged them to hasten.' "Of all who took refuge on the Düniberg, only six escaped destruction by the third fall, and they held on their way, and went empty-handed. Ruin overtook the kind and the covetous together. "At this time, before the third fall, fear came also upon the cattle. A cow, grazing far down the valley, bellowed aloud and started running for the hillside with tail out-straightened. She reached a place of safety before her meadow was overwhelmed. Cats and chickens likewise saved themselves, and two goats sought and found salvation on the steps of the parsonage. "During the four minutes that followed the second fall every one seems to have been running about, with a tendency, as the moments passed, to conclude that the worst was over. Then those who were watching the mountain from a distance beheld the whole upper portion of the Plattenbergkopf, 10,000,000 cubic mètres of rock, suddenly shoot from the hillside. The forest upon it bent 'like a field of corn in the wind,' before being swallowed up. 'The trees became mingled together like a flock of sheep.' The hillside was all in movement, and 'all its parts were playing together.' The mass slid, or rather shot down, with extraordinary velocity, till its foot reached the quarry. Then the upper part pitched forward horizontally, straight across the valley and on to the Düniberg. People in suitable positions could at this moment clearly see through beneath it to the hillside beyond. They also saw the people in the upper village, and on the Düniberg, racing about wildly. No individual masses of rock could be seen in the avalanche, except from near at hand; it was a dense cloud of stone, sharply outlined below, rounded above. The falling mass looked so vast that Schoolmaster Wyss thought it was going to fill up the whole valley. A cloud of dust accompanied it, and a great wind was flung before it. This wind swept across the valley and overthrew the houses in its path 'like haycocks.' The roofs were lifted first, and carried far, then the wooden portions of the houses were borne bodily through the air, 'just as an autumn storm first drives off the leaves and then the dead branches themselves from the trees.' In many cases wooden ruins were dropped from the air on to the top of the stone _débris_ when the fall was at an end. Eye-witnesses say that trees were blown about 'like matches,' that houses were 'lifted through the air like feathers,' and 'thrown like cards against the hillside,' 'that they bent, trembled, and then broke up like little toys' before the avalanche came to them. Hay, furniture, and the bodies of men were mixed with the house-ruins in the air. Some persons were cast down by the blast and raised again. Others were carried through the air and deposited in safe positions; others, again, were hurled upward to destruction and dropped in a shattered state as much as a hundred mètres away. Huntsman Elmer relates as follows: "'My son Peter was in Müsli (nearly a mile from the quarry) with his wife and child. He sought to escape with them by running. On coming to a wall, he took the child from his wife and leaped over. Turning round, he saw the woman reach out her hand to another child. At that moment the wind lifted him, and he was borne up the hillside. My married daughter, also in Müsli, fled with two children. She held the younger in her arms and led the other. This one was snatched away from her, but she found herself, not knowing how, some distance up the hillside, lying on the ground face downwards, with the baby beneath her, both uninjured.' "The avalanche, as has been said, shot with incredible swiftness horizontally across the valley. It pitched on to the Düniberg, struck it obliquely, and was thus deflected down the level and fertile valley-floor, which it covered in a few seconds, to the distance of nearly a mile and over its whole width, with a mass of rock _débris_ more than 30 feet thick. Most of the people on the hillside were instantly killed, the avalanche falling on to them and crushing them flat, 'as an insect is crushed into a red streak under a man's foot.' Only six persons here escaped. Two of them were almost reached by the rocks, the others were whirled aloft through the air and deposited in different directions. One survivor describes how the dust-cloud overtook him, 'and came between him and his breath!' He sank face downwards on the ground, feeling powerless to go further. Looking back, he saw 'stones flying above the dust-cloud. In a moment all seemed to be over. I stood up and climbed a few yards to a spring of water to wash out the dust, which filled my mouth and nose' (all survivors on the Düniberg had the same experience). 'All round was dark and buried in dust.' "It was only when the avalanche had struck the Düniberg and began to turn aside from it--the work of a second or two--that the people in the lower village, far down along the level plain, had any suspicion that they were in danger. Twenty seconds later all was over. Some of them who were on a bridge had just time to run aside, not a hundred yards, and were saved, but most were killed where they stood. The avalanche swept away half the village. Its sharply defined edge cut one house in two. All within the edge were destroyed, all without were saved. Almost the only persons wounded were those in the bisected house. Huntsman Elmer with his telescope, and Schoolmaster Wyss with his watch, whose houses were just beyond the area of ruin, beheld the dust-cloud come rolling along, 'like smoke from a cannon's mouth, but black,' filling the whole width of the flat valley to about twice the height of a house. The din seemed to them not very great, and the wind, which, in front of the cloud, carried the houses away like matchwood, did not reach them. Others describe the crash and thunder of the fall as terrific; it affected people differently. All agree that it swallowed up every other sound, so that shrieks of persons near at hand were inaudible. The mass seemed to slide or shoot along the ground rather than to roll. One or two men had a race for life and won it, but most failed to escape who were not already in a place of safety. Fridolin Rhyner, an eleven-year-old boy, kept his head better than any one else in the village, and succeeded in eluding the fall. He saw, too, 'how Kaspar Zentner reached the bridge as the fall took place, and how he started running as fast as he could, but was caught by the flood of rocks near Rhyner's house; he jumped aside, however, into a field, limped across it, got over the wall into the road, and so just escaped.' "The last phase of the catastrophe is the hardest to imagine, and was the most difficult to foresee. The actual facts are these. Ten million cubic mètres of rock fell down a depth (on an average) of about 450 mètres, shot across the valley and up the opposite (Düniberg) slope to a height of 100 mètres, where they were bent 25° out of their first direction, and poured, almost like a liquid, over a horizontal plane, covering it, uniformly, throughout a distance of 1500 mètres and over an area of about 900,000 square mètres to a depth of from 10 to 20 mètres. The internal friction of the mass and the friction between it and the ground were insignificant forces compared with the tremendous momentum that was generated by the fall. The stuff flowed like a liquid. No wonder the parson, seeing the dust-cloud rolling down the valley, thought it was only dust that went so far. His horror, when the cloud cleared off and he beheld the solid grey carpet, beneath which one hundred and fifteen of his flock were buried with their houses and their fields, may be imagined. He turned his eyes to the hills, and lo! the familiar Plattenbergkopf had vanished and a hole was in its place. "The roar of the fall ceased suddenly. Silence and stillness supervened. Survivors stood stunned where they were. Nothing moved. Then a great cry and wailing arose in the part of the village that was left. People began to run wildly about, some down the valley, some up. As the dust-cloud grew thinner the wall-like side of the ruin appeared. It was quite dry. All the grass and trees in the neighbourhood were white with dust. Those who beheld the catastrophe from a distance hurried down to look for their friends. Amongst them was Burkhard Rhyner, whose house was untouched at the edge of the _débris_. He ran to it and found, he said, 'the doors open, a fire burning in the kitchen, the table laid, and coffee hot in the coffee-pot, but no living soul was left.' All had run forth to help or see, and been overwhelmed--wife, daughter, son, son's wife, and two grandchildren. 'I am the sole survivor of my family.' Few were the wounded requiring succour; few the dead whose bodies could be recovered. Here and there lay a limb or a trunk. On the top of one of the highest _débris_ mounds was a head severed from its body, but otherwise uninjured. Every dead face that was not destroyed wore a look of utmost terror. The crushed remains of a youth still guarded with fragmentary arms the body of a little child. There were horrors enough for the survivors to endure. The memory of them is fresh in their minds to the present day. "Such was the great catastrophe of Elm. The hollow in the hills, whence the avalanche fell, can still be seen, and the pile of ruin against and below the Düniberg; but almost all the rest of the _débris_-covered area has been reclaimed and now carries fields, which were ripening to harvest when I saw them. The fallen rocks, some big as houses, have been blasted level; soil has been carried from afar and spread over the ruin. A channel, 40 feet deep or more, has been cut through it for the river, so that the structure of the rock-blanket can still be seen. The roots of young trees now grasp stones that took part in that appalling flight from their old bed of thousands of years to their present place of repose. The valley has its harvests again, and the villagers go about their work as their forefathers did, but they remember the day of their visitation, and to the stranger coming amongst them they tell the tragic tale with tears in their eyes and white horror upon their faces." CHAPTER XVIII SOME TERRIBLE EXPERIENCES All must have noticed, summer after summer, in the daily papers, a recital from time to time under some such heading as, "Perils of the Alps," of a variety of disasters to Germans or Austrians on mountains the names of which are unfamiliar to English people or even to English climbers. Many young men, of little leisure and of slight means, develop a passionate love for the peaks of their native land. The minor ranges of Austria and Germany offer few difficulties to really first-class, properly equipped parties, but nasty places can be found on most of them, and the very fact that they do not boast of glaciers removes the chief argument against solitary ascents. The Rax, near Vienna, is a mountain which can be reached in a few hours from that city, and while a good path has been laid out to the summit, many other routes requiring climbing--by climbing I mean the use of the hands--are available for the hardier class of tourists. One route in particular, that from the Kaiserbrunn through the Wolfsthal, appears to be really difficult, and is unfit for a man to ascend alone unless he is a climber of great skill. A terrible experience fell to the lot of a young Viennese compositor, employed on the _Neue Freie Presse_, and by name Emil Habl. He set out by himself to make the expedition referred to, and, having fallen and broken his leg, he managed, thanks to his pluck and endurance, to escape with his life. "Despite injuries which made it impossible for him to stand," says a writer in one of Messrs Newnes' publications, from which I am courteously permitted to quote, "he yet succeeded in conveying himself from the scene of his accident into the valley in the neighbourhood of human dwellings. Three dreadful days and three awful nights lasted that memorable descent--a descent which can easily be made in two hours by any one able to walk. It may almost certainly be said that the case is without a parallel in the annals of Alpine accidents." Herr Habl had ascended the Rax on previous occasions, and twice before by the Wolfsthal. It is the custom on many of the easier Austrian mountains to mark the way by painted strips on the rocks. These are sometimes very useful, but occasionally they tempt the tourist into tracks which may be beyond his powers, or lure him on till, at last, losing sight of them, he is induced to strike out a route--and perhaps an impracticable one--for himself. The Wolfsthal route up the Rax is marked in green, but the paint had worn off in many places, and after a time Herr Habl could no longer trace it. At last the way was barred by a precipice, but while pausing in uncertainty beneath it, the climber noticed two iron clamps fixed far apart on the face of the cliff, and argued that they must at one time have supported ladders and formed, perhaps, part of a hunter's path. He made an attempt to scramble up the rock, in spite of the absence of the ladder, but when more than 30 feet up saw that it was impossible to scale it. He therefore determined to return, but a loose stone, giving way beneath him, he was precipitated from his precarious hold, and fell with a crash straight to the bottom. This happened at about 7.30 A.M., and for a long time he lay unconscious. When he came to himself again he was suffering greatly. "The first thing I noticed," he says, "was a terrible pain in my right leg, my head, and left side; I was also bleeding profusely from several wounds. At the same time, considering the fearful fall I had had, I felt thankful I had not been killed outright. On trying to get up I discovered, to my utter horror, that I had broken my right shin-bone. It was quite impossible to rise. The break was about 6 inches below the knee, and at the first glance I knew it to be a very bad fracture. It was what the doctors call an 'open' fracture--that is, the bone projected through the skin." It was in vain that he shouted for help. Tourists seldom pass that way, and it was useless to expect any one to hear him. To make matters worse, the weather had changed, and rain now fell heavily. But Herr Habl did not lose courage. He writes: "Unless I wanted miserably to die a long-drawn-out, hideous death from hunger and thirst, I knew _I must save myself_. I decided not to lose another moment in fruitless brooding, and waiting, and shouting, but to act at once. "I perceived that first of all I must set my broken leg and bandage it in some rough fashion. In spite of the agony it caused me, I rolled over and over the ground in different directions like a bale of goods--a few yards here and a few yards there--until I had collected a sufficient quantity of fallen branches, bits of fir and moss; this strange collecting process took me some hours. The next thing was to tear off the sleeves of my shirt and such other parts of my underwear as I could spare. On my mountain excursions I always took with me a box containing iodoform gauze and cambric; and now these things were more than welcome. "At last, then, I was ready to begin the operation. But, good heavens, what agony! My deadliest enemy I would not wish such excruciating pains as I suffered when setting the poor splintered bone--which, be it remembered, was not broken straight across. The dreadful splinters, indeed, dug deep into my flesh. Not regarding the pain (although nearly fainting therewith) I exerted my whole force, and at last succeeded in getting the bone into what, as far as I could judge, was its right position. Then I wound the iodoform gauze round it, and over that I put the cambric, the bits of underclothing, and a layer of moss. Next in the queer operation came my alpenstock and some boughs in place of splints; and finally I tied the whole together with the string, my hat-line, and neck-tie." During the rest of the day the agonising descent continued, down rocks which were difficult even for a sound man to ascend. As evening approached Herr Habl bethought him of the need of food, but, alas! all was gone from his knapsack, doubtless left at the spot where the bandages had been put on. To regain this point was out of the question, so berries and leaves were resorted to, to appease the craving of hunger. That night was passed in pain and weariness. The rain never ceased, the poor wounded man was soaked to the skin. The next day, from dawn to dark the fearful descent continued, and was followed by another night of indescribable misery. The morning after Herr Habl could hardly drag himself a yard, and the temptation to lie down and await the end was very great. Still, for the sake of his parents at home, he continued his efforts, though bleeding now from the contact of the sharp rocks over which he pushed himself in a half-lying, half-sitting posture. By four o'clock that afternoon it seemed as if human endurance could bear no more, and for two hours he lay in an awful apathy he could not shake off. Then, when all hope seemed over, help came, for he heard the sound of human voices, and this so stirred him that once more he began to crawl downward, though unable to obtain any reply to his cries for assistance. Another night passed, and during it, for the first time, he got some sleep. The next morning, he once more dragged his poor lacerated body downwards and at last came in sight of some houses. Calling feebly for help, he was delighted beyond measure to receive an answer, and soon he was carried to Hôtel Kaiserbrunn, and the same evening transported to the hospital at Vienna. He concludes his most interesting account by remarking: "I do not think that my accident, terrible as it is, has cured me of my love of mountaineering. But certainly the remembrance of those three terrible days and nights will deter me from again undertaking difficult climbs by myself." [Illustration: A GLACIER LAKE. By Royston Le Blond.] [Illustration: TAKING OFF THE ROPE AT THE END OF THE CLIMB.] [Illustration: AMONGST THE SÈRACS.] [Illustration: WATER AT LAST. _To face p. 297._] An adventure, having a happier termination, befell some friends of mine in the Bregaglia group, owing to the marking of a route with paint. The district was but little known to them, so they were glad to follow where the marks led. One of the party, writing in _The Alpine Journal_, says: "The descent began by a grass ledge. After a few yards this was suddenly closed by overhanging rocks. François, who was first, appeared to us to plunge down a precipice. He answered our criticism by pointing to the red triangles. They indicated the only means of advance. It was requisite to go down a dozen feet of nearly vertical rock by the help of two grass tufts, and then for several yards to walk across a horizontal crack which gave foot-hold varying from 2 inches to nothing. Nominal support--help in balance--could be gained at first by digging axes into grass overhead; further on hand-hold was obtainable. François walked across without a moment's hesitation, but we did not despise the rope. This _mauvais pas_ would not, perhaps, trouble younger cragsmen. It came upon us unprepared and when somewhat tired. But to indicate a route including such an obstacle to unsuspecting tourists as a Station Path is surely rash. A practical joke that may lead to fatal results should only be resorted to under exceptional circumstances--as, for example, in the case of an hotel bore. There can be little doubt that in this instance the Milanese section entrusted their paint-pot to a conscious, if unconscientious, humorist; for we found afterwards that he had continued his triangles through the village, along the high road, and finished up only on the ticket office." The following terrible experience did not, it is true, happen to a party of mountaineers, but as _The Alpine Journal_, from which I take my account, has considered a notice of it appropriate to its pages, I include it amongst my tales. "A distinguished aeronaut, Captain Charbonnet, of Lyons, married a young girl from Turin. On the evening of their wedding, in October, 1893, they set out in Captain Charbonnet's balloon 'Stella,' and covered about 10 miles on their way towards Lyons. "Next morning, accompanied by two young Italians named Durando and Botto, one of whom had made many previous ascents with Captain Charbonnet, they started again. Stormy weather seemed to be brewing, and after rising to a height of 3000 mètres they were caught in a current. At Saluggia they nearly touched ground, then leapt up again to 4000, and presently to 6000 mètres. About 2.30 P.M. the balloon began to descend rapidly, and they had some difficulty in stopping it at 3000 mètres. [Illustration: The balloon "Stella" starting from Zermatt to make the first passage of the Alps by balloon. _To face page 293._] [Illustration: A moment after the balloon started.] "Here they were in dense clouds, and bitterly cold; quite ignorant, moreover, of their position. Captain Charbonnet made his crew lie down in the car, himself leaning out in order to try if he could catch a glimpse of any point from which he could learn his bearings. The balloon was drifting at a great rate, and nothing could be done to check it. Presently there was a shock, and Captain Charbonnet was thrown to the bottom of the car, by a heavy blow over his left eye. "The balloon rebounded, and dashing across a gully struck the other side of it, and it finally settled down on a steep rocky spur on the east side of the Bessanese (3632 mètres = 11,917 feet), just above the small glacier of Salau. It had struck the wall of the mountain which faces the Rifugio Gastaldi, at a height of about 3000 mètres (9843 feet). "The aeronauts reached the ground a good deal shaken and bruised, but none of them, except the leader, suffering from any serious injuries.... Their sole provision was one bottle of wine; but they were fairly well off for covering, and they cut up the balloon to supply deficiencies. In the night a violent storm came on, to add to their misery. In spite of his injuries, Captain Charbonnet kept up the spirits of his companions as well as might be, but towards morning his powers failed, and when day dawned his young wife, a girl of eighteen, had some difficulty in bringing him round. "They started to descend the snow-slope, Durando going first, and making steps to the best of his power with his feet 'and with a long key which he happened to have in his pocket.' Of course they had neither nails nor poles; and, by a fatal imprudence, they did not tie themselves together, though ropes must have been in plenty in the wreck of the balloon. "Presently Charbonnet slipped. He was held up by his wife and Botto; but a few minutes later he disappeared into a hidden crevasse. The others could see him far below, but as he neither moved nor answered their call, they rightly assumed that he was beyond the reach of any human help, and proceeded downwards. "With infinite difficulty, owing to their utter ignorance of the country, and after another night spent in the open air, they found a path which brought them to the hut under the Rocca Venoni. Thence a shepherd guided them to the Cantina della Mussa, where they were at first taken for deserters or spies; the lady, it should be said, had been obliged to put on a suit of her husband's clothes, her own having been torn to pieces. "The sight of her hair and bracelets convinced the inhabitants of the true state of the case; a telegram was sent to Turin, and a message to Balme, and a search party came up from the latter place in the afternoon. Captain Charbonnet's body was recovered the next day. It was found at the bottom of a crevasse more than 60 feet deep, and completely doubled up; but medical examination showed that his death was primarily due to the injury received when the balloon first struck." The first passage of the Alps by balloon was made in September 1903, by Captain Spelterini, of Zürich, accompanied by Dr Hermann Seiler and another friend. They started from Zermatt, crossed the Mischabel group, passed over the valley of Saas, then rose above the Weissmies range, and approached the Lago Maggiore so closely that they were able to converse with the passengers of a steamer. They then rose again and spent the night above the mountains not far from the Gotthard. The next day it would have been possible to clear the Bernese Alps and descend somewhere near Lucerne, but though Dr Seiler, who is a climber and was fully equipped for a descent above the snow line, urged the attempt being made to cross the chain, Captain Spelterini and his friend, unused to the aspect of the higher peaks, considered it more prudent to descend, and so the expedition came to an end after twenty hours aloft, during which no discomfort from cold was experienced. When an accident happens in the Alps involving loss of life, it is not difficult to learn whatever facts may be known with regard to it, but when climbers have a narrow escape from death the occurrence is often hushed up and nothing said or written about the matter. And yet it is just the narrow escapes that furnish the most interesting Alpine narratives. Amongst them are few more exciting than a mishap on the Matterhorn which happened in 1895, and is admirably described by an onlooker, Mr Ernest Elliot Stock, in the pages of one of Messrs Newnes' periodicals, from which I am courteously permitted to quote a portion of the tale. Mr Stock's party consisted of himself, his sister, Mr Grogan (the well-known traveller who first crossed Africa from South to North), Mr Broadbent, and the guides, P. A. and Alois Biner, Peter Perrin, and Zurmatter. An American of no climbing experience, with Joseph Biner and Felix Julen, was on the mountain at the same time, and both parties having made the ascent by the ordinary route, were coming down the same way, and had descended in safety to just below "Moseley's Platte" when the incident which so nearly cost them their lives took place. They were on a steep slope, and the American party was slightly in advance. Mr Stock writes: [Illustration: THE MATTERHORN FROM THE HÖRNLI RIDGE.] [Illustration: THE MATTERHORN FROM THE FURGG GLACIER.] [Illustration: JOSEPH BINER.] [Illustration: THE MATTERHORN HUT. _To face p. 302_] "We had been working slowly, and at a slight zig-zag, down this for some 150 feet, only one member of the party moving at a time, and keeping carefully within the steps cut by the leader, when suddenly a flat stone, some 6 inches across, became detached from a small pile either to the side of or directly behind me--possibly loosened by our passage or picked up by the rope as it tautened between myself and Peter Biner, who came next. Peter's cry of warning was echoed by his brother at the tail of the party, and I half turned to see it slipping past on the right. "Reaching out with my axe I endeavoured to stop it, but its impetus had become too great. Getting upon its edge it rolled and struck a small rock; then jumped some 20 feet down the ice-slope, narrowly missing Perrin and 'America,' and struck again upon a larger and flatter rock, when, amidst a flight of smaller stones, it bounded outwards and downwards, striking the leading guide, Joseph Biner, full and square on the head. He fell as though he had been shot, dragging 'America' after him amidst a perfect shower of snow and stones. Julen, who came third, with the greatest presence of mind drove his ice-axe hard and deep into the ice, took a turn round it with his left arm, and, though dragged violently from his steps, to our intense relief held on. "But we were in an awkward plight. Poor Joseph half lay, half hung, without movement, at the end of some 30 feet of rope, bleeding copiously from a deep gash in the head and another across the forehead caused by his fall; 'America' clung to a small rock projecting from the snow, beating a tattoo with his boots on the ice and wailing dismally; Julen held the two by favour of his ice-axe and firmly planted feet only. For a space no one moved, excepting to get such anchorage as was possible upon the spur of the moment, each expecting a rope-jerk, the forerunner of a swift and battered end in the ice-fall of the Furgg Glacier thousands of feet below. "The guides for a time seemed utterly stunned by the catastrophe, and to all suggestions could only reply with muttered prayers and exclamations. So exasperating did this become at last, with the thought of the man below bleeding to death, if not dead already, that Mr Grogan, who had vainly been endeavouring to bring the guides to a sense of the position, quietly slipped the rope, and, amid a storm of protest from them, traversed out some distance to avoid a patch of loose stones, and descended inwards again, cutting his steps as he went, till he reached a spot immediately below the wounded man. Poor Joseph hung with his head buried in a patch of snow, and in an extremely awkward position to reach from above. Mr Grogan, however, refused to be daunted by the difficulties, and we were treated to a fine piece of ice-craft during his descent." After a little time Mr Grogan managed to cut a seat in the slope of ice and placing the still breathing but insensible man in it, he bandaged the wounds on his head, and before long had the satisfaction of seeing him recover his senses. With great difficulty, as he was very weak and shaken, poor Joseph was helped down the mountain, and at last every one arrived safe and sound at the lower hut. There is no doubt that Joseph owed his life to Mr Grogan's skill, promptness, and courage. Had the travellers in the party following "America's" been of the usual type of tourist, who is hauled up and let down the Matterhorn, one dare not think what would probably have been the result, for the description Mr Stock gives of the behaviour of his guides seems in no way exaggerated. I edit this account in sight of the very spot where the accident occurred, and I have made careful enquiries here as to the accuracy of the story, and am assured that it is true in every detail. It is a pleasure to feel that a fellow-countryman should show so brilliant an example to those who were not willing and probably would have hardly been able to rescue their comrade, although to attempt such a task was one of the prior obligations of their profession. To be bombarded by falling stones in the Alps is bad enough. To be hurled from one's foot-hold by a flock of eagles seems to me even more appalling. Though on one occasion, when on the slopes of a bleak and rocky peak in Lapland, in company with my husband, a pair of eagles came screaming so close to us that we drove them away by brandishing our ice-axes and throwing stones at them, I did not till recently believe that there could be positive danger to a climbing party from an onslaught by these birds. It was only a few weeks ago that taking up one of Messrs Newnes' publications I came upon an account of a tragedy in the Maritime Alps caused by an attack from eagles. On applying to the editor of the magazine in question, he kindly allowed me to make some extracts from a striking article by Mons. Antoine Neyssel. This gentleman with a friend, Mons. Joseph Monand, was making a series of ascents in the Maritime Alps with Sospello as their headquarters. From here they took a couple of guides and got all ready for a climb on the following morning, 23rd July. During the evening the amazing news reached them that a postman, while crossing a high pass, had been attacked and nearly killed by eagles. They at once went into the cottage where the poor man lay unconscious on two chairs, a pool of blood beneath him and his clothes torn to ribbons. A few days later he died from the terrible injuries he had received. Though much shocked at the sad event, the climbers believed that their party of four would be quite safe, for each man had an ice-axe and some carried rifles. So the next morning they set out, and, ascending higher and higher, reached the glacier and put on the rope. They had forgotten all about the ferocious birds when suddenly, as they traversed the upper edge of a crevasse near the summit of their peak, the leading guide stopped with an exclamation of horror. Close to them the ground was strewn with feathers and marked with blood, doubtless the spot where the postman was attacked. They passed on, however, and remembering that they were a party of four, felt reassured. But soon after weird cries came to their ears from below, followed by the whirr and beating of great wings. Looking cautiously over the abyss, they saw a fight of eagles in progress; feathers flew in the air and strange sounds came out of the seething mass. It seemed to rise towards them, and in their insecure position on the edge of a crevasse, they were badly placed to resist an attack. The foot-hold was of frozen and slippery snow. Suddenly the eagles burst up and around them. The guides immediately cut the rope and each person did what he could to save himself. "Wherever possible," says Mons. Neyssel, "we simply raced over the frozen snow like maniacs. In another moment they dashed upon us like an avalanche. I heard a shot--I suppose Monand fired, but I did not: I do not know why. The attack was quite too dreadful for words. Speaking for myself, I remember that the eagles struck me with stunning force with their wings, their hooked beaks, and strong talons. Every part of my body seemed to be assailed simultaneously. It was a fierce struggle for life or death. Strangely enough, I remember nothing of what happened to my companions. I neither saw nor heard anything of them after the first great rush of the eagles. It is a miracle I was not hurled to death into the crevasse. "Do not ask me how long this weird battle lasted. It may have been five or six minutes, or a quarter of an hour. I do not know. I grew feebler, and felt almost inclined to give up the struggle, when the blood began to trickle down my face and nearly blinded me. I knew that every moment might be my last, and that I might be hurled into the crevasse. Strangely enough, the prospect did not appal me. From this time onward I defended myself almost mechanically, inclined every moment to give up and lie down. "I gave no thought to the guides and my poor friend Monand. If I am judged harshly for this, I regret it; but I could not help it. All at once I heard loud, excited voices, but thought that these were merely fantastic creations of my own brain. In a moment or two, however, I could distinguish a number of men laying about them fiercely with sticks, and beating off the eagles." The villagers, having watched the ascent through a telescope had come to the rescue and had saved the lives of the writer and his two guides. His poor friend, however, was dashed into the crevasse, at the bottom of which his body was found five days later. CHAPTER XIX FALLING STONES AND FALLING BODIES I am indebted to the editor of _The Cornhill_ and the author of an article entitled "The Cup and the Lip" for permission to reprint portions of a paper containing much shrewd wisdom, several accounts of narrow escapes, and withal of a wittiness and freshness that brings to the reader a keen blast of Alpine air and the memory, if by chance he be a climber, of his own early days upon the mountains. [Illustration: A HOT DAY IN SUMMER ON A MOUNTAIN TOP.] [Illustration: A SUMMIT NEAR SAAS.] [Illustration: LUNCHEON ON THE WAY TO THE HUT IN WINTER.] [Illustration: LUNCHEON IN SUMMER ON THE TOP OF A GLACIER PASS. _To face p. 310._] The writer, after remarking that even in these days when the traveller, by the purchase of a few climbing requisites, is inclined to consider himself a mountaineer before he has ever set foot on a peak, goes on to say that, in reality, "for the most of us the craft is long to learn, the conquering hard. And in the experience of many there are two distinct phases. There is the time when, flushed with youth and victory, you seem to go on from strength to strength, faster from year to year, more confident in foot and hand, more scornful of the rope which you have seen so often used, not as a means of safety, but as an assistance to the progression of the weaker brethren, until one day your foot unaccountably finds the step too small, or the bit of rock comes away in your hand, or the outraged spirit of the mountains smites you suddenly with a stone, and all is changed. Henceforth every well-worn and half-despised precaution has a new meaning for you; it becomes a point of honour to walk circumspectly, to turn the rope round every helpful projection when the leader moves, and to mark and keep your distance; and you begin to catch a little of the wisdom of your fathers. It is not until the slip comes--as it comes to all--that you believe a slip is possible; and were it not for slips the continual advance of cup to lip might become in time monotonous and irksome, and mountaineering nothing but a more laborious and elaborate form of walking up a damp flight of stairs. But when it has come, and there has passed away the result of the consequent shock to your self-esteem, and to other even more sensitive portions of your person, there succeeds a new pride of achievement, and you will have the advantages of the converted sinner over the ninety-and-nine just persons whose knickerbockers are still unriven. Furthermore, you will have commenced the graduate stage of your mountaineering education. Unlucky, too, will you be if your experience has not given you something more than a juster estimate of your own moral and physical excellence; for your misfortune, if you have chosen your companions aright, will suddenly turn your grumbling hireling into a friend as gentle and as patient as a nurse, and disclose in those who were your friends qualities of calm and steadfastness never revealed in the fret of the valley; while, if you need wine and oil for your wounds, when you reach home again, you will find in the inn some English doctor, asking nothing better than to devote the best part of his holiday to the gratuitous healing of the stranger. [Illustration: A TEDIOUS SNOW SLOPE TO ASCEND.] [Illustration: A SITTING GLISSADE AND A QUICK DESCENT.] [Illustration: A GLACIER-CAPPED SUMMIT.] [Illustration: ITALY TO THE LEFT, SWITZERLAND TO THE RIGHT. _To face p. 312._] "The form of my own awakening was not such as to require wine or oil or consolation, and indeed, had I spoken of it at the time, would have scarcely escaped ridicule. We had reached the summit of our pass, and the guides and myself had decided that the steep wall of snow on the further side was an admirable place for a glissade. Accordingly, we went through the inevitable ritual of the summit, consumed as much sour bread and wine as we could, with unerring inaccuracy applied the wrong names to all the newly disclosed mountain-tops, adjusted the rope and prepared for the descent. Unfortunately, we omitted to explain the particular form of pleasure in which we were about to indulge to my companion, who was ignorant alike of mountaineering and the German tongue. The result was simple: the second guide, who was in front, set off with his feet together and his axe behind him; I followed in as correct an imitation of his attitude as I could induce my body to assume; but the novice stood still on the crest of the pass to 'await in fitting silence the event,' and the rope tightened. The jerk, after nearly cutting me in two, laid me on my back in the snow, and was then transmitted to the guide, who was also pulled off his feet and plunged head foremost down. Our combined weights drew after us both my companion and the chief guide, who was taken unawares, and both came crushing upon me. We rolled over and over, mutually pounding one another as we rolled; hats and spectacles and axes preceded us, and huge snowballs followed in our wake, until, breathless and humiliated, we had cleared the _schrund_, and came to an ignominious halt on the flat snow below. "This was no very rude introduction to my climbing deficiencies, but before the end of the season I had felt fear at the pit of my stomach. We (that is A. T. and myself) had scrambled up an Austrian mountain, and, on our way down, had come to where the little glacier intervenes between the precipice and the little moraine heaps above the forest. The glacier would hardly deserve the name in any other part of the Alps, so small is it; but it makes up for what it lacks in size by its exceeding steepness; the hardness of its ice, and the ferocity (if one may attribute personal characteristics to Nature) of the rock walls which keep in its stream on either hand, hem it in so closely that I think it must be always in deep shadow, even in the middle of a June day. "Here you must cross it very nearly on a level, and then skirt down its further side between ice and rock for a few feet before you come to a suitable place for the crossing of the big crevasse below you; and then a short slide down old avalanche _débris_ shoots you deliciously into the sun again. The crossing of the glacier in the steps cut by the numerous parties who have passed on previous days is an extremely simple affair. But you must not hurry, for a slip could not be checked, and would probably finish in the before-mentioned crevasse. We started, however, in some fear; for a party ascending the mountains favoured us with continual showers of stones of all sizes, and the higher they climbed the more viciously came their artillery. Hence I was nervous and apt to go carelessly when we reached the middle of the ice, and here the noise began. I heard a strange, whizzing, whirring noise which sounded strangely familiar, accompanied by a physical shiver on my part and a curious knocking together of the knees; again and again it came, followed each time by a slight dull thud; and, looking at the rocks below us on each side, I saw a little white puff of dust rising at every concussion. Then I knew why the sound seemed familiar. I was reminded how, as a panting schoolboy, I had toiled up a long dusty road to a certain down with a rifle much too large for me, in the vain hope of shooting my third-class, and how, as we bruised our shoulders at the 200 yards' range, another young gentleman firing at the 400 yards at the parallel range on the left, had mistaken his mark and fired across our heads at the target beyond us on the right. Everything was present: the indescribable whirring of the bullet, its horrible invisibility while it flew, and the grey little cloud as it flattened itself on the white paint of the target. The sensation was horrible, the tendency to hurry irresistible, and but for my companion I should have risked slip and crevasse and everything to get out of the line of fire. But my companion remained absolutely steady; while he poured forth curses in every language and every _patois_ ever spoken in the Italian Tyrol, he still moved his feet as deliberately, improved the steps with as much care and minuteness as if he were a Chamonix guide conducting a Frenchman on the Mer de Glace. I know he felt the position as acutely as I did, for when, a week later, we had to cross the same place under a similar fire, and the third member of the party was sent on in front with a large rope to recut the steps, he turned to me with impressive simplicity, and said, '_Adesso è quello in grande pericolo_. If he is hit, we cannot save him.' How long we took to cross I do not know. But when at last we reached the other bank we cast the rope off with one impulse, and, bending under the shelter of the rocks, ran where I had found climbing hard in the morning, jumped the _bergschrund_, fell and rolled down the snow under a final volley from the mountain, and lay long by the stream panting and safe. "I suspect the danger here was far more apparent than real. My next adventure with a falling stone was more real than I like to think of. Four of us had been scrambling round the rocks beside the Ventina Glacier, and were returning to our camp to lunch. By bad luck, as it turned out, I reached level ground first, and, lying on my back amongst great boulders, watched with amusement the struggles of my companions who were about a hundred feet above me, apparently unable to get up or down. They were screaming to me, but the torrent drowned their voices, and I smoked my pipe in contentment. _Suave mari magno._ At last they moved, and with them the huge rock which they had been endeavouring to uphold and shouting to me to beware of. It crashed down towards me, but I determined to stop where I was. The roughness of the ground would have hindered my escape to any distance, and I calculated on stepping quickly aside when my enemy had declared himself for any particular path of attack. So I did, but the stone at that moment broke in pieces, and, quick as I was with desperation, one fragment was quicker still. It caught me, glancing as I turned between the shoulder and the elbow, only just touching me, as I suppose, for the bone was quite unhurt. Up I went into the air and down I came among the stones, with all the wind knocked out of me, large bruises all over me, not hurt, but very much frightened. [Illustration: UNPLEASANT GOING OVER LOOSE STONES.] [Illustration: ON THE CREST OF AN OLD MORAINE. _To face p. 317._] "Such experiences as this leave no very lasting impression, and might just as easily happen were the party accompanied by the best of guides. But I hardly think that any guide would have been crack-brained enough to take part in two expeditions which taught me what it feels like to slip on rock and ice respectively. The first slip took place during the winter. With one companion I was climbing in a long and not very difficult gully on a Welsh mountain. The frost had just broken, and there was more water in the pitches than was quite pleasant. It was very cold water, and my hands, which had been frost-bitten the week before, were still swathed in bandages. Hence progress was very slow, and at last my friend took the lead to spare me. He was climbing over a big overhanging stone jammed between the walls of the gully and forming an excellent spout for the water, which was thus poured conveniently down his neck. I stood on the shelving floor of the gully in perfect safety, and watched the shower-bath, which was gradually exhausting him. He asked for his axe, and I, in a moment of madness, came near and handed it up; his legs, which were all I could then see of him, were kicking in the water about 5 feet above my head. What happened next I do not know, but I shall always maintain that, seeing an eligible blade of grass above him, he plunged the adze in and hauled with both hands. The blade resented such treatment, and came out. Anyhow he fell on my head, and we commenced a mad career down the way we had ascended, rather rolling than falling, striking our heads and backs against the rocks, and apparently destined for the stony valley upon which we had looked down between our legs for hours. People who have escaped drowning say that, in what was their struggle for life, their minds travelled back over their whole history. I know that my brain at this moment suddenly acquired an unusual strength. In a few seconds we were safe, but in those seconds there was time for centuries of regret. There was no fear; that was to come later. But I felt vividly that I was present as a spectator of my own suicide, and thought myself a feeble kind of fool. Had it been on the Dru or the Meije, I thought, it might have been worth it, but, half-drowned, to plunge a poor 40 feet over the next pitch on a hill not 3000 feet high, with a carriage road in sight, and a girl driving in the cows for milking in Nant Francon! We did not roll far, and stuck between the walls of the gully, where they narrowed. Then I arose and shook myself, unhurt. My companion made me light his pipe, which cheered me very much, and we each partook of an enormous mutton sandwich. Help was near, for another party of three was climbing in the next gully, and came to our shouts; one ran down to the farm for a hurdle, the rest began the descent. For hours we seemed to toil, for my companion, though with admirable fortitude he supported the pain of movement, had temporarily no power over his legs and the lower part of his body. I could do little, but the others worked like blacks, and just at dark we reached the farm and the ministrations of a Welsh doctor, who told my friend, quite erroneously, that there was nothing the matter with him, pointed out a swelling on my face as big as a pigeon's egg, which, he said, would probably lead to erysipelas, and then departed into the darkness. "A fall on ice has something in it more relentless, though, until the last catastrophe, less violent. We had all been victims to the flesh-pots of the valley, and were, perhaps, hardly fit for a long ice-slope, when we began to cut up the last few feet to gain the _arête_ of our mountain. The incline seemed to me very steep, and, third on the rope, I was watching the leader at his labours, half pitying him for his exertions, half envying him his immunity from the ice fragments which he was sending down to me. Below me the fourth man had barely left the great flat rock on which we had breakfasted; there was no reason to think of danger; when to my horror I saw the leader cut a step, put out his foot slowly, and then very slowly and deliberately sway over and fall forwards and downwards against the ice. We were in a diagonal line, but almost immediately beneath one another, and he swung quietly round like a pendulum, his axe holding him to the slope, until he was immediately beneath the second man. Very slowly, as it seemed, the rope grew taut; the weight began to tug at his waist; and then he, too, slowly and reflectively in the most correct mountaineering attitude, as though he were embarking upon a well-considered journey, began to slide. Now was the time for me to put into practice years of patient training. I dug my toes in and stiffened my back, anchored myself to the ice, and waited for the strain. It was an unconscionable time coming, and, when it came, I still had time to think that I could bear it. Then the weight of 27 stone in a remorseless way quietly pulled me from my standpoint, as though my resistance were an impudence. Still, like the others, I held my axe against the ice and struggled like a cat on a polished floor, always seeing the big flat rock, and thinking of the bump with which we should bound from it, and begin our real career through the air; when suddenly the bump came and we all fell together in a heap on to the rock and the fourth man, who had stepped back upon it, my crampons running into his leg, and my axe, released from the pressure, going off through the air on the very journey which I had anticipated for us all. The others were for a fresh attack on the malicious mountain; but I was of milder mood, and very soon, torn and wiser, we were off on a slower but more convenient path to the valley than had seemed destined for us a few minutes before. But our cup was not yet full. Having no axe with which to check a slip, I was placed at the head of the line, and led slowly down, floundering a good deal for want of my usual support. The great couloir was seamed across with a gigantic crevasse, the angle of the slope being so sharp that the upper half overhung, and we had only crossed in the morning by standing on the lower lip, cutting hand-holes in the upper, and shoving up the leader from the shoulder of the second man: hence, in descending, our position was similar to that of a man on the mantel-shelf who should wish to climb down into the fire itself. We chose the obvious alternative of a jump to the curb, which was, I suppose, about 15 feet below us and made of steep ice with a deep and deceptive covering of snow. I jumped and slid away with this covering, to be arrested in my course by a rude jerk. I turned round indignant; but my companions were beyond my reproaches. One by one, full of snow, eloquent, and bruised, they issued slowly from the crevasse into which I had hurled them, and, heedless of the humour of the situation, gloomily urged me downwards. "Some hours still passed before we reached our friendly Italian hut, left some days before for a raid into Swiss territory; there on the table were our provisions and shirts as we had left them, and a solemn array of bottles full of milk carried up during our absence by our shepherd friends; and there, on the pile, in stinging comment on our late proceedings, lay a slip of paper, the tribute of some Italian tourist, bearing the inscription 'Omaggio ai bravi Inglesi ignoti.' We felt very much ashamed. "When the soup has been eaten and the pipes are lighted, and you sit down outside your hut for the last talk before bed, you will find your guides' tongues suddenly acquire a new eloquence, and, if you are a novice at the craft, will be almost overwhelmed by the catalogue of misfortune which they will repeat to you. And so, too, upon us in the winter months comes the temptation to dwell on things done long ago and ill done, and, as we write of the sport for others, we give a false impression of peril and hardihood in things that were little more than matter for a moment's laughter. I too must plead guilty to a well-meant desire to make your flesh creep. [Illustration: AN AWKWARD BIT OF CLIMBING.] [Illustration: GUIDES AT ZERMATT.] [Illustration: A LARGE PARTY FOR A SMALL HUT.] [Illustration: AU REVOIR. _To face p. 322._] "Mountaineering by skilled mountaineers is about as dangerous as hunting in a fair country, and requires about as much pluck as to cross from the Temple to the Law Courts at midday. Difficult mountaineering is for the unskilled about as dangerous as riding a vicious horse in a steeplechase for a man who has never learnt to ride. But the tendency in those who speak or write of it for the outer world who are not mountaineers is to conceal a deficiency of charm of style by an attempt to slog in the melodramatic, and I plead guilty at once. "So we think and write as though to us our passion for the hills were a fancy of the summer, a mere flirtation. Yet no one has lost the first bloom of his delight in Alpine adventure before the element of sternness has come to mar his memory and bind more closely his affections. You find the mildly Horatian presence of death somewhere near you, and that at a moment when, whatever your age and strength, and whatever your infirmities, you are at the full burst of youth; when Nature has been kindest she has been most capricious, and has flaunted her relentless savagery just when she has bent to kiss you. The weirdest rocks rise from Italian gardens, and the forms of hill seem oldest when you are most exultant--immortal age beside immortal youth. Yet is it not this, 'the sense of tears,' in things which are not mortal which must mark your Alpine paths with memories as heavy and as definite as those inscriptions which tell of obscure and sudden death on every hillside, and invite your prayers for the woodcutter and the shepherd? You too will have seen friends go out into the morning whom you have never welcomed home. There is a danger, sometimes encountered recklessly, sometimes ignorantly, but sometimes--hard as it may be to understand the mood--not in the mere spirit of the idle youth, but met with and overcome, or overcoming, in a resolution which knows no pleasure in conquest save when the essay is fierce, and is calmly willing to pay the penalty of failure. While for ourselves we enjoy the struggle none the less because we have taken every care that we shall win, they freely give all; and for such there is surely no law. While by every precept and example we impress the old rules of the craft on our companions and our successors, how can we find words of blame for those who have at least paid the extreme forfeit, and found 'the sleep that is among the lonely hills'? "The penalty for failure is death; not always exacted at the first slip, for Nature is merciful and ofttimes doth relent; but surely waiting for those who scorn the experience of others and slight her majesty in wilfulness, in ignorance, in the obstinate following of a fancy, in the vain pursuit of notoriety. The rules are known, and those who break them, and by precept and example tempt to break them those whom they should teach, wrong the sport which they profess to love. "In this game as in any other, it should be a point of honour for us not to make the sport more difficult for others, and not to bring unnecessary sorrow upon the peasants, who help us to play it, and upon their families. It should be a point of honour to play the game, and, if disaster comes in playing it, we have at least, done our best." GLOSSARY ALP A mountain pasture, usually with chalets tenanted only in summer. ARÊTE A ridge. BERGSCHRUND A crevasse between the snow adhering to the rocks and the lower portion of the glacier. COL A pass between two peaks. COULOIR A gully, usually filled with snow or stones. CREVASSE A crack in a glacier, caused by the movement of the ice over an uneven bed or round a corner. FIRN The snow of the upper regions, which is slowly changing into glacier ice. GRAT A ridge. JOCH A pass between two peaks. KAMM A summit ridge. MORAINE An accumulation of stones and sand which has fallen from bordering slopes on to a glacier. Medial moraines are formed by the junction of glaciers, their lateral moraines joining. MOULIN A glacier mill, or shaft through the ice, formed by a stream which has met a crevasse in its course, and plunging into its depths has bored a hole right through the glacier and often into the rock beneath. NÉVÉ The French of _Firn_. (See Firn.) RÜCKSACK The bag type of canvas knapsack now invariably used by guides and climbers. SCHRUND A crevasse. (See Crevasse.) SÊRAC A cube of ice, formed by transverse crevasses, and found where a glacier passes over steep rocks. This part of a glacier is called an ice-fall. INDEX A Abruzzi, Duke of, 8 Adine Col, 108 Æggischhorn, 257 Ailefroide, 228, 245 Aitkins, Mr, 162 Aletsch Glacier, 125 Aletschhorn, avalanche on, 55 Almer, Christian, 223, 237 Almer, Ulrich, 55 Andenmatten, 108 Anderegg, Jacob, 126, 127 Anderegg, Melchior, 125, 212 Andermatten, Franz, 202 Arbuthnot, Mrs, 257 Arc, Valley of, 266 Aren Glacier, 57, 61 Arlberg Pass, 61 Arolla, 168 Arves, Aiguilles d', 248 Asti, 265 B Baker, Mr, 134 Balloon (crossing Alps), 298 Balme, 300 Bans, Les, 228 Baumann, Hans, 127 Bean, Mr, 136 Bennen, 57 Bergemoletto, 65 Bergli Hut, 210 Bessanese, 299 Bettega, 183 Biner, Alois and P., 302 Biner, Joseph, 204, 302 Blaitiére, Aiguille de, 26, 37 Blanc, Mont, 136, 153 Blanche, Dent, 51, 152, 167 Boeufs Rouges, 228 Bohren, 58 Boniface, 265 Bonvoison, Pic de, 226 Botto, 298 Bregaglia group, 296 Brenner, 136 Brewer, Mrs, 61 Bricolla châlets, 168 Bristenstock, 164 Broadbent, Mr, 302 Bruce, Major, 59 Brulle, Mons. H., 260 Burckhardt, Mr, 208 Burchi peak, 59 Burgener, Alexander, 104, 202 C Cà d'Asti, 265 Carr, Mr Ellis, 23 Carrel, J. A., 21 Caucasus, 58, 99, 116 Cenis, Mont, 264 Cerbillonas, the, 260 Chamonix, 8, 23, 126, 153 Charbonnet, Captain, 298 Charmoz ridge, 50 Claret, 258 Clayton, Captain, 261 Collie, Dr Norman, 134 Constance, 60 Conway, Sir W. M., 155, 275 Copland Valley, 4 Croz, Michel, 222, 238 D Dauphiné, 11 Dent, Mr C. T., 99, 116, 142, 202 Devas, Mr J. F. C., 144 Dixon, Mr H. B., 133 Dolomites, 182 Dom, 52 Donkin, Mr W. F., 58, 99, 116 Dora Riparia, Valley of, 266 Düniberg, 282 Durand Glacier, 204 Durando, 298 Dych Tau, 105 E Ecrins, 228, 235 Ecrins, Col des, 225 Eiger, 264 Elbruz, 115 Elm, landslip of, 275 Elmer, Huntsman, 280 Encula, Glacier de l', 246 Étançons, Val des, 11 F Fellenberg, E. Von, 212 Ferard, Mr A. G., 144 Fitzgerald, Mr E., 3 Flender, Herr, 138 Foster, Mr G. E., 126 Fox, Mr, 116 Freshfield, Mr Douglas, 116 Fürrer, Alphons, 8 Furrer, Elias, 167 G Gabelhorn, Ober, 55 Gastaldi, Rifugio, 299 Gavarnie, 261 Géant, Dent du, 257 Geneva, Lake of, 37 Gentinetta, A., 8 Gentinetta, E., 206 Gestola, 99 Glace, Mer de, 8 Glarus, Canton, 277 Gohna Lake, 277 Grass, Hans, 55 Greenwood, Mr Eric, 154 Grogan, Mr, 302 Grove, F. Craufurd, 2 Gurkhas, 59 H Habl, Herr Emil, 292 Hardy, Mr, 164 Hartley, Mr E. T., 166 Hill, Mr, 167 Himalayas, 58, 275 Hochjoch Haus, 261 Hohberghorn, 52 Hörnli, 9 Horrocks, D. P., 204 I Imboden, Joseph, 52, 165, 195 Imboden, Roman, 195 Imseng, Ferdinand, 202, 267 Innsbruck, 60 Interlaken, 221 J Jones, Mr Glynne, 167 Julen, Edouard, 206 Julen, Felix, 302 Jungfrau, 55, 210 Jungfrau Hut, 209 K Kaiserbrunn, 292 Kennedy, Dr, 164, 222 King, Sir H. S., 208 Koenig, Herr, 138 Kubli, Herr Oswald, 281 Kurzras, 261 L La Bérarde, 11, 245 La Grave, 11 Langtauferer Glacier, 262 Lapland, 306 Lausanne, 37 Lucerne, 301 Lyons, 298 M Maggiore, Lago, 301 Maithana Hill, fall of, 275 Maquignaz, 21 Maritime Alps, 305 Martino, St, 182 Matthews, Mr E. C., 211 Matterhorn, 8, 21, 248, 302 Maund, Mr, 11 Maund, Mrs, 11 Maurer, 11, 116 Meije, 12, 248 Meije, Brèche de la, 12, 228 Middlemore, Mr, 11 Midi, Aiguille du, 126 Mischabel group, 301 Monand, Mons. J., 306 Mönch, 124 Montanvert, 8 Moore, Mr A. W., 124, 222, 235 "Moseley's Platte," 302 Mouvoison, 142 Mueller Valley, 4 Mummery, Mr, 23, 58 Mürren, 208 Müsli, 280 Mussa, Cantina della, 300 N Nant Francon, 319 Nantillons Glacier, 24 Neyssel, Mons. Antoine, 306 Noir, Glacier, 245 O Oetzthal, 261 Offerer, J., 136 Ossoue, Valley of, 261 P Palü, Piz, 55 Passingham, Mr, 202 Packe, Mr C., 259 Pelvoux, 245 Pelvoux, Crête du, 245 Perren, H., 138 Perren, P., 204 Pilatte, Col de la, 222 Plan, Aiguille du, 23 Plattenbergkopf, 277 Pourri, Mont, 267 Powell, Captain, 116, 123 Pyrenees, 259 R Rax, the, 291 Renaud, Mons., 223 Rey, Emil, 8 Rhyner, Fridolin, 287 Rhyner, Meinrad, 280 Richardson, Miss, 165 Rocca Venoni, 300 Roccia, Family of, 68 Roche Melon, 264 Rocky Mountains, 133 Rodier, 11 Rosetta, 182 Rothhorn, Zinal, 195 S Saas, Valley of, 301 Sahrbach, 134 Schäffer, Dr, 136 Schildthorn, 257 Schuster, Mr, 162 Schwarzsee Hotel, 10 Sefton, Mount, 4 Seiler, Herr, 145, 162 Seiler, D. H., 301 Sernf Valley, 277 Silberhorn, 208 Skagastöldstind, 140 Ski accident, 137 Slingsby, Mr Cecil, 23, 140, 152 Sloggett, Mr, 8 Smith, Mr Haskett-, 158 Solly, Mr, 156 Somis, Ignazio, 65 Sospello, 306 Spechtenhauser, 261 Spelterini, Captain, 301 Spender, Mr H., 167 Strahlplatten, 209 Stock, Mr E. E., 302 Stockje, 156 Supersax, Ambrose, 209 Susa, 265 T Tavernaro, 183 Tetnuld Tau, 99 Tönsberg, 141 Trift Valley, 195 Tuckett, Mr F., 55, 264 Tuckett Glacier, 5 Turin, 298 U Uschba, 115 V Vallon, Glacier du, 245 Vallot Hut, 153 Valtournanche, 21 Ventina Glacier, 316 Vignemale, 260 Viso, Monte, 269 Vuignier, Jean, 168 W Walker, Mr, 223, 235 Walker, Mr Horace, 126 Wandfluh, 166, 179 Watson, Mr and Mrs, 257 Weisshorn, 248 Weisskugel, 261 Weissmies, 301 Wengern Alp, 124, 210 Willink, Mr, 123 Wildlahner Glacier, 136 Wolfsthal, 292 Woolley, Mr H., 116 Whymper, Mr E., 222, 235 Wyss, Schoolmaster, 280 Z Zentner, Kaspar, 287 Zermatt, 10, 51, 139, 181, 301 Zmutt Glacier, 166, 179 Zurbriggen, 3, 59 Zurbriggen, Clemens, 168 Zurbrücken, Louis, 209 Zurmatter, 302 PRINTED AT THE EDINBURGH PRESS, 9 AND 11 YOUNG STREET FOOTNOTES: [1] These are now known as Mummery nails, and are often used by climbers. [2] _True Tales of Mountain Adventure_, pp. 42 and 43. [3] Or, in modern phraseology, "avalanches." [4] Mountain aneroids generally overstate the heights. The height of Gestola is now computed at 15,932 feet, and that of Tetnuld at 15,918 feet. [5] "Good God! The Sleeping-place!" [6] "I am still living." [7] _Above the Snow Line_, by Clinton Dent. [8] _True Tales of Mountain Adventure_, p. 269. [9] _True Tales of Mountain Adventure_, p. 134. [10] At the moment of going to press, I must note a fatal accident on the mountains due to lightning, namely, the death of the guide, Joseph Simond, on the Dent du Géant. This I had overlooked. [11] See _True Tales of Mountain Adventure_. [12] "Ah! That is really wonderfully beautiful!" [13] All details connected with this avalanche were collected on the spot, and shortly afterwards published in a volume, _Der Bergsturz von Elm_, by E. Buss and A. Heim. Zürich, 1881. * * * * * Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: The baloon "Stella"=> The balloon "Stella" {pg xiv} sufficient to carry of the=> sufficient to carry off the {pg 82} Kaisserbrunn, 292=> Kaiserbrunn, 292 {index} 
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See http://www.archive.org/details/carthatwentabroa00painuoft THE CAR THAT WENT ABROAD * * * * * BOOKS BY ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE _For Grown-ups_ THE CAR THAT WENT ABROAD THE LURE OF THE MEDITERRANEAN DWELLERS IN ARCADY FROM VAN-DWELLER TO COMMUTER MOMENTS WITH MARK TWAIN MARK TWAIN'S LETTERS MARK TWAIN: A BIOGRAPHY PEANUT: THE STORY OF A BOY SHORT LIFE OF MARK TWAIN LIFE OF THOMAS NAST THE TENT-DWELLERS _For Young Readers_ THE BOYS' LIFE OF MARK TWAIN HOLLOW TREE NIGHTS AND DAYS THE HOLLOW TREE AND DEEP-WOODS BOOK THE HOLLOW TREE SNOWED-IN BOOK _Small books of several stories each, selected from the above Hollow Tree books:_ HOW MR. DOG GOT EVEN HOW MR. RABBIT LOST HIS TAIL MR. RABBIT'S BIG DINNER MAKING UP WITH MR. DOG MR. 'POSSUM'S GREAT BALLOON TRIP MR RABBIT'S WEDDING MR. CROW AND THE WHITEWASH MR. TURTLE'S FLYING ADVENTURE WHEN JACK RABBIT WAS A LITTLE BOY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK ESTABLISHED 1817 * * * * * [Illustration: "THE NORMANDY ROAD TO CHERBOURG IS AS WONDERFUL AS ANY IN FRANCE"--See p. 226] THE CAR THAT WENT ABROAD Motoring Through the Golden Age by ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE Author of "Dwellers in Arcady," "The Ship Dwellers," etc. Illustrated from drawings by Walter Hale [Illustration] Harper & Brothers Publishers New York and London Copyright, 1921, by Harper & Brothers CONTENTS Part I THE CAR THAT WENT ABROAD CHAPTER PAGE I. DON'T HURRY THROUGH MARSEILLES 3 II. MOTORING BY TRAM 9 III. ACROSS THE CRAU 19 IV. MISTRAL 27 V. THE ROME OF FRANCE 30 VI. THE WAY THROUGH EDEN 40 VII. TO TARASCON AND BEAUCAIRE 43 VIII. GLIMPSES OF THE PAST 48 IX. IN THE CITADEL OF FAITH 52 X. AN OLD TRADITION AND A NEW EXPERIENCE 58 XI. WAYSIDE ADVENTURES 65 XII. THE LOST NAPOLEON 72 XIII. THE HOUSE OF HEADS 79 XIV. INTO THE HILLS 85 XV. UP THE ISÈRE 89 XVI. INTO THE HAUTE-SAVOIE 94 XVII. SOME SWISS IMPRESSIONS 101 XVIII. THE LITTLE TOWN OF VEVEY 113 XIX. MASHING A MUD GUARD 123 XX. JUST FRENCH--THAT'S ALL 127 XXI. WE LUGE 131 Part II MOTORING THROUGH THE GOLDEN AGE I. THE NEW PLAN 143 II. THE NEW START 146 III. INTO THE JURAS 151 IV. A POEM IN ARCHITECTURE 160 V. VIENNE IN THE RAIN 164 VI. THE CHÂTEAU I DID NOT RENT 168 VII. AN HOUR AT ORANGE 172 VIII. THE ROAD TO PONT DU GARD 178 IX. THE LUXURY OF NÎMES 182 X. THROUGH THE CÉVENNES 186 XI. INTO THE AUVERGNE 193 XII. LE PUY 196 XIII. THE CENTER OF FRANCE 200 XIV. BETWEEN BILLY AND BESSEY 205 XV. THE HAUTE-LOIRE 209 XVI. NEARING PARIS 213 XVII. SUMMING UP THE COST 219 XVIII. THE ROAD TO CHERBOURG 223 XIX. BAYEUX, CAEN, AND ROUEN 228 XX. WE COME TO GRIEF 234 XXI. THE DAMAGE REPAIRED--BEAUVAIS AND COMPIÈGNE 238 XXII. FROM PARIS TO CHARTRES AND CHÂTEAUDUN 244 XXIII. WE REACH TOURS 250 XXIV. CHINON, WHERE JOAN MET THE KING, AND AZAY 255 XXV. TOURS 260 XXVI. CHENONCEAUX AND AMBOISE 264 XXVII. CHAMBORD AND CLÉRY 271 XXVIII. ORLÉANS 278 XXIX. FONTAINEBLEAU 283 XXX. RHEIMS 288 XXXI. ALONG THE MARNE 295 XXXII. DOMREMY 299 XXXIII. STRASSBURG AND THE BLACK FOREST 306 XXXIV. A LAND WHERE STORKS LIVE 313 XXXV. BACK TO VEVEY 316 XXXVI. THE GREAT UPHEAVAL 320 XXXVII. THE LONG TRAIL ENDS 336 ILLUSTRATIONS "THE NORMANDY ROAD TO CHERBOURG IS AS WONDERFUL AS ANY IN FRANCE" _Frontispiece_ "WHERE ROADS BRANCH OR CROSS THERE ARE SIGNBOARDS.... YOU CAN'T ASK A MAN 'QUEL EST LE CHEMIN' FOR ANYWHERE WHEN YOU ARE IN FRONT OF A SIGNBOARD WHICH IS SHOUTING THE INFORMATION" _Facing p._ 46 MARK TWAIN'S "LOST NAPOLEON"--"THE COLOSSAL SLEEPING FIGURE IN ITS SUPREME REPOSE" 80 MARCHÉ VEVEY--"IN EACH TOWN THERE IS AN OPEN SQUARE, WHICH TWICE A WEEK IS PICTURESQUELY CROWDED" 108 "YOU CAN SEE SON LOUP FROM THE HOTEL STEPS IN VEVEY, BUT IT TAKES HOURS TO GET TO IT" 134 DESCENDING THE JURAS 162 THE TOMB OF MARGARET OF AUSTRIA, CHURCH OF BROU 162 "THROUGH HILLSIDE VILLAGES WHERE NEVER A STONE HAD BEEN MOVED, I THINK, IN CENTURIES" 214 BIRTHPLACE OF JOAN OF ARC 308 STRASSBURG, SHOWING THE CATHEDRAL 308 PREFACE FELLOW-WANDERER: The curtain that so long darkened many of the world's happy places is lifted at last. Quaint villages, old cities, rolling hills, and velvet valleys once more beckon to the traveler. The chapters that follow tell the story of a small family who went gypsying through that golden age before the war when the tree-lined highways of France, the cherry-blossom roads of the Black Forest, and the high trails of Switzerland offered welcome to the motor nomad. The impressions set down, while the colors were fresh and warm with life, are offered now to those who will give a thought to that time and perhaps go happily wandering through the new age whose dawn is here. A. B. P. _June, 1921._ Part I THE CAR THAT WENT ABROAD Chapter I DON'T HURRY THROUGH MARSEILLES Originally I began this story with a number of instructive chapters on shipping an automobile, and I followed with certain others full of pertinent comment on ocean travel in a day when all the seas were as a great pleasure pond. They were very good chapters, and I hated to part with them, but my publisher had quite positive views on the matter. He said those chapters were about as valuable now as June leaves are in November, so I swept them aside in the same sad way that one disposes of the autumn drift and said I would start with Marseilles, where, after fourteen days of quiet sailing, we landed with our car one late August afternoon. Most travelers pass through Marseilles hastily--too hastily, it may be, for their profit. It has taken some thousands of years to build the "Pearl of the Mediterranean," and to walk up and down the rue Cannebière and drink coffee and fancy-colored liquids at little tables on the sidewalk, interesting and delightful as that may be, is not to become acquainted with the "pearl"--not in any large sense. We had a very good and practical reason for not hurrying through Marseilles. It would require a week or more to get our car through the customs and obtain the necessary licenses and memberships for inland travel. Meantime we would do some sight-seeing. We would begin immediately. Besides facing the Old Port (the ancient harbor) our hotel looked on the end of the Cannebière, which starts at the Quai and extends, as the phrase goes, "as far as India," meaning that the nations of the East as well as those of the West mingle there. We understood the saying as soon as we got into the kaleidoscope. We were rather sober-hued bits ourselves, but there were plenty of the other sort. It was the end of August, and Marseilles is a semi-tropic port. There were plenty of white costumes, of both men and women, and sprinkled among them the red fezzes and embroidered coats and sashes of Algiers, Morocco, and the Farther East. And there were ladies in filmy things, with bright hats and parasols; and soldiers in uniforms of red and blue, while the wide pavements of that dazzling street were literally covered with little tables, almost to the edges. And all those gay people who were not walking up and down, chatting and laughing, were seated at the little tables with red and green and yellow drinks before them and pitchers of ice or tiny cups of coffee, and all the seated people were laughing and chattering, too, or reading papers and smoking, and nobody seemed to have a sorrow or a care in the world. It was really an inspiring sight, after the long, quiet days on the ship, and we loitered to enjoy it. It was very busy around us. Tramcars jangled, motors honked, truckmen and cabmen cracked their whips incessantly. Newswomen, their aprons full of long pockets stuffed with papers, offered us journals in phrases that I did not recognize as being in my French phonograph; cabmen hailed us in more or less English and wanted to drive us somewhere; flower sellers' booths lined both sides of a short street, and pretty girls held up nosegays for us to see. Now and then a beggar put out a hand. The pretty drinks and certain ices we saw made us covetous for them, but we had not yet the courage to mingle with those gay people and try our new machine-made French right there before everybody. So we slipped into a dainty place--a _pâtisserie boulangerie_--and ordered coffee and chocolate ice cream, and after long explanations on both sides got iced coffee and hot chocolate, which was doing rather well, we thought, for the first time, and, anyhow, it was quite delicious and served by a pretty girl whose French was so limpid that one could make himself believe he understood it, because it was pure music, which is not a matter of arbitrary syllables at all. We came out and blended with the panaroma once more. It was all so entirely French, I said; no suggestion of America anywhere. But Narcissa, aged fifteen, just then pointed to a flaming handbill over the entrance of a cinematograph show. The poster was foreign, too, in its phrasing, but the title, "_L'aventures d'Arizona Bill_" certainly had a flavor of home. The Joy, who was ten, was for going in and putting other things by, but we overruled her. Other signs attracted us--the window cards and announcements were easy lessons in French and always interesting. By and by bouquets of lights breaking out along the streets reminded us that it was evening and that we were hungry. There were plenty of hotels, including our own, but the dining rooms looked big and warm and expensive and we were dusty and economical and already warm enough. We would stop at some open-air place, we said, and have something dainty and modest and not heating to the blood. We thought it would be easy to find such a place, for there were perfect seas of sidewalk tables, thronged with people, who at first glance seemed to be dining. But we discovered that they were only drinking, as before, and perhaps nibbling at little cakes or rolls. When we made timid and rudimentary inquiries of the busy waiters, they pointed toward the hotels or explained things in words so glued together we could not sort them out. How different it all was from New York, we said. Narcissa openly sighed to be back on "old rue de Broadway," where there were restaurants big and little every twenty steps. We wandered into side streets and by and by found an open place with a tiny green inclosure, where a few people certainly seemed to be eating. We were not entirely satisfied with the look of the patrons, but they were orderly, and some of them of good appearance. The little tables had neat white cloths on them, and the glassware shone brightly in the electric glow. So we took a corner position and studied the rather elaborate and obscure bill of fare. It was written, and the few things we could decipher did not seem cheap. We had heard about food being reasonable in France, but single portions of fish or cutlets at ".45" and broiled chicken at "1.20" could hardly be called cheap in this retired and unpretentious corner. One might as well be in a better place--in New York. We wondered how these unfashionable people about us could look so contented and afford to order such liberal supplies. Then suddenly a great light came. The price amounts were not in dollars and cents, but in francs and centimes. The decimals were the same, only you divided by five to get American values. There is ever so much difference.[1] The bill of fare suddenly took on a halo. It became almost unbelievable. We were tempted to go--it was too cheap to be decent. But we were weary and hungry, and we stayed. Later we were glad. We had those things which the French make so well, no matter how humble the place--"_pot au feu, bouillabaisse_" (the fish soup which is the pride of Marseilles--our first introduction to it), lamb chops, a crisp salad, Gruyère cheese, with a pint of red wine; and we paid--I try to blush when I tell it--a total for our four of less than five francs--that is to say, something under a dollar, including the tip, which was certainly large enough, if one could judge from the lavish acknowledgment of the busy person who served us. We lingered while I smoked, observing some curious things. The place filled up with a democratic crowd, including, as it did, what were evidently well-to-do tradesmen and their families, clerks with their young wives or sweethearts, single derelicts of both sexes, soldiers, even workmen in blouses. Many of them seemed to be regular customers, for they greeted the waiters and chatted with them during the serving. Then we discovered a peculiar proof that these were in fact steady patrons. In the inner restaurant were rows of hooks along the walls, and at the corners some racks with other hooks. Upon these were hanging, not hats or garments, but dozens of knotted white cloths which we discovered presently to be table napkins, large white serviettes like our own. While we were trying to make out why they should be variously knotted and hung about in that way a man and woman went in and, after a brief survey of the hooks, took down two of the napkins and carried them to a table. We understood then. The bill of fare stated that napkins were charged for at the rate of five centimes (one cent) each. These were individual leaseholdings, as it were, of those who came regularly--a fine example of French economy. We did not hang up our napkins when we went away. We might not come back, and, besides, there were no empty hooks. FOOTNOTES: [1] The old rates of exchange are used in this book. Chapter II MOTORING BY TRAM A little book says: "Thanks to a unique system of tramways, Marseilles may be visited rapidly and without fatigue." They do not know the word "trolley" in Europe, and "tramway" is not a French word, but the French have adopted it, even with its "w," a letter not in their alphabet. The Marseilles trams did seem to run everywhere, and they were cheap. Ten centimes (two cents) was the fare for each "zone" or division, and a division long enough for the average passenger. Being sight-seers, we generally paid more than once, but even so the aggregate was modest enough. The circular trip around the Corniche, or shore, road has four of these divisions, with a special rate for the trip, which is very long and very beautiful. We took the Corniche trip toward evening for the sake of the sunset. The tram starts at the rue de Rome and winds through the city first, across shaded courts, along streets of varying widths (some of them so old and ever so foreign, but always clean), past beautiful public buildings always with deep open spaces or broad streets in front of them, for the French do not hide their fine public architectures and monuments, but plant them as a landscape gardener plants his trellises and trees. Then all at once we were at the shore--the Mediterranean no longer blue, but crimson and gold with evening, the sun still drifting, as it seemed, among the harbor islands--the towers of Château d'If outlined on the sky. On one side the sea, breaking against the rocks and beaches, washing into little sheltered bays--on the other the abrupt or terraced cliff, with fair villas set in gardens of palm and mimosa and the rose trees of the south. Here and there among the villas were palace-like hotels, with wide balconies that overlooked the sea, and down along the shore were tea houses and restaurants where one could sit at little tables on pretty terraces just above the water's edge. So we left the tram at the end of a zone and made our way down to one of those places, and sat in a little garden and had fish, freshly caught, and a cutlet, and some ripe grapes, and such things; and we watched the sun set, and stayed until the dark came and the Corniche shore turned into a necklace of twinkling lights. Then the tram carried us still farther, and back into the city at last, by way of the Prado, a broad residential avenue, with trees rising dark on either side. At the end of a week in Marseilles we had learned a number of things--made some observations--drawn some conclusions. It is a very old city--old when the Greeks settled there twenty-five hundred years ago--but it has been ravaged and rebuilt too often through the ages for any of its original antiquity to remain. Some of the buildings have stood five or six hundred years, perhaps, and are quaint and interesting, with their queer roofs and moldering walls which have known siege and battle and have seen men in gaudy trappings and armor go clanking by, stopping to let their horses drink at the scarred fountains where to-day women wash their vegetables and their clothing. We were glad to have looked on those ancient relics, for they, too, would soon be gone. The spirit of great building and progress is abroad in Marseilles--the old clusters of houses will come down--the hoary fountains worn smooth by the hands of women and the noses of thirsty beasts will be replaced by new ones--fine and beautiful, for the French build always for art, let the race for commercial supremacy be ever so swift. Fifty or one hundred years from now it will be as hard to find one of these landmarks as it is to-day relics of the Greek and Roman times, and of the latter we found none at all. Tradition has it that Lazarus and his family came to Marseilles after his resuscitation, but the house he occupied is not shown. Indeed, there is probably not a thing above ground that Lucian the Greek saw when he lived here in the second century. The harbor he sailed into remains. Its borders have changed, but it is the same inclosed port that sheltered those early galleys and triremes of commerce and of war. We looked down upon it from our balcony, and sometimes in the dim morning, or in the first dusk of evening when its sails were idle and its docks deserted, it seemed still to have something of the past about it, something that was not quite reality. Certain of its craft were old in fashion and quaint in form, and if even one trireme had lain at anchor there, or had come drifting in, we might easily have fancied this to be the port that somewhere is said to harbor the missing ships. It is a busy place by day. Its quays are full of trucks and trams and teams, and a great traffic going on. Lucian would hardly recognize any of it at all. The noise would appall him, the smoking steamers would terrify him, the _transbordeur_--an aërial bridge suspended between two Eiffel towers, with a hanging car that travels back and forth like a cash railway--would set him praying to the gods. Possibly the fishwives, sorting out sea food and bait under little awnings, might strike him as more or less familiar. At least he would recognize their occupation. They were strung along the east quay, and I had never dreamed that the sea contained so many strange things to eat as they carried in stock. They had oysters and clams, and several varieties of mussels, and some things that looked like tide-worn lumps of terra cotta, and other things that resembled nothing else under heaven, so that words have not been invented to describe them. Then they had _oursins_. I don't know whether an _oursin_ is a bivalve or not. It does not look like one. The word "_oursin_" means hedgehog, but this _oursin_ looked a great deal more like an old, black, sea-soaked chestnut bur--that is, before they opened it. When the _oursin_ is split open-- But I cannot describe an opened _oursin_ and preserve the proprieties. It is too--physiological. And the Marseillais eat those things--eat them raw! Narcissa and I, who had rather more limb and wind than the others, wandered along the quay a good deal, and often stood spellbound watching this performance. Once we saw two women having some of them for early breakfast with a bottle of wine--fancy! By the way, we finally discovered the restaurants in Marseilles. At first we thought that the Marseillais never ate in public, but only drank. This was premature. There are restaurant districts. The rue Colbert is one of them. The quay is another, and of the restaurants in that precinct there is one that no traveler should miss. It is Pascal's, established a hundred years ago, and descended from father to son to the present moment. Pascal's is famous for its fish, and especially for its _bouillabaisse_. If I were to be in Marseilles only a brief time, I might be willing to miss the Palais Longchamps or a cathedral or two, but not Pascal's and _bouillabaisse_. It is a glorified fish chowder. I will say no more than that, for I should only dull its bloom. I started to write a poem on it. It began: Oh, bouillabaisse, I sing thy praise. But Narcissa said that the rhyme was bad, and I gave it up. Besides, I remembered that Thackeray had written a poem on the same subject. One must go early to get a seat at Pascal's. There are rooms and rooms, and waiters hurrying about, and you must give your order, or point at the bill of fare, without much delay. Sea food is the thing, and it comes hot and delicious, and at the end you can have melon--from paradise, I suppose, for it is pure nectar--a kind of liquid cantaloupe such as I have seen nowhere else in this world.[2] You have wine if you want it, at a franc a bottle, and when you are through you have spent about half a dollar for everything and feel that life is a song and the future made of peace. There came moments after we found Pascal's when, like the lotus eaters, we felt moved to say: "We will roam no more. This at last is the port where dreams come true." Our motor clearance required a full ten days, but we did not regret the time. We made some further trips by tram, and one by water--to Château d'If, on the little ferry that runs every hour or so to that historic island fortress. To many persons Château d'If is a semi-mythical island prison from which, in Dumas' novel, Edmond Dantes escapes to become the Count of Monte Cristo, with fabulous wealth and an avenging sword. But it is real enough; a prison fortress which crowns a barren rock, twenty minutes from the harbor entrance, in plain view from the Corniche road. François I laid its corner stone in 1524 and construction continued during the next seventy years. It is a place of grim, stubby towers, with an inner court opening to the cells--two ranges of them, one above the other. The furniture of the court is a stone stairway and a well. Château d'If is about as solid and enduring as the rock it stands on, and it is not the kind of place one would expect to go away from alive, if he were invited there for permanent residence. There appears to be no record of any escapes except that of Edmond Dantes, which is in a novel. When prisoners left that island it was by consent of the authorities. I am not saying that Dumas invented his story. In fact, I insist on believing it. I am only saying that it was a remarkable exception to the general habit of the guests in Château d'If. Of course it happened, for we saw cell B where Dantes was confined, a rayless place; also cell A adjoining, where the Abbé Faria was, and even the hole between, through which the Abbé counseled Dantes and confided the secret of the treasure that would make Dantes the master of the world. All of the cells have tablets at their entrances bearing the names of their most notable occupants, and that of Edmond Dantes is prominently displayed. It was good enough evidence for us. Those cells are on the lower level, and are merely black, damp holes, without windows, and with no floors except the unleveled surface of the rock. Prisoners were expected to die there and they generally did it with little delay. One Bernadot, a rich Marseilles merchant, starved himself, and so found release at the end of the twelfth day; but another, a sailor named Jean Paul, survived in that horrible darkness for thirty-one years. His crime was striking his commander. Many of the offenses were even more trifling; the mere utterance of a word offensive to some one in power was enough to secure lodging in Château d'If. It was even dangerous to have a pretty daughter or wife that a person of influence coveted. Château d'If had an open door for husbands and fathers not inclined to be reasonable in such matters. The second-story prisons are larger and lighter, but hardly less interesting. In No. 5 Count Mirabeau lodged for nearly a year, by suggestion of his father, who did not approve of his son's wild ways and thought Château d'If would tame him. But Mirabeau put in his time writing an essay on despotism and planning revolution. Later, one of the neighboring apartments, No. 7, a large one, became the seat of the _tribunal révolutionnaire_ which condemned there sixty-six to the guillotine. Many notables were sent to Château d'If on the charge of disloyalty to the sovereign. In one of the larger cells two brothers were imprisoned for having shared the exile of one Chevalier Glendèves who was obliged to flee from France because he refused to go down on his knees to Louis XIV. Royalty itself has enjoyed the hospitality of Château d'If. Louis Philippe of Orléans occupied the same large apartment later, which is really quite a grand one for a prison, with a fireplace and space to move about. Another commodious room on this floor was for a time the home of the mysterious Man of the Iron Mask. These are but a few--one can only touch on the more interesting names. "Dead after ten years of captivity"; "Dead after sixteen years of captivity"; such memoranda close many of the records. Some of the prisoners were released at last, racked with disease and enfeebled in mind. Some went forth to the block, perhaps willingly enough. It is not a place in which one wishes to linger. You walk a little way into the blackest of the dungeons, stumbling over the rocks of the damp, unleveled floor, and hurry out. You hesitate a moment in the larger, lighter cells and try to picture a king there, and the Iron Mask; you try to imagine the weird figure of Mirabeau raging and writing, and then, a step away, the grim tribunal sorting from the nobility of France material for the guillotine. It is the kind of thing you cannot make seem real. You can see a picture, but it is always away somewhere--never quite there, in the very place. Outside it was sunny, the sea blue, the cliffs high and sharp, with water always breaking and foaming at their feet. The Joy insisted on being shown the exact place where Dantes was flung over, but I was afraid to try to find it. I was afraid that there would be no place where he could be flung into the water without hitting the sharp rocks below, and that would end the story before he got the treasure. I said it was probably on the other side of the island, and besides it was getting late. We sailed home in the evening light, this time into the ancient harbor, and landed about where Lucian used to land, I should think, such a long time ago. It was our last night in Marseilles. We had been there a full ten days, altogether, and time had not hung upon our hands. We would still have lingered, but there was no longer an excuse. Even the car could not furnish one. Released from its prison, refreshed with a few liters of gasoline--_essence_, they call it--and awakened with a gentle hitch or two of the crank, it began its sweet old murmur, just as if it had not been across some thousands of miles of tossing water. Then, the clutch released, it slipped noiselessly out of the docks, through the narrow streets, to a garage, where it acquired its new numbers and a bath, and maybe a French lesson or two, so that to-morrow it might carry us farther into France. FOOTNOTES: [2] Our honey-dew melon is a mild approach to it. Chapter III ACROSS THE CRAU There are at least two ways to leave Marseilles for the open plain of the Provence, and we had hardly started before I wished I had chosen the other one. We were climbing the rue de la République, or one of its connections, when we met, coming down on the wrong side of the tram line, one of the heaviest vehicles in France, loaded with iron castings. It was a fairly crowded street, too, and I hesitated a moment too long in deciding to switch to the wrong side, myself, and so sneak around the obstruction. In that moment the monstrous thing decided to cross to its own side of the road, which seemed to solve the problem. I brought the car to a standstill to wait. But that was another mistake; I should have backed. The obstruction refused to cross the tram track. Evidently the rails were slippery and when the enormous wheels met the iron they slipped--slipped toward us--ponderously, slowly, as inevitable as doomsday. I was willing to back then, but when I shifted the lever I forgot something else and our engine stopped. There was not enough gravity to carry us back without it; neither was there room, or time, to crank.[3] So there we were, with that mountain closing in upon us like a wall of Poe's collapsing room. It was fascinating. I don't think one of us thought of jumping out and leaving the car to its fate. The truck driver was frantically urging his team forward, hoping the wheels would catch, but only making them slide a little quicker in our direction. They were six inches away, now--five inches--three inches--one inch--the end of the hub was touching our mud guard. What we _might_ have done then--what _might_ have happened remains guesswork. What did happen was that the huge steel tire reached a joint in the tram rail and unhurriedly lifted itself over, just as if that was what it had been intending to do all the time. I had strength enough left to get out and crank up, then, but none to spare. A little more paint off the front end of the mud guard, but that was nothing. I had whetted those guards on a variety of things, including a cow, in my time. At home I had a real passion for scraping them against the door casing of the garage, backing out. Still, we were pretty thoughtful for several miles and missed a road that turns off to Arles, and were on the way to Aix, which we had already visited by tram. Never mind; Aix was on the way to Arles, too, and when all the roads are good roads a few miles of motor travel more or less do not count. Only it is such a dusty way to Aix, and we were anxious to get into the cleaner and more inviting byways. We were at the outskirts, presently, and when we saw a military-looking gentleman standing before a little house marked "_L'Octroi_" we stopped. I had learned enough French to know that _l'octroi_ means a local custom house, and it is not considered good form to pass one of them unnoticed. It hurts the _l'octroi_ man's feelings and he is backed by the _gendarmerie_ of France. He will let you pass, and then in his sorrow he will telephone to the police station, just ahead. There you will be stopped with a bayonet, or a club, or something, and brought back to the _l'octroi_, where you will pay an _amend_ of six francs; also costs; also for the revenue stamp attached to your bill of particulars; also for any little thing which you may happen to have upon which duty may be levied; also for other things; and you will stand facing a half-open cell at the end of the corridor while your account is being made up--all of which things happened to a friend of mine who thought that because an _octroi_ man looked sleepy he was partly dead. Being warned in this way, we said we would stop for an _octroi_ man even if he were entirely dead; so we pulled up and nodded politely, and smiled, and said, "Bon joor, messoor," and waited his pleasure. You never saw a politer man. He made a sweeping salute and said--well, it doesn't matter just what he said--I took it to be complimentary and Narcissa thought it was something about vegetables. Whatever it was, we all smiled again, while he merely glanced in the car fore and aft, gave another fine salute and said, "_Allay_" whereupon we understood, and _allayed_, with counter-salutes and further smiles--all of which seemed pleasanter than to be brought back by a _gendarme_ and stood up in front of a cell during the reckoning process. Inquiring in Aix for the road to Arles we made a discovery, to wit: they do not always pronounce it "Arl" in the French way, but "Arlah," which is Provençal, I suppose, the remains of the old name "Arlate." One young man did not seem even to recognize the name Arles, though curiously it happened that he spoke English--enough, at least, to direct us when he found that it was his Provençal "Arlah" that we wanted. So we left Aix behind us, and with it the dust, the trams, and about the last traces of those modern innovations which make life so comfortable when you need them and so unpeaceful when you prefer something else. The one great modern innovation which bore us silently along those level roads fell into the cosmic rhythm without a jar--becoming, as it seemed, a sort of superhuman activity, such as we shall know, perhaps, when we get our lost wings again. I don't know whether Provence roads are modern or not. I suspect they were begun by the Roman armies a good while ago; but in any case they are not neglected now. They are boulevards--no, not exactly that, for the word "boulevard" suggests great width. They are avenues, then, ample as to width, and smooth and hard, and planted on both sides with exactly spaced and carefully kept trees. Leaving Aix, we entered one of these highways running straight into the open country. Naturally we did not expect it to continue far, not in that perfectly ordered fashion, but when with mile after mile it varied only to become more beautiful, we were filled with wonder. The country was not thickly settled; the road was sparsely traveled. Now and then we passed a heavy team drawing a load of hay or grain or wine barrels, and occasionally, very occasionally, we saw an automobile. It was a fair, fertile land at first. There were rich, sloping fields, vineyards, olive gardens, and plumy poplars; also, an occasional stone farmhouse that looked ancient and mossy and picturesque, and made us wish we could know something of the life inside its heavy walls. We said that sometime we would stop at such a place and ask them to take us in for the night. Now and then we passed through a village, where the streets became narrow and winding, and were not specially clean. They were interesting places enough, for they were old and queer, but they did not invite us to linger. They were neither older nor more queer than corners of Marseilles we had seen. Once we saw a kind of fair going on and the people in holiday dress. At Salon, a still larger and cleaner place, we stopped to buy something for our wayside luncheon. Near the corner of a little shaded square a man was selling those delectable melons such as we had eaten in Marseilles; at a shop across the way was a window full of attractions--little cheeses, preserved meats, and the like. I gathered up an assortment, then went into a _boulangerie_ for bread. There was another customer ahead of me, and I learned something, watching his transaction. Bread, it seemed, was not sold by the loaf there, but by exact weight. The man said some words and the woman who waited on him laid two loaves, each about a yard long, on the scales. Evidently they exceeded his order, for she cut off a foot or so from one loaf. Still the weight was too much, and she cut off a slice. He took what was left, laid down his money, and walked out. I had a feeling that the end and slice would lie around and get shopworn if I did not take them. I pointed at them, and she put them on the scales. Then I laid down a franc, and she gave me half a gill of copper change. It made the family envious when they saw how exactly I had transacted my purchase. There is nothing like knowing the language. We pushed on into the country again, stopped in a shady, green place, and picnicked on those good things for which we had spent nearly four francs. There were some things left over, too; we could have done without the extra slice of bread. There were always mountains in view, but where we were the land had become a level plain, once, ages ago, washed by the sea. We realized this when the fertile expanse became, little by little, a barren--a mere waste, at length, of flat smooth stones like cobble, a floor left by the departing tides. "La Crau" it is called, and here there were no homes. No harvest could grow in that land--nothing but a little tough grass, and the artificially set trees on either side of the perfectly smooth, perfectly straight road that kept on and on, mile after mile, until it seemed that it must be a band around the world. How can they afford to maintain such a road through that sterile land? The sun was dropping to the western horizon, but we did not hurry. I set the throttle to a point where the speedometer registered fifteen miles an hour. So level was the road that the figures on the dial seemed fixed there. There was nothing to see but the unbroken barren, the perfectly regular rows of sycamore or cypress, and the evening sky; yet I have seldom known a drive more inspiring. Steadily, unvaryingly, and silently heading straight into the sunset, we seemed somehow a part of the planetary system, little brother to the stars. It was dusk when we reached the outskirts of Arles and stopped to light the lamps. The wide street led us into the business region, and we hoped it might carry us to the hotels. But this was too much to expect in an old French, Provençal, Roman city. Pausing, we pronounced the word "hotel," and were directed toward narrower and darker ways. We had entered one of these when a man stepped out of the shadow and took charge of us. I concluded that we were arrested then, and probably would not need a hotel. But he also said "hotel," and, stepping on the running-board, pointed, while I steered, under his direction. I have no idea as to the way we went, but we came out into a semi-lighted square directly in front of a most friendly-looking hostelry. Then I went in and aired some of my phonograph French, inquiring about rooms on the different _étages_ and the cost of _dîners_ and _déjeuners_, and the landlady spoke so slowly and distinctly that it made one vain of his understanding. So we unloaded, and our guide, who seemed to be an _attaché_ of the place, directed me to the garage. I gathered from some of the sounds he made that the main garage was _complet_--that is to say, full--and we were going to an annex. It was an interesting excursion, but I should have preferred to make it on foot and by daylight. We crossed the square and entered a cobbled street--no, a passage--between ancient walls, lost in the blackness above, and so close together below that I hesitated. It was a place for armored men on horseback, not for automobiles. We crept slowly through and then we came to an uphill corner that I was sure no car without a hinge in the middle could turn. But my guard--guide, I mean, signified that it could be done, and inch by inch we crawled through. The annex--it was really a stable of the Middle Ages--was at the end of the tunnel, and when we came away and left the car there I was persuaded that I should never see it again. Back at the hotel, however, it was cheerful enough. It seemed an ancient place of stone stairways and thick walls. Here and there in niches were Roman vases and fragments found during the excavations. Somewhere underneath us were said to be catacombs. Attractive things, all of them, but the dinner we had--hot, fine and French, with _vin compris_ two colors--was even more attractive to travelers who had been drinking in oxygen under the wide sky all those steady miles across the Crau. FOOTNOTES: [3] The reader is reminded that this was in a day when few cars cranked otherwise than by hand. Chapter IV MISTRAL (From my notes, September 10, 1913) Adjoining our hotel--almost a part of it, in fact, is a remnant of the ancient Roman forum of Arles. Some columns, a piece of the heavy wall, sections of lintel, pediment, and cornice still stand. It is a portion of the Corinthian entrance to what was the superb assembly place of Roman Arles. The square is called Place du Forum, and sometimes now Place Mistral--the latter name because a bronze statue of the "Homer of the Provence" has been erected there, just across from the forum entrance. Frédéric Mistral, still alive at eighty-three, is the light of the modern Provence.[4] We had begun to realize something of this when we saw his photographs and various editions of his poems in the windows of Marseilles and Aix, and handbills announcing the celebration at St. Remy of the fiftieth anniversary of Gounod's score of Mistral's great poem, "Mireille." But we did not at all realize the fullness of the Provençal reverence for "the Master," as they call him, until we reached Arles. To the Provence Mistral is a god--an Apollo--the "central sun from which other Provençal singers are as diverging rays." Whatever Mistral touches is glorified. Provençal women talk with a new grace because Mistral has sung of them. Green slopes and mossy ruins are viewed through the light of Mistral's song. A Mistral anniversary is celebrated like a Declaration of Independence or a Louisiana Purchase. They have even named a wind after him. Or perhaps he was named after the wind. Whichever way it was, the wind has taken second place and the people smile tenderly now, remembering the Master, when its name is mentioned. I believe Mistral does not sing in these later days. He does not need to. The songs he sang in youth go on singing for him, and are always young. Outside of France they are not widely known; their bloom and fragrance shrink under translation. George Meredith, writing to Janet Ross in 1861, said: "Mistral I have read. He is really a fine poet." But to Meredith the euphonies of France were not strange. And Mistral has loved the Provence. Not only has he sung of it, but he has given his labor and substance to preserve its memories. When the Academy voted him an award of three thousand francs he devoted it to the needs of his fellow poets;[5] when he was awarded the Nobel prize he forgot that he might spend it on himself, and bought and restored an old palace, and converted it into a museum for Arles. Then he devoted his time and energies to collecting Provençal relics, and to-day, with its treasures and associations, the place has become a shrine. Everything relating to the life and traditions of the Provence is there--Roman sculpture, sarcophagi, ceramics, frescoes, furnishings, implements--the place is crowded with precious things. Lately a room of honor has been devoted to the poet himself. In it are cases filled with his personal treasures; the walls are hung with illustrations used in his books. On the mantel is a fine bust of the poet, and in a handsome reliquary one finds a lock of hair, a little dress, and the cradle of the infant Mistral. In the cradle lies the manuscript of Mistral's first and greatest work, the "Mireille." The Provence has produced other noted men--among them Alphonse Daudet, who was born just over at Nîmes, and celebrated the town of Tarascon with his Tartarin. But Daudet went to Paris, which is, perhaps, a sin. The Provence is proud of Daudet, and he, too, has a statue, at Nîmes; but the Provence worships Mistral. FOOTNOTES: [4] Written in 1913. Mistral died March 24th of the following year. [5] Daudet in his _Lettres de Mon Moulin_ says: "_II y à quatre ans, lorsque l'Académie donna à l'auteur de 'Mireille' le prix de trois mille francs. Mme. Mistral [sa mère] eut une idée._ "'_Si nous faisons tapisser et plafonner ta chambre?' dit elle à son fils._ "'_Non! non!' répondit Mistral. 'Ca c'est l'argent des poëtes, on n'y touche pas._'" Chapter V THE ROME OF FRANCE There is no record of a time when there was not a city at Arles. The Rhone divides to form its delta there--loses its swiftness and becomes a smooth highway to the sea. "As at Arles, where the Rhone stagnates," wrote Dante, who probably visited the place on a journey he made to Paris. There the flat barrenness of the Crau becomes fertile slopes and watered fields. It is a place for men to congregate and it was already important when Julius Cæsar established a Roman colony and built a fleet there, after which it became still more important--finally, with its one hundred thousand inhabitants, rivaling even Marseilles. It was during those earlier years--along through the first and second centuries--that most of the great building was done, remnants of which survive to this day. Prosperity continued even into the fourth century, when the Christian Emperor Constantine established a noble palace there and contemplated making it the capital of his kingdom. But then the decline set in. In the next century or two clouds of so-called barbarians swept down from the north and east, conquering, plundering, and establishing new kingdoms. Gauls, Goths, Saracens, and Francs each had their turn at it. Following came the parlous years of the middle period. For a brief time it was an independent republic; then a monarchy. By the end of the fifteenth century it was ready to be annexed to France. Always a battle ground, raided and sacked so often that the count is lost, the wonder is that any of its ancient glories survive at all. But the Romans built well; their massive construction has withstood the wild ravage of succeeding wars, the sun and storm of millennial years. We knew little of Arles except that it was the place where there was the ruin of a Roman arena, and we expected not much from that. The Romans had occupied France and had doubtless built amusement places, but if we gave the matter any further thought it was to conclude that such provincial circus rings would be small affairs of which only a few vestiges, like those of the ruined Forum, would remain. We would visit the fragments, of course, and meantime we drifted along one side of the Place du Forum in the morning sunlight, looking in show windows to find something in picture postals to send home. What we saw at first puzzled, then astonished us. Besides the pictures of Mistral the cards were mostly of ruins--which we expected, perhaps, but not of such ruins. Why, these were not mere vestiges. Ephesus, Baalbec, Rome itself, could hardly show more impressive remains. The arena on these cards seemed hardly a ruin at all, and here were other cards which showed it occupied, filled with a vast modern audience who were watching something--clearly a bull fight, a legitimate descendant of Nero's Rome. I could not at first believe that these structures could be of Arles, but the inscriptions were not to be disputed. Then I could not wait to get to them. We did not drive. It was only a little way to the arena, they told us, and the narrow streets looked crooked and congested. It was a hot September morning, but I think we hurried. I suppose I was afraid the arena would not wait. Then all at once we were right upon it, had entered a lofty arch, climbed some stairs, and were gazing down on one of the surviving glories of a dead empire. What a structure it is! An oval 448 by 352 feet--more than half as big again as a city block; the inner oval, the arena itself,[6] 226 by 129 feet, the tiers of stone seats rising terrace above terrace to a high circle of arches which once formed the support for an enormous canvas dome. All along the terraces arches and stairways lead down to spacious recesses and the great entrance corridor. The twenty thousand spectators which this arena once held were not obliged to crowd through any one or two entrances, but could enter almost anywhere and ascend to their seats from any point of the compass. They held tickets--pieces of parchment, I suppose--and these were numbered like the seats, just as tickets are numbered to-day. Down near the ringside was the pit, or _podium_, and that was the choice place. Some of the seats there were owned, and bore the owners' names. The upper seats are wide stone steps, but comfortable enough, and solid enough to stand till judgment day. They have ranged wooden benches along some of them now, I do not see why, for they are very ugly and certainly not luxurious. They are for the entertainments--mainly bull fights--of the present; for strange, almost unbelievable as it seems, the old arena has become no mere landmark, a tradition, a monument of barbaric tastes and morals, but continues in active service to-day, its purpose the same, its morals not largely improved. It was built about the end of the first century, and in the beginning stags and wild boars were chased and put to death there. But then Roman taste improved. These were tame affairs, after all. So the arena became a prize ring in which the combatants handled one another without gloves--that is to say, with short swords--and were hacked into a mince instead of mauled into a pulp in our more refined modern way. To vary the games lions and tigers were imported and matched against the gladiators, with pleasing effect. Public taste went on improving and demanding fresh novelties. Rome was engaged just then in exterminating Christians, and the happy thought occurred to make spectacles of them by having them fight the gladiators and the wild beasts, thus combining business and pleasure in a manner which would seem to have been highly satisfactory to the public who thronged the seats and applauded and laughed, and had refreshments served, and said what a great thing Christianity was and how they hoped its converts would increase. Sometimes, when the captures were numerous and the managers could afford it, Christians on crosses were planted around the entire arena, covered with straw and pitch and converted into torches. These were night exhibitions, when the torches would be more showy; and the canvas dome was taken away so that the smoke and shrieks could go climbing to the stars. Attractions like that would always jam an amphitheater. This one at Arles has held twenty-five thousand on one of those special occasions. Centuries later, when the Christians themselves came into power, they showed a spirit of liberality which shines by contrast. They burned their heretics in the public squares, free. Only bulls and worn-out, cheap horses are tortured here to-day. It seems a pretty tame sport after those great circuses of the past. But art is long and taste is fleeting. Art will keep up with taste, and all that we know of the latter is that it will change. Because to-day we are satisfied with prize fights and bull fights is no sign that those who follow us will not demand sword fights and wild beasts and living torches. These old benches will last through the ages. They have always been familiar with the sport of torture of one sort or another. They await quite serenely for what the centuries may bring. It was hard to leave the arena. One would like to remain and review its long story. What did the barbarians do there--those hordes that swarmed in and trampled Rome? The Saracens in the eighth century used it for a fortress and added four watch towers, but their masonry is not of the everlasting Roman kind, and one of their towers has tumbled down. It would be no harm if the others would tumble, too. They lend to the place that romance which always goes with the name "Saracen," but they add no beauty. We paid a franc admission when we came into the amphitheater, our tickets being coupon affairs, admitting us to a variety of other historic places. The proceeds from the ruins are devoted to their care and preservation, but they cannot go far. Very likely the bull-fight money is also used. That would be consistent. We were directed to the Roman Theater, near at hand, where the ruin is ruin indeed. A flight of rising stone seats, two graceful Corinthian columns still standing, the rest fragments. More graceful in its architecture than the arena, the theater yielded more readily to the vandalisms of the conquerors and the corrosions of time. As early as the third century it was partially pulled down. Later it was restored, but not for long. The building bishops came and wanted its materials and ornaments for their churches. Not much was left after that, but to-day the fragments remaining have been unearthed and set up and give at least a hint of its former glory. One wonders if those audiences who watched Christian slaughter at the arena came also to this chaste spot. Plays are sometimes given here to-day, I am told, classic reproductions, but it is hard to believe that they would blend with this desolated setting. The bull fight in the arena is even better. We went over to the church of St. Trophime, which is not a ruin, though very old. St. Trophime, a companion of St. Paul, was the founder of the church of Arles. He is said to have set up a memorial to St. Étienne, the first martyr, and on this consecrated spot three churches have been built, one in the fourth century, another in the seventh, and this one, dedicated to St. Trophime, in the twelfth, or earlier. It is of supreme historical importance. By the faithful it is believed to contain the remains of St. Trophime himself. Barbarossa and other great kings were crowned here; every important ceremony of mediæval Arles has been held here. It is one of the oldest-looking places I ever saw--so moldy, so crumbly, and so dim. Though a thousand years older, the arena looks fresh as compared with it, because even sun and storm do not gnaw and corrode like gloom and dampness. But perhaps this is a softer stone. The cloister gallery, which was not built until the twelfth century, is so permeated with decay that one almost fears to touch its delicately carved ornamentations lest they crumble in his hands. Mistral has celebrated the cloister portal in a poem, and that alone would make it sacred to the Provence. The beautiful gallery is built around a court and it is lined with sculpture and bas-relief, rich beyond words. Saints and bible scenes are the subjects, and how old, how time-eaten and sorrowful they look. One gets the idea that the saints and martyrs and prophets have all contracted some wasting malady which they cannot long survive now. But one must not be flippant. It is a place where the feet of faith went softly down the centuries; and, taken as a whole, St. Trophime, with its graceful architecture--Gothic and Byzantine, combined with the Roman fragments brought long ago from the despoiled theater--is beautiful and delicate and tender, and there hangs about it the atmosphere that comes of long centuries of quiet and sacred things. Mistral's museum is just across from the church, but I have already spoken of that--briefly, when it is worth a volume. One should be in a patient mood for museums--either to see or to write of them--a mood that somehow does not go with automobile wandering, however deliberate. But I must give a word at least to two other such institutions of Arles, the Musée Lapidaire, a magnificent collection of pagan and early Christian sarcophagi and marble, mostly from the ancient burial field, the Aliscamp--and the Musée Réattu. Réattu was an Arlesian painter of note who produced many pictures and collected many beautiful things. His collections have been acquired by the city of Arles, and installed in one of its most picturesque old buildings--the ancient Grand Priory of the Knights of Malta. The stairway is hung with tapestries and priceless arras; the rooms are filled with paintings, bas-reliefs, medallions, marbles, armor,--a wealth of art objects. One finds it hard to believe that such museums can be owned and supported by this little city--ancient, half forgotten, stranded here on the banks of the Rhone. Its population is given as thirty thousand, and it makes sausages--very good ones--and there are some railway shops that employ as many as fifteen hundred men. Some boat building may still be done here, too. But this is about all Arles can claim in the way of industries. It has not the look of what we call to-day a thriving city. It seems, rather, a mediæval setting for the more ancient memories. Yet it has these three splendid museums, and it has preserved and restored its ruins, just as if it had a J. Pierpont Morgan behind it, instead of an old poet with a Nobel prize, and a determined little community, too proud of its traditions and its taste to let them die. Danbury, Connecticut, has as many inhabitants as Arles, and it makes about all the hats that are worn in America. It is a busy, rich place, where nearly everybody owns an automobile, if one may judge by the street exhibit any pleasant afternoon. It is an old place, too, for America, with plenty of landmarks and traditions. But I somehow can't imagine Danbury spending the money and the time to establish such superb institutions as these, or to preserve its prerevolutionary houses. But, after all, Danbury is young. It will preserve something two thousand years hence--probably those latest Greco-Roman façades which it is building now. Near to the Réattu Museum is the palace of the Christian Emperor Constantine. Constantine came here after his father died, and fell in love with the beauty and retirement of the place. Here, on the banks of the Rhone, he built a palace, and dreamed of passing his days in it--of making Arles the capital of his empire. His mother, St. Helene, whose dreams at Jerusalem located the Holy Sepulcher, the True Cross, and other needed relics, came to visit her son, and while here witnessed the treason and suicide of one Maximus Hercules, persecutor of the Christians. That was early in the fourth century. The daughter of Maximus seems to have been converted, for she came to stay at the palace and in due time bore Constantine a son. Descendants of Constantine occupied the palace for a period, then it passed to the Gauls, to the Goths, and so down the invading and conquering line. Once a king, Euric III, was assassinated here. Other kings followed and several varieties of counts. Their reigns were usually short and likely to end with a good deal of suddenness. It was always a good place for royalty to live and die. Until the beginning of the nineteenth century it was known as the "House of the King," but it was a ruin by that time. Only portions of it remain now, chiefly a sort of rotunda of the grand hall of state. Very little is left to show the ancient richness of its walls, but one may invite himself to imagine something--its marbles and its hangings--also that it was just here that M. Hercules and King Euric and their kind went the violent way; it would be the dramatic place for those occasions. One may not know to-day just what space the palace originally covered, but it was very large. Portions of its walls appear in adjoining buildings. Excavations have brought to light marbles, baths, rich ornamentations, all attesting its former grandeur. Arles preserves it for its memories, and in pride of the time when she came so near to being the capital of the world. FOOTNOTES: [6] The word arena derives its name from the sand, strewn to absorb the blood. Chapter VI THE WAY THROUGH EDEN There is so much to see at Arles. One would like to linger a week, then a month, then very likely he would not care to go at all. The past would get hold of him by that time--the glamour that hangs about the dead centuries. There had been rain in the night when we left Arles, much needed, for it was the season of drought. It was mid-morning and the roads were hard and perfect, and led us along sparkling waysides and between refreshed vineyards, and gardens, and olive groves. It seemed a good deal like traveling through Eden, and I don't suppose heaven--the automobilist's heaven (assuming that there is one)--is much better. I wish I could do justice to the Midi, but even Mistral could not do that. It is the most fruitful, luscious land one can imagine. Everything there seems good to eat, to smell of--to devour in some way. The vines were loaded with purple and topaz grapes, and I was dying to steal some, though for a few francs we had bought a basket of clusters, with other luncheon supplies, in Arles. It finally became necessary to stop and eat these things--those grape fields were too tempting. It is my opinion that nothing in the world is more enjoyable than an automobile roadside luncheon. One does not need to lug a heavy basket mile after mile until a suitable place is found, and compromise at last because the flesh rebels. With a car, a mile, two miles, five miles, are matters of a few minutes. You run along leisurely until you reach the brook, the shade, the seclusion that invites you. Then you are fresh and cool and deliberate. No need to hurry because of the long tug home again. You enjoy the things you have brought, unfretted by fatigue, undismayed by the prospect ahead. You are in no hurry to go. You linger and smoke and laze a little and discuss the environment--the fields, the growing things, the people through whose lands and lives you are cutting a cross-section, as it seems. You wonder about their customs, their diversions, what they do in winter, how it is in their homes. You speculate on their history, on what the land was like in its primeval period before there were any fields and homes--civilized homes--there at all. Perhaps--though this is unlikely--you _know_ a little about these things. It is no advantage; your speculations are just as valuable and more picturesque. There are many pleasant things about motor gypsying, but our party, at least, agreed that the wayside luncheon is the pleasantest of all. Furthermore, it is economical. Unless one wants hot dishes, you can get more things, and more delicious things, in the village shops or along the way than you can find at the wayside hotel or restaurant, and for half the amount. Our luncheon that day--we ate it between Arles and Tarascon--consisted of tinned chicken, fresh bread with sweet butter, Roquefort cheese, ripe grapes, and some French cakes--plenty, and all of the best, at a cost of about sixty cents for our party of four. And when we were finally ready to go, and had cleaned up and secreted every particle of paper or other refuse (for the true motorist never leaves a place unsightly) we felt quite as pleased with ourselves and the world, and the things of the infinite, as if we had paid two or three times as much for a meal within four walls. Chapter VII TO TARASCON AND BEAUCAIRE It is no great distance from Arles to Tarascon, and, leisurely as we travel, we had reached the home of Tartarin in a little while. We were tempted to stop over at Tarascon, for the name had that inviting sound which always belongs to the localities of pure romance--that is to say, fiction--and it has come about that Tarascon belongs more to Daudet than to history, while right across the river is Beaucaire, whose name, at least, Booth Tarkington has pre-empted for one of his earliest heroes. After all, it takes an author to make a town really celebrated. Thousands of Americans who have scarcely heard the name of Arles are intimately familiar with that of Tarascon. Of course the town has to contribute something. It must either be a place where something has happened, or _could_ happen, or it must have a name with a fine sound, and it should be located in about the right quarter of the globe. When such a place catches the fancy of an author who has the gift of making the ideal seem reality, he has but to say the magic words and the fame of that place is sure. Not that Tarascon has not had real history and romance; it has had plenty of both. Five hundred years ago the "Good King René" of Anjou, who was a painter and a writer, as well as a king, came to Tarascon to spend his last days in the stern, perpendicular castle which had been built for him on the banks of the Rhone. It is used as a jail now, but King René held a joyous court there and a web of romance clings to his memory. King René's castle does not look like a place for romance. It looks like an artificial precipice. We were told we could visit it by making a sufficiently polite application to the _Mairie_, but it did not seem worth while. In the first place, I did not know how to make a polite application to visit a jail--not in French--and then it was better to imagine King René's festivities than to look upon a reality of misfortune. The very name of Tarascon has to do with story. Far back, in the dim traditionary days, one St. Martha delivered the place from a very evil dragon, the Tarasque, for whom they showed their respect by giving his name to their town. Beaucaire, across the river, is lighted by old tradition, too. It was the home of Aucassin and Nicollette, for one thing, and anyone who has read that poem, either in the original or in Andrew Lang's exquisite translation, will have lived, for a moment at least, in the tender light of legendary tale. We drove over to Beaucaire, and Narcissa and I scaled a garden terrace to some ruined towers and battlements, all that is left of the ancient seat of the Montmorencys. It is a romantic ruin from a romantic day. It was built back in the twelve hundreds--when there were still knights and troubadours, and the former jousted at a great fair which was held there, and the latter reclined on the palace steps, surrounded by ladies and gallants in silken array, and sang songs of Palestine and the Crusades. As time went on a light tissue of legend was woven around the castle itself--half-mythical tales of its earlier centuries. Figures like Aucassin and Nicollette emerged and were made so real by those who chanted or recited the marvel of their adventures, that they still live and breathe with youth when their gallant castle itself is no more than vacant towers and fragmentary walls. The castle of Beaucaire looks across to the defiant walls of King René's castle in Tarascon and I believe there used to be some sturdy wars between them. If not, I shall construct one some day, when I am less busy, and feeling in the romantic form. It will be as good history as most castle history, and I think I shall make Beaucaire win. King René was a good soul, but I am doubtful about those who followed him, and his castle, so suitable to-day for a jail, does not invite sympathy. The Montmorency castle was dismantled in 1632, according to the guidebook, by Richelieu, who beheaded its last tenant--some say with a cleaver, a serviceable utensil for such work. Beaucaire itself is not a pretty town--not a clean town. I believe Nicollette was shut up for a time in one of its houses--we did not inquire which one--any of them would be bad enough to-day. [Illustration: "WHERE ROADS BRANCH OR CROSS THERE ARE SIGNBOARDS.... YOU CAN'T ASK A MAN 'QUEL EST LE CHEMIN' FOR ANYWHERE WHEN YOU ARE IN FRONT OF A SIGNBOARD WHICH IS SHOUTING THE INFORMATION"] It is altogether easy to keep to the road in France. You do not wind in and out with unmarked routes crossing and branching at every turn. You travel a hard, level way, often as straight as a ruling stick and pointed in the right direction. Where roads branch, or cross, there are signboards. All the national roads are numbered, and your red-book map shows these numbers--the chances of mistake being thus further lessened. We had practiced a good deal at asking in the politest possible French the way to any elusive destination. The book said that in France one generally takes off his hat in making such an inquiry, so I practiced that until I got it to seem almost inoffensive, not to say jaunty, and the formula "_Je vous demande pardon, but--quel est le chemin pour--_" whatever the place was. Sometimes I could even do it without putting in the "but," and was proud, and anxious to show it off at any opportunity. But it got dusty with disuse. You can't ask a man "_quel est le chemin_" for anywhere when you are on the straight road going there, or in front of a signboard which is shouting the information. I only got to unload that sentence twice between Arles and Avignon, and once I forgot to take off my hat; when I did, the man didn't understand me. With the blue mountains traveling always at our right, with level garden and vineland about us, we drifted up the valley of the Rhone and found ourselves, in mid-afternoon, at the gates of Avignon. That is not merely a poetic figure. Avignon has veritable gates--and towering crenelated walls with ramparts, all about as perfect as when they were built, nearly six hundred years ago. We had heard Avignon called the finest existing specimen of a mediæval walled city, but somehow one does not realize such things from hearing the mere words. We stopped the car to stare up at this overtopping masonry, trying to believe that it had been standing there already three hundred years, looking just about as it looks to-day, when Shakespeare was writing plays in London. Those are the things we never really believe. We only acknowledge them and pass on. Very little of Avignon has overflowed its massive boundaries; the fields were at our backs as we halted in the great portals. We halted because we noticed the word "_L'Octroi_" on one of the towers. But, as before, the _l'octroi_ man merely glanced into our vehicle and waved us away. We were looking down a wide shaded avenue of rather modern, even if foreign, aspect, and full of life. We drove slowly, hunting, as we passed along, for one of the hotels set down in the red-book as "comfortable, with modern improvements," including "gar. _grat._"--that is to say, garage gratis, such being the custom of this land. Narcissa, who has an eye for hotels, spied one presently, a rather imposing-looking place with a long, imposing name. But the management was quite modest as to terms when I displayed our T. C. de France membership card, and the "gar. _grat._"--this time in the inner court of the hotel itself--was a neat place with running water and a concrete floor. Not very ancient for mediæval Avignon, but one can worry along without antiquities in a hotel. Chapter VIII GLIMPSES OF THE PAST Avignon, like Arles, was colonized by the Romans, but the only remains of that time are now in its museum. At Arles the Romans did great things; its heyday was the period of their occupation. Conditions were different at Avignon. Avenio, as they called it, seems to have been a kind of outpost, walled and fortified, but not especially glorified. Very little was going on at Avenio. Christians were seldom burned there. In time a Roman emperor came to Arles, and its people boasted that it was to become the Roman capital. Nothing like that came to Avenio; it would require another thousand years and another Roman occupation to mature its grand destiny. I do not know just how it worried along during those stormy centuries of waiting, but with plenty of variety, no doubt. I suppose barbarians came like summer leafage, conquered and colonized, mixing the blood of a new race. It became a republic about twelve hundred and something--small, but tough and warlike--commanding the respect of seigneurs and counts, even of kings. Christianity, meantime, had prospered. Avignon had contributed to the Crusades and built churches. Also, a cathedral, though little dreaming that in its sacristy would one day lie the body of a pope. Avignon's day, however, was even then at hand. Sedition was rife in Italy and the popes, driven from Rome, sought refuge in France. Near Avignon was a small papal dominion of which Carpentras was the capital, and the pope, then Clement V, came often to Avignon. This was honor, but when one day the Bishop of Avignon was made Pope John XXII, and established his seat in his own home, the little city became suddenly what Arles had only hoped to be--the capital of the world. If one were permitted American parlance at this point, he would say that a boom now set in in Avignon.[7] Everybody was gay, everybody busy, everybody prosperous. The new pope straightway began to enlarge and embellish his palace, and the community generally followed suit. During the next sixty or seventy years about everything that is to-day of importance was built or rebuilt. New churches were erected, old ones restored. The ancient Roman wall was replaced by the splendid new one. The papal palace was enlarged and strengthened until it became a mighty fortress--one of the grandest structures in Europe. The popes went back to Rome, then, but their legates remained and from their strong citadel administered the affairs of that district for four turbulent centuries. In 1791, Avignon united her fortunes to those of France, and through revolution and bloodshed has come again to freedom and prosperity and peace. I do not know what the population of Avignon was in the day of her greater glory. To-day it is about fifty thousand, and, as it is full to the edges, it was probably not more populous then. We did not hurry in Avignon. We only loitered about the streets a little the first afternoon, practicing our French on the sellers of postal cards. It was a good place for such practice. If there was a soul in Avignon besides ourselves with a knowledge of English he failed to make himself known. Not even in our hotel was there a manager, porter, or waiter who could muster an English word. Narcissa and I explored more than the others and discovered the City Hall and a theater and a little open square with a big monument. We also got a distant glimpse of some great towering walls which we knew to be the Palace of the Popes. Now and again we were assailed by beggars--soiled and persistent small boys who annoyed us a good deal until we concocted an impromptu cure. It was a poem, in French--and effective: _Allez! Allez!_ _Je n'ai pas de monnaie!_ _Allez! Allez!_ _Je n'ai pas de l'argent!_ A Frenchman might not have had the courage to mortify his language like that, but we had, and when we marched to that defiant refrain the attacking party fell back. We left the thoroughfare and wandered down into narrow side streets, cobble-paved and winding, between high, age-stained walls--streets and walls that have surely not been renewed since the great period when the coming of the popes rebuilt Avignon. So many of the houses are apparently of one age and antiquity they might all have sprung up on the same day. What a bustle and building there must have been in those first years after the popes came! Nothing could be too new and fine for the chosen city. Now they are old again, but not always shabby. Many of them, indeed, are of impressive grandeur, with carved casings and ponderous doors. No sign of life about these--no glimpse of luxury, faded or fresh--within. Whatever the life they hold--whatever its past glories or present decline, it is shut away. Only the shabbier homes were open--women at their evening duties, children playing about the stoop. _They_ had nothing to conceal. Tradition, lineage, pride, poverty--they had inherited their share of these things, but they did not seem to be worrying about it. Their affairs were open to inspection; and their habits of dress and occupation caused us to linger, until the narrow streets grew dim and more full of evening echoes, while light began to twinkle in the little basement shops where the ancestors of these people had bought and sold for such a long, long time. FOOTNOTES: [7] Alphonse Daudet's "La Mule de Pape," in his _Lettres de Mon Moulin_, gives a delightful picture of Avignon at this period. Chapter IX IN THE CITADEL OF FAITH We were not very thorough sight-seers. We did not take a guidebook in one hand and a pencil in the other and check the items, thus cleaning up in the fashion of the neat, businesslike tourist. We seldom even had a program. We just wandered out in some general direction, and made a discovery or two, looked it over, surmised about it and passed judgment on its artistic and historical importance, just as if we knew something of those things; then when we got to a quiet place we took out the book and looked up what we had seen, and quite often, with the book's assistance, reversed our judgments and went back and got an altogether new set of impressions, and kept whichever we liked best. It was a loose system, to be recommended only for its variety. At the church of St. Agricole, for instance, which we happened upon when we started out one morning, we had a most interesting half hour discussing the age and beauty of its crumbling exterior and wandering about in its dimness, speculating concerning its frescoes and stained marbles and ancient tombs. When, later, we sat on the steps outside and looked it up and found it had been established away back in 680, and twice since restored; that the fifteenth-century holy-water basin was an especially fine one; that the tombs and altar piece, the sculpture and frescoes were regarded as "remarkable examples," we were deeply impressed and went back to verify these things. Then we could see that it was all just as the book said. But the procedure was somewhat different at the Palace of the Popes. We knew where we were going then, for we saw its towers looming against the sky, and no one could mistake that pile in Avignon. Furthermore, we paid a small fee at its massive arched entrance, and there was a guardian, or guide, to show us through. It is true he spoke only French--Provençal French--but two gracious Italian ladies happened to be going through at the same time and, like all cultured continentals, they spoke a variety of tongues, including American. The touch of travel makes the whole world kin, and they threw out a line when they saw us floundering, and towed us through. It was a gentle courtesy which we accepted with thankful hearts. We were in the central court first, the dull, sinister walls towering on every side. The guide said that executions had taken place there, and once, in later times--the period of the Revolution--a massacre in which seventy perished. He also mentioned a bishop of the earlier period who, having fallen into disfavor, was skinned alive and burned just outside the palace entrance. Think of doing that to a bishop! Our conductor showed us something which we were among the first to see. Excavation was going on, and near the entrance some workmen were uncovering a large square basin--a swimming pool, he said--probably of Roman times. Whatever had stood there had doubtless fallen into obliterated ruin by the time the papal palace was begun. A survey of the court interior showed that a vast scheme of restoration was going on. The old fortress had suffered from siege more than once, and time had not spared it; but with that fine pride which the French have in their monuments, and with a munificence which would seem to be limitless, they were reconstructing perfectly every ruined part, and would spend at least two million dollars, we were told, to make the labor complete. Battered corners of towers had been carefully rebuilt, tumbled parapets replaced. We stood facing an exquisite mullioned window whose carved stone outlines were entirely new, yet delicately and finely cut, certainly at a cost of many thousand francs. The French do not seem to consider expense in a work of that sort. Concrete imitations will not do. Whatever is replaced must be as it was in the beginning. Inside we found ourselves in the stately audience room, measuring some fifty by one hundred and eighty feet, its lofty ceiling supported by massive Gothic arches, all as complete as when constructed. Each missing piece or portion has been replaced. It was scarcely more perfect when the first papal audience was held there and when Queen Jeanne of Naples came to plead for absolution, nearly six centuries ago. It was of overpowering size and interest, and in one of the upper corners was a picture I shall not soon forget. It was not a painting or tapestry, but it might have been either of these things and less beautiful. It was a living human being, a stone carver on a swinging high seat, dressed in his faded blue cap and blouse and chopping away at a lintel. But he had the face and beard and, somehow, the figure of a saint. He turned to regard us with a mild, meditative interest, the dust on his beard and dress completing the harmony with the gray wall behind him, the embodied spirit of restoration. We ascended to the pontifical chapel, similar in size and appearance to the room below. We passed to other gigantic apartments, some of them rudely and elaborately decorated by the military that in later years made this a garrison. We were taken to the vast refectory, where once there was a great central table, the proportions of which were plainly marked by an outline on the stone floor, worn by the feet of feasting churchmen. Then we went to the kitchen, still more impressive in its suggestion of the stouter needs of piety. Its chimney is simply a gigantic central funnel that, rising directly from the four walls, goes towering and tapering toward the stars. I judge the cooks built their fires in the center of this room, hanging their pots on cranes, swinging their meats barbecue fashion, opening the windows for air and draught. Those old popes and legates were no weaklings, to have a kitchen like that. Their appetites and digestions, like their faith, were of a robust and militant sort. I dare say it would require a week to go through all this palace, so the visitor is shown only samples of it. We ascended to one of the towers and looked down, far down, on the roofs of Avignon--an expanse of brown tiling, toned by the ages, but otherwise not greatly different from what the popes saw when this tower and these housetops were new. Beyond are the blue hills which have not changed. Somewhere out there Petrarch's Laura was buried, but the grave has vanished utterly, the church is a mere remnant. As we stood in the window a cold breath of wind suddenly blew in--almost piercing for the season. "The mistral," our conductor said, and, though he did not cross himself, we knew by his exalted smile that he felt in it the presence of the poet of the south. Then he told us that Mistral had appointed him as one of those who were commissioned to preserve in its purity the Provençal tongue. That he was very proud of it was certain, and willing to let that wind blow on him as a sort of benediction. It is said, however, that the mistral wind is not always agreeable in Avignon. It blows away disease, but it is likely to overdo its work. "Windy Avignon, liable to the plague when it has not the wind, and plagued by the wind when it has it," is a saying at least as old as this palace. We got a generous example of it when we at last descended to the street. There it swirled and raced and grabbed at us until we had to button everything tightly and hold fast to our hats. We took refuge in the old cathedral of Notre Dame des Dômes, where John XXII, who brought this glory to Avignon, lies in his Gothic tomb. All the popes of Avignon were crowned here; it was the foremost church of Christendom for the better part of a century. We could see but little of the interior, for, with the now clouded sky, the place was too dark. In the small chapel where the tomb stands it was dim and still. It is the holy place of Avignon. A park adjoins the church and we went into it, but the mistral wind was tearing through the trees and we crossed and descended by a long flight to the narrow streets. Everywhere about us the lower foundations of the papal palace joined the living rock, its towers seeming to climb upward to the sky. It was as if it had grown out of the rock, indestructible, eternal, itself a rock of ages. We are always saying how small the world is, and we had it suddenly brought home to us as we stood there under the shadow of those overtopping heights. We had turned to thank our newly made friends and to say good-by. One of them said, "You are from America; perhaps you might happen to know a friend of ours there," and she named one whom we did know very well indeed--one, in fact, whose house we had visited only a few months before. How strange it seemed to hear that name from two women of Florence there in the ancient city, under those everlasting walls. Chapter X AN OLD TRADITION AND A NEW EXPERIENCE Among the things I did on the ship was to read the _Automobile Instruction Book_. I had never done it before. I had left all technical matters to a man hired and trained for the business. Now I was going to a strange land with a resolve to do all the things myself. So I read the book. It was as fascinating as a novel, and more impressive. There never was a novel like it for action and psychology. When I came to the chapter "Thirty-seven reasons why the motor may not start," and feverishly read what one had better try in the circumstances, I could see that as a subject for strong emotional treatment a human being is nothing to an automobile. Then there was the oiling diagram. A physiological chart would be nowhere beside it. It was a perfect maze of hair lines and arrow points, and looked as if it needed to be combed. There were places to be oiled daily, others to be oiled weekly, some to be oiled monthly, some every thousand miles. There were also places to be greased at all these periods, and some when you happened to think of it. You had to put on your glasses and follow one of the fine lines to the lubricating point, then try to keep the point in your head until you could get under the car, or over the car, or into the car, and trace it home. I could see that this was going to be interesting when the time came. I did not consider that it had come when we landed at Marseilles. I said to the garage man there, in my terse French idiom, "Make it the oil and grease," and walked away. Now, at Avignon, the new regime must begin. In the bright little, light little hotel garage we would set our car in order. I say "we" because Narcissa, aged fifteen, being of a practical turn, said she would help me. I would "make it the oil and grease," and Narcissa would wash and polish. So we began. The Joy, aged ten, was audience. Narcissa enjoyed her job. There was a hose in it, and a sponge and nice rubbing rags and polish, and she went at it in her strenuous way, and hosed me up one side and down the other at times when I was tracing some blind lead and she wasn't noticing carefully. I said I would make a thorough job of it. I would oil and grease all the daily, weekly, and monthly, and even the once-in-a-while places. We would start fair from Avignon. I am a resolute person. I followed those tangled lines and labyrinthian ways into the vital places of our faithful vehicle. Some led to caps, big and little, which I filled with grease. Most of them were full already, but I gave them another dab for luck. Some of the lines led to tiny caps and holes into which I squirted oil. Some led to a dim uncertainty, into which I squirted or dabbed something in a general way. Some led to mere blanks, and I greased those. It sounds rather easy, but that is due to my fluent style. It was not easy; it was a hot, messy, scratchy, grunting job. Those lines were mostly blind leads, and full of smudgy, even painful surprises. Some people would have been profane, but I am not like that--not with Narcissa observing me. One hour, two, went by, and I was still consulting the chart and dabbing with the oil can and grease stick. The chart began to show wear; _it_ would not need greasing again for years. Meantime Narcissa had finished her washing and polishing, and was putting dainty touches on the glass and metal features to kill time. I said at last that possibly I had missed some places, but I didn't think they could be important ones. Narcissa looked at me, then, and said that maybe I had missed places on the car but that I hadn't missed any on myself. She said I was a sight and probably never could be washed clean again. It is true that my hands were quite solidly black, and, while I did not recall wiping them on my face, I must have done so. When Narcissa asked how soon I was going to grease the car again, I said possibly in about a thousand years. But that was petulance; I knew it would be sooner. Underneath all I really had a triumphant feeling, and Narcissa was justly proud of her work, too. We agreed that our car had never looked handsomer and shinier since our first day of ownership. I said I was certain it had never been so thoroughly greased. We would leave Avignon in style. We decided to cross the Rhone at Avignon. We wanted at least a passing glance at Villeneuve, and a general view of Avignon itself, which was said to be finest from across the river. We would then continue up the west bank--there being a special reason for this--a reason with a village in it--one Beauchastel--not set down on any of our maps, but intimately concerned with our travel program, as will appear later. We did not leave Avignon by the St. Bénézet bridge. We should have liked that, for it is one of those bridges built by a miracle, away back in the twelfth century when they used miracles a good deal for such work. Sometimes Satan was induced to build them overnight, but I believe that was still earlier. Satan seems to have retired from active bridge-building by the twelfth century. It was a busy period for him at home. So the Bénézet bridge was built by a boy of that name--a little shepherd of twelve, who received a command in a dream to go to Avignon and build a bridge across the Rhone. He said: "I cannot leave my sheep, and I have but three farthings in the world." "Your flocks will not stray," said the voice, "and an angel will lead thee." Bénézet awoke and found beside him a pilgrim whom he somehow knew to be an angel. So they journeyed together and after many adventures reached Avignon. Here the pilgrim disappeared and Bénézet went alone to where a bishop was preaching to the people. There, in the presence of the assembly, Bénézet stated clearly that Heaven had sent him to build a bridge across the Rhone. Angry at the interruption, the bishop ordered the ragged boy to be taken in charge by the guard and punished for insolence and untruth. That was an ominous order. Men had been skinned alive on those instructions. But Bénézet repeated his words to the officer, a rough man, who said: "Can a beggar boy like you do what neither the saints nor Emperor Charlemagne has been able to accomplish? Pick up this stone as a beginning, and carry it to the river. If you can do that I may believe in you." It was a sizable stone, being thirteen feet long by seven broad--thickness not given, though probably three feet, for it was a fragment of a Roman wall. It did not trouble Bénézet, however. He said his prayers, and lightly lifted it to his shoulder and carried it across the town! Some say he whistled softly as he passed along. I wish I had lived then. I would almost be willing to trade centuries to see Bénézet surprise those people, carrying in that easy way a stone that reached up to the second-story windows. Bénézet carried the stone to the bank of the river and set it down where the first arch of the bridge would stand. There was no trouble after that. Everybody wanted to stand well with Bénézet. Labor and contributions came unasked. In eleven years the great work was finished, but Bénézet did not live to see it. He died four years before the final stones were laid, was buried in a chapel on the bridge itself and canonized as a saint. There is another story about him, but I like this one best. Bénézet's bridge was a gay place during the days of the popes at Avignon. Music and dancing were continuously going on there. It is ready for another miracle now. Only four arches of its original eighteen are standing. Storm and flood did not destroy it, but war. Besiegers and besieged broke down the arches, and at last, more than two hundred years ago, repairs were given up. It is a fine, firm-looking fragment that remains. One wishes, for the sake of the little shepherd boy, that it might be restored once more and kept solid through time. Passing along under the ramparts of Avignon, we crossed the newer, cheaper bridge, and took the first turn to the right. It was a leafy way, and here and there between the trees we had splendid glimpses of the bastioned walls and castle-crowned heights of Avignon. Certainly there is no more impressive mediæval picture in all Europe. But on one account we were not entirely satisfied. It was not the view that disturbed us; it was ourselves--our car. We were smoking--smoking badly, disgracefully; one could not deny it. In New York City we would have been taken in charge at once. At first I said it was only a little of the fresh oil burning off the engine, and that it would stop presently. But that excuse wore out. It would have taken quarts to make a smudge like that. When the wind was with us we traveled in a cloud, like prophets and deities of old, and the passengers grumbled. The Joy suggested that we would probably blow up soon. Then we began to make another discovery; when now and then the smoke cleared away a little, we found we were not in Villeneuve at all. We had not entirely crossed the river, but only halfway; we were on an island. I began to feel that our handsome start had not turned out well. We backed around and drove slowly to the bridge again, our distinction getting more massive and solid every minute. Disaster seemed imminent. The passengers were inclined to get out and walk. I said, at last, that we would go back to a garage I had noticed outside the walls. I put it on the grounds that we needed gasoline. It was not far, and the doors stood open. The men inside saw us coming with our gorgeous white tail filling the landscape behind us, and got out of the way. Then they gathered cautiously to examine us. "Too much oil," they said. In my enthusiasm I had overdone the thing. I had poured quarts into the crank case when there was probably enough there already. I had not been altogether to blame. Two little telltale cocks that were designed to drip when there was sufficient oil had failed to drip because they were stopped with dust. Being new and green, I had not thought of that possibility. A workman poked a wire into those little cocks and drew off the fuel we had been burning in that lavish way. So I had learned something, but it seemed a lot of smoke for such a small spark of experience. Still, it was a relief to know that it was nothing worse, and while the oil was dripping to its proper level we went back into the gates of Avignon, where, lunching in a pretty garden under some trees, we made light of our troubles, as is our way. Chapter XI WAYSIDE ADVENTURES So we took a new start and made certain that we entirely crossed the river this time. We were in Villeneuve-les-Avignon--that is, the "new town"--but it did not get that name recently, if one may judge from its looks. Villeneuve, in fact, is fourteen hundred years old, and shows its age. It was in its glory six centuries ago, when King Philippe le Bel built his tower at the end of Bénézet's bridge, and Jean le Bon built one of the sternest-looking fortresses in France--Fort St. André. Time has made the improvements since then. It has stained the walls and dulled the sharp masonry of these monuments; it has crushed and crumbled the feebler structures and filled the streets with emptiness and silence. Villeneuve was a thronging, fighting, praying place once, but the throng has been reduced and the fighting and praying have become matters of individual enterprise. I wish now we had lingered at Villeneuve-les-Avignon. I have rarely seen a place that seemed so to invite one to forget the activities of life and go groping about among the fragments of history. But we were under the influence of our bad start, and impelled to move on. Also, Villeneuve was overshadowed by the magnificence of the Palace of the Popes, which, from its eternal seat on le Rocher des Doms, still claimed us. We briefly visited St. André, the tower of Philippe le Bel, and loitered a little in a Chartreuse monastery--a perfect wilderness of ruin; then slipped away, following the hard, smooth road through a garden and wonderland, the valley of the Rhone. I believe there are no better vineyards in France than those between Avignon and Bagnols. The quality of the grapes is another matter; they are probably sour. All the way along those luscious topaz and amethyst clusters had been disturbing, but my conscience had held firm and I had passed them by. Sometimes I said: "There are tons of those grapes; a few bunches would never be missed." But Narcissa and the others said it would be stealing; besides, there were houses in plain view. But there is a limit to all things. In a level, sheltered place below Bagnols we passed a vineyard shut in by trees, with no house in sight. And what a vineyard! Ripening in the afternoon sun, clustered such gold and purple bunches as were once warmed by the light of Eden. I looked casually in different directions and slowed down. Not a sign of life anywhere. I brought the car to a stop. I said, "This thing has gone far enough." Conscience dozed. The protests of the others fell on heedless ears. I firmly crossed the irrigating ditch which runs along all those French roads, stepped among the laden vines, picked one of those lucent, yellow bunches and was about to pick another when I noticed something with a human look stir to life a little way down the row. Conscience awoke with something like a spasm. I saw at once that taking those grapes was wrong; I almost dropped the bunch I had. Narcissa says I ran, but that is a mistake. There was not room. I made about two steps and plunged into the irrigating canal, which I disremembered for the moment, my eyes being fixed on the car. Narcissa says she made a grab at my grapes as they sailed by. I seemed to be a good while getting out of the irrigating ditch, but Narcissa thinks I was reasonably prompt. I had left the engine running, and some seconds later, when we were putting temptation behind us on third speed, I noticed that the passengers seemed to be laughing. When I inquired as to what amused them they finally gasped out that the thing which had moved among the grapevines was a goat, as if that made any difference to a person with a sensitive conscience. It is not likely that any reader of these chapters will stop overnight at Bagnols. We should hardly have rested there, but evening was coming on and the sky had a stormy look. Later we were glad, for we found ourselves in an inn where d'Artagnan, or his kind, lodged, in the days when knights went riding. Travelers did not arrive in automobiles when that hostelry was built, and not frequently in carriages. They came on horseback and clattered up to the open door and ordered tankards of good red wine, and drank while their horses stretched their necks to survey the interior scenery. The old worn cobbles are still at the door, and not much has changed within. A niche holds a row of candles, and the traveler takes one of them and lights himself to bed. His room is an expanse and his bed stands in a curtained alcove--the bedstead an antique, the bed billowy, clean, and comfortable, as all beds are in France. Nothing has been changed there for a long time. The latest conveniences are of a date not more recent than the reign of Marie Antoinette, for they are exactly the kind she used, still to be seen at Versailles. And the dinner was good, with red and white flagons strewn all down the table--such a dinner as d'Artagnan and his wild comrades had, no doubt, and if prices have not changed they paid five francs fifty, or one dollar and ten cents each, for dinner, lodging, and _petit déjeuner_ (coffee, rolls, and jam)--garage free. Bagnols is unimportant to the tourist, but it is old and quaint, and it has what may be found in many unimportant places in France, at least one beautiful work of art--a soldier's monument, in this instance; _not_ a stiff effigy of an infantryman with a musket, cut by some gifted tombstone sculptor, but a female figure of Victory, full of vibrant life and inspiration--a true work of art. France is full of such things as that--one finds them in most unexpected places. The valley of the Rhone grew more picturesque as we ascended. Now and again, at our left, rocky bluffs rose abruptly, some of them crowned with ruined towers and equally ruined villages, remnants of feudalism, of the lord and his vassals who had fought and flourished there in that time when France was making the romantic material which writers ever since have been so busily remaking and adorning that those old originals would stare and gasp if they could examine some of it now. How fine and grand it seems to picture the lord and his men, all bright and shining, riding out under the portcullis on glossy prancing and armored horses to meet some aggressive and equally shining detachment of feudalism from the next hilltop. In the valley they meet, with ringing cries and the clash of steel. Foeman matches foeman--it is a series of splendid duels, combats to be recounted by the fireside for generations. Then, at the end, the knightly surrender of the conquered, the bended knee and acknowledgment of fealty, gracious speeches from the victor as to the bravery and prowess of the defeated, after which, the welcome of fair ladies and high wassail for all concerned. Everybody happy, everybody satisfied: wounds apparently do not count or interfere with festivities. The dead disappear in some magic way. I do not recall that they are ever buried. Just above Rochemaure was one of the most imposing of these ruins. The castle that crowned the hilltop had been a fine structure in its day. The surrounding outer wall which inclosed its village extended downward to the foot of the hill to the road--and still inclosed a village, though the more ancient houses seemed tenantless. It was built for offense and defense, that was certain, and doubtless had been used for both. We did not stop to dig up that romance. Not far away, by the roadside, stood what was apparently a Roman column. It had been already old and battered--a mere fragment of a ruin--when the hilltop castle and its village were brave and new. It was above Rochemaure--I did not identify the exact point--that an opportunity came which very likely I shall never have again. On a bluff high above an ancient village, so old and curious that it did not belong to reality at all, there was a great château, not a ruin--at least, not a tumbled ruin, though time-beaten and gray--but a good complete château, and across its mossy lintel a stained and battered wooden sign with the legend, "_A Louer_"--that is, "To Let." I stopped the car. This, I said, was our opportunity. Nothing could be better than that ancient and lofty perch overlooking the valley of the Rhone. The "To Let" sign had been there certainly a hundred years, so the price would be reasonable. We could get it for a song; we would inherit its traditions, its secret passages, its donjons, its ghosts, its-- I paused a moment, expecting enthusiasm, even eagerness, on the part of the family. Strange as it may seem, there wasn't a particle of either. I went over those things again, and added new and fascinating attractions. I said we would adopt the coat of arms of that old family, hyphenate its name with ours, and so in that cheap and easy fashion achieve a nobility which the original owner had probably shed blood to attain. It was no use. The family looked up the hill with an interest that was almost clammy. Narcissa asked, "How would you get the car up there?" The Joy said, "It would be a good place for bad dreams." The head of the expedition remarked, as if dismissing the most trivial item of the journey, that we'd better be going on or we should be late getting into Valence. So, after dreaming all my life of living in a castle, I had to give it up in that brief, incidental way. Chapter XII THE LOST NAPOLEON Now, it is just here that we reach the special reason which had kept us where we had a clear view of the eastward mountains, and particularly to the westward bank of the Rhone, where there was supposed to be a certain tiny village, one Beauchastel--a village set down on none of our maps, yet which was to serve as an important identifying mark. The reason had its beginning exactly twenty-two years before; that is to say, in September, 1891. Mark Twain was in Europe that year, seeking health and literary material, and toward the end of the summer--he was then at Ouchy, Switzerland--he decided to make a floating trip down the river Rhone. He found he could start from Lake Bourget in France, and, by paddling through a canal, reach the strong Rhone current, which would carry him seaward. Joseph Very, his favorite guide (mentioned in _A Tramp Abroad_), went over to Lake Bourget and bought a safe, flat-bottomed boat, retaining its former owner as pilot, and with these accessories Mark Twain made one of the most peaceful and delightful excursions of his life. Indeed, he enjoyed it so much and so lazily that after the first few days he gave up making extended notes and surrendered himself entirely to the languorous fascination of drifting idly through the dreamland of southern France. On the whole, it was an eventless excursion, with one exception--a startling exception, as he believed. One afternoon, when they had been drifting several days, he sighted a little village not far ahead, on the west bank, an ancient "jumble of houses," with a castle, one of the many along that shore. It looked interesting and he suggested that they rest there for the night. Then, chancing to glance over his shoulder toward the eastward mountains, he received a sudden surprise--a "soul-stirring shock," as he termed it later. The big blue eastward mountain was no longer a mere mountain, but a gigantic portrait in stone of one of his heroes. Eagerly turning to Joseph Very and pointing to the huge effigy, he asked him to name it. The courier said, "Napoleon." The boatman also said, "Napoleon." It seemed to them, indeed, almost uncanny, this lifelike, reclining figure of the conqueror, resting after battle, or, as Mark Twain put it, "dreaming of universal empire." They discussed it in awed voices, as one of the natural wonders of the world, which perhaps they had been the first to discover. They landed at the village, Beauchastel, and next morning Mark Twain, up early, watched the sun rise from behind the great stone face of his discovery. He made a pencil sketch in his notebook, and recorded the fact that the figure was to be seen from Beauchastel. That morning, drifting farther down the Rhone, they watched it until the human outlines changed. Mark Twain's Rhone trip was continued as far as Arles, where the current slackened. He said that some one would have to row if they went on, which would mean work, and that he was averse to work, even in another person. He gave the boat to its former owner, took Joseph, and rejoined the family in Switzerland. Events thronged into Mark Twain's life: gay winters, summers of travel, heavy literary work, business cares and failures, a trip around the world, bereavement. Amid such a tumult the brief and quiet Rhone trip was seldom even remembered. But ten or eleven years later, when he had returned to America and was surrounded by quieter things, he happened to remember the majestic figure of the first Napoleon discovered that September day while drifting down the Rhone. He recalled no more than that. His memory was always capricious--he had even forgotten that he made a sketch of the figure, with notes identifying the locality. He could picture clearly enough the incident, the phenomenon, the surroundings, but the name of the village had escaped him, and he located it too far down, between Arles and Avignon. All his old enthusiasm returned now. He declared if the presence of this great natural wonder was made known to the world, tourists would flock to the spot, hotels would spring up there--all other natural curiosities would fall below it in rank. His listeners caught his enthusiasm. Theodore Stanton, the journalist, declared he would seek and find the "Lost Napoleon," as Mark Twain now called it, because he was unable to identify the exact spot. He assured Stanton that it would be perfectly easy to find, as he could take a steamer from Arles to Avignon, and by keeping watch he could not miss it. Stanton returned to Europe and began the search. I am not sure that he undertook the trip himself, but he made diligent inquiries of Rhone travelers and steamer captains, and a lengthy correspondence passed between him and Mark Twain on the subject. No one had seen the "Lost Napoleon." Travelers passing between Avignon and Arles kept steady watch on the east range, but the apparition did not appear. Mark Twain eventually wrote an article, intending to publish it, in the hope that some one would report the mislaid emperor. However, he did not print the sketch, which was fortunate enough, for with its misleading directions it would have made him unpopular with disappointed travelers. The locality of his great discovery was still a mystery when Mark Twain died. So it came about that our special reason for following the west bank of the Rhone--the Beauchastel side, in plain view of the eastward mountains--was to find the "Lost Napoleon." An easy matter, it seemed in prospect, for we had what the others had lacked--that is to say, exact information as to its locality--the notes, made twenty-two years before by Mark Twain himself[8]--the pencil sketch, and memoranda stating that the vision was to be seen opposite the village of Beauchastel. But now there developed what seemed to be another mystery. Not only our maps and our red-book, but patient inquiry as well, failed to reveal any village or castle by the name of Beauchastel. It was a fine, romantic title, and we began to wonder if it might not be a combination of half-caught syllables, remembered at the moment of making the notes, and converted by Mark Twain's imagination into this happy sequence of sounds. So we must hunt and keep the inquiries going. We had begun the hunt as soon as we left Avignon, and the inquiries when there was opportunity. Then presently the plot thickened. The line of those eastward mountains began to assume many curious shapes. Something in their formation was unlike other mountains, and soon it became not difficult to imagine a face almost anywhere. Then at one point appeared a real face, no question this time as to the features, only it was not enough like the face of the sketch to make identification sure. We discussed it anxiously and with some energy, and watched it a long time, thinking possibly it would gradually melt into the right shape, and that Beauchastel or some similarly sounding village would develop along the river bank. But the likeness did not improve, and, while there were plenty of villages, there was none with a name the sound of which even suggested Beauchastel. Altogether we discovered as many as five faces that day, and became rather hysterical at last, and called them our collection of lost Napoleons, though among them was not one of which we could say with conviction, "Behold, the Lost Napoleon!" This brought us to Bagnols, and we had a fear now that we were past the viewpoint--that somehow our search, or our imagination, had been in vain. But then came the great day. Up and up the Rhone, interested in so many things that at times we half forgot to watch the eastward hills, passing village after village, castle after castle, but never the "jumble of houses" and the castle that commanded the vision of the great chief lying asleep along the eastern horizon. I have not mentioned, I think, that at the beginning of most French villages there is a signboard, the advertisement of a firm of auto-stockists, with the name of the place, and the polite request to "_Ralentir_"--that is, to "go slow." At the other end of the village is another such a sign, and on the reverse you read, as you pass out, "_Merci_"--which is to say, "Thanks," for going slowly; so whichever way you come you get information, advice, and politeness from these boards, a feature truly French. Well, it was a little way above the château which I did not rent, and we were driving along slowly, thinking of nothing at all, entering an unimportant-looking place, when Narcissa, who always sees everything, suddenly uttered the magical word "Beauchastel!" [Illustration: MARK TWAIN'S "LOST NAPOLEON" "THE COLOSSAL SLEEPING FIGURE IN ITS SUPREME REPOSE"] It was like an electric shock--the soul-stirring shock which Mark Twain had received at the instant of his great discovery. Beauchastel! Not a figment, then, but a reality--the veritable jumble of houses we had been seeking, and had well-nigh given up as a myth. Just there the houses interfered with our view, but a hundred yards farther along a vista opened to the horizon, and there at last, in all its mightiness and dignity and grandeur, lay the Lost Napoleon! It is not likely that any other natural figure in stone ever gave two such sudden and splendid thrills of triumph, first, to its discoverer, and, twenty-two years later, almost to the day, to those who had discovered it again. There was no question this time. The colossal sleeping figure in its supreme repose confuted every doubt, resting where it had rested for a million years, and would still rest for a million more. At first we spoke our joy eagerly, then fell into silence, looking and looking, loath to go, for fear it would change. At every opening we halted to look again, and always with gratification, for it did not change, or so gradually that for miles it traveled with us, and still at evening, when we were nearing Valence, there remained a great stone face on the horizon. FOOTNOTES: [8] At Mark Twain's death his various literary effects passed into the hands of his biographer, the present writer. Chapter XIII THE HOUSE OF HEADS I ought to say, I suppose, that we were no longer in Provence. Even at Avignon we were in Venaissin, according to present geography, and when we crossed the Rhone we passed into Languedoc. Now, at Valence, we were in Dauphiné, of which Valence is the "chief-lieu," meaning, I take it, the official headquarters. I do not think these are the old divisions at all, and in any case it all has been "the Midi," which to us is the Provence, the vineland, songland, and storyland of a nation where vine and song and story flourish everywhere so lavishly that strangers come, never to bring, but only to carry away. At Valence, however, romance hesitates on the outskirts. The light of other days grows dim in its newer electric glow. Old castles surmount the hilltops, but one needs a field glass to see them. The city itself is modern and busy, prosperous in its manufacture of iron, silk, macaroni, and certain very good liquors. I believe the chief attraction of Valence is the "House of the Heads." Our guidebook has a picture which shows Napoleon Bonaparte standing at the entrance, making his adieus to Montalivet, who, in a later day, was to become his minister. Napoleon had completed his military education in the artillery school of Valence, and at the moment was setting out to fulfill his dream of conquest. It is rather curious, when you think of it, that the great natural stone portrait already described should be such a little distance away. To go back to the House of the Heads: Our book made only the briefest mention of its construction, and told nothing at all of its traditions. We stood in front of it, gazing in the dim evening light at the crumbling carved faces of its façade, peering through into its ancient court where there are now apartments to let, wondering as to its history. One goes raking about in the dusty places of his memory at such moments; returning suddenly from an excursion of that sort, I said I recalled the story of a house of carved heads--something I had heard, or read, long ago--and that this must be the identical house concerning which the story had been told. It was like this: There was a wealthy old bachelor of ancient days who had spent his life in collecting rare treasures of art; pictures, tapestries, choice metal-work, arms--everything that was beautiful and rare; his home was a storehouse of priceless things. He lived among them, attended only by a single servant--the old woman who had been his nurse--a plain, masculine creature, large of frame, still strong and brawny, stout of heart and of steadfast loyalty. When the master was away gathering new treasures she slept in the room where the arms were kept, with a short, sharp, two-edged museum piece by her couch, and without fear. One morning he told her of a journey he was about to take, and said: "I hesitate to leave you here alone. You are no longer young." But she answered: "Only by the count of years, not by the measure of strength or vigilance. I am not afraid." So he left her, to return on the third day. But on the evening of the second day, when the old servant went down to the lower basement for fuel--silently, in her softly slippered feet--she heard low voices at a small window that opened to the court. She crept over to it and found that a portion of the sash had been removed; listening, she learned that a group of men outside in the dusk were planning to enter and rob the house. They were to wait until she was asleep, then creep in through the window, make their way upstairs, kill her, and carry off the treasures. It seemed a good plan, but as the old servant listened she formed a better one. She crept back upstairs, not to lock herself in and stand a siege, but to get her weapon, the short, heavy sword with its two razor edges. Then she came back and sat down to wait. While she was waiting she entertained herself by listening to their plans and taking a little quiet muscle exercise. By and by she heard them say that the old hag would surely be asleep by this time. The "old hag" smiled grimly and got ready. A man put his head in. It was pitch dark inside, but just enough light came in from the stars for her to see where to strike. When half his body was through she made a clean slicing swing of the heavy sword and the robber's head dropped on a little feather bed which she had thoughtfully provided. The old woman seized the shoulders and firmly drew the rest of the man inside. Another head came in, slowly, the shoulders following. With another swing of the sword they had parted company, and the grim avenging hands were silently dragging in the remnant. Another head and shoulders followed, another, and another, until six heads and bodies were stacked about the executioner and there was blood enough to swim in. The seventh robber did not appear immediately; something about the silence within made him reluctant. He was suspicious, he did not know of what. He put his head to the opening and whispered, asking if everything was all right. The old woman was no longer calm. The violent exercise and intense interest in her occupation had unnerved her. She was afraid she could not control her voice to answer, and that he would get away. She made a supreme effort and whispered, "Yes, all right." So he put in his head--very slowly--hesitated, and started to withdraw. The old woman, however, did not hesitate. She seized him by the hair, brought the sword down with a fierce one-hand swing, and the treasures of this world troubled him no more. Then the old servant went crazy. Returning next morning, her master found her covered with blood, brandishing her sword, and repeating over and over, "Seven heads, and all mine," and at sight of him lost consciousness. She recovered far enough to tell her story, then, presently, died. But in her honor the master rebuilt the front of his dwelling and had carved upon it the heads of the men she had so promptly and justly punished. Now, I said, this must be the very house, and we regarded it with awe and tried to locate the little cellar window where the execution had taken place. It was well enough in the evening dimness, but in the morning when we went around there again I privately began to have doubts as to the legend's authenticity, at least so far as this particular house was concerned. The heads, by daylight, did not look like the heads of house breakers--not any house breakers of my acquaintance--and I later consulted a guidebook which attached to them the names of Homer, Hippocrates, Aristotle, Pythagoras, etc., and I don't think those were the names of the parties concerned in this particular affair. It's very hard to give up a good and otherwise perfectly fitting legend, but one must either do that or change the guidebook. Ah, well, it isn't the first sacrifice I've had to make for the sake of history. Valence has been always a place of culture and educational activity. It was capital of Segalauni before the Romans came, and there was a celebrated school there, even then. This information also came from the guidebook, and it surprised me. It was the first time I had heard that the Segalaunians had a school prior to the Roman conquest. It was also the first time I had heard of the Segalaunians. I thought they were all Gauls and Goths and Vandals up that way, and that their education consisted in learning how to throw a spear convincingly, or to divert one with a rawhide buckler. Now I discovered they had a college before the Romans conquered them. One can hardly blame them for descending upon those Romans later, with fire and sword. Valence shared the usual fate. It was ravished by the so-called barbarians, and later hacked to pieces by Christian kings. To-day again it is a fair city, with parks, wide boulevards, and imposing monuments. Chapter XIV INTO THE HILLS Turning eastward from Valence, we headed directly for the mountains and entered a land with all the wealth of increase we had found in Provence, and with even more of picturesqueness. The road was still perfect--hard and straight, with an upward incline, but with a grade so gradual and perfect as to be barely noticeable. Indeed, there were times when we seemed actually to be descending, even when the evidence of gravity told us that we were climbing; that is to say, we met water coming toward us--water flowing by the roadside--and more than once Narcissa and I agreed that the said water was running uphill, which was not likely--not in France. Of course, in England, where they turn to the left, it might be expected. The village did not seem quite like those along the Rhone. The streets were as narrow, the people as mildly interested in us, but, on the whole, we thought the general aspect was less ancient, possibly less clean. But they were interesting. Once we saw a man beating a drum, stopping on every corner to collect a little crowd and read some sort of proclamation, and once by the roadside we met a little negro child in a straw hat and a bright dress, a very bit of the American South. Everywhere were pretty gardens, along the walls gay flowers, and always the valleys were rich in orchard and vineyard, plumed with tall poplars, divided by bright rivers, and glorified with hazy September sunlight. We grew friendly with the mountains in the course of the afternoon, then intimate. They sprang up before us and behind us; just across the valleys they towered into the sky. Indeed, we suddenly had a most dramatic proof that we were climbing one. We had been shut in by wooded roads and sheltered farmsteads for an hour or two when we came out again into the open valley, with the river flowing through. But we were no longer _in_ the valley! Surprise of surprises! we were on a narrow, lofty road hundreds of feet above it, skirting the mountainside! It seemed incredible that our gradual, almost imperceptible, ascent had brought us to that high perch, overlooking this marvelous Vale of Cashmere. Everyone has two countries, it is said; his own and France. One could understand that saying here, and why the French are not an emigrating race. We stopped to gaze our fill, and as we went along, the scenery attracted my attention so much that more than once I nearly drove off into it. We were so engrossed by the picture that we took the wrong road and went at least ten miles out of our way to get to Grenoble. But it did not matter; we saw startlingly steep mountainsides that otherwise we might not have seen, and dashing streams, and at the end we had a wild and glorious coast of five or six miles from our mountain fastness down into the valley of the Isère, a regular toboggan streak, both horns going, nerves taut, teeth set, probable disaster waiting at every turn. We had never done such a thing before, and promised ourselves not to do it again. One such thrill was worth while, perhaps, but the ordinary lifetime might not outlast another. Down in that evening valley we were in a wonderland. Granite walls rose perpendicularly on our left; cottages nestled in gardens at our right--bloom, foliage, fragrance, the flowing Isère. Surely this was the happy valley, the land of peace and plenty, shut in by these lofty heights from all the troubling of the world. Even the towers and spires of a city that presently began to rise ahead of us did not disturb us. In the evening light they were not real, and when we had entered the gates of ancient Gratianopolis, and crossed the Isère by one of its several bridges, it seemed that this modern Grenoble was not quite a city of the eager world. The hotel we selected from the red-book was on the outskirts, and we had to draw pretty heavily on our French to find it; but it was worth while, for it was set in a wide garden, and from every window commanded the Alps. We realized now that they _were_ the Alps, the Alps of the Savoy, their high green slopes so near that we could hear the tinkle of the goat bells. We did not take the long drive through the "impossibly beautiful" valleys of Grenoble which we had planned for next morning. When we arose the air was no longer full of stillness and sunlight. In fact, it was beginning to rain. So we stayed in, and by and by for luncheon had all the good French things, ending with fresh strawberries, great bowls of them--in September--and apparently no novelty in this happy valley of the Isère. All the afternoon, too, it rained, and some noisy French youngsters raced up and down the lower rooms and halls, producing a homelike atmosphere, while we gathered about the tables to study the French papers and magazines. It was among the advertisements that I made some discoveries about French automobiles. They are more expensive than ours, in proportion to the horsepower, the latter being usually low. About twelve to fifteen horsepower seems to be the strength of the ordinary five-passenger machine. Our own thirty-horsepower engine, which we thought rather light at home, is a giant by comparison. Heavy engines are not needed in France. The smooth roads and perfectly graded hills require not half the power that we must expend on some of our rough, tough, rocky, and steep highways. Again, these lighter engines and cars take less gasoline, certainly, and that is a big item, where gasoline costs at least 100 per cent more than in America. I suppose the lightest weight car consistent with strength and comfort would be the thing to take to Europe. There would be a saving in the gasoline bill; and then the customs deposit, which is figured on the weight, would not be so likely to cripple the owner's bank account. Chapter XV UP THE ISÈRE Sometime in the night the rain ceased, and by morning Nature had prepared a surprise for us. The air was crystal clear, and towering into the sky were peaks no longer blue or green or gray, but white with drifted snow! We were in warm, mellow September down in our valley, but just up there--such a little way it seemed--were the drifts of winter. With our glass we could bring them almost within snowballing distance. Feathery clouds drifted among the peaks, the sun shooting through. It was all new to us, and startling. These really were the Alps; there was no further question. "Few French cities have a finer location than Grenoble," says the guidebook, and if I also have not conveyed this impression I have meant to do so. Not many cities in the world, I imagine, are more picturesquely located. It is also a large city, with a population of more than seventy-five thousand--a city of culture, and it has been important since the beginning of recorded history. Gratian was its patron Roman emperor, and the name Gratianopolis, assumed in his honor, has become the Grenoble of to-day. Gratian lived back in the fourth century and was a capable sort of an emperor, but he had one weak point. He liked to array himself in outlandish garb and show off. It is a weakness common to many persons, and seems harmless enough, but it was not a healthy thing for Gratian, who did it once too often. He came out one day habited like a Scythian warrior and capered up and down in front of his army. He expected admiration, and probably the title of Scythianus, or something. But the unexpected happened. The army jeered at his antics, and eventually assassinated him. Scythian costumes for emperors are still out of style. We may pass over the riot and ruin of the Middle Ages. All these towns were alike in that respect. The story of one, with slight alterations, fits them all. Grenoble was the first town to open its gates to Napoleon, on his return from Elba, in 1815, which gives it a kind of distinction in more recent times. Another individual feature is its floods. The Isère occasionally fills its beautiful valley, and fifteen times during the past three centuries Grenoble has been almost swept away. There has been no flood for a long period now, and another is about due. Prudent citizens of Grenoble keep a boat tied in the back yard instead of a dog. We did not linger in Grenoble. The tomb of Bayard--_sans peur, sans reproche_--is there, in the church of St. André; but we did not learn of this until later. The great sight at Grenoble is its environment--the superlative beauty of its approaches, and its setting--all of which we had seen in the glory of a September afternoon. There were two roads to Chambéry, one by the Isère, and another through the mountains by way of Chartreuse which had its attractions. I always wanted to get some of the ancient nectar at its fountainhead, and the road was put down as "picturesque." But the rains had made the hills slippery; a skidding automobile and old Chartreuse in two colors did not seem a safe combination for a family car. So we took the river route, and I am glad now, for it began raining soon after we started, and we might not have found any comfortable ruined castle to shelter us if we had taken to the woods and hills. As it was, we drove into a great arched entrance, where we were safe and dry, and quite indifferent as to what happened next. We explored the place, and were rather puzzled. It was unlike other castles we have seen. Perhaps it had not been a castle at all, but an immense granary, or brewery, or an ancient fortress. In any case, it was old and massive, and its high main arch afforded us a fine protection. The shower passed, the sun came out, and sent us on our way. The road was wet, but hard, and not steep. It was a neighborly road, curiously intimate with the wayside life, its domestic geography and economies; there were places where we seemed to be actually in front dooryards. The weather was not settled; now and then there came a sprinkle, but with our top up we did not mind. It being rather wet for picnicking, we decided that we would lunch at some wayside inn. None appeared, however, and when we came to think about it, we could not remember having anywhere passed such an inn. There were plenty of cafés where one could obtain wines and other beverages, but no food. In England and New England there are plenty of hostelries along the main roads, but evidently not in France. One must depend on the towns. So we stopped at Challes-les-Eaux, a little way out of Chambéry, a pretty place, where we might have stayed longer if the September days had not been getting few. Later, at Chambéry, we visited the thirteenth-century château of the Duc de Savoy, which has been rebuilt, and climbed the great square tower which is about all that is left of the original structure, a grand place in its time. We also went into the gothic chapel to see some handsomely carved wainscoting, with a ceiling to match. We were admiring it when the woman who was conducting us explained by signs and a combination of languages that, while the wainscoting was carved, the ceiling was only painted, in imitation. It was certainly marvelous if true, and she looked like an honest woman. But I don't know-- I wanted to get up there and feel it. She was, at any rate, a considerate woman. When I told her in the beginning that we had come to see the Duke of Savoy's old hat, meaning his old castle, she hardly smiled, though Narcissa went into hysterics. It was nothing--even a Frenchman might say "_chapeau_" when he meant "_château_" and, furthermore--but let it go--it isn't important enough to dwell upon. Anything will divert the young. Speaking of hats, I have not mentioned, I believe, the extra one that we carried in the car. It belonged to the head of the family and when we loaded it (the hat) at Marseilles it was a fresh and rather fluffy bit of finery. There did not seem to be any good place for it in the heavy baggage, shipped by freight to Switzerland, and decidedly none in the service bags strapped to the running-board. Besides, its owner said she might want to wear it on the way. There was plenty of space for an extra hat in our roomy car, we said, and there did seem to be when we loaded it in, all neatly done up in a trim package. But it is curious how things jostle about and lose their identity. I never seemed to be able to remember what was in that particular package, and was always mistaking it for other things. When luncheon time came I invariably seized it, expecting some pleasant surprise, only to untie an appetizing, but indigestible, hat. The wrapping began to have a travel-worn look, the package seemed to lose bulk. When we lost the string, at last, we found that we could tie it with a much shorter one; when we lost that, we gave the paper a twist at the ends, which was seldom permanent, especially when violently disturbed. Not a soul in the car that did not at one time or another, feeling something bunchy, give it a kick, only to expose our surplus hat, which always had a helpless, unhappy look that invited pity. No concealment insured safety. Once the Joy was found to have her feet on it. At another time the owner herself was sitting on it. We seldom took it in at night, but once when we did we forgot it, and drove back seven miles to recover. I don't know what finally became of it. Chapter XVI INTO THE HAUTE-SAVOIE It is a rare and beautiful drive to Aix-les-Bains, and it takes one by Lake Bourget, the shimmering bit of blue water from which Mark Twain set out on his Rhone trip. We got into a street market the moment of our arrival in Aix, a solid swarm of dickering people. In my excitement I let the engine stall, and it seemed we would never get through. Aix did not much interest us, and we pushed on to Annecy with no unnecessary delay, and from Annecy to Thones, a comfortable day's run, including, as it did, a drive about beautiful ancient Annecy, chief city of the Haute-Savoie. We might have stayed longer at Annecy, but the weather had an unsettled look, and there came the feeling that storms and winter were gathering in the mountains and we would better be getting along somewhere else. Also a woman backed her donkey cart into us at Annecy and put another dent in our mudguard, which was somehow discouraging. As it was, we saw the lake, said to be the most beautiful in France, though no more beautiful, I think, than Bourget; an ancient château, now transformed into barracks; the old prison built out in the river; the narrow, ancient streets; and a house with a tablet that states that Jean-Jacques Rousseau lived there in 1729, and there developed his taste for music. The Haute-Savoie is that billowy corner of far-eastern France below Lake Geneva--a kind of neutral, no man's territory hemmed by the huge heights of Switzerland and Italy. Leaving Annecy, we followed a picturesque road through a wild, weird land, along gorges and awesome brinks, under a somber sky. At times we seemed to be on the back of the world; at others diving to its recesses. It was the kind of way that one might take to supernatural regions, and it was the kind of evening to start. Here and there on the slopes were flocks and herds, attended by grave-faced women, who were knitting as they slowly walked. They barely noticed us or their charges. They never sat down, but followed along, knitting, knitting, as though they were patterning the fates of men. Sometimes we met or passed a woman on the road, always knitting, like the others. It was uncanny. Probably for every human being there is somewhere among those dark mountains a weird woman, knitting the pattern of his life. That night at Thones, a forgotten hamlet, lost there in the Haute-Savoie, a storm broke, the wind tore about our little inn, the rain dashed fearsomely, all of which was the work of those knitting women, beyond doubt. But the sun came up fresh and bright, and we took the road for Geneva. For a time it would be our last day in France. All the forenoon we were among the mountain peaks, skirting precipices that one did not care to look over without holding firmly to something. But there were no steep grades and the brinks were protected by solid little walls. At the bottom of a long slope a soldier stepped out of a box of a house and presented arms. I dodged, but his intent was not sanguinary. He wanted to see our papers--we were at the frontier--so I produced our customs receipts, called _triptyques_, our T. C. de F. membership card, our car license, our driving license, and was feeling in my pocket for yet other things when he protested, "_Pas nécessaire, pas nécessaire_" and handed all back but the French _triptyque_, which he took to his _bureau_, where, with two other military _attachés_, he examined, discussed, finally signed and witnessed it, and waved us on our way. So we were not passing the Swiss customs yet, but only leaving the French outpost. The ordeal of the Swiss _douane_ was still somewhere ahead; we had entered the neutral strip. We wished we might reach the Swiss post pretty soon and have the matter over with. We had visions of a fierce person looking us through, while he fired a volley of French questions, pulled our baggage to pieces, and weighed the car, only to find that the result did not tally with the figures on our triple-folded sheet. I had supplied most of those figures from memory, and I doubted their accuracy. I had heard that of all countries except Russia, Switzerland was about the most particular. So we went on and on through that lofty scenery, expecting almost anything at every turn. But nothing happened--nothing except that at one place the engine seemed to be running rather poorly. I thought at first that there was some obstruction in the gasoline tube, and my impulse was to light a match and look into the tank to see what it might be. On second thought I concluded to omit the match. I remembered reading of a man who had done that, and almost immediately his heirs had been obliged to get a new car. We passed villages, but no _douane_. Then all at once we were in the outskirts of a city. Why, this was surely Geneva, and as we were driving leisurely along a fat little man in uniform came out and lifted his hand. We stopped. Here it was, then, at last. For a moment I felt a slight attack of weakness, not in the heart, but about the knees. However, the little man seemed friendly. He held out his hand and I shook it cordially. But it was the papers he was after, our Swiss _triptyque_. I said to myself, "A minute more and we probably shall be on the scales, and the next in trouble." But he only said, "_Numero de moteur._" I jerked open the hood, scrubbed off the grease, and showed it to him. He compared it, smiled, and handed back our paper. Then he waved me to a _bureau_ across the street. Now it was coming; he had doubtless discovered something wrong at a glance. There was an efficient-looking, sinister-looking person in the office who took the _triptyque_, glanced at it, and threw something down before me. I thought it was a warrant, but it proved to be a copy of the Swiss law and driving regulations, with a fine road map of Switzerland, and all information needed by motorists; "Price, 2 Frs." stamped on the cover. I judged that I was required to buy this, but I should have done it, anyway. It was worth the money, and I wished to oblige that man. He accepted my two francs, and I began to feel better. Then he made a few entries in something, handed me my _triptyque_, said "_Bonjour, et bon voyage_," and I was done. I could hardly believe it. I saw then what a nice face he had, while the little fat man across the street was manifestly a lovely soul. He had demanded not a thing but the number of the motor. Not even the number of the car had interested him. As for the weight, the bore of the cylinders, the number of the chassis, and all those other statistics said to be required, they were as nonexistent to him as to me. Why, he had not even asked us to unstrap our baggage. It was with feelings akin to tenderness that we waved him good-by and glided across the imaginary line of his frontier into Switzerland. We glided very leisurely, however. "Everybody gets arrested in Switzerland"--every stranger, that is--for breaking the speed laws. This, at least, was our New York information. So we crept along, and I kept my eye on the speedometer all the way through Geneva, for we were not going to stop there at present, and when we had crossed our old friend, the Rhone, variously bridged here, skirted the gay water-front and were on the shore road of that loveliest of all lakes--Lake Léman, with its blue water, its snow-capped mountains, its terraced vineyards, we still loafed and watched the _gendarmes_ to see if they were timing us, and came almost to a stop whenever an official of any kind hove in sight. Also we used the mellow horn, for our book said that horns of the Klaxon type are not allowed in Switzerland. We were on soft pedal, you see, and some of the cars we met were equally subdued. But we observed others that were not--cars that were just bowling along in the old-fashioned way, and when these passed us, we were surprised to find that they were not ignorant, strange cars, but Swiss cars, or at least cars with Swiss number-plates and familiar with the dangers. As for the whistles, they were honking and snorting and screeching just as if they were in Connecticut, where there is no known law that forbids anything except fishing on Sunday. Indeed, one of the most sudden and violent horns I have ever heard overtook us just then, and I nearly jumped over the windshield when it abruptly opened on me from behind. "Good G--, that is, goodness!" I said, "this is just like France!" and I let out a few knots and tooted the Klaxonette, and was doing finely when suddenly a mounted policeman appeared on the curve ahead. I could feel myself scrouging as we passed, going with great deliberation. He did not offer to molest me, but we did not hurry again--not right away. Not that we cared to hurry; the picture landscape we were in was worth all the time one could give it. Still, we were anxious to get to Lausanne before dusk, and little by little we saw and heard things which convinced us that "Everybody gets arrested in Switzerland" is a superstition, the explosion of which was about due. Fully half the people we met, _all_ that passed us, could properly have been arrested anywhere. By the time we reached Lausanne we should have been arrested ourselves. Chapter XVII SOME SWISS IMPRESSIONS Now, when one has reached Switzerland, his inclination is not to go on traveling, for a time at least, but to linger and enjoy certain advantages. First, of course, there is the scenery; the lakes, the terraced hills, and the snow-capped mountains; the châteaux, chalets, and mossy villages; the old inns and brand-new, heaven-climbing hotels. And then Switzerland is the land of the three F's--French, Food, and Freedom, all attractive things. For Switzerland is the model republic, without graft and without greed; its schools, whether public or private, enjoy the patronage of all civilized lands, and as to the matter of food, Switzerland is the _table d'hôte_ of the world. Swiss landlords are combined into a sort of trust, not, as would be the case elsewhere, to keep prices up, but to keep prices down! It is the result of wisdom, a far-seeing prudence which says: "Our scenery, our climate, our pure water--these are our stock in trade. Our profit from them is through the visitor. Wherefore we will encourage visitors with good food, attractive accommodations, courtesy; and we will be content with small profit from each, thus inviting a general, even if modest, prosperity; also, incidentally, the cheerfulness and good will of our patrons." It is a policy which calls for careful management, one that has made hotel-keeping in Switzerland an exact science--a gift, in fact, transmitted down the generations, a sort of magic; for nothing short of magic could supply a spotless room, steam heated, with windows opening upon the lake, and three meals--the evening meal a seven-course dinner of the first order--all for six francs fifty (one dollar and thirty cents) a day.[9] It is a policy which prevails in other directions. Not all things are cheap in Switzerland, but most things are--the things which one buys oftenest--woolen clothing and food. Cotton goods are not cheap, for Switzerland does not grow cotton, and there are a few other such items. Shoes are cheap enough, if one will wear the Swiss make, but few visitors like to view them on their own feet. They enjoy them most when they hear them clattering along on the feet of Swiss children, the wooden soles beating out a rhythmic measure that sounds like a coopers' chorus. Not all Swiss shoes have wooden soles, but the others do not gain grace by their absence. Swiss cigars are also cheap. I am not a purist in cigars, but at home I have smoked a good many and seldom with safety one that cost less than ten cents, straight. One pays ten centimes, or two cents, in Switzerland, and gets a mild, evenly burning article. I judge it is made of tobacco, though the head of the family suggested other things that she thought it smelled like. If she had smoked one of them, she would not have noticed this peculiarity any more. Wine is cheap, of course, for the hillsides are covered with vines; also, whisk--but I am wandering into economic statistics without really meaning to do so. They were the first things that impressed me. The next, I believe, was the lack of Swiss politics. Switzerland is a republic that runs with the exactness of a Swiss watch, its machinery as hermetically concealed. I had heard that the Swiss Republic sets the pattern of government for the world, and I was anxious to know something of its methods and personnel. I was sorry that I was so ignorant. I didn't even know the name of the Swiss President, and for a week was ashamed to confess it. I was hoping I might see it in one of the French papers I puzzled over every evening. But at the end of the week I timidly and apologetically inquired of our friendly landlord as to the name of the Swiss Chief Executive. But then came a shock. Our landlord grew confused, blushed, and confessed that he didn't know it, either! He had known it, he said, of course, but it had slipped his mind. Slipped his mind! Think of the name of Roosevelt, or Wilson, or Taft slipping the mind of anybody in America--and a landlord! I asked the man who sold me cigars. He had forgotten, too. I asked the apothecary, but got no information. I was not so timid after that. I asked a fellow passenger--guest, I mean, an American, but of long Swiss residence--and got this story. I believe most of it. He said: "When I came to Switzerland and found out what a wonderful little country it was, its government so economical, so free from party corruption and spoils, from graft and politics, so different from the home life of our own dear Columbia, I thought, 'The man at the head of this thing must be a master hand; I'll find out his name.' So I picked out a bright-looking subject, and said: "'What is the name of the Swiss President?' "He tried to pretend he didn't understand my French, but he did, for I can tear the language off all right--learned it studying art in Paris. When I pinned him down, he said he knew the name well enough, _parfaitement_, but couldn't think of it at that moment. "That was a surprise, but I asked the next man. He couldn't think of it, either. Then I asked a police officer. Of course he knew it, all right; '_oh oui, certainement, mais_'--then he scratched his head and scowled, but he couldn't dig up that name. He was just a plain prevaricator--_toute simplement_--like the others. I asked every man I met, and every one of them knew it, had it right on the end of his tongue; but somehow it seemed to stick there. Not a man in Vevey or Montreux could tell me the name of the Swiss President. It was the same in Fribourg, the same even in Berne, the capital. I had about given it up when one evening, there in Berne, I noticed a sturdy man with an honest face, approaching. He looked intelligent, too, and as a last resort I said: "'Could you, by any chance, tell me the name of the Swiss President?' "The effect was startling. He seized me by the arm and, after looking up and down the street, leaned forward and whispered in my ear: "_'Mon Dieu! c'est moi!_ _I_ am the Swiss President; but--ah _non_, don't tell anyone! I am the only man in Switzerland who knows it!' "You see," my friend continued, "he is elected privately, no torchlight campaigns, no scandal, and only for a year. He is only a sort of chairman, though of course his work is important, and the present able incumbent has been elected a number of times. His name is--is--is--ah yes, that's my tram. So sorry to have to hurry away. See you to-night at dinner." One sees a good many nationalities in Switzerland, and some of them I soon learned to distinguish. When I saw a man with a dinky Panama hat pulled down about his face, and wearing a big black mustache or beard, I knew he was a Frenchman. When I met a stout, red-faced man, with a pack on his back and with hobnailed shoes, short trousers, and a little felt hat with a feather stuck in it, I knew him for a German. When I noticed a very carefully dressed person, with correct costume and gaiters--also monocle, if perfect--saying, "Aw--Swiss people--so queah, don't you know," I was pretty sure he was an Englishman. When I remarked a tall, limber person, carrying a copy of the Paris _Herald_ and asking every other person he met, "Hey, there! Vooly voo mir please sagen--" all the rest incomprehensible, I knew him for an American of the deepest dye. The Swiss themselves have no such distinguishing mark. They are just sturdy, plainly dressed, unpretentious people, polite and friendly, with a look of capability, cleanliness, and honesty which invites confidence. An Englishwoman said to me: "I have heard that the Swiss are the best governed and the least intelligent people in the world." I reflected on this. It had a snappy sound, but it somehow did not seem to be firm at the joints. "The best governed and the least intelligent"--there was something drunken about it. I said: "It doesn't quite seem to fit. And how about the magnificent Swiss public-school system, and the manufacturing, and the national railway, with all the splendid engineering that goes with the building of the funiculars and tunnels? And the Swiss prosperity, and the medical practice, and the sciences? I always imagined those things were in some way connected with intelligence." "Oh, well," she said, "I suppose they do go with intelligence of a kind; but then, of course, you know what I mean." But I was somehow too dull for her epigram. It didn't seem to have any sense in it. She was a grass widow and I think she made it herself. Later she asked me whereabouts in America I came from. When I said Connecticut, she asked if Connecticut was as big as Lausanne. A woman like that ought to go out of the epigram business.[10] As a matter of fact, a good many foreigners are inclined to say rather peevish things about sturdy little, thriving little, happy little Switzerland. I rather suspect they are a bit jealous of the pocket-de-luxe nation that shelters them, and feeds them, and entertains them, and cures them, cheaper and better and kindlier than their home countries. They are willing to enjoy these advantages, but they acknowledge rather grudgingly that Switzerland, without a great standing army, a horde of grafters, or a regiment of tariff millionaires to support, can give lessons in national housekeeping to their own larger, more pretentious lands. I would not leave the impression, by the way, that the Swiss are invariably prosperous. Indeed, some of them along the lake must have been very poor just then, for the grape crop had failed two years in succession, and with many of them their vineyard is their all. But there was no outward destitution, no rags, no dirt, no begging. Whatever his privation, the Swiss does not wear his poverty on his sleeve. Switzerland has two other official languages besides French--German and Italian. Government documents, even the postal cards, are printed in these three languages. It would seem a small country for three well-developed tongues, besides all the canton dialects, some of which go back to the old Romanic, and are quite distinct from anything modern. The French, German, and Italian divisions are geographical, the lines of separation pretty distinct. There is rivalry among the cantons, a healthy rivalry, in matters of progress and education. The cantons are sufficiently a unit on all national questions, and together they form about as compact and sturdy a little nation as the world has yet seen--a nation the size and shape of an English walnut, and a hard nut for any would-be aggressor to crack. There are not many entrances into Switzerland, and they would be very well defended. The standing army is small, but every Swiss is subject to a call to arms, and is trained by enforced, though brief, service to their use. He seems by nature to be handy with a rifle, and never allows himself to be out of practice. There are regular practice meets every Sunday, and I am told the government supplies the cartridges. Boys organize little companies and regiments and this the government also encourages. It is said that Switzerland could put half a million soldiers in the field, and that every one would be a crack shot.[11] The German Kaiser, once reviewing the Swiss troops, remarked, casually, to a sub-officer, "You say you could muster half a million soldiers?" "Yes, Your Majesty." "And suppose I should send a million of my soldiers against you. What would you do then?" "We should fire two shots apiece, Your Majesty." [Illustration: MARCHÉ VEVEY "IN EACH TOWN THERE IS AN OPEN SQUARE, WHICH TWICE A WEEK IS PICTURESQUELY CROWDED"] In every Swiss town there are regular market days, important events where one may profitably observe the people. The sale of vegetables and flowers must support many families. In each town there is an open square, which twice a week is picturesquely crowded, and there one may buy everything to eat and many things to wear; also, the wherewith to improve the home, the garden, and even the mind; for besides the garden things there are stalls of second-hand books, hardware, furniture, and general knick-knacks. Flanking the streets are displays of ribbons, laces, hats, knitted things, and general dry-goods miscellany; also antiques, the scrapings of many a Swiss cupboard and corner. But it is in the open square itself that the greater market blooms--really blooms, for, in season, the vegetables are truly floral in their rich vigor, and among them are pots and bouquets of the posies that the Swiss, like all Europeans, so dearly love. Most of the flower and vegetable displays are down on the ground, arranged in baskets or on bits of paper, and form a succession of gay little gardens, ranged in long narrow avenues of color and movement, a picture of which we do not grow weary. Nor of the setting--the quaint tile-roofed buildings; the blue lake, with its sails and swans and throng of wheeling gulls; the green hills; the lofty snow-capped mountains that look down from every side. How many sights those ancient peaks have seen on this same square!--markets and military, battles and buffoonery. There are no battles to-day, but the Swiss cadets use it for a drill ground, and every little while lightsome shows and merry-go-rounds establish themselves in one end of it, and the little people skip about, and go riding around and around to the latest ragtime, while the mountains look down with their large complaisance, just as they watched the capering ancestors of these small people, ages and ages ago; just as they will watch their light-footed descendants for a million years, maybe. The market is not confined entirely to the square. On its greater days, when many loads of wood and hay crowd one side of it, it overflows into the streets. Around a floral fountain may be found butter, eggs, and cheese--oh, especially cheese, the cheese of Gruyère, with every size and pattern of holes, in any quantity, cut and weighed by a handsome apple-faced woman who seems the living embodiment of the cheese industry. I have heard it said--this was in America--that the one thing not to be obtained in Switzerland is Swiss cheese. The person who conceived that smartness belongs with the one who invented the "intelligence" epigram. On the market days before Christmas our square had a different look. The little displays were full of greenery, and in the center of the market place there had sprung up a forest of Christmas trees. They were not in heaps, lying flat; but each, mounted on a neat tripod stand, stood upright, as if planted there. They made a veritable Santa Claus forest, and the gayly dressed young people walking among them, looking and selecting, added to this pretty sight. The Swiss make much of Christmas. Their shop windows are overflowing with decorations and attractive things. Vevey is "Chocolate Town." Most of the great chocolate factories of Europe are there, and at all holiday seasons the grocery and confectionary windows bear special evidence of this industry. Chocolate Santa Clauses--very large--chickens, rabbits, and the like--life size; also trees, groups, set pieces, ornaments--the windows are wildernesses of the rich brown confection, all so skillfully modeled and arranged. The toy windows, too, are fascinating. You would know at once that you were looking into a Swiss toy window, from the variety of carved bears; also, from the toy châteaux--very fine and large, with walled courts, portcullises, and battlements--with which the little Swiss lad plays war. The dolls are different, too, and the toy books--all in French. But none of these things were as interesting as the children standing outside, pointing at them and discussing them--so easily, so glibly--in French. How little they guessed my envy of them--how gladly I would buy out that toy window for, say, seven dollars, and trade it to them for their glib unconsciousness of gender and number and case. On the afternoon before Christmas the bells began. From the high mountainsides, out of deep ravines that led back into the hinterland, came the ringing. The hills seemed full of bells--a sound that must go echoing from range to range, to the north and to the south, traveling across Europe with the afternoon. Then, on Christmas Day, the trees. In every home and school and hotel they sparkled. We attended four in the course of the day, one, a very gorgeous one in the lofty festooned hall of a truly grand hotel, with tea served and soft music stealing from some concealed place--a slow strain of the "Tannenbaum," which is like our "Maryland," only more beautiful--and seemed to come from a source celestial. And when one remembered that in every corner of Europe something of the kind was going on, and that it was all done in memory and in honor of One who, along dusty roadsides and in waste places, taught the doctrine of humility, one wondered if the world might not be worth saving, after all. FOOTNOTES: [9] In 1913-14. The rate to-day is somewhat higher. [10] I have thought since that she may have meant that the Swiss do not lead the world in the art and literary industries. She may have connected those things with intelligence--you never can tell. [11] When the call to arms came, August 1, 1914, Switzerland put 250,000 men on her frontier in twenty-four hours. Chapter XVIII THE LITTLE TOWN OF VEVEY It would seem to be the French cantons along the Lake of Geneva (or Léman) that most attract the deliberate traveler. The north shore of this lake is called the Swiss Riviera, for it has a short, mild winter, with quick access to the mountaintops. But perhaps it is the schools, the _pensionnats_, that hold the greater number. The whole shore of the Lake of Geneva is lined with them, and they are filled with young persons of all ages and nations, who are there mainly to learn French, though incidentally, through that lingual medium, other knowledge is acquired. Some, indeed, attend the fine public schools, where the drill is very thorough, even severe. Parents, as well as children, generally attend school in Switzerland--visiting parents, I mean. They undertake French, which is the thing to do, like mountain climbing and winter sports. Some buy books and seclude their struggles; others have private lessons; still others openly attend one of the grown-up language schools, or try to find board at French-speaking _pensions_. Their progress and efforts form the main topic of conversation. In a way it makes for a renewal of youth. We had rested at Vevey, that quiet, clean little picture-city, not so busy and big as Lausanne, or so grand and stylish as Montreux, but more peaceful than either, and, being more level, better adapted for motor headquarters. Off the main street at Montreux, the back or the front part of a car is always up in the air, and it has to be chained to the garage. We found a level garage in Vevey, and picked out _pensionnats_ for Narcissa and the Joy, and satisfactory quarters for ourselves. Though still warm and summer-like, it was already late autumn by the calendar, and not a time for long motor adventures. We would see what a Swiss winter was like. We would wrestle with the French idiom. We would spend the months face to face with the lake, the high-perched hotels and villages, the snow-capped, cloud-capped hills. Probably everybody has heard of Vevey, but perhaps there are still some who do not know it by heart, and will be glad of a word or two of details. Vevey has been a place of habitation for a long time. A wandering Asian tribe once came down that way, rested a hundred years or so along the Léman shore, then went drifting up the Rhone and across the Simplon to make trouble for Rome. But perhaps there was no Rome then; it was a long time ago, and it did not leave any dates, only a few bronze implements and trifles to show the track of the storm. The Helvetians came then, sturdy and warlike, and then the Romans, who may have preserved traditions of the pleasant land from that first wandering tribe. Cæsar came marching down the Rhone and along this waterside, and his followers camped in the Vevey neighborhood a good while--about four centuries, some say. Certain rich Romans built their summer villas in Switzerland, and the lake shore must have had its share. But if there were any at Vevey, there is no very positive trace of them now. In the depths of the Castle of Chillon, they show you Roman construction in the foundations, but that may have been a fortress. I am forgetting, however. One day, when we had been there a month or two, and were clawing up the steep hill--Mount Pelerin--that rises back of the hotel to yet other hotels, and to compact little villages, we strayed into a tiny lane just below Chardonne, and came to a stone watering trough, or fountain, under an enormous tree. Such troughs, with their clear, flowing water, are plentiful enough, but this one had a feature all its own. The stone upright which held the flowing spout had not been designed for that special purpose. It was, in fact, the upper part of a small column, capital and all, very old and mended, and _distinctly of Roman design_. I do not know where it came from, and I do not care to inquire too deeply, for I like to think it is a fragment of one of those villas that overlooked the Lake of Geneva long ago. There are villas enough about the lake to-day, and châteaux by the dozen, most of the latter begun in the truculent Middle Ages and continued through the centuries down to within a hundred years or so ago. You cannot walk or drive in any direction without coming to them, some in ruins, but most of them well preserved or carefully restored, and habitable; some, like beautiful Blonay, holding descendants of their ancient owners. From the top of our hotel, with a glass, one could pick out as many as half a dozen, possibly twice that number. They were just towers of defense originally, the wings and other architectural excursions being added as peace and prosperity and family life increased. One very old and handsome one, la Tour de Peilz, now gives its name to a part of Vevey, though in the old days it is said that venomous little wars used to rage between Vevey proper and the village which clustered about the château de Peilz. Readers of _Little Women_ will remember la Tour de Peilz, for it was along its lake wall that Laurie proposed to Amy. But a little way down the lake there is a more celebrated château than la Tour de Peilz; the château of Chillon, which Byron's poem of the prisoner Bonivard has made familiar for a hundred years.[12] Chillon, which stands not exactly on the lake, but on a rock _in_ the lake, has not preserved the beginning of its history. Those men of the bronze age camped there, and, if the evidences shown are genuine, the Romans built a part of the foundation. Also, in one of its lower recesses there are the remains of a rude altar of sacrifice. It is a fascinating place. You cross a little drawbridge, and through a heavy gateway enter a guardroom and pass to a pretty open court, where to-day there are vines and blooming flowers. Then you descend to the big barrack room, a hall of ponderous masonry, pass through a small room, with its perfectly black cell below for the condemned, through another, where a high gibbet-beam still remains, and into a spacious corridor of pillars called now the "Prison of Bonivard." There are seven pillars of gothic mold In Chillon's dungeons deep and old;... Dim with a dull imprisoned ray, A sunbeam which has lost its way ... And in each pillar there is a ring And in each ring there is a chain. That iron is a cankering thing, For in these limbs its teeth remain.... Bonivard's ring is still there, and the rings of his two brothers who were chained, one on each side of him; chained, as he tells us, so rigidly that We could not move a single pace; We could not see each other's face. We happened to be there, once, when a sunbeam that "had lost its way" came straying in, a larger sunbeam now, for the narrow slits that serve for windows were even narrower in Bonivard's time, and the place, light enough to-day in pleasant weather, was then somber, damp, and probably unclean. Bonivard was a Geneva patriot, a political prisoner of the Duke of Savoy, who used Chillon as his château. Bonivard lived six years in Chillon, most of the time chained to a column, barely able to move, having for recreation shrieks from the torture chamber above, or the bustle of execution from the small adjoining cell. How he lived, how his reason survived, are things not to be understood. Both his brothers died, and at last Bonivard was allowed more liberty. The poem tells us that he made a footing in the wall, and climbed up to look out on the mountains and blue water, and a little island of three trees, and the "white-walled distant town"--Bouveret, across the lake. He was delivered by the Bernese in 1536, regaining his freedom with a sigh, according to the poem. Yet he survived many years, dying in 1570, at the age of seventy-four. On the columns in Bonivard's dungeon many names are carved, some of them the greatest in modern literary history. Byron's is there, Victor Hugo's, Shelley's, and others of the sort. They are a tribute to the place and its history, of course, but even more to Bonivard--the Bonivard of Byron. Prisoners of many kinds have lived and died in the dungeons of Chillon--heretics, witches, traitors, poor relations--persons inconvenient for one reason or another--it was a vanishing point for the duke's undesirables, who, after the execution, were weighted and dropped out a little door that opens directly to an almost measureless depth of blue uncomplaining water. Right overhead is the torture chamber, with something ghastly in its very shape and color, the central post still bearing marks of burning-irons and clawing steel. Next to this chamber is the hall of justice, and then the splendid banquet hall; everything handy, you see, so that when the duke had friends, and the wine had been good, and he was feeling particularly well, he could say, "Let's go in and torture a witch"; or, if the hour was late and time limited, "Now we'll just step down and hang a heretic to go to bed on." The duke's bedroom, by the way, was right over the torture chamber. I would give something for that man's conscience. One might go on for pages about Chillon, but it has been told in detail so many times. It is the pride to-day of this shore--pictures of it are in every window--postal cards of it abound. Yet, somehow one never grows tired of it, and stops to look at every new one. For a thousand years, at least, Chillon was the scene of all the phases of feudalism and chivalry; its history is that of the typical castle; architecturally it is probably as good an example as there is in Switzerland. It has been celebrated by other authors besides Byron. Jean Jacques Rousseau has it in his _Nouvelle Héloïse_, Hugo in _Le Rhin_, and it has been pictured more or less by most of the writing people who have found their way to Léman's pleasant shore. These have been legion. The Vevey and Montreux neighborhood has been always a place for poor but honest authors. Rousseau was at Vevey in 1732, and lodged at the Hotel of the Key, and wrote of it in his _Confessions_, though he would seem to have behaved very well there. The building still stands, and bears a tablet with a medallion portrait of Rousseau and an extract in which he says that Vevey has won his heart. In his _Confessions_ he advises all persons of taste to go to Vevey, and speaks of the beauty and majesty of the spectacle from its shore. When Lord Byron visited Lake Léman he lodged in Clarens, between Vevey and Montreux, and a tablet now identifies the house. Voltaire also visited here, lodging unknown. Dumas the elder was in Vevey in the thirties of the last century, and wrote a book about Switzerland--a book of extraordinary interest, full of duels, earthquakes, and other startling things, worthy of the author of _Monte Cristo_ and _The Three Musketeers_. Switzerland was not so closely reported in those days; an imagination like Dumas' had more range. Thackeray wrote a portion of the _Newcomes_ at the hotel Trois Couronnes in Vevey, and it was on the wide terrace of the same gay hostelry that Henry James's _Daisy Miller_ had her parasol scene. We have already mentioned Laurie and Amy on the wall of Tour de Peilz, and one might go on citing literary associations of this neighborhood. Perhaps it would be easier to say that about every author who has visited the continent has paused for a little time at Vevey, a statement which would apply to travelers in general. Vevey is not a great city; it is only a picturesque city, with curious, winding streets of constantly varying widths, and irregular little open spaces, all very clean, also very misleading when one wishes to go anywhere with direction and dispatch. You give that up, presently. You do not try to save time by cutting through. When you do, you arrive in some new little rectangle or confluence, with a floral fountain in the middle, and neat little streets winding away to nowhere in particular; then all at once you are back where you started. In this, as in some other points of resemblance, Vevey might be called the Boston of Switzerland. Not that I pretend to a familiarity with Boston--nobody has that--but I have an aunt who lives there, and every time I go to see her I am obliged to start in a different direction for her house, though she claims to have been living in the same place for thirty years. Some people think Boston is built on a turn-table. I don't know; it sounds reasonable. To come back to Vevey--it is growing--not in the wild, woolly, New York, Chicago, and Western way, but in a very definite and substantial way. They are building new houses for business and residence, solid structures of stone and cement, built, like the old ones, to withstand time. They do not build flimsy fire-traps in Switzerland. Whatever the class of the building, the roofs are tile, the staircases are stone. We always seem to court destruction in our American residential architecture. We cover our roofs with inflammable shingles to invite every spark, and build our stairways of nice dry pine, so that in the event of fire they will be the first thing to go. This encourages practice in jumping out of top-story windows. By day Vevey is a busy, prosperous-looking, though unhurried, place, its water-front gay with visitors; evening comes and glorifies the lake into wine, turns to rose the snow on _Grammont_, the _Dents de Midi_, and the _Dents de Morcles_. As to the sunset itself, not many try to paint it any more. Once, from our little balcony we saw a monoplane pass up the lake and float into the crimson west, like a great moth or bird. Night in Vevey is full of light and movement, but not of noise. There is no wild clatter of voices and outbursts of nothing in particular, such as characterize the towns of Italy and southern France. On the hilltops back of Vevey the big hotels are lighted, and sometimes, following the dimmer streets, we looked up to what is apparently a city in the sky, suggesting one's old idea of the New Jerusalem, a kind of vision of heaven, as it were--heaven at night, I mean. FOOTNOTES: [12] Written at the Anchor Inn, Ouchy, Lausanne, in 1817. Chapter XIX MASHING A MUD GUARD One does not motor a great deal in the immediate vicinity of Vevey; the hills are not far enough away for that. One may make short trips to Blonay, and even up Pelerin, if he is fond of stiff climbing, and there are wandering little roads that thread cozy orchard lands and lead to secluded villages tucked away in what seem forgotten corners of a bygone time. But the highway skirts the lake-front and leads straight away toward Geneva, or up the Rhone Valley past Martigny toward the Simplon Pass. It has always been a road, and in its time has been followed by some of the greatest armies the world has ever seen--the troops of Cæsar, of Charlemagne, of Napoleon. We were not to be without our own experience in motor mountain climbing. We did not want it or invite it; it was thrust upon us. We were returning from Martigny late one Sunday afternoon, expecting to reach Vevey for dinner. It was pleasant and we did not hurry. We could not, in fact, for below Villeneuve we fell in with the homing cows, and traveled with attending herds--beside us, before us, behind us--fat, sleek, handsome animals, an escort which did not permit of haste. Perhaps it was avoiding them that caused our mistake; at any rate, we began to realize presently that we were not on our old road. Still, we seemed headed in the right direction and we kept on. Then presently we were climbing a hill--climbing by a narrow road, one that did not permit of turning around. Very well, we said, it could not be very high or steep; we would go over the hill. But that was a wrong estimate. The hill was high and it was steep. Up and up and up on second speed, then back to first, until we were getting on a level with the clouds themselves. It was a good road of its kind, but it had no end. The water was boiling in the radiator--boiling over. We must stop to reduce temperature a little and to make inquiries. It was getting late--far too late to attempt an ascension of the Alps. We were on a sort of bend, and there was a peasant chalet a few rods ahead. I went up there, and from a little old woman in short skirts got a tub of cool water, also some information. The water cooled off our engine, and the information our enthusiasm for further travel in that direction. We were on the road to Château d'Oex, a hilltop resort for winter sports. We were not in a good place to turn around, there on the edge of a semi-precipice, but we managed to do it, and started back. It was a steep descent. I cut off the spark and put the engine on low speed, which made it serve as a brake, but it required the foot and emergency brake besides. It would have been a poor place to let the car get away. Then I began to worry for fear the hind wheels were sliding, which would quickly cut through the tires. I don't know why I thought I could see them, for mud guards make that quite impossible. Nevertheless I leaned out and looked back. It was a poor place to do that, too. We were hugging a wall as it was, and one does not steer well looking backward. In five seconds we gouged into the wall, and the front guard on that side crumpled up like a piece of tinfoil. I had to get out and pull and haul it before there was room for the wheel to turn. I never felt so in disgrace in my life. I couldn't look at anything but the disfigured guard all the way down the mountain. The passengers were sorry and tried to say comforting things, but that guard was fairly shrieking its reproach. What a thing to go home with! I felt that I could never live it down. Happily it was dark by the time we found the right road and were drawing into Montreux--dark and raining. I was glad it was dark, but the rain did not help, and I should have been happier if the streets had not been full of dodging pedestrians and vehicles and blinding lights. The streets of Montreux are narrow enough at best, and what with a busy tram and all the rest of the medley, driving, for a man already in disgrace, was not real recreation. A railway train passed us just below, and I envied the engineer his clear right of way and fenced track, and decided that his job was an easy one by comparison. One used to hear a good deal about the dangers of engine driving, and no doubt an engineer would be glad to turn to the right or left now and then when meeting a train head on--a thing, however, not likely to happen often, though I suppose once is about enough. All the same, a straight, fenced and more or less exclusive track has advantages, and I wished I had one, plunging, weaving, diving through the rain as we were, among pedestrians, cyclists, trams, carriages, other motors, and the like; misled by the cross lights from the shops, dazzled by oncoming headlights, blinded by rain splashing in one's face. It is no great distance from Montreux to Vevey, but in that night it seemed interminable. And what a relief at last were Vevey's quiet streets, what a path of peace the semi-private road to the hotel, what a haven of bliss the seclusion of the solid little garage! Next morning before anybody was astir I got the car with that maltreated mud guard to the shop. It was an awful-looking thing. It had a real expression. It looked as if it were going to cry. I told the repair man that the roads had been wet and the car had skidded into a wall. He did not care how it happened, of course, but I did; besides, it was easier to explain it that way in French. It took a week to repair the guard. I suppose they had to straighten it out with a steam roller. I don't know, but it looked new and fine when it came back, and I felt better. The bill was sixteen francs. I never got so much disgrace before at such a reasonable figure. Chapter XX JUST FRENCH--THAT'S ALL Perhaps one should report progress in learning French. Of course Narcissa and the Joy were chattering it in a little while. That is the way of childhood. It gives no serious consideration to a great matter like that, but just lightly accepts it like a new game or toy and plays with it about as readily. It is quite different with a thoughtful person of years and experience. In such case there is need of system and strategy. I selected different points of assault and began the attack from all of them at once--private lessons; public practice; daily grammar, writing and reading in seclusion; readings aloud by persons of patience and pronunciation. I hear of persons picking up a language--grown persons, I mean--but if there are such persons they are not of my species. The only sort of picking up I do is the kind that goes with a shovel. I am obliged to excavate a language--to loosen up its materials, then hoist them with a derrick. My progress is geological and unhurried. Still, I made progress, of a kind, and after putting in five hours a day for a period of months I began to have a sense of results. I began to realize that even in a rapid-fire conversation the sounds were not all exactly alike, and to distinguish scraps of meaning in conversations not aimed directly at me, with hard and painful distinctness. I began even to catch things from persons passing on the street--to distinguish French from patois--that is to say, I knew, when I understood any of it, that it was not patois. I began to be proud and to take on airs--always a dangerous thing. One day at the pharmacy I heard two well-dressed men speaking. I listened intently, but could not catch a word. When they went I said to the drug clerk--an Englishman who spoke French: "Strange that those well-dressed men should use patois." He said: "Ah, but that was not patois--that was very choice French--Parisian." I followed those men the rest of the afternoon, at a safe distance, but in earshot, and we thus visited in company most of the shops and sights of Vevey. If I could have followed them for a few months in that way it is possible--not likely, but possible--that their conversation might have meant something to me. Which, by the way, suggests the chief difference between an acquired and an inherited language. An acquired language, in time, comes to _mean_ something, whereas the inherited language _is_ something. It is bred into the fiber of its possessor. It is not a question of considering the meaning of words--what they convey; they do not come stumbling through any anteroom of thought, they are embodied facts, forms, sentiments, leaping from one inner consciousness to another, instantaneously and without friction. Probably every species of animation, from the atom to the elephant, has a language--perfectly understood and sufficient to its needs--some system of signs, or sniffs, or grunts, or barks, or vibrations to convey quite as adequately as human speech the necessary facts and conditions of life. Persons, wise and otherwise, will tell you that animals have no language; but when a dog can learn even many words of his master's tongue, it seems rather unkind to deny to him one of his own. Because the oyster does not go shouting around, or annoy us with his twaddle, does not mean that he is deprived of life's lingual interchanges. It is not well to deny speech to the mute, inglorious mollusk. Remember he is our ancestor. To go back to French: I have acquired, with time and heavy effort, a sort of next-room understanding of that graceful speech--that is to say, it is about like English spoken by some one beyond a partition--a fairly thick one. By listening closely I get the general drift of conversation--a confusing drift sometimes, mismeanings that generally go with eavesdropping. At times, however, the partition seems to be thinner, and there comes the feeling that if somebody would just come along and open a door between I should understand. It is truly a graceful speech--the French tongue. Plain, homely things of life--so bald, and bare, and disheartening in the Anglo-Saxon--are less unlovely in the French. Indeed, the French word for "rags" is so pretty that we have conferred "chiffon" on one of our daintiest fabrics. But in the grace of the language lies also its weakness. It does not rise to the supreme utterances. I have been reading the bible texts on the tombstones in the little cemetery of Chardonne. "_L'éternel est mon berger_" can hardly rank in loftiness with "The Lord is my shepherd," nor "_Que votre coeur ne se trouble point_" with "Let not your heart be troubled." Or, at any rate, I can never bring myself to think so. Any language is hard enough to learn--bristling with difficulties which seem needless, even offensively silly to the student. We complain of the genders and silent letters of the French, but when one's native tongue spells "cough" and calls it "cof," "rough" and calls it "ruff," "slough" and calls it "slu" or "sluff," by choice, and "plough" and is unable to indicate adequately without signs just how it should be pronounced, he is not in a position to make invidious comparisons. I wonder what a French student really thinks of those words. He has rules for his own sound variations, and carefully indicates them with little signs. We have sound signs, too, but an English page printed with all the necessary marks is a cause for anguish. I was once given a primary reader printed in that way, and at sight of it ran screaming to my mother. So we leave off all signs in English and trust in God for results. It is hard to be an American learning French, but I would rather be that than a Frenchman learning American. Chapter XXI WE LUGE When winter comes in America, with a proper and sufficient thickness of ice, a number of persons--mainly young people--go out skating, or coasting, or sleighing, and have a very good time. But this interest is incidental--it does not exclude all other interests--it does not even provide the main topic of conversation. It is not like that in Switzerland. Winter sport is a religion in Switzerland; the very words send a thrill through the dweller--native or foreign--among the Swiss hills. When the season of white drift and congealed lake takes possession of the land, other interests and industries are put aside for the diversions of winter. Everything is subserved to the winter sports. French, German, and English papers report each day the thickness of snow at the various resorts, the conditions of the various courses, the program of events. Bills at the railway stations announce the names of points where the sports are in progress, with a schedule of the fares. Hotels publish their winter attractions--their coasting (they call it "luging"--soft g), curling, skating, ski-ing accommodations, and incidentally mention their rooms. They also cover their hall carpetings with canvas to protect them from the lugers' ponderous hobnailed shoes. To be truly sporty one must wear those shoes; also certain other trimmings, such as leggings, breeches, properly cut coat, cap and scarf to match. One cannot really enjoy the winter sports without these decorations, or keep in good winter society. Then there are the skis. One must carry a pair of skis to be complete. They must be as tall as the owner can reach, and when he puts them on his legs will branch out and act independently, each on its own account, and he will become a house divided against itself, with the usual results. So it is better to carry them, and look handsome and graceful, and to confine one's real activities to the more familiar things. Our hotel was divided on winter sports. Not all went in for it, but those who did went in considerably. We had a Dutch family from Sumatra, where they had been tobacco planting for a number of years, and in that tropic land had missed the white robust joys of the long frost. They were a young, superb couple, but their children, who had never known the cold, were slender products of an enervating land. They had never seen snow and they shared their parents' enthusiasm in the winter prospect. The white drifts on the mountaintops made them marvel; the first light fall we had made them wild. That Dutch family went in for the winter sports. You never saw anything like it. Their plans and their outfit became the chief interest of the hotel. They engaged far in advance their rooms at Château d'Oex, one of the best known resorts, and they daily accumulated new and startling articles of costume to make their experience more perfect. One day they would all have new shoes of wonderful thickness and astonishing nails. Then it would be gorgeous new scarfs and caps, then sweaters, then skates, then snowshoes, then skis, and so on down the list. Sometimes they would organize a drill in full uniform. But the children were less enthusiastic then. Those slim-legged little folks could hardly walk, weighted with several pounds of heavy hobnailed shoes, and they complained bitterly at this requirement. Their parents did not miss the humor of the situation, and I think enjoyed these preparations and incidental discomforts for the sake of pleasure as much as they could have enjoyed the sports themselves, when the time came. We gave them a hearty send-off, when reports arrived that the snow conditions at Château d'Oex were good, and if they had as good a time as we wished them, and as they gave us in their preparations, they had nothing to regret. As the winter deepened the winter sport sentiment grew in our midst, until finally in January we got a taste of it ourselves. We found that we could take a little mountain road to a point in the hills called Les Avants, then a funicular to a still higher point, and thus be in the white whirl for better or worse, without being distinctly of it, so to speak. We could not be of it, of course, without the costumes, and we did not see how we could afford these and also certain new adjuncts which the car would need in the spring. So we went primarily as spectators--that is, the older half of the family. The children had their own winter sports at school. [Illustration: "YOU CAN SEE SON LOUP FROM THE HOTEL STEPS IN VEVEY, BUT IT TAKES HOURS TO GET TO IT"] We telephoned to the Son Loup hotel at the top of the last funicular, and got an early start. You can see Son Loup from the hotel steps in Vevey, but it takes hours to get to it. The train goes up, and up, along gorges and abysses, where one looks down on the tops of Christmas trees, gloriously mantled in snow. Then by and by you are at Les Avants and in the midst of everything, except the ski-ing, which is still higher up, at Son Loup. We got off at Les Avants and picked our way across the main street among flying sleds of every pattern, from the single, sturdy little bulldog _luge_ to the great polly-straddle bob, and from the safe vantage of a café window observed the slide. It was divided into three parts--one track for bobsledders--the wild riders--a track for the more daring single riders, and a track for fat folks, old folks, and children. Certainly they were having a good time. Their ages ranged from five to seventy-five, and they were all children together. Now and then there came gliding down among them a big native sled, loaded with hay or wood, from somewhere far up in the hills. It was a perfect day--no cold, no wind, no bright sun, for in reality we were up in the clouds--a soft white veil of vapor was everywhere. By and by we crossed the track, entered a wonderful snow garden belonging to a hotel, and came to a little pond where some old men and fat men were curling. Curling is a game where you try to drive a sort of stone decoy duck from one end of the pond to the other and make it stop somewhere and count something. Each man is armed with a big broom to keep the ice clean before and after his little duck. We watched them a good while and I cannot imagine anything more impressive than to see a fat old man with a broom padding and puffing along by the side of his little fat stone duck, feverishly sweeping the snow away in front of it, so that it will get somewhere and count. When I inadvertently laughed I could see that I was not popular. All were English there--all but a few Americans who pretended to be English. Beyond the curling pond was a skating pond, part of it given over to an international hockey match, but somehow these things did not excite us. We went back to our café corner to watch the luging and to have luncheon. Then the lugers came stamping in for refreshments, and their costumes interested us. Especially their shoes. Even the Dutch family had brought home no such wonders as some of these. They were of appalling size, and some of them had heavy iron claws or toes such as one might imagine would belong to some infernal race. These, of course, were to dig into the snow behind, to check or guide the flying sled. They were useful, no doubt, but when one saw them on the feet of a tall, slim girl the effect was peculiar. By the time we had finished luncheon we had grown brave. We said we would luge--modestly, but with proper spirit. There were sleds to let, by an old Frenchman, at a little booth across the way, and we looked over his assortment and picked a small bob with a steering attachment, because to guide that would be like driving a car. Then we hauled it up the fat folks' slide a little way and came down, hoo-hooing a warning to those ahead in the regulation way. We did this several times, liking it more and more. We got braver and tried the next slide, liking it still better. Then we got reckless and crossed into the bobsled scoot and tried that. Oh, fine! We did not go to the top--we did not know then how far the top was; but we went higher each time, liking it more and more, until we got up to a place where the sleds stood out at a perpendicular right angle as they swirled around a sudden circle against a constructed ice barrier. This looked dangerous, but getting more and more reckless, we decided to go even above that. We hauled our sled up and up, constantly meeting bobsleds coming down and hearing the warning hoo-hoo-hooing of still others descending from the opaque upper mist. Still we climbed, dragging our sled, meeting bob after bob, also loads of hay and wood, and finally some walking girls who told us that the top of the slide was at Son Loup--that is, at the top of the funicular, some miles away. We understood then; all those bobsledders took their sleds up by funicular and coasted down. We stopped there and got on our sled. The grade was very gradual at first, and we moved slowly--so slowly that a nice old lady who happened along gave us a push. We kept moving after that. We crossed a road, rounded a turn, leaped a railway track and struck into the straightway, going like a streak. We had thought it a good distance to the sharp turn, with its right-angle wall of ice, but we were there with unbelievable suddenness. Then in a second we were on the wall, standing straight out into space; then in another we had shot out of it; but our curve seemed to continue. There was a little barnyard just there and an empty hay sled--placed there on purpose, I think now. At any rate, the owner was there watching the performance. I think he had been expecting us. When all motion ceased he untelescoped us, and we limped about and discussed with him in native terms how much we ought to pay for the broken runner on his hay sled, and minor damages. It took five francs to cure the broken runner, which I believe had been broken all the time and was just set there handy to catch inadvertent persons like ourselves. We finished our slide then and handed in our sled, which the old Frenchman looked at fondly and said: "_Très bon--très vite._" He did not know how nearly its speed had come to landing us in the newspapers. We took the funicular to Son Loup, and at the top found ourselves in what seemed atmospheric milk. We stood at the hotel steps and watched the swift coasters pass. Every other moment they flashed by, from a white mystery above--a vision of faces, a call of voices--to the inclosing mystery again. It was like life; but not entirely, for they did not pass to silence. The long, winding hill far below was full of their calls'--muffled by the mist--their hoo-hoo-hoos of warning to those ahead and to those who followed. But it was suggestive, too. It was as if the lost were down there in that cold whiteness. The fog grew thicker, more opaque, as the day waned. It was an impalpable wall. We followed the road from the hotel, still higher into its dense obscurity. When a tree grew near enough to the road for us to see it, we beheld an astonishing sight. The mist had gathered about the evergreen branches until they were draped, festooned, fairly clotted with pendulous frost embroidery. We had been told that there was ski-ing up there and we were anxious to see it, but for a time we found only blankness and dead silence. Then at last--far and faint, but growing presently more distinct--we heard a light sound, a movement, a "swish-swish-swirl"--somewhere in the mist at our right, coming closer and closer, until it seemed right upon us, and strangely mysterious, there being no visible cause. We waited until a form appeared, no, grew, materialized from the intangible--so imperceptibly, so gradually, that at first we could not be sure of it. Then the outlines became definite, then distinct; an athletic fellow on skis maneuvered across the road, angled down the opposite slope, "swish-swish-swirl"--checking himself every other stroke, for the descent was steep--faded into unknown deeps below--the whiteness had shut him in. We listened while the swish-swish grew fainter, and in the gathering evening we felt that he had disappeared from the world into ravines of dark forests and cold enchantments from which there could be no escape. We climbed higher and met dashing sleds now and then, but saw no other ski-ers that evening. Next morning, however, we found them up there, gliding about in that region of vapors, appearing and dissolving like cinema figures, their voices coming to us muffled and unreal in tone. I left the road and followed down into a sort of basin which seemed to be a favorite place for ski practice. I felt exactly as if I were in a ghostly aquarium. I was not much taken with ski-ing, as a whole. I noticed that even the experts fell down a good many times and were not especially graceful getting up. But I approve of coasting under the new conditions--_i. e._ with funicular assistance. In my day coasting was work--you had to tug and sweat up a long slippery incline for a very brief pleasure. Keats (I think it was Keats, or was it Carolyn Wells?) in his, or her, well-known and justly celebrated poem wrote: It takes a long time to make the climb, And a minute or less to come down; But that poetry is out of date--in Switzerland. It no longer takes a long time to make the climb, and you do it in luxury. You sit in a comfortable seat and your sled is loaded on an especially built car. Switzerland is the most funiculated country in the world; its hills are full of these semi-perpendicular tracks. They make you shudder when you mount them for the first time, and I think I never should be able to discuss frivolous matters during an ascent, as I have seen some do. Still, one gets hardened, I suppose. They are cheap. You get commutation tickets for very little, and all day long coasters are loading their sleds on the little shelved flatcar, piling themselves into the coach, then at the top snatching off their sleds to go whooping away down the long track to the lower station. Coasters get killed now and then, and are always getting damaged in one way and another; for the track skirts deep declivities, and there are bound to be slips in steering, and collisions. We might have stayed longer and tried it again, but we were still limping from our first experiment. Besides, we were not dressed for the real thing. Dress may not make the man, but it makes the sportsman. Part II MOTORING THROUGH THE GOLDEN AGE Chapter I THE NEW PLAN But with the breaking out of the primroses and the hint of a pale-green beading along certain branches in the hotel garden, the desire to be going, and seeing, and doing; to hear the long drowse of the motor and look out over the revolving distances; to drop down magically, as it were, on this environment and that--began to trickle and prickle a little in the blood, to light pale memories and color new plans. We could not go for a good while yet. For spring is really spring in Switzerland--not advance installments of summer mixed with left-overs from winter, but a fairly steady condition of damp coolness--sunlight that is not hot, showers that are not cold--the snow on the mountainsides advancing and retreating--sometimes, in the night, getting as low down as Chardonne, which is less than half an hour's walk above the hotel. There is something curiously unreal about this Swiss springtime. We saw the trees break out into leaf, the fields grow vividly green and fresh, and then become gay with flowers, without at all feeling the reason for such a mood. In America such a change is wrought by hot days--cold ones, too, perhaps, but certainly hot ones; we have sweltered in April, though we have sometimes snowballed in May. The Swiss spring was different. Three months of gradual, almost unnoticeable, mellowing kept us from getting excited and gave us plenty of time to plan. That was good for us--the trip we had in mind now was no mere matter of a few days' journey, from a port to a destination; it was to be a wandering that would stretch over the hills and far away, through some thousands of kilometers and ten weeks of time. That was about all we had planned concerning it, except that we were going back into France, and at one point in those weeks we expected to touch Cherbourg and pick up a missing member of the family who would be dropped there by a passing ship. We studied the maps a good deal, and at odd times I tinkered with the car and wondered how many things would happen to it before we completed the long circle, and if I would return only partially crippled or a hopeless heap of damage and explanations. Never mind--the future holds sorrow enough for all of us. Let us anticipate only its favors. So we planned. We sent for a road map of France divided into four sections, showing also western Germany and Switzerland. We spread it out on the table and traced a variety of routes to Cherbourg; by Germany, by Paris direct, by a long loop down into southern France. We favored the last-named course. We had missed some things in the Midi--Nîmes, Pont du Gard, Orange--and then there was still a quality in the air which made us feel that the south would furnish better motor weather in May. Ah, me! There is no place quite like the Provence. It is rather dusty, and the people are drowsy and sometimes noisy, and there are mosquitoes there, and maybe other unpleasant things; but in the light chill of a Swiss spring day there comes a memory of rich mellowness and September roadsides, with gold and purple vintage ripening in the sun, that lights and warms the soul. We would start south, we said. We were not to reach Cherbourg until June. Plenty of time for the north, then, and later. We discussed matters of real importance--that is to say, expenses. We said we would give ourselves an object lesson, this time, in what could really be done in motor economies. On our former trip we had now and again lunched by the roadside, with pleasing results. This time we would always do it. Before, we had stopped a few times at small inns in villages instead of seeking out hotels in the larger towns. Those few experiments had been altogether satisfactory, both as to price and entertainment. Perhaps this had been merely our good fortune, but we were willing to take further chances. From the fifty francs a day required for our party of four we might subtract a franc or so and still be nourished, body and soul. Thus we planned. When it was pleasant we enjoyed shopping for our roadside outfit; a basket, square, and of no great size; some agate cups and saucers; some knives and forks; also an alcohol stove, the kind that compacts itself into very small compass, aluminum, and very light-- I hope they have them elsewhere than in Switzerland, for their usefulness is above price. Chapter II THE NEW START It was the first week in May when we started--the 5th, in fact. The car had been thoroughly overhauled, and I had spent a week personally on it, scraping and polishing, so that we might make a fine appearance as we stood in front of the hotel in the bright morning sunlight where our fellow guests would gather to see us glide away. I have had many such showy dreams as that, and they have turned out pretty much alike. We did not start in the bright morning. It was not bright. It was raining, and it continued to rain until after eleven o'clock. By that time our fellow guests were not on hand. They had got tired and gone to secluded corners, or to their rooms, or drabbling into the village. When the sun finally came out only a straggler or two appeared. It was too bad. We glided away, but not very far. I remembered, as we were passing through the town, that it might be well to take some funds along, so we drove around to the bank to see what we could raise in that line. We couldn't raise anything--not a centime. It was just past twelve o'clock and, according to Swiss custom, the bank was closed for two hours. Not a soul was there--the place was locked, curtained, barred. Only dynamite would have opened it. We consulted. We had some supplies in our basket to eat by the roadside as soon as we were well into the country. Very good; we would drive to some quiet back street in the suburbs and eat them now. We had two hours to wait--we need feel no sense of hurry. So we drove down into Vevey la Tour and, behind an old arch, where friends would not be likely to notice us, we sat in the car and ate our first luncheon, with a smocked boy for audience--a boy with a basket on his arm, probably delaying the machinery of his own household to study the working economies of ours. Afterward we drove back to the bank, got our finances arranged, slipped down a side street to the lake-front, and fled away toward Montreux without looking behind us. It was not at all the departure we had planned. It rained again at Montreux, but the sun was shining at Chillon, and the lake was blue. Through openings in the trees we could see the picture towns of Territet, Montreux, Clarens, and Vevey, skirting the shore--the white steamers plying up and down; the high-perched hotels, half lost in cloudland, and we thought that our travels could hardly provide a more charming vision than that. Then we were in Villeneuve, then in the open flat fields of the Rhone Valley, where, for Europe, the roads are poor; on through a jolty village to a bridge across the Rhone, and so along the south shore by Bouveret, to St. Gingolph, where we exhibited our papers at the Swiss _douane_, crossed a little brook, and were again in France. We were making the circuit of the lake, you see. All winter we had looked across to that shore, with its villages and snow-mantled hills. We would now see it at close range. We realized one thing immediately. Swiss roads are not bad roads, by any means, but French roads are better. In fact, I have made up my mind that there is nothing more perfect in this world than a French road. I have touched upon this subject before, and I am likely to dwell upon it unduly, for it always excites me. Those roads are a perfect network in France, and I can never cease marveling at the money and labor they must have cost. They are so hard and smooth, so carefully graded and curved, so beautifully shaded, so scrupulously repaired--it would seem that half the wealth and effort of France must be expended on her highways. The road from St. Gingolph was wider than the one we had left behind. It was also a better road and in better repair. It was a floor. Here and there we came to groups of men working at it, though it needed nothing, that we could see. It skirted the mountains and lake-front. We could look across to our own side now--to Vevey and those other towns, and the cloud-climbing hotels, all bright in the sunshine. We passed a nameless village or two and were at Evian, a watering-place which has grown in fame and wealth these later years--a resort of fine residences and handsome hotels--not our kind of hotels, but plenty good enough for persons whose tastes have not been refined down to our budget and daily program of economies. It was at Thonon--quaint old Thonon, once a residence of the Counts and Dukes of Savoy--that we found a hostelry of our kind. It had begun raining again, and, besides, it was well toward evening. We pulled up in front of the Hôtel d'Europe, one of the least extravagant of the red-book hostelries, and I went in. The "_Bureau_" as the French call the office, was not very inviting. It was rather dingy and somber, and nobody was there. I found a bell and rang it and a woman appeared--not a very attractive woman, but a kindly person who could understand my "_Vous avez des chambres?_" which went a good ways. She had "_des chambres_" and certainly no fault could be found with those. They were of immense size, the beds were soft, smooth, and spotlessly clean. Yes, there was a garage, free. I went back with my report. The dinner might be bad, we said, but it would only be for once--besides, it was raining harder. So we went in, and when the shower passed we took a walk along the lake-front, where there is an old château, once the home of royalty, now the storehouse of plaster or something, and we stopped to look at a public laundry--a square stone pool under a shed, where the women get down on their knees and place the garments on a board and scrub them with a brush, while the cold water from the mountains runs in and out and is never warmed at all. Returning by another way, we found about the smallest church in the world, built at one corner of the old domain. A woman came with a key and let us into it and we sat in the little chairs and inspected the tiny altar and all the sacred things with especial interest, for one of the purposes of our pilgrimages was to see churches--the great cathedrals of France. Across from the church stood a ruined tower, matted with vines, the remains of a tenth-century château--already old when the one on the lake-front was new. We speak lightly of a few centuries more or less, but, after all, there was a goodly period between the tenth and the fourteenth, a period long enough to cover American history from Montezuma to date. These old towers, once filled with life and voices and movement, are fascinating things. We stood looking at this one while the dusk gathered. Then it began sprinkling again and it was dinner time. So we returned to the hotel and I may as well say here, at once, that I do not believe there are any bad dinners in France. I have forgotten what we had, but I suppose it was fish and omelet, and meat and chicken, and salad and dessert, and I know it was all hot and delicious, and served daintily in courses, and we went to those soft beds happy and soothed, fell asleep to the sound of the rain pattering outside, and felt not a care in the world. Chapter III INTO THE JURAS It was still drizzling next morning, so we were in no hurry to leave. We plodded about the gray streets, picking up some things for the lunch basket, and Narcissa and the Joy got a chance to try their nice new French on real French people and were gratified to find that it worked just the same as it did on Swiss people. Then the sky cleared and I backed the car out of the big stable where it had spent the night, and we packed on our bags and paid our bill--twenty-seven francs for all, or about one dollar and thirty-five cents each for dinner, lodging, and breakfast--tips, one franc each to waitress, chambermaid, and garageman. If they were dissatisfied they did not look it, and presently we were once more on the road, all the cylinders working and bankruptcy not yet in sight. It was glorious and fresh along the lake-front--also appetizing. We stopped by and by for a little mid-morning luncheon, and a passing motorist, who probably could not believe we would stop merely to eat at that hour, drew up to ask if anything was wrong with our car and if he could help. They are kindly people, these French and Swiss. Stop your car by the roadside and begin to hammer something, or to take off a tire, and you will have offers of assistance from four out of every five cars that pass. There is another little patch of Switzerland again at the end of the lake, and presently you run into Geneva, and trouble. Geneva is certainly a curious place. The map of it looks as easy as nothing and you go gliding into it full of confidence, and presently find yourself in a perfect mess of streets that are not on the map at all, while all the streets that _are_ on the map certainly have changed their names, for you cannot find them where they should be, and no one has ever heard of them. Besides, the wind is generally blowing--the _bise_--which does not simplify matters. Narcissa inquired and I inquired, and then the Joy, who, privately, I think, speaks the best French of any of us, also inquired; but the combined result was just a big coalyard which a very good-looking street led us straight into, making it necessary to back out and apologize and feel ashamed. Then we heard somebody calling us, and, looking around, saw the man in gray who had last directed us, and who also felt ashamed, it seemed--of us, or himself, or something--and had run after us to get us out of the mess. So he directed us again and we started, but the labyrinth closed in once more--the dust and narrow streets and blind alleys--and once again we heard a voice, and there was the man in gray--he must have run a half a mile this time--waving and calling and pointing the path out of the maze. It seemed that they were fixing all the good streets and we must get through by circuitous bad ones to the side of the city toward France. I asked him why they didn't leave the good streets alone and fix the bad ones, but he only smiled and explained some more, and once more we went astray, and yet once more his voice came calling down the wind and he came up breathlessly, and this time followed with us, refusing even standing room on the running-board, until he got us out of the city proper and well headed for France. We had grown fond of that man and grieved to see him go. We had known him hardly ten minutes, I think, but friendships are not to be measured by time. On a pretty hill where a little stream of water trickled we ate our first real luncheon--that is to say, we used our new stove. We cooked eggs and made coffee, and when there came a sprinkle we stood under our umbrellas or sat in the car and felt that this was really a kind of gypsying, and worth while. There was a waving meadow just above the bank and I went up there to look about a little. No house was in sight, but this meadow was a part of some man's farm. It was familiar in every corner to him--he had known it always. Perhaps he had played in it as a child--his children had played in it after him--it was inseparable from the life and happiness of a home. Yet to us it was merely the field above our luncheon place--a locality hardly noticed or thought of--barely to be remembered at all. Crossing another lonely but fertile land, we entered the hills. We skirted mountainsides--sometimes in sun, sometimes in shower--descended a steep road, and passed under a great arched battlement that was part of a frowning fortress guarding the frontier of France. Not far beyond, at the foot of a long decline, lay a beautiful city, just where the mountains notched to form a passage for the Rhone. It was Bellegarde, and as we drew nearer some of the illusions of beauty disappeared. French cities generally show best from a distance. Their streets are not very clean and they are seldom in repair. The French have the best roads and the poorest streets in the world. We drew up in front of the custom house, and exhibited our French _triptyque_. It was all right, and after it was indorsed I thought we were through. This was not true. A long, excited individual appeared from somewhere and began nervously to inspect our baggage. Suddenly he came upon a small empty cigar box which I had put in, thinking it might be useful. Cigars are forbidden, and at sight of the empty box our wild-eyed attenuation had a fit. He turned the box upside down and shook it; he turned it sidewise and looked into it; shook it again and knocked on it as if bound to make the cigars appear. He seemed to decide that I had hidden the cigars, for he made a raid on things in general. He looked into the gasoline tank, he went through the pockets of the catch-all and scattered our guidebooks and maps; then he had up the cushion of the back seat and went into the compartment where this time was our assortment of hats. You never saw millinery fly as it did in that man's hands, with the head of the family and Narcissa and the Joy grabbing at their flowers and feathers, and saying things in English that would have hurt that man if he could have understood them. As for him, he was repeating, steadily, "_Pas dérange_"--"_Pas dérange_," when all the time he was deranging ruthlessly and even permanently. He got through at last, smiled, bowed, and retired--pleased, evidently, with the thoroughness of his investigation. But for some reason he entirely overlooked our bags strapped on the footboard. We did not remind him. The Pert of the Rhone is at Bellegarde. The pert is a place where in dry weather the Rhone disappears entirely from sight for the space of seventy yards, to come boiling up again from some unknown mystery. Articles have been thrown in on one side--even live animals, it is said--but they have never reappeared on the other. What becomes of them is a matter of speculation. Perhaps some fearful underground maelstrom holds them. There was no pert when we were there--there had been too much rain. The Rhone went tearing through a gorge where we judged the pert should be located in less watery seasons. During the rest of the afternoon we had rather a damp time--showery and sloppy, for many of the roads of these Jura foothills were in the process of repair, and the rain had stopped the repairs halfway. It was getting toward dusk when we came to Nantua--a lost and forgotten town among the Jura cliffs. We stopped in front of the showier hotel there, everything looked so rain-beaten and discouraging, but the woman who ran it was even showier than her hotel and insisted on our taking a parlor suite at some fabulous price. So we drove away and drew up rather sadly at the Hôtel du Lac, which on that dull evening was far from fascinating. Yet the rooms they showed us were good, and the dinner--a surprise of fresh trout just caught, served sizzling hot, fine baked potatoes and steak, with good red wine aplenty--was such as to make us forswear forevermore the showy hotels for the humbler inns of France. But I am moving too fast. Before dinner we walked for a little in the gray evening and came to an old church--one of the oldest in France, it is said, built in the ninth century and called St. Michels. It is over a thousand years old and looks it. It has not been much rebuilt, I think, for invasion and revolution appear seldom to have surmounted the natural ramparts of Nantua, and only the stormbeat and the corrosion of the centuries have written the story of decay. Very likely it is as little changed as any church of its time. The hand of restoration has troubled it little. We slipped in through the gathering dusk, and tiptoed about, for there were a few lights flickering near the altar and the outlines of bowed heads. Presently a priest was silhouetted against the altar lights as he crossed and passed out by a side door. He was one of a long line that stretched back through more than half of the Christian era and most of the history of France. When the first priest passed in front of that altar France was still under the Carlovingian dynasty--under Charles the Fat, perhaps; and William of Normandy would not conquer England for two hundred years. Then nearly four hundred years more would creep by--dim mediæval years--before Joan of Arc should unfurl her banner of victory and martyrdom. You see how far back into the mists we are stepping here. And all those evenings the altar lights have been lit and the ministration of priests has not failed. There is a fine picture by Eugene Delacroix in the old church, and we came back next morning to look at it. It is a St. Sebastian, and not the conventional, ridiculous St. Sebastian of some of the old masters--a mere human pincushion--but a beautiful youth, prostrate and dying, pierced by two arrows, one of which a pitying male figure is drawing from his shoulder. It must be a priceless picture. How can they afford to keep it here? The weather seemed to have cleared, and the roads, though wet, were neither soft nor slippery. French roads, in fact, are seldom either--and the fresh going along the lake-front was delightful enough. But we were in the real Juras now, and one does not go through that range on a water grade. We were presently among the hills, the road ahead of us rising to the sky. Then it began to rain again, but the road was a good firm one and the car never pulled better. It was magnificent climbing. On the steepest grades and elbow turns we dropped back to second, but never to low, and there was no lagging. On the high levels we stopped to let the engine cool and to add water from the wayside hollows. We were in the clouds soon, and sometimes it was raining, sometimes not. It seemed for the most part an uninhabited land--no houses and few fields--the ground covered with a short bushy growth, grass and flowers. A good deal of it was rocky and barren. On the very highest point of the Jura range, where we had stopped to cool the motor, a woman came along, leading three little children. She came up and said a few words in what sounded like an attempt at English. We tried our French on her, but it did not seem to get inside. I said she must speak some mountain patois, for we had used those same words lower down with good results. But then she began her English again--it was surely English this time, and, listening closely, we got the fringes and tag ends of a curious story. She was Italian, and had been in New York City. There, it seemed, she had married a Frenchman from the Juras, who, in time, when his homeland had called him, had brought her back to the hills. There he had died, leaving her with six children. She had a little hut up the side lane, where they were trying to scratch a living from the stony soil. Yes, she had chickens, and could let us have some eggs. She also brought a pail with water for the radiator. A little farther along we cooked the eggs and laid out all our nice lunch things on natural stone tables and looked far down the Jura slope on an ancient village and an old castle, the beginning of the world across the range. It was not raining now, and the air was soft and pleasant and the spot as clean and sweet as could be. Presently the water was boiling and the coffee made--instantaneous coffee, the George Washington kind. And nothing could be fresher than those eggs, nothing unless it was the butter--unsalted butter, which with jam and rolls is about the best thing in the world to finish on. [Illustration: DESCENDING THE JURAS] We descended the Jura grades on the engine brake--that is, I let in the clutch, cut off the gasoline supply and descended on first or second speed, according to the grade. That saves the wheel brake and does no damage to the motor. I suppose everybody knows the trick, but I did not learn it right away, and there may be others who know as little. It was a long way to the lower levels, and some of the grades were steep. Then they became gradual, and we coasted--then the way flattened and we were looking across a level valley, threaded by perfectly ordered roads to a distant town whose roofs and spires gleamed in the sunlight of the May afternoon. It was Bourg, and one of the spires belonged to the church of Brou. Chapter IV A POEM IN ARCHITECTURE The church of Brou is like no other church in the world. In the first place, instead of dragging through centuries of building and never quite reaching completion, it was begun and finished in the space of twenty-five years--from 1511 to 1536--and it was supervised and paid for by a single person, Margaret of Austria, who built it in fulfillment of a vow made by her mother-in-law, Margaret of Bourbon. The last Margaret died before she could undertake her project, and her son, Philibert II, Duke of Savoy, called "The Handsome," followed before he could carry out her wishes. So his duchess, the other Margaret, undertook the work, and here on this plain, between the Juras and the Saône, she wrought a marvel in exquisite church building which still remains a marvel, almost untouched by any blight, after four hundred turbulent years. Matthew Arnold wrote a poem on the church of Brou which may convey the wonder of its beauty. I shall read it some day, and if it is as beautiful as the church I shall commit it, and on days when things seem rather ugly and harsh and rasping I will find some quiet corner and shut my eyes and say the lines and picture a sunlit May afternoon and the church of Brou. Then, perhaps, I shall not remember any more the petty things of the moment but only the architectural shrine which one woman reared in honor of another, her mother-in-law. It is not a great cathedral, but it is by no means a little church. Its lofty nave is bare of furnishings, which perhaps lends to its impression of bigness. But then you pass through the carved doors of a magnificent _juba_ screen, and the bareness disappears. The oaken choir seats are carved with the richness of embroidery, and beyond them are the tombs--those of the two Margarets, and of Philibert--husband and son. I suppose the world can show no more exquisitely wrought tombs than these. Perhaps their very richness defeats their art value, but I would rather have them so, for it reveals, somehow, the thoroughness and sincerity of Margaret's intent--her determination to fulfill to the final letter every imagined possibility in that other's vow. The mother's tomb is a sort of bower--a marble alcove of great splendor, within and without. Philibert's tomb, which stands in the center of the church, between the other two, is a bier, supported by female figures and fluted columns and interwoven decorations, exquisitely chiseled. Six cupids and a crouching lion guard the royal figure above; and the whole, in spite of its richness, is of great dignity. The tomb of the Duchess Margaret herself is a lofty canopy of marble incrustations, the elaborateness of which no words can tell. It is the superlative of Gothic decoration at a period when Gothic extravagance was supreme. Like her husband Margaret sleeps in double effigy, the sovereign in state above, the figure of mortality, compassed by the marble supports, below. The mortality of the queen is draped, but in the case of Philibert, the naked figure, rather dim through the interspaces, has a curiously lifelike, even startling effect. [Illustration: THE TOMB OF MARGARET OF AUSTRIA, CHURCH OF BROU] If the Duchess Margaret made her own tomb more elaborate, it is at least not more beautiful than the others, while an altar to the Virgin is still more elaborate--more beautiful, its grouped marble figures in such high relief that angels and cherubs float in the air, apparently unsupported. Here, as elsewhere, is a wealth of ornamentation; and everywhere woven into its intricacies one may find the initials P and M--Philibert and Margaret--and the latter's motto, "_Fortune, infortune, fort une._" It has been called a mysterious motto, and different meanings have been twisted out of it. But my French is new and fresh and takes things quite obviously. "Fortune and misfortune strengthens or fortifies one" strikes me as a natural rendering. That last verb _fortifier_ may seem to be abbreviated without warrant, but Margaret was a queen and could have done that for the sake of euphony and word-play. The unscarred condition and the purity of these precious marbles is almost as astonishing as their beauty, when one considers the centuries of invasion and revolution, with a vandalism that respected nothing sacred, least of all symbols of royalty. By careful search we could discover a broken detail here and there, but the general effect was completeness, and the white marble--or was it ivory tinted?--seen under the light of the illumined stained windows seemed to present the shapes and shades of things that, as they had never been new, neither would they ever be old. Chapter V VIENNE IN THE RAIN It is about forty miles from Bourg to Lyons, a country of fair fields, often dyed deeply red at this season with crimson clover, a country rich and beautiful, the road a straight line, wide and smooth, the trees on either side vividly green with spring. But Lyons is not beautiful--it is just a jangling, jarring city of cobbled crowded streets and mainly uninteresting houses and thronging humanity, especially soldiers. It is a place to remain unloved, unhonored, and unremembered. The weather now put aside other things and really got down to the business of raining. It was fair enough when we left Lyons, but as we reached the top of a hill that overlooked the world I saw down the fields a spectral light and far deepening dusk which looked ominous. By the time we got our top up there was a steady downpour. We did not visit any wayside villages, though some of them looked interesting enough. French villages are none too clean at any time and rain does not seem to help them. Attractive old castles on neighboring hilltops received hardly a glance; even one overhanging our very road barely caused us to check up. How old it looked in its wet desolation, the storm eating into its crumbling walls! We pulled up at last at Vienne, at the end of the bridge facing the cathedral. History has been written about Vienne, and there are monuments of the past which it is not good form to overlook. The head of the family said she was not very particular about form and that she was particular about being wet and discomforted on a chill spring day. France was full of monuments of the past, she said, and she had not started out to make her collection complete. She would study the cathedral from the car, and would the rest of us please remember to bring some fresh rolls for luncheon. So the rest of us went to the church of St. Maurice, which begins to date with the twelfth century and looks even older. Surrounded by comparatively modern buildings and soaked with rain it appeared, one of the most venerable relics I had ever seen. I do not think we found the inside very interesting. It was dead and dusky, and the seventh-century sarcophagus of St. Leoninus was, in the French phrase, not gay. On the whole there seemed a good deal of mutilation and not much taste. We paddled through streets, asking directions to the Roman temple. Vienne was an important town under the Romans, the capital of one of the provinces of Gaul. Of course the Romans would leave landmarks--the kind that would last. When we found the temple of Augustus and Livia at last, it did not look so much older than the church, though it is more than as old again. It was so positively Roman and so out of place among its modern French surroundings that it looked exactly like something that had been brought there and set up for exhibition. It took a heavy strain of imagination to see it as an integral part of the vanished Roman capital. All about the temple lay fragments of that ancient city--exhibition pieces, like the temple. One felt that they should not be left out in the rain. We hunted farther and found an Arch of Triumph, which the Romans generally built in conquered territory. It was hard to tell where the arch began and where it ended, such a variety of other things had grown up around and against it. Still, there was at least a section standing, Roman, and of noble proportions. It will still be Roman, and an arch, when those later incrustations have crumbled away. Roman work is not trivial stuff. We might have lingered a little in the winding streets and made further discoveries, but the Joy had already sighted a place where the most attractive rolls and French cakes filled the window. The orders, she said, were very strict about the luncheon things. We must get them at once or we should not be able to locate the place again. Curious things can happen in a brief absence. We returned to the car to find one of the back tires perfectly flat, the head of the family sitting serenely unconscious of her misfortune. We had picked up one of those flat-headed boot nails that Europeans love so well, and the tire had slowly and softly settled. There are cleaner, pleasanter things than taking off a tire and putting it on again in the rain, but I utilized a deep doorway on the corner for the dry work, and Narcissa held the umbrella while I pulled and pushed and grunted and pumped, during the more strenuous moments. Down the river a way we drew up in a grassy place under some trees and sat in the car and ate the _gâteaux_ and other things, and under the green shelter I made coffee and eggs, the little cooker sitting cozily on the running-board. Then all the afternoon along the hard, wet, shining road that follows the Rhone to Valence, where we spent two days, watching the steady beat from the hotel windows, reading, resting, and eating a good deal of the time; doing not much sight-seeing, for we had touched Valence on our northward trip eight months before. Chapter VI THE CHÂTEAU I DID NOT RENT In a former chapter I have mentioned the mighty natural portrait in stone which Mark Twain found, and later named the Lost Napoleon, because he could not remember its location, and how we rediscovered it from Beauchastel on the Rhone, not far below Valence. We decided now that we would have at least another glimpse of the great stone face, it being so near. The skies had cleared this morning, though there was a good deal of wind and the sun was not especially warm. But we said we would go. We would be getting on toward the south, at any rate. We did not descend on the Beauchastel side, there being a bridge shown on the map, at La Voulte, where we would cross. The reader may also remember the mention of a château below Beauchastel, with a sign on it which said that the property was to let, and my failure to negotiate for it. Very well, here is the sequel: When we got to the end of the bridge opposite La Voulte, we looked across to one of the closely packed mediæval villages of France with a great castle rising from its central height. It was one of the most picturesque things we had seen and I stopped to photograph it, declaring we must certainly visit it. So we crossed the bridge and at the end turned away toward Beauchastel, deciding to visit La Voulte later. We were back almost immediately. The day was not as clear as it looked and the Lost Napoleon was veiled, behind a white horizon. Very likely it would be better by morning, we said, so we dropped our belongings at the tiny Beauchastel inn and made an afternoon excursion to the château. Imagine my feelings when, on looking up from the road, I suddenly discovered once more the big sign, "_Château A Louer._" It was our château--the one I had formerly been discouraged from taking. It was providence, I said, knocking a second time at our door. The others had another view. They said unless I would promise not to rent the premises I would not be permitted to examine them. I tried to make better terms, but finally submitted. We drove up into the narrow, ancient, cobbled streets a distance and left the car. Then we climbed. It was a steep and tortuous way, winding around scary edges and through doubtful-looking passages where, in weird holes and crannies, old and crooked people lived and were doing what they had always done since time began. I don't remember exactly how we finally made our way through crumble and decay--such surroundings as I have often known in dreams--to a grassy court where there was a semblance of genuine life. An old caretaker was there and he agreed to show us through. It was called _La Voulte sur Rhone_, he said, and gave its name to the village. No one knew just when it had been begun, but some of it had been there in the eleventh century, when it had belonged to Adon de Clerieu. It had passed through many hands and had been more than once reconstructed. At one time Guillaume de Fay held it; also Philippe IV and Louis de Bourbon Condé, and the great family of De Rohan. Kings had been entertained there, among them Louis XIII, an interesting fact, but I wished they had given better accommodations than the rambling, comfortless, and rather blind succession of boxes shown us as the royal suite. I also objected to the paper on the walls until our guide explained that it had been put there by an American tenant of the early Andrew Johnson period. He told us then that the château had been recently bought by a French author of two volumes of poetry, who was restoring portions of it and had reserved a row of rooms along the high terrace to let to other poets and kindred souls, so they might live side by side and look out over the fair land of France and interchange their fancies and dream long dreams. Standing on that lofty green vantage and looking out across the river and the valley of the Rhone, I was tempted to violate my treaty and live there forever after. The only portion really restored, so far, is a large assembly room, now used as a sort of museum. I hope the owner will reclaim, or at least clean, some of the other rooms, and that he will not carry the work to the point where atmosphere and romance seem to disappear. Also, I truly hope he won't give up the notion of that row of poets along the terrace, even if I can't be one of them; and I should like to slip up there sometime and hear them all striking their harps in unison and lifting a memnonic voice to the sunrise. Chapter VII AN HOUR AT ORANGE Our bill at Beauchastel for the usual accommodation--dinner, lodging, and breakfast--was seventeen francs-twenty, including the tips to two girls and the stableman. This was the cheapest to date; that is to say, our expense account was one dollar each, nothing for the car. The Beauchastel inn is not really a choice place, but it is by no means a poor place--not from the point of view of an American who has put up at his own little crossroad hotels. We had the dining room to ourselves, with a round table in the center, and the dinner was good and plentiful and well served. If the rooms were bare they were at least clean, and the landlady was not to blame that it turned cold in the night, which made getting up a matter to be considered. Still, we did get up pretty promptly, for we wanted to see if our natural wonder was on view. It was, and we took time and sketched it and tried to photograph it, though that was hopeless, for the distance was too great and the apparition too actinic--too blue. But it was quite clear, and the peaceful face impressed us, I think, more than ever. The best view is from the railway embankment. We got another reward for stopping at Beauchastel. We saw the old Rhone stagecoach come in, Daudet's coach, and saw descend from it Daudet's characters, _le Camarguais_, _le boulanger_, _le remouleur_, and the rest. At least they might have been those, for they belonged with the old diligence, and one could imagine the knife grinder saying to the hectoring baker, "_Tais-toi, je t'en prie" si navrant et si doux_.[13] But now we felt the breath of the south. It was no longer chilly. The sun began to glow warm, the wind died. Sometime in the afternoon we arrived at Orange. Orange is not on the Rhone and we had missed it in our northward journey in September. It was one of our special reasons for returning to the south of France. Not the town of Orange itself, which is of no particular importance, but for the remnants of the Roman occupation--a triumphal arch and the chief wall of a Roman theater, both of such fine construction and noble proportions that they are to be compared with nothing else of their kind in France. We came to the arch first--we had scarcely entered the town when we were directly facing it. It stands in a kind of circular grass plot a little below the present level, with short flights of steps leading down to it. At the moment of our arrival a boy of about fifteen was giving an exhibition by riding up and down these steps on a bicycle. I sincerely wished he would not do it. Whatever its relation to its surroundings nineteen centuries ago, the arch of Orange is magnificently out of place to-day. Time-beaten and weather-stained--a visible manifest of a race that built not for the generations or the centuries, but for "the long, long time the world shall last"--supreme in its grandeur and antiquity, it stands in an environment quite modern, quite new, and wholly trivial. The arch is really three arches--the highest in the center, and the attic, as they call the part above, is lofty, with rich decorations, still well preserved. There are restored patches here and there, but they do little injury. From whatever direction you look the arch is beautiful, imposing, and certainly it seems eternal. When the present Orange has crumbled and has been followed by successive cities, it will still be there, but I trust the boy with the bicycle will not survive. The theater is at the other end of town. It is not an amphitheater or an inclosure of any kind, but a huge flat wall, about as solid as the hills and one of the biggest things in France. Strictly speaking, it was never part of any building at all. It was simply a stage property, a sort of permanent back scene for what I judge to have been an open-air theater. There is no doubt about its permanency. It is as high as an ordinary ten-or twelve-story building, longer than the average city block, and it is fifteen feet thick. That is the Roman idea of scenery. They did not expect to shift it often. They set up some decorative masonry in front of it, with a few gods and heroes solidly placed, and let it go at that. Their stage would be just in front of this, rather narrow, and about on a ground level. The whole was built facing a steep rocky hillside, which was carved into a semi-circle of stone seats, in the old fashion which Rome borrowed from Greece. This natural stonework did not stand the wash of centuries, or it may have been quarried for the château which the princes of Orange built at the summit of the hill. The château is gone to-day, and the seats have been restored, I dare say, with some of the original material. Every August now a temporary stage is erected in the ancient theater, and the Comédie Française gives performances there. The upper works of the hill, where the château was, are rather confusing. There are cave-like places and sudden drops and rudimentary passages, all dimly suggesting dungeons, once black and horrible, now happily open to the sun. And, by the way, I suppose that I am about the only person in the world who needed to be told that a line of kings originated at Orange. I always supposed that William of Orange took his name from an Irish society whose colors, along with a shamrock, he wore in his hat. By some oversight the guidebook does not mention the jam that is sold at Orange. It is put up in tin pails, and has in it all the good things in the world--lumps of them--price, one franc per pail. We did not stop at Avignon, for we had been there before, but followed around outside the ancient wall and came at last to the Rhone bridge, and to the island of our smoke adventure in the days of our inexperience, eight months earlier. This time we camped on the island in a pretty green nook by the water's edge, left the car under a tree, and made tea and had some of that excellent jam and some fresh rolls and butter, and ate them looking across to ancient Villeneuve and the tower of Philip le Bel. Oh, the automobile is the true flying carpet--swift, willing, always ready, obeying at a touch. Only this morning we were at Beauchastel; a little while ago we were under the ancient arch at Orange and sat in the hoary theater. A twist of the crank, a little turning of the wheel, a brief flight across wood and meadow, and behold! the walls of Avignon and a pleasant island in the river, where we alight for a little to make our tea in the greenery, knowing that we need only to rub the magic lamp to sail lightly away, resting where we will. Our tea ended, the genii awoke and dropped us into Villeneuve, where, in an open market, we realized that it was cherry season. I thought I had seen cherries before, but never in this larger sense. Here there were basketfuls, boxfuls, bucketfuls, barrelfuls, wagonloads--the whole street was crowded with wagons, and every wagon heaped high with the crimson and yellow fruit. Officials seemed to be weighing them and collecting something, a tax, no doubt. But what would be done with them later? Could they ship all those cherries north and sell them? And remember this was only one evening and one town. The thought that every evening and every town in the Midi was like this in cherry time was stupefying. We had to work our way among cherry wagons to get to the open road again, and our "flying carpet" came near getting damaged by one of them, because of my being impatient and trying to push ahead when an approaching cherry wagon had the right of way. As it was, I got a vigorous admonishment in French profanity, which is feathery stuff, practically harmless. I deserved something much more solid. Consider for a moment this French profanity: About the most violent things a Frenchman can say are "_Sacre bleu_" and "_Nom d'un chien!_" One means "Sacred blue" and the other "Name of a dog." If he doubles the last and says "Name of a name of a dog," he has gone his limit. I fail to find anything personal or destructive or profane in these things. They don't seem to hit anything, not even the dog. And why a dog? Furthermore, concerning the color chosen for profane use--why blue? why not some shade of Nile green, or--or-- Oh, well, let it go, but I do wish I could have changed places with that man a few minutes! We considered returning to Avignon for the night, but we went to Tarascon instead, and arrived after dark at a bright little inn, where we were comfortably lodged, and a relative of Tartarin brought us a good supper and entertained us with his adventures while we ate. FOOTNOTES: [13] "_La Diligence de Baucoire_" in _Lettre de Mon Moulin_, Alphonse Daudet. Chapter VIII THE ROAD TO PONT DU GARD It is a wide, white road, bordered by the rich fields of May and the unbelievable poppies of France. Oh, especially the poppies! I have not spoken of them before, I think. They had begun to show about as soon as we started south--a few here and there at first, splashes of blood amid the green, and sometimes mingling a little with the deep tones of the crimson clover, with curious color effect. They became presently more plentiful. There were fields where the scarlet and the vivid green of May were fighting for the mastery, and then came fields where the scarlet conquered, was supreme, and stretched away, a glowing, radiant sheen of such splendid color as one can hardly believe, even for the moment that he turns away. It was scarlet silk unrolled in the sun. It was a tide of blood. It was as if all the world at war had made this their battlefield. And it did not grow old to us. When we had seen a hundred of those fields they still fascinated us; we still exclaimed over them and could not tear our eyes away. We passed wagonloads of cherries now. In fact, we did not pass loads of anything else. Cherry harvest was at its height. Everybody was carrying baskets, or picking, or hauling to market. We stopped and asked an old man drowsing on a load to sell us some. He gave us about a half a peck for eight cents and kept piling on until I had to stop him. Then he picked up a specially tied bunch of selected ones, very handsome, and laid them on top and pointed at Narcissa--"For the demoiselle." We thanked him and waved back to him, but he had settled down into his seat and was probably asleep again. All drivers sleep in the Provence. They are children of the south and the sun soothes them. They give their horses the rein and only waken to turn out when you blow or shout very loudly. You need an especially strong Klaxonette in the Provence. Baedeker says: "The Pont du Gard is one of the grandest Roman structures in existence." I am glad Baedeker said that, for with my limited knowledge I should have been afraid to do it, but I should always have thought so. A long time ago I visited the Natural Bridge of Virginia. I had been disappointed in natural wonders, and I expected no great things of the Natural Bridge. I scaled my imagination down by degrees as I followed a path to the viewpoint, until I was prepared to face a reality not so many times bigger than the picture which my school geography had made familiar. Then all at once I turned a corner and stood speechless and stupefied. Far up against the blue a majestic span of stone stretched between two mighty cliffs. I have seen the Grand Cañon since, and Niagara Falls, but nothing ever quite overwhelmed me as did that stupendous Virginia stone arch--nothing until we rounded a bend in the road and stopped facing the Pont du Gard. Those two are of the same class--bridges supreme--the one of nature, the other of art. Neither, I think, was intended as a bridge originally. The Romans intended these three colossal tiers of columns, one above the other, merely as supports for the aqueduct at the top, which conducted water to Nîmes. I do not know what the Almighty intended his for--possibly for decoration. To-day both are used as bridges--both are very beautiful, and about equally eternal, I should think, for the Roman builders came nearer to the enduring methods of the Original Builder than any other architects save, possibly, the Egyptians. They did not build walls of odds and ends of stone with mortar plastered between; they did not face their building stones to look pretty outside and fill in behind with chips and mortar, mostly mortar. They took the biggest blocks of stone they could find, squared them, faced them perfectly on all sides, and laid them one on top of the other in such height and in such thickness as they deemed necessary for a lasting job. Work like that does not take an account of time. The mortar did not crumble from between them with the centuries. There was none to crumble. The perfectly level, perfectly matched stones required no cementing or plaster patching. You cannot to-day insert a thin knife blade between these matched stones. The Pont du Gard is yellow in tone and the long span against the blue sky is startlingly effective. A fine clear stream flows under it, the banks are wild with rock and shrub, the lower arches frame landscape bits near or more distant. I don't know why I am trying to describe it-- I feel that I am dwarfing it, somehow--making it commonplace. It is so immense--so overwhelming to gaze upon. Henry James discovered in it a "certain stupidity, a vague brutality." I judge it seemed too positive, too absolute, too literal and everlasting for the author of the _Golden Bowl_. He adds, however, that "it would be a great injustice not to insist upon its beauty." One must be careful not to do injustice to the Pont du Gard. We made our luncheon camp a little way from the clear stream, and brought water from it and cooked eggs and made coffee (but we carry bottled water for that), and loafed in the May sun and shade, and looked at that unique world-wonder for an hour or more. The Joy discovered a fine school of fish in the stream--trout, maybe. A hundred years ago and more the lower arches of the Pont du Gard were widened to make a bridge, and when at last we were packed and loaded again we drove across this bridge for the nearer view. It was quite impossible to believe in the age of the structure--its preservation was so perfect. We drove to the other end and, turning, drove slowly back. Then lingeringly we left that supreme relic in the loneliness where, somehow, it seemed to belong, and followed the broad white road to Nîmes. There is a Roman arena at Nîmes, and a temple and baths--the Romans built many such things; but I think they could have built only one Pont du Gard. Chapter IX THE LUXURY OF NÎMES When the Romans captured a place and established themselves in it they generally built, first an Arch of Triumph in celebration of their victory; then an arena and a theater for pleasure; finally a temple for worship. Sometimes, when they really favored the place and made it a resort, they constructed baths. I do not find that they built an Arch of Triumph at Nîmes, but they built an arena, baths, and a temple, for they still stand. The temple is the smallest. It is called the "Maison Carrée," and it is much like the temple we saw at Vienne that day in the rain, but in a finer state of preservation. Indeed, it is said to be one of the best preserved Roman temples in existence. It is graceful and exquisite, and must have suited Henry James, who did not care for Roman arenas because they are not graceful and exquisite, as if anything built for arena purposes would be likely to be anything less than solid and everlasting. We did not go into the Maison Carrée. It is a museum now, and the fact that it has also been used as a warehouse and stable somehow discouraged us. It would be too much done over. But the outside was fascinating. We thought the garden of the Roman baths and fountain would be well to see in the evening. We drove along the quay by the side of the walled river which flows down the middle of the street, and came to the gates of the garden and, leaving the car, entered. At first it seemed quite impossible to believe that a modern city of no great size or importance should have anything so beautiful as this garden, or, having it, should preserve it in such serene beauty and harmony. But then one remembered that this was France, and of France it was the Provence and not really a part of the sordid, scrambling world at all. It is a garden of terraces and of waterways and of dim, lucent pools to which stairways descend, and of cypresses, graying statuary, and marble bridges and fluted balustrades; and the water is green and mysterious, and there is a background of dark, wooded hills, with deep recesses and lost paths. We climbed part way up the hillside and found a place where we could look out on the scene below. In the fading light it seemed a place of enchantment. It is not easy to tell what part of this garden the Romans built and what was added from time to time during the centuries. It seems to have been liberally reconstructed a hundred or so years ago, and the statuary is none of it of the Roman period. But if there was ever any incongruity the blurring hand of time has left it invisible to our unpracticed eyes. We lingered in this magic garden, and spoke softly of the generations that for nineteen centuries have found their recreation there, and we turned often for a last look, reluctant to leave something that seemed likely to vanish the moment one turned away. Our hotel was on the square in which stands the arena, so that it was but a step away at any time. We paid it one thorough visit, and sat in the seats, and scaled the upper heights, and looked down on the spot where tragedy and horror had been employed as means of pleasure for a good portion of the world's history. I am sorry the Provence is still rather cruel minded, though I believe they do not always kill the bull now in the Sunday-afternoon fights. It is only a few times in each season that they have a fight to the death. They had one the Sunday before our arrival, according to the bills still posted at the entrance. In the regular Sunday games anyone has the privilege of snatching a bow of red ribbon from the bull's forehead. I had a fever to try it, but, this being only Tuesday, it did not seem worth while to wait. On the whole I think we did not find the arena at Nîmes as interesting as the one at Arles, perhaps because we had seen Arles first. It is somewhat smaller than the Arles circus, and possibly not so well preserved, but it is of majestic proportions, and the huge layers of stone, laid without cement in the Roman fashion, have never moved except where Vandal and Saracen and the building bishops have laid despoiling hands. Not all the interest of Nîmes is ancient; Alphonse Daudet was born in Nîmes, and the city has set up a statue and named a street in his honor. Daudet's birthplace is not on the street that bears his name, but on the Boulevard Gambetta, one of the wide thoroughfares. Daudet's house is a part of the Bourse du Commerce now, and I do not think it was ever the "_habitation commode, tout ombragée de plantanes_" of which he writes so fondly in Le Petit Chose--the book which we have been told is, in part, at least, his own history. There is nothing now to indicate that it was ever the birthplace of anyone, except the plaque at the door, and as we sat reading this we realized that by a coincidence we had come at a fortunate time. The plaque said, "Born May 13, 1840." Now, seventy-four years later, the date was the same. It was the poet's birthday! Chapter X THROUGH THE CÉVENNES The drowsy Provence, with its vineyard slopes and poppied fields, warm lighted and still, is akin to Paradise. But the same Provence, on a windy day, with the chalk dust of its white roads enveloping one in opaque blinding clouds, suggests Sherman's definition of war. We got a taste of this aspect leaving Nîmes on our way north. The roads were about perfect, hard and smooth, but they were white with dust, and the wind did blow. I have forgotten whether it was the mistral or the tramontane, and I do not think it matters. It was just wind--such wind as I used to meet a long time ago in Kansas. Our first town was Alais, but when we inquired about Alai, according to the French rule of pronunciation, they corrected us and said Alais--sounding the s. That is Provençal, I take it, or an exception to the rule. Alais itself was of no importance, but along the way there were villages perched on hilltops, with castles crowning the high central points, all as picturesque and mediæval as anything well could be. We were always tempted to go up to them, but the climb was likely to be steep; then those villages seen from the inside might not be as poetry-picturelike as when viewed from below, looking up an orchard slope to their weathered balconies and vine-hung walls. We were in the Cévennes about as soon as we had passed Alais. The Cévennes are mountains--not mere hills, but towering heights, with roads that wind and writhe up them in a multiplicity of convolutions, though always on perfect grade, always beautiful, bringing to view deep vistas and wide expanses at every turn. There was little wind now--the hills took care of that--and we were warm and comfortable and happy in this fair, lonely land. There were few habitations of any kind; no automobiles; seldom even a cart. Water was scarce, too; it was hard to find a place to replenish our bottles. But we came at last to a cabin in the woods--a sort of wayside café it proved--where a woman sold us half a liter of red wine for about five cents, and supplied us with spring water free. A little farther along, where the road widened a bit, we halted for luncheon. On one side a steep ascent, wooded, on the other a rather abrupt slope, grass-covered and shady with interspaced trees. By and by we noticed that all the trees were of one variety--chestnut. It was, in fact, a chestnut orchard, and proclaimed the industry of this remote land. We saw many such during the afternoon; probably the district is populous enough during the chestnut harvest. Through the long afternoon we went winding upward among those unpeopled hills, meeting almost nothing in the way of human life, passing through but one village, Grenolhac, too small even to be set down in the road book. In fact, the first place mentioned beyond Alais was Villefort, with a small population and one inn, a hostelry indicated in the book merely by a little wineglass, and not by one of the tiny houses which, in their varied sizes, picture the recommended hotels and the relative importance thereof. There was no mention of rooms in connection with the Café Marius Balme; the outlook for accommodation overnight was not very cheerful. It was chilly, too, for evening was closing in and we were well up in the air. The prospect of camping by the roadside, or even of sitting up in a café until morning, did not attract a person of my years, though Narcissa and the Joy declared that to build a camp fire and roll up in the steamer rugs would be "lovely." As there were only three rugs, I could see that somebody was going to be overlooked in the arrangement; besides, a night in the mountains in May, let it begin ever so gayly, is pretty sure to develop doubtful features before morning. I have done some camping in my time, and I have never been able to get together enough steamer rugs to produce a really satisfactory warmth at, say, three or four o'clock in the morning, when the frost is embroidering the bushes and the stars have a glitter that drills into your very marrow. Langogne, the first town marked with a hotel, was at least thirty-five miles farther along, and I could tell by the crinkly look of the road as it appeared on our map that it was no night excursion. Presently we descended into a sort of gorge, and there was Villefort, an isolated, ancient little hamlet forgotten among the Cévennes hilltops. We came to an open space and there, sure enough, was the Café Balme, and by the side of it, happy vision, another little building with the sign "Hôtel Balme." It was balm indeed. To my faithful inquiry, "_Vous avez des chambres?_" Yes, they had chambers--they were across the open square, over the garage--that is to say, the stable--if the monsieur and his party would accept them. "_Oui, certainement!_" They were not luxurious--they were just bare boxes, but they were clean, with comfortable beds, and, dear me! how inviting on this particularly chilly evening, when one has put in most of the day climbing narrow, circuitous mountain roads--one-sided--that is to say, one side a wall, the other falling off into unknown space. They were very quiet rooms, for we had the place to ourselves. The car would sleep just under us, and we had a feeling of being nomads, the kind that put up in barns and empty buildings. A better place could hardly have made us happier, and a better dinner than we had could not be produced anywhere. There was soup--French soup; hot fried trout, taken that day from the mountain streams; then there was omelet of the freshest eggs, served so hot that one must wait for it to cool; also a dish of veal of the same temperature and of such tenderness that you could cut it with a fork; and there was steak which we scarcely touched, and a salad, and fruit and cakes and camembert cheese, with unlimited wine throughout. How could they give a dinner like that, and a good bed, and coffee and rolls with jam next morning, all for four francs--that is, eighty cents, each? I will tell you: they did their own cooking, and were lost so far in the mountains that they had not yet heard of the "high cost of living." And if I have not mentioned it before, I wish to say here that all the red road-book hotels are good, however small or humble they appear. Indeed, I am inclined to believe that _all French_ hotels are good--at least that they have good food and beds. With the French, to have good beds and good food is a religion. You notice I do not mention the coffee. That is because it is not real coffee. It is-- I don't quite know what it is. In the large hotels it merely looks like coffee. In these small inns it looks like a dark, ominous soup and tastes like that as much as anything. Also, it is not served in cups, but bowls, porridge bowls, with spoons to match, and the natives break chunks of bread in it and thus entirely carry out the soup idea. This is the French conception of coffee in the remoter districts, but the bread and jam or honey that go with it are generally good and plentiful, and I suppose the fearful drink itself must be wholesome. One hears a good deal in America of delicious French coffee, but the only place to get it is in America, in New Orleans, say, or New York. I have never found any really good coffee even in Paris. I think not many travelers visit the Cévennes. The road across the mountains from Nîmes toward Paris seemed totally untraversed, at least so far as tourists are concerned. No English is spoken anywhere--not a word. This was France--not the France that is Paris, which is not France at all any more than New York City is America, but the France which is a blending of race and environment--of soil and sky and human struggle into a unified whole that is not much concerned with the world at large, and from generation to generation does not greatly change. One may suppose, for instance, that the market at Villefort, which we saw next morning, was very much what it was a hundred years ago--that the same sturdy women in black dresses and curious hats had carried the same little bleating kids, one under each arm--that trout and strawberries and cheese and cherries and all the products of that mountain district were offered there, around the old stone fountain, in the same baskets under the shadow of the same walls, with so little difference in the general aspect that a photograph, if one could have been taken then, might be placed beside the ones we made and show no difference in the fashion of things at all. We bought some of the strawberries, great delicious dewy ones, and Narcissa and the Joy wanted to buy one or even a dozen of the poor little kids, offering to hold them in their laps constantly. But I knew that presently I should be holding one or more of those kids in my own lap and I was afraid I could not do that and drive with safety. I said that some day when we had time we would build a wooden cage on wheels to put behind the car and gradually collect a menagerie, but that I was afraid we didn't have time just now. We must be getting on. Our landlady was a good soul. She invited us into the kitchen, neat, trim, and shining, and showed us some trout caught that morning, and offered to give us a mess to take along. The entire force of the hotel assembled to see us go. It consisted of herself and her daughter, our waitress of the night before. Our bill was sixteen francs. The old life--the simple life--of France had not yet departed from Villefort. Chapter XI INTO THE AUVERGNE We had climbed two thousand feet from Nîmes to reach Villefort and thought we were about on the top of the ridge. But that was a mistake; we started up again almost as soon as we left, and climbed longer hills, higher and steeper hills, than ever. Not that they were bad roads, for the grades were perfect, but they did seem endless and they were still one-sided roads, with a drop into space just a few feet away, not always with protecting walls. Still there was little danger, if one did not get too much interested in the scenery, which was beyond anything for its limitless distances, its wide spaces and general grandeur. Whenever we got to a level spot I stopped the car to look at it while the engine cooled. It is a good plan to stop the car when one wishes really to admire nature. The middle of the road ahead is thought to be the best place for the driver to look while skirting a mountainside. To return to roads just for a moment, there were miles of that winding lofty way, apparently cut out of the solid face of the mountain, through a country almost entirely uninhabited--a rocky, barren land that could never be populous. How can the French afford those roads--how can they pay for them and keep them in condition? I was always expecting to meet a car on the short high turns, and kept the horn going, but never a car, never a carriage--only now and then a cart, usually the stone-cart of some one mending the roads. The building and engineering of those roads seems to me even a greater marvel than the architecture of cathedrals and châteaux. They are as curly and crooked as a vine, but they ascend and descend with a precision of scale that makes climbing them a real diversion. We ascended those hills on high speed--all of them. We were about at the snow line now. We could see it but a little way higher up, and if the weather had not been so bright and still we should have been cold. Once we saw what we took to be a snowbank just ahead by the roadside. But when we came nearer we saw it was narcissus, growing there wild; later we saw whole fields of it. It flourished up there as the poppies did lower down. The country was not all barren. There were stretches of fertile mountain-top, with pastures and meadows and occasional habitations. Now and then on some high point we saw a village clustering about an ancient tower. Once--it was at Prévenchères, a tiny village of the Auvergne--we stopped and bought eggs and bread. There were also a few picture postals to be had there, and they showed the Bourrée, which is a native dance of the Auvergne--a rather rough country café dance, I gathered, but picturesque, in the native costume. I wish we might have seen it. The mountains dwindled to hills, humanity became more plentiful. It was an open, wind-swept country now--rolling and fruitful enough, but barren of trees; also, as a rule, barren of houses. The people live in the villages and their industry would seem to be almost entirely pasturage--that is, cattle raising. I have never seen finer cattle than we saw in the Auvergne, and I have never seen more uninviting, dirtier villages. Barns and houses were one. There were no dooryards, and the cattle owned the streets. A village, in fact, was a mere cattle yard. I judge there are few more discouraging-looking communities, more sordid-looking people, than in just that section. But my guess is that they are a mighty prosperous lot and have money stuffed in the savings bank. It is a further guess that they are the people that Zola wrote of in _La Terre_. Of course there was nothing that looked like a hotel or an inn in any of those places. One could not imagine a French hotel in the midst of such a nightmare. Chapter XII LE PUY One of the finest things about a French city is the view of it from afar off. Le Puy is especially distinguished in this regard. You approach it from the altitudes and you see it lying in a basin formed by the hills, gleaming, picturesque, many spired--in fact, beautiful. The evening sun was upon it as we approached, which, I think, gave it an added charm. We were coasting slowly down into this sunset city when we noticed some old women in front of a cottage, making lace. We had reached the lacemaking district of the Auvergne. We stopped and examined their work and eventually bought some of it and photographed them and went on down into the city. Every little way other old women in front of humble cottages were weaving lace. How their fingers did make the little bobbins fly! I had never heard of a _puy_ (pronounced "pwee") before we went to the Auvergne and I should never have guessed what it was from its name. A _puy_ is a natural spire, or cone, of volcanic stone, shooting straight up into the air for several hundred or several thousand feet, often slim and with perpendicular sides. Perhaps we should call them "needles." I seem to remember that we have something of the kind in Arizona known by that name. The Auvergne has been a regular _puy_ factory in its time. It was in the Quaternary era, and they were volcanic chimneys in the day of their first usefulness. Later--a good deal later--probably several million years, when those flues from the lower regions had become filled up and solidified, pious persons began building churches on the tops of them, which would seem pretty hazardous, for if one of those chimneys ever took a notion to blow out, it would certainly lift the church sky high. Here at Le Puy the chimney that gives it its name is a slender cone two hundred and eighty feet high, with what is said to be a curious tenth-century church on the very tip of it. We were willing to take it for granted. There are about five hundred steps to climb, and there is a good deal of climbing in Le Puy besides that item. We looked up to it, and across to it, and later--when we were leaving--down to it from another higher point. I don't know why churches should be put in such inconvenient places--to test piety, maybe. I am naturally a pious person, but when I think of the piety that has labored up and down those steps through rain and shine and cold and heat for a thousand years I suffer. We did climb the stair of the cathedral of Notre Dame de Puy, which sweeps upward in broad majesty, like a ladder to heaven. There are over a hundred steps, and they were originally designed so the overflow congregation could occupy them and look into the church and see the officiating priest. An architectural change has made this impossible to-day, so perhaps the congregation no longer overflows. In fact, there was a time when great pilgrimages were made to Notre Dame du Puy, and it was then that the steps were filled. There are little shops on each rise of this great flight--ascending with it--shops where religious charms and the like are sold. At the earlier period the merchants displayed their wares on small tables, and the street is called _Rue des Tables_ to this day. The church is built of black and white stone, and has a curiously Turkish look. It all seems very foreign to France, and indeed the whole place was not unlike a mosque, though more somber, less inviting. It was built in the twelfth century, and under its porch are two of the original cedar doors, with Latin inscriptions. I am sure Le Puy is a religious place. On every high point there is a church or a saint, or something inspiring. A statue of Notre Dame de France is on the highest point of all, four hundred and thirty-five feet above the town. This statue was cast from the metal of two hundred Russian cannons taken at Sebastopol. You can ascend to it by some six or seven hundred steps cut in the solid rock. We did not go up there, either. Even the statement that we could ascend another flight of steps inside the statue and stand in its very head did not tempt us. Americans have been spoiled for these things. The lift has made loafers of us all. What I think we enjoyed most in Le Puy was its lacemakers. At every turn, in every little winding street, one saw them--singly and in groups; they were at the front of every door. They were of all ages, but mainly, I think, they were old women. Many of them wore the Auvergne costume--quaint hats or caps, and little shawls, and wooden shoes. Lacemaking is the industry of the Haute-Loire district, and is said to employ ninety thousand women. I think that is an underestimate. It seemed to me we saw as many as that ourselves in front of those mediæval doorways of Le Puy. Chapter XIII THE CENTER OF FRANCE It is grand driving from Le Puy northward toward Clermont-Ferrand and Vichy. It is about the geographical center of France, an unspoiled, prosperous-looking land. Many varieties of country are there--plain, fertile field, rich upland slopes. All the way it is picture country--such country as we have seen in the pictures and seldom believed in before. Cultivated areas in great squares and strips, fields of flowers--red, blue, white--the French colors; low solid-looking hills, with little cities halfway to the summit, and always, or nearly always, a castle or two in their midst; winding, shining rivers with gray-stone bridges over them, the bright water appearing and reappearing at every high turn. Our road made no special attempt to reach the towns. We viewed them from a distance, and there were narrower roads that turned in their direction, but our great national highway--it was No. 9 now--was not intended for their special accommodation. When it did reach a town it was likely to be a military center, with enormous barracks--new, many of them--like those at Issoire, a queer old place where we spent the night and where I had a real adventure. It was my custom to carry under the back seat a bottle of Scotch whisky in event of severe illness, or in case of acute motor trouble. For reasons I do not at the moment recall--perhaps the cork had leaked--our supply seemed low at Issoire, and I decided to see what I could find. I had little hope, for in France even the word "whisky" is seldom recognized. Still, I would make diligent inquiry, our case being pretty desperate. There was not enough in the bottle to last till morning-- I mean, of course, in case anything serious should happen. I had the usual experience at the cafés. The attendants repeated the word "whisky" vaguely, and in various ways, and offered me all sorts of gayly tinted liquids which I did not think would cure anything I was likely to have. I tried a drug store, where a gentle pharmacist listened awhile to my French, then dug out from the back of a lower drawer a circular on Esperanto. Imagine! I was about ready to give it up when I happened to notice a low, dim shop the shelves of which seemed filled with fancy bottles. The place had an ancient, mellow look, but I could see at a glance that its liquids were too richly colored for my taste--needs, I mean. I could try, however. The little gray man who waited on me pronounced the word in several ways and scratched his head. "_Wisky_," he said, "_visky-viskee!_" Then he seemed to explode. A second later he was digging a dusty book out of a dusty pile, and in a moment was running his fingers down a yellow page. I dare say it was an old stock list, for suddenly he started up, ran to a dark, remote shelf, pulled away some bottles, and from the deeper back recesses dragged a bottle and held it up in triumph. "_Voilà!_" he said, "_veeskee! Veeskee Eereesh!_" Shades of St. Patrick! It was old Irish whisky--old, how old--perhaps laid in by his grandfather, for a possible tourist, a hundred years before. I tried to seem calm--indifferent. "_Encore?_" I said. But no, there was no _encore_--just this one. The price, oh yes, it was four francs. Imagine! Issoire is a quaint place and interesting. I shall always remember it. To motorists Clermont-Ferrand is about the most important city in France. It is the home of tire manufacturers, and among them the great benevolent one that supplies the red road book, and any desired special information, free. We felt properly grateful to this factory and drove out to visit it. They were very good to us; they gave us a brand-new red-book and a green-book for Germany and Switzerland. The factory is a large one, and needs to be. About four-fifths of the cars of Europe go rolling along on its products, while their owners, without exception, use its wonderfully authentic guides. Each year the road books distributed free by this firm, piled one upon the other, would reach to a height of more than five miles. They cover about all the countries, and are simply priceless to the motorist. They are amusing, too. The funny fat motor man made of tires, shown in little marginal drawings and tailpieces in all the picturesque dilemmas of the road, becomes a wonderfully real personality on short acquaintance. We learned to love the merry Michelin man, and never grew tired of sharing his joys and misfortunes. Clermont-Ferrand is also the home of a man with two wooden legs that need oiling. I know, for he conducted us to the cathedral, and his joints squeaked dismally at every step. I said I would go back to the car and get the oil can, but he paid no attention to the suggestion. He also objected to the tip I gave him, though I could not see why an incomplete guide like that, especially one not in good repair, should expect double rates. Besides, his cathedral was not the best. It was not built of real stone, but of blocks of lava from the _puys_ of the neighborhood. We came near getting into trouble descending a hill to Vichy. The scene there was very beautiful. Vichy and the river and valley below present a wonderful picture. Absorbed in it, I was only dimly conscious of an old woman trudging along at our left, and did not at all notice a single chicken quite on the opposite side. In any case I could not well know that it was her chicken, or that it was so valuable that she would risk her life to save it. She was a very old person--in the neighborhood of several hundred, I should think, wearing an improperly short skirt, her legs the size and shape of a tightly folded umbrella, terminating below in the largest pair of wooden shoes in the world. Familiar with the habits of chickens, she probably thought her property would wait till we were opposite and then start to race across in front of the car. To prevent this she decided to do it herself! Yet I suppose if I had damaged that prehistoric old lady, instead of missing her by the breadth of half a hair, her relatives would have made us pay for her at fancy rates. We did not tarry at Vichy. It is a gay place--stylish and costly, and worth seeing a little, when one can drive leisurely through its clean, handsome streets. Perhaps if we could have invented any maladies that would have made a "cure" necessary we might have lingered with those other sallow, sad-eyed, stylish-looking people who collect in the pavilions where the warm healing waters come bubbling up and are dispensed free for the asking. But we are a healthy lot, and not stylish. We drove about for a pleasant hour, then followed along evening roads to St. Germain des Fosses, where the Hôtel du Porc was a wayside inn of our kind, with clean, quiet rooms, good food--and prices, oh, very moderate indeed! But I do wonder why garages are always put in such inconvenient places. I have driven in and backed out of a good many in my time, and I cannot now recall more than one or two that were not tucked away in an alley or around some impossible corner, making it necessary to scrape and writhe and cringe to get in and out without damaging something. I nearly knocked a corner from an out-house in St. Germain, backing out of its free and otherwise satisfactory garage. Chapter XIV BETWEEN BILLY AND BESSEY To those tourists who are looking for out-of-the-way corners of Europe I commend Billy. It is not pronounced in our frivolous way, but "Bee-yee," which you see gives it at once the French dignity. I call Billy "out-of-the-way" because we saw no tourists in the neighborhood, and we had never before heard of the place, which has a bare three-line mention in Baedeker. Billy is on the Allier, a beautiful river, and, seen from a distance, with its towering ruin, is truly picturesque. Of course the old castle is the chief feature of Billy--a ruin of great extent, and unrestored! The last item alone makes it worth seeing. A good many of the ruins of France have been restored under the direction of that great recreator of the architectural past, Viollet le Duc, who has done his work supremely well and thoroughly--oh, thoroughly, no name! I am glad he did it, for it means preservation for the ages, but I am so glad that there is now and then a ruin that Monsieur V. le Duc Happened to overlook. I even drift into bad poetry when I think of it. The Château de Billy seems to have been built about 1232 by one of the sires of Bourbon Robert of Clermont, son of St. Louis, to control the river traffic. It was a massive edifice of towers and bastions, and walls of enormous thickness. A good portion of the walls and some of the towers still stand. And there is a dungeon into which no light or air could come, once used to convince refractory opposition. They put a man in there for an hour. When they took him out he was either convinced or dead, and so, in either case, no longer troublesome. The guardian of Billy was a little old woman as picturesque as the ruins, and lived in a little house across the way, as picturesque as herself. When we had seen the castle she let us look into her house. It consisted of just one small room with a tiny stove in one corner and a bed in the other. But the stove, with its accessories of pans and other ware all so shining and neat, and her tiny, high-posted, canopied bed so spotless and pretty with its white counterpane and gay little curtains, set us to wondering why anybody in the world needed a home more ample or attractive than that. It seemed amusing to us that the name of the next place along that route should be Bessey. We lunched between Billy and Bessey, on a green level roadside, under some big trees, where there was a little stream which furnished our cooking water. It is not always easy to select the luncheon place. A dry spot with water and shade is not everywhere to be had, and then we do not always instantly agree on the conveniences of a place, and while we are discussing it we are going right along at a fifteen or twenty-mile rate and that place has drifted a mile or two behind before the conference ends. But there always _is_ a place somewhere that has most of the things we want, and it lies around the next turn or over the next hill, and it is always so new and strange and foreign, so away and away from the world we have known, so intimately a part of a land and of lives we have never seen before and shall never see again. A gypsy of very poor class came along while we were at luncheon. His little wagon-house was quite bare of furnishings. The man walked outside beside the meager donkey--a young woman with a baby sat on the floor in the wagon. Gypsies, by the way, are an institution in France. The French call them _nomades_, and provide them with special ordinances and road limitations. At first, when we saw signs "_Limites de Nomades_" in the outskirts of villages we wondered what was meant, and did not associate the notice with the comfortable and sometimes luxurious house-wagons that we met or overtook, or found solidly established by some pleasant waterside. Then it dawned upon us that these gypsy folk were the _nomades_ and that the signs were provided for their instruction. We met them, presently, everywhere. France, with its level roads and liberal laws, is gypsy heaven. A house on wheels, a regular little flat, with parlor, bedroom and kitchen, big enough to hold a family and its belongings, can be drawn by a single horse over the hard, perfectly graded highways. They work north in the summer, no doubt, and in the autumn the Midi calls them. Every little way we saw them camped, working at their basketry or some kindred industry. Not all the villages limit them, and often we found them located in the midst of a busy town. I do not think they do any harm, and I always envied them. Some of their little houses are so cozy and neat, with tiny lace curtains and flower pots, and pictures on the walls. When we first saw such wagons we thought they belonged to artists. Chapter XV THE HAUTE-LOIRE The particular day of which I am now writing was Sunday, and when we came to Moulin, the ancient capital of the Bourbonnais, there was a baptismal ceremony going on in the cathedral; the old sexton in the portico outside was pulling the rope that led up to the great booming bell. He could pull and talk too, and he told us that the bell was only rung for baptisms, at least that was what we thought he said as he flung himself aloft with the upward sweep, and alow with the downward sweep, until his chin nearly touched the stone floor. I got into the swing of it directly, and signified that I should like to ring the bell a little myself. I realize now that it was decidedly brazen to ask to assist at a sacred function like that, but he let me do it, and I took the rope and for a minute or two swayed up and down in a pride I can hardly express, ringing that five-hundred-year-old bell to notify the world of the latest baptism in France. We came upon an unexpected treat at Moulin--the Souvigny bible, an illuminated manuscript of 1115, with one hundred and twenty-two marvelously executed pictorial designs. The bible was in a museum across from the cathedral, a splendid museum indeed for little Moulin, being the reconstructed château of the Bourbons, filled with beautiful things of the Bourbon period. The bible is in a room by itself in a glass case, but the guardian opened it for us and turned the leaves. This bible, discovered at the old priory of the little town of Souvigny, is in perfect condition and presents a gorgeous piece of hand illumination. The drawing itself is naturally primitive, but the coloring is rich beyond telling, the lettering marvelously perfect. J. Pierpont Morgan is said to have offered a million francs for the Souvigny bible, a vast sum to little Moulin. I am glad they did not sell it. It seems better in the quiet, choice museum which was once the castle of the Bourbon dukes. It is curious how conventions establish themselves in the different districts and how absolutely they prevail in the limits of those districts. In certain sections, for instance, we found the furnishings in each hotel exactly alike. The same chairs, the same little table, the same bedsteads and wardrobes, the same tableware. We could tell by the change of furnishing when we had reached a new district. A good portion of the Auvergne remains to us the "Land of Squatty Pitchers," because in every bedroom the water pitcher was a very short, very corpulent and saucy-looking affair that amused us each evening with its absurd shape. Then there were the big coffee bowls and spoons. They got larger and larger from Nîmes northward until we reached Issoire. There the bowls were really immense and the spoons had grown from dessert spoons to table spoons, from table spoons to soup spoons until at Issoire they were like enormous vegetable spoons, such as cooks use to stir the pot with. From Moulin northward we entered the "Land of Little Ladders." All the houses outside the larger towns were story-and-a-half affairs, built facing the road, and the half-story was not reached by an inside stairway, but by a short outside ladder that led up to a central gable window, which was really a door. It was curious to see a string of these houses, all with the little ladders, and all just alike. Our first thought was that the ladders were used because they were cheaper to build than a stairway, and saved inside room. But, reflecting later, I thought it more likely that they originated in the old need of defense. I think there was a time when the family retired to the loft at night and drew the ladder up after them, to avoid a surprise. It had been raining softly when we left Moulin. Somehow we had strayed from the main road, and through the misty mid-region of the Haute-Loire followed ways uncharted, but always good--always interesting, and somewhere in that lost borderland we came to Dornes, and the daintiest inn, kept by the daintiest gray-haired woman, who showed us her kitchen and her flower garden and her tame pheasants, and made us love her dearly. Next day at St. Pierre le Moutier we got back on our route, and when Narcissa, out of the book she had been reading, reminded us that Joan of Arc had once fought a battle there the place became glorified. Joan must have been at Nevers, too, though we found no record of it. I think we should have stayed longer at Nevers. There was an ancient look about portions of it that in a brighter day would have invited us. Crossing the Loire and entering the city, with its ancient bastioned walls, carried one back a good way into the centuries. But it was still dull and drizzly, and we had a feeling for the open road and a cozier lodgment. The rain ceased, the sun tried to break through the mist. The glistening world became strangely luminous, a world not of hard realities at all. The shining river winding away into mystery; far valley reaches fading into haze; blurred lines of ancient spires and towers--these things belonged only to a land of romance. Long ago I saw a painting entitled a dream of Italy. I did not believe then that any real land could be as beautiful-- I thought it only an artist's vision. I was mistaken. No painting was ever so beautiful--so full of richness and light and color as this haze-haunted valley of the Loire. We rested at Neuvy, at the little red-book inn, Hôtel de la Paix, clean and inviting like the rest. It is the best compliment we can pay these little hotels that we always want to remain in them longer, and plan some day to come back to them. Chapter XVI NEARING PARIS There are more fine-looking fishing places in France than in any country I ever saw. There are also more fishermen. In every river town the water-fronts are lined with them. They are a patient lot. They have been sitting there for years, I suppose, and if they have ever caught anything the fact has been concealed. I have talked with numbers of them, but when I came to the question of their catch they became vague, not to say taciturn. "_Pas grande chose_" ("No great thing"), has been the reply, and there was no exhibit. I have never seen one of those fishermen get a nibble. But the water is certainly seductive. Following the upper Loire from Neuvy to Gien, I was convinced that with a good rod I could stop almost anywhere and fill the car. Such attractive eddies, such fascinating, foam-flecked pools! Probably it is just as well I did not have the rod. I like to persuade myself that the fish were there. Gien on the Loire is an old place, but not much that is old remains. Joan of Arc stopped there on her way to the king at Chinon, and it was from Gien, following the delivery of Orléans and the battle of Patay, that she set out with Charles VII for the coronation at Rheims. But there are no Joan relics in Gien to-day. There are, however, two interesting features here: the two-story wells and the hard-working dogs. The wells have a curb reaching to the second story, with an opening below for the downstairs tenants. It seems a good idea, and the result is picturesque. The dogs are hitched to little wagons and the Giennese--most of whom seem to be large and fat--first load those wagons and then get in themselves and ride. We saw one great hulk of a man approaching in what at first seemed to be some sort of a go-cart. It was not until he got close up that we discovered the dog--a little sweltering dog, his eyes popping out, his tongue nearly dragging the ground. I think the people of Gien are lazy and without shame. [Illustration: "THROUGH HILLSIDE VILLAGES WHERE NEVER A STONE HAD BEEN MOVED, I THINK, IN CENTURIES"] We missed the road leaving Gien and wandered off into narrow, solid little byways that led across fields and along hedges, through hillside villages where never a stone had been moved, I think, in centuries. Once we turned into what seemed a beautiful wood road, but it led to a grand new château and a private drive which had a top dressing of deep soft sand. Fortunately nobody was at home, for we stalled in the sand and the head of the family and Narcissa and the Joy were obliged to get out and push while I put on all backing power and made tracks in that new sand that would have horrified the owner. We are the right sort, however. We carefully repaired the scars, then made tracks of another kind, for remoter districts. Miles away from anywhere, by a pool at the edge of a field of bushes, we established a luncheon place, and in a seclusion of vines and shrubbery the Joy set up a kitchen and made coffee and boiled eggs and potatoes and "kept house" for an hour or so, to her heart's content. We did not know where we were, or particularly care. We knew that the road would lead somewhere, and that somewhere would be a wayside village with a little hotel that had been waiting for us ever so long, with inviting comforts and generous hospitality. Often we said as we drove along, "What little hotel do you suppose is waiting for us to-night?" But we did not worry, for we always knew we should find it. The "little hotel" this time proved to be at Souppes on the Loing, and if I had to award a premium to any of the little hotels that thus far had sheltered us, I think I should give it to the Hôtel du Mouton, Souppes. The name naturally amused us, and we tried to make jokes out of it, but the dainty rooms and the delicious dinner commanded only our approval. Also the price; nineteen francs and forty centimes, or less than four dollars, for our party of four, dinner, lodging, and breakfast, garage free. Souppes is a clean town, with a wide central street. Most of the towns up this way were cleaner than those of the farther south. Also, they had better buildings, as a rule. I mean the small towns. Villages not large enough even to be set down on the map have churches that would do credit in size and luxury to New York City. Take Bonny, for instance. We halted there briefly to watch some quaintly dressed people who were buying and selling at a little butter and egg market, and then we noticed a big, gray, ancient-looking church somewhat farther along. So we went over there and wandered about in its dim coolness, and looked at its beautiful treasures--among them the fine marble statue of Joan which one meets to-day in most of the churches in France. How could Bonny, a mere village, ever have built a church like that--a church that to-day would cost a million dollars? Another thing we noticed up this way was the "sign of the bush." Here and there along the road and in the villages there would be a house with an upward-slanting hole in the outside wall, about halfway to the eaves, and in the hole a branch of a tree, usually evergreen. When we had seen a few of these we began to wonder as to their meaning. Then we noticed that houses with those branches were all cafés, and some one suddenly remembered a proverb which says, "A good wine needs no bush," and how, in a former day, at least, the sign of the bush had indicated a wine shop. That it still does so in France became more and more evident as we went along. Every wine shop had its branch of green. I do not think there was one along that road that considered its wine superior to the traditional announcement. Just outside of Souppes there is a great flinty rock upon which some prehistoric race used to sharpen knives. I suppose it was back before Cæsar's time, but in that hard stone, so hard that my own knife would not scratch it, the sharpening grooves and surfaces are as fresh as if those old fellows had left there only yesterday. I wish I could know how they looked. We came to the woods of Fontainebleau and ate our luncheon in its deep lucent shade. There is romance in the very name of Fontainebleau, but we would return later to find it. We drove a little through the wide avenues of that splendid forest that for three centuries or more was a hunting ground and pleasure park for kings, then we headed away for Juvisy on the Seine, where we spent the night and ate on a terrace in the open air, in a company not altogether to our liking--it being rather noisy, rather flashy, rather unwholesome--in a word, Parisian. We had left the region of simple customs and unpretentious people. It was not a pleasant change. Also, we had left the region of good roads. All that I have said about the perfection of French roads I wish to retract, so far as those in the environs of Paris are concerned. Leaving Juvisy, we were soon on what is called the "pave," a road paved with granite blocks, poorly laid to begin with, and left unrepaired for years. It is full of holes and humps and wallows, and is not really a road at all, but a stone quarry on a jamboree. We jiggled and jumped and bumped, and only by going at the slowest permissible speed could stand it. Cars passed us going quite fast, but I could see that their occupants were not enjoying themselves. They were holding on to the backs of the seats, to the top supports, to one another. They were also tearing their cars to pieces, though the average Frenchman does not mind that. I love France, and every Frenchman is my friend, but I do not wish him to borrow my car. He drives helter-skelter, lickety-split, and never takes care of his car at all. When the average Frenchman has owned a car a year it is a rusty, smoking, clattering box of tinware, ready for the can-heap. Chapter XVII SUMMING UP THE COST The informed motorist does not arrive at the gates of Paris with a tankful of gasoline. We were not informed, and when the _octroi_ officials had measured our tank they charged us something like four dollars on its contents. The price of gasoline is higher inside, but not that much higher, I think. I did not inquire, for our tankful lasted us the week of our stay. To tell the truth, we did but little motoring in Paris. For one thing, the streets are just a continuation of the pave, and then the traffic regulations are defective. I mean there are no regulations. It's just a go-as-you-please, each one for himself. Push, crowd, get ahead of the fellow in front of you--that is the rule. Here and there a _gendarme_ stands waving his arms and shouting, "_Sacre bleu!_" but nobody pays the least attention to him. The well-trained American motorist finds his hair getting gray after an hour or two of that kind of thing. But we enjoyed Paris, though I am not going to tell about it. No one attempts to tell of Paris any more--it has all been told so often. But I may hint to the conservative motorist that below the Seine, in the neighborhood of the Luxembourg Gardens, about where the rue de Vaugirard crosses the Boulevard St. Michel, he will find choice little hotels, with rooms very moderate indeed. And perhaps here is a good place to speak of the cost of our travel. We had stinted ourselves in nothing except style. We had traveled leisurely, happily, enjoying everything to the full, and our average expense was a trifle less than forty francs a day--that is, eight dollars for four persons and the car. Our bill each day at the little hotels for dinner, lodging, and _petit déjeuner_ (rolls, coffee, and jam) averaged about twenty-two francs, garage free.[14] That, of course, is absurdly cheap. The matter of gasoline is different. "_Essence_" or benzine, as they call it, is high in Europe, and you would think it was some fine liqueur, the way they handle it. They put it up in sealed five-liter cans, and I have seen motorists, native motorists, buy one can--a trifle more than a gallon--probably fearing evaporation, or that somebody would rob the tank. One of those cans cost us about fifty cents, and, being of extra refined quality, it would carry us on French roads between eighteen and twenty miles. Sixty miles a day was about our average, which is aplenty for sight-seeing, even for an American. Our gasoline and oil expense came to about eight francs a day. The remainder of our eight dollars went for luncheon by the roadside and for tips. The picnic luncheon--bread and butter (delicious unsalted butter), jam, eggs, tinned meats, cheese, sausage, etc.--rarely cost to exceed four francs, and was usually cheaper. Our hotel tips were about 10 per cent of the bill, which is the correct amount, and was always satisfactory. When one gives more he gains nothing but servility, and makes it difficult for those who follow him. On the other hand an American cannot give less and keep his self-respect. There were usually but two servants at little inns, a waitress and a chambermaid. They were entitled to a franc each, and the boy at the garage to another. Two or three francs a day was quite enough for incidental tips at churches, ruined castles, and the like, unless there should be a fee, which would naturally be reckoned outside the regular budget. In any case, such fees were small and infrequent. I think I will add a brief summary of the foregoing figures which I seem to have strung along in a rather loose, confusing way. SUMMARY AVERAGE DAILY COST OF MOTORING TOR FOUR PERSONS, 1914 Average daily cost of dinner, lodging, and breakfast 22 francs ($4.40) Average daily cost of gasoline and oil 8 francs ( 1.60) Average daily cost of roadside luncheon 4 francs ( .80) Average daily cost of tips at hotel 3 francs ( .60) Average daily cost for sight-seeing 3 francs ( .60) ----------------- Total 40 francs ($8.00) That was reasonable motor travel, and our eight dollars bought as much daily happiness as any party of four is likely to find in this old world.[15] Another thing I wish to record in this chapter is the absolute squareness we found everywhere. At no hotel was there the slightest attempt to misrepresent, to ring in extras, to encourage side-adventures in the matter of wines or anything of the sort. We had been led to believe that the motorist was regarded as fair game for the continental innkeeper. Possibly there were localities where this was true, but I am doubtful. Neither did the attendants gather hungrily around at parting. More than once I was obliged to hunt up our waitress, or to leave her tip with the girl or man who brought the bags. The conclusion grew that if the motorist is robbed and crucified in Europe, as in the beginning a friend had prophesied we should be, it is mainly because he robs and crucifies himself. FOOTNOTES: [14] It was oftener from sixteen to eighteen francs, but the time when we stopped at larger towns, like Le Puy, Lyons, and Valence, brought up the average. These are antewar prices. I am told there is about a 50-per-cent increase (on the dollar basis) to-day. The value of the French franc is no longer a fixed quantity. [15] The reader must continue to bear in mind that this was in a golden age. The cost would probably be nearer 150 francs to-day (1921), or $12 American money. Even so, it would be cheaper than staying at home, in America. Chapter XVIII THE ROAD TO CHERBOURG It is easy enough to get into almost any town or city, but it is different when you start to leave it. All roads lead to Rome, but there is only here and there one that leads out of it. With the best map in the world you can go wrong. We worked our way out of Paris by the Bois de Boulogne, but we had to call on all sorts of persons for information before we were really in the open fields once more. A handsome young officer riding in the Bois gave us a good supply. He was one of the most polite persons I ever met; also, the most loquacious. The sum of what he told us was to take the first turn to the right, but he told it to us for fully five minutes, with all the variations and embroideries of a young and lively fancy that likes to hear itself in operation. He explained how the scenery would look when we had turned to the right; also how it would continue to look when there was no longer a necessity of turning in either direction and what the country would be in that open land beyond the Bois. On the slightest provocation I think he would have ridden with us, even into Cherbourg. He was a boon, nevertheless, and we were truly grateful. Beyond the Bois de Boulogne lay the _pave_, miles of it, all as bad as it could be. Sometimes we could not really tell when we were in the road. Once I found myself on a sort of private terrace without knowing how I got there or how to get down. We went through St. Germain, but we did not stop. We wished to get far from Paris--back to the simple life and good roads. It was along the Seine, at last, that we found them and the quiet villages. Imagine the luxury of following a silent, tranquil road by that placid stream, through the sweetness of a May afternoon. Imagine the peace of it after the jar and jolt and clatter and dazzle of detestable, adorable Paris. I am sorry not to be able to recommend the hotel at Rosny. For a time it looked as if it were going to be one of the best of our selections, but it did not turn out so. When we found a little toy garden at the back, our rooms a string of tiny one-story houses facing it, with roses blooming at every doorway, we were delighted. Each of us had a toy house to himself, and there was another for the car at the back. It was a real play place, and we said how nice it was and wished we might stay a good while. Then we went for a walk down to the river and in the sunset watched a curious ferryboat run back and forth on a wire, taking over homefaring teams, and some sheep and cattle, to the village on the farther bank of the little, but historic, river. In the early gloaming we walked back to our hotel. The dinner was very good--all dinners in France are that--but alas for our pretty playhouse rooms! When candles were brought in we saw what I had begun to suspect from the feeling, the walls were damp--worse, they were soaked--almost dripping. It seems they were built against a hill and the recent rains had soaked them through. We could not risk it--the landlady must give us something in the main house. She was a good soul--full of regrets, even grief. She had not known about those walls, she said, and, alas! she had no rooms in the main house. When we insisted that she _must_ find _something_, she admitted that there was, indeed, just one room, but so small, so humble--fine folk like us could never occupy it. She was right about its being small, but she was wrong in thinking we could not occupy it. She brought in cots and bedding, and when we were all in place at last we just about filled it from side to side. Still, it was dry and ventilated; those other places had been neither. But it seemed to us amusing that our fine pretension of a house apiece opening on a garden had suddenly dwindled to one inconsiderable room for the four of us. We were in Normandy, now, and enjoying it. Everything was quite different from the things of the south. The picturesque thatched-roof houses; the women in dainty caps, riding on donkeys, with great brass milk jugs fore and aft; the very ancient cross-timber architecture; those, to us, were new things in France. The architecture and some of the costumes were not new to one who had visited England. William the Norman must have carried his thatched-roof and cross-timber architecture across the Channel; also, certain dresses and smocks and the pattern of the men's whiskers. In some of these towns one might almost believe himself in rural England. Lisieux, especially, is of the type I mean. It has a street which might be in Shrewsbury, though I think the Shrewsbury houses would not be as old as those of Lisieux, one of which--"The House of the Salamander"--so called from the decoration on its carved façade--we were permitted to visit. Something about it gave me more the feeling of the ancient life than I have found in most of the castles. Perhaps because it is wood, and wood holds personality longer than stone. There is an old church at Lisieux, and it has a chapel built by Cauchon, Bishop of Beauvais, who hounded Joan of Arc to the stake. Cauchon earned the Beauvais appointment by convicting Joan, but later, especially after Joan had been rehabilitated, he became frightened of the entertainment which he suspected Satan was preparing for him and built this chapel in expiation, hoping to escape the fire. It is a beautiful chapel, but I think Cauchon wasted his money. If he didn't there is something wrong with justice. The Normandy road to Cherbourg is as wonderful as any in France. All the way it is lined with trees, and it goes straight on, mile after mile, up hill and down--long, long hills that on the approach look as if they reached to the sky, but that flatten out when you get to them, and offer a grade so gradual and a surface so smooth that you need never shift your speed levers. Workmen are always raking and touching up those roads. We had something more than two days of them, and if the weather had not been rather windy and chilly out on that long peninsula the memory of that run would be about perfect. Cherbourg is not the great city we had imagined it to be. It is simply a naval base, heavily fortified, and a steamer landing. Coming in on the Paris road you are in the center of activities almost as soon as you reach the suburbs and there is none of the crush of heavy traffic that one might expect. There is a pleasant beach, too, and if travelers were not always going somewhere else when they arrive at Cherbourg, the little city might become a real resort. We were there a week before our ship came in, then sailed out one quiet June evening on the harbor tender to meet the missing member and happily welcome her to France. Our hotel had a moving-picture show in the open air, and we could look down on it from our windows. The Joy especially liked this, and we might have stayed there permanently, but the long roads and still unvisited glories of France were calling. Chapter XIX BAYEUX, CAEN, AND ROUEN We had barely hesitated at Bayeux on the way to Cherbourg, but now we stopped there for the night. Bayeux, which is about sixty miles from Cherbourg, was intimately associated with the life of William the Conqueror, and is to-day the home of the famous Bayeux tapestry, a piece of linen two hundred and thirty feet long and eighteen inches wide, on which is embroidered in colored wools the story of William's conquest of England. William's queen, Matilda, is supposed to have designed this marvelous pictorial document, and even executed it, though probably with the assistance of her ladies. Completed in the eleventh century, it would seem to have been stored in the Bayeux cathedral, where it lay scarcely remembered for a period of more than six hundred years. Then attention was called to its artistic and historic value, and it became still more widely known when Napoleon brought it to Paris and exhibited it at the Louvre to stir the French to another conquest of England. Now it is back in Bayeux, and has a special room in the museum there, and a special glass case, so arranged that you can walk around it and see each of its fifty-eight tableaux. It was the closing hour when we got to the Bayeux museum, but the guardian gave us plenty of time to walk around and look at all the marvelous procession of horses and men whose outlines have remained firm and whose colors have stayed fresh for more than eight hundred years. Matilda was ahead of her time in art. She was a futurist--anybody can see that who has been to one of the later exhibitions. But she was exactly abreast in the matter of history. It is likely that she embroidered the events as they were reported to her, and her records are above price to-day. I suppose she sat in a beautiful room with her maids about her, all engaged at the great work, and I hope she looked as handsome as she looks in the fine painting of her which hangs above the case containing her masterpiece. There is something fine and stirring about Matilda's tapestry. No matter if Harold does seem to be having an attack of pleurisy when he is only putting on his armor, or if the horses appear to have detachable legs. Matilda's horses and men can get up plenty of swift action on occasion, and the events certainly do move. Tradition has it that the untimely death of the queen left the tapestry unfinished, for which reason William's coronation does not appear. I am glad we stopped at Bayeux. I would rather have seen Matilda's faithfully embroidered conquest than a whole gallery full of old masters. Next day at Caen we visited her grave. It stands in a church which she herself founded in expiation of some fancied sin connected with her marriage. Her remains have never been disturbed. We also visited the tomb of the Conqueror, on the other side of the city at the church of St. Étienne. But the Conqueror's bones are not there now; they were scattered by the Huguenots in 1562. We enjoyed Caen. We wandered about among its ancient churches and still more ancient streets. At one church a wedding was going on, and Narcissa and I lingered a little to assist. One does not get invited to a Normandy wedding every day, especially in the old town where William I organized his rabble to invade England. No doubt this bride and groom were descendants of some of William's wild rascals, but they looked very mild and handsome and modern to us. Narcissa and I attended quite a variety of ceremonials in the course of our travels: christenings, catechisms, song services, high mass, funerals--there was nearly always something going on in those big churches, and the chantings and intonings, and the candles, and the incense, and the processions and genuflections, and the robes of the priests and the costumes of the assemblages all interested us. Caen became an important city under William the Conqueror. Edward III of England captured and pillaged it about the middle of the fourteenth century, at which time it was larger than any city in England, except London. It was from Caen that Charlotte Corday set out to assassinate Marat. To-day Caen has less than fifty thousand inhabitants and is mainly interesting for its art treasures and its memories. We left the Paris-Cherbourg road at Caen. Our program included Rouen, Amiens, and Beauvais, cathedral cities lying more to the northward. That night we lay at the little Norman village of Bourg-Achard, in an inn of the choicest sort, and next morning looked out of our windows on a busy cattle market, where men in clean blue smocks and women in neat black dresses and becoming headgear were tugging their beasts about, exhibiting them and discussing them--eating, meantime, large pieces of gingerbread and other convenient food. A near-by orchard was filled with these busy traders. At one place our street was lined with agricultural implements which on closer inspection proved to be of American manufacture. From Bourg-Achard to Rouen the distance seemed all too short--the road was so beautiful. It was at Rouen that we started to trace backward the sacred footprints of Joan of Arc, saint and savior of France. For it is at Rouen that the pathway ends. When we had visited the great cathedral, whose fairy-like façade is one of the most beautiful in the world, we drove to a corner of the old Market Place, and stopped before a bronze tablet which tells that on this spot on a certain day in May, 1431 (it was the 29th), the only spotless soul in France, a young girl who had saved her country from an invading and conquering enemy, was burned at the stake. That was five hundred years ago, but time has not dulled the misery of the event, its memory of torture, its humiliation. All those centuries since, the nation that Joan saved has been trying to atone for her death. Streets have been named for her; statues have been set up for her in every church and in public squares, but as we read that sorrowful tablet I could not help thinking that all of those honors together are not worth a single instant of her fiendish torture when the flames had found her tender flesh. Cauchon, later Bishop of Beauvais, her persecutor, taunted his victim to the last. If the chapel of expiation he built later at Lisieux saved him, then chapels must indeed be held in high esteem by those who confer grace. Nothing is there to-day that was there then, but one may imagine an open market place thronged with people, and the horrid structure of death on which stood Joan while they preached to her of her sins. Her sins! when she was the only one among them that was not pitch black, steeped to the hair in villainy. Cauchon himself finished the sermon by excommunicating her, cutting off the church's promise of salvation. On her head she wore a cap on which was printed: HERETIC, RELAPSED, APOSTATE, IDOLATER. Cauchon had spared nothing to make her anguish complete. It is curious that he allowed her to pray, but he did, and when she prayed--not for herself, but for the king who had deserted her--for his glory and triumph, Cauchon himself summoned the executioners, and they bound her to the stake with chains and lighted the fire. There is little more to see of Joan in Rouen. The cathedral was there in her time, but she was never permitted to enter it. There is a wall which was a part of the chapel where she had her final hearing before her judges; there are some houses which she must have passed, and there is a tower which belonged to the castle in which she was confined, though it is not certain that it is Joan's tower. There is a small museum in it, and among its treasures we saw the manuscript article _St. Joan of Arc_, by Mark Twain, who, in his _Personal Recollections_, has left to the world the loveliest picture of that lovely life. Chapter XX WE COME TO GRIEF It was our purpose to leave Rouen by the Amiens road, but when we got to it and looked up a hill that about halfway to the zenith arrived at the sky, we decided to take a road that led off toward Beauvais. We could have climbed that hill well enough, and I wished later we had done so. As it was, we ran along quite pleasantly during the afternoon, and attended evening services in an old church at Grandvilliers, a place that we had never heard of before, but where we found an inn as good as any in Normandy. It is curious with what exactness Fate times its conclusions. If we had left Grandvilliers a few seconds earlier or later it would have made all the difference, or if I had not pulled up a moment to look at a lovely bit of brookside planted with poplars, or if I had driven the least bit slower or the least bit faster, during the first five miles, or-- Oh, never mind--what happened was this: We had just mounted a long steep hill on high speed and I had been bragging on the car, always a dangerous thing to do, when I saw ahead of us a big two-wheeled cart going in the same direction as ourselves, and beyond it a large car approaching. I could have speeded up and cut in ahead of the cart, but I was feeling well, and I thought I should do the courteous thing, the safe thing, so I fell in behind it. Not far enough behind him, however, for as the big car came opposite, the sleepy driver of the cart pulled up his horse short, and we were not far enough behind for me to get the brakes down hard and suddenly enough to stop before we touched him. It was not a smash. It was just a push, but it pushed a big hole in our radiator, mashed up one of our lamps, and crinkled up our left mudguard. The radiator was the worst. The water poured out; our car looked as if it had burst into tears. We were really stupefied at the extent of our disaster. The big car pulled up to investigate and console us. The occupants were Americans, too, from Washington--kindly people who wanted to shoulder some of the blame. Their chauffeur, a Frenchman, bargained with the cart driver who had wrecked us to tow us to the next town, where there were garages. Certainly pride goes before a fall. Five minutes before we were sailing along in glory, exulting over the prowess of our vehicle. Now all in the wink of an eye our precious conveyance, stricken and helpless, was being towed to the hospital, its owners trudging mournfully behind. The village was Poix, and if one had to be wrecked anywhere, I cannot think of a lovelier spot for disaster than Poix de la Somme. It is just across in Picardy, and the Somme there is a little brook that ripples and winds through poplar-shaded pastures, sweet meadows, and deep groves. In every direction were the loveliest walks, with landscape pictures at every turn. The village itself was drowsy, kindly, simple-hearted. The landlady at our inn was a motherly soul that during the week of our stay the Joy and I learned to love. For the others did not linger. Paris was not far away and had a good deal in the way of shopping to recommend it. The new radiator ordered from London might be delayed. So early next morning they were off for Paris by way of Amiens and Beauvais, and the Joy and I settled down to such employments and amusements as we could find, while waiting for repairs. We got acquainted with the garageman's family, for one thing. They lived in the same little court with the shop, and we exchanged Swiss French for their Picardese, and were bosom friends in no time. We spruced up the car, too, and every day took long walks, and every afternoon took some luncheon and our little stove and followed down the Somme to a tiny bridge, and there made our tea. Then sometimes we read, and once when I was reading aloud from Mark Twain's _Joan of Arc_, and had finished the great battle of Patay, we suddenly remembered that it had happened on the very day on which we were reading, the 18th of June. How little we guessed that in such a short time our peaceful little river would give its name to a battle a thousand times greater than any that Joan ever fought! Once when we were resting by the roadside a little old lady with a basket stopped and sat with us while she told us her history--how her husband had been a great physician and invented cures that to-day are used in all the hospitals of France. Now she was poor, she said, and lived alone in a little house, but if we would visit her she would give us some good Picardese cooking. I wish we might have gone. One day I hired a bicycle for the Joy and entertained the village by pushing her around the public square until she learned to ride alone. Then I hired one for myself and we went out on the road together. About the end of the third day we began to look for our radiator, and visited the express office with considerable regularity. Presently the village knew us, why we were there and what we were expecting. They became as anxious about it as ourselves. Chapter XXI THE DAMAGE REPAIRED--BEAUVAIS AND COMPIÈGNE One morning as we started toward the express office a man in a wagon passed and called out something. We did not catch it, but presently another met us and with a glad look told us that our goods had arrived and were now in the delivery wagon on the way to the garage. We did not recognize either of those good souls, but they were interested in our welfare. Our box was at the garage when we arrived there, and in a little more it was opened and the new radiator in place. The other repairs had been made, and once more we were complete. We decided to start next morning to join the others in Paris. Morning comes early on the longest days of the year, and we had eaten our breakfast, had our belongings put into the car, and were ready to be off by seven o'clock. What a delicious morning it was! Calm, glistening, the dew on everything. As long as I live I shall remember that golden morning when the Joy, aged eleven, and I went gypsying together, following the winding roads and byways that led us through pleasant woods, under sparkling banks, and along the poplar-planted streams of Picardy. We did not keep to highways at all. We were in no hurry and we took any lane that seemed to lead in the right direction, so that much of the time we appeared to be crossing fields--fields of flowers, many of them, scarlet poppies, often mingled with blue cornflowers and yellow mustard--fancy the vividness of that color. Traveling in that wandering fashion, it was noon before we got down to Beauvais, where we stopped for luncheon supplies and to see what is perhaps the most remarkable cathedral in the world. It is one of the most beautiful, and, though it consists only of choir and transepts, it is one of the largest. Its inner height, from floor to vaulting, is one hundred and fifty-eight feet. The average ten-story building could sit inside of it. There was once a steeple that towered to the giddy heights of five hundred feet, but in 1573, when it had been standing three hundred years, it fell down, from having insufficient support. The inner work is of white stone, marble, and the whole place seems filled with light. It was in this cool, heavenly sanctuary that Cauchon, who hounded Joan to the stake, officiated as bishop. I never saw a place so unsuited to a man. I should think that spire would have tumbled off then instead of waiting until he had been dead a hundred years. There is a clock in this church--a modern clock--that records everything, even the age of the world, which at the moment of our visit was 5,914 years. It is a very large affair, but we did not find it very exciting. In the public square of Beauvais there is a bronze statue of Jeanne Laine, called "Jeanne Hachette," because, armed with a hatchet, she led others of her sex against Charles the Bold in 1472 and captured a banner with her own hands. Beauvais has many interesting things, but the day had become very warm and we did not linger. We found some of the most satisfactory pastries I have ever seen in France, fresh and dripping with richness; also a few other delicacies, and, by and by, under a cool apple tree on the road to Compiègne, the Joy and I spread out our feast and ate it and listened to some little French birds singing, "_Vite! Vite! Vite!_" meaning that we must be "Quick! Quick! Quick!" so they could have the crumbs. It was at Compiègne that Joan of Arc was captured by her enemies, just a year before that last fearful day at Rouen. She had relieved Orléans, she had fought Patay, she had crowned the king at Rheims; she would have had her army safely in Paris if she had not been withheld by a weakling, influenced by his shuffling, time-serving counselors. She had delivered Compiègne the year before, but now again it was in trouble, besieged by the Duke of Burgundy. Joan had been kept in partial inactivity in the Loire district below Paris during the winter, but with the news from Compiègne she could no longer be restrained. "I will go to my good friends of Compiègne," she said, and, taking such force as she could muster, in number about six hundred cavalry, she went to their relief. From a green hill commanding the valley of the Oise we looked down upon the bright river and pretty city which Joan had seen on that long-ago afternoon of her final battle for France. Somewhere on that plain the battle had taken place, and Joan's little force for the first time had failed. There had been a panic; Joan, still fighting and trying to rally her men, had been surrounded, dragged from her horse, and made a prisoner. She had led her last charge. We crossed a bridge and entered the city and stopped in the big public square facing Leroux's beautiful statue of Joan, which the later "friends of Compiègne" have raised to her memory. It is Joan in semi-armor, holding aloft her banner, and on the base in old French is inscribed "_Je Yray voir mes bons amys de Compiègne_" ("I will go to see my good friends of Compiègne"). Many things in Compiègne are beautiful, but not many of them are very old. Joan's statue looks toward the handsome and richly ornamented Hôtel de Ville, but Joan could not have seen it in life, for it dates a hundred years after death. There are two handsome churches, in one or both of which she doubtless worshiped when she had first delivered the city; possibly a few houses of that ancient time still survive. We looked into the churches, but they seemed better on the outside. Then I discovered that one of our back tires was down, and we drew up in a secluded nook at the rear of St. Jacques for repairs. It was dusk by the time we had finished, the end of that long June day, and we had no time to hunt for a cozy inn. So we went to a hotel which stands opposite the great palace which the architect Gabriel built for Louis XV, and looked across to it while we ate our dinner, and talked of our day's wanderings, and of palaces in general and especially queens; also of Joan, and of the beautiful roads and fields of flowers, and of the little birds that tried to hurry us along, and so were very happy and very tired indeed. Next morning we visited the palace. It has been much occupied by royalty, for Compiègne was always a favorite residence of the rulers of France. Napoleon came there with the Empress Marie Louise, and Louis Philippe and Napoleon III both found retirement there. I think it could not have been a very inviting or restful home. There are long halls and picture galleries, all with shiny floors and stiffly placed properties, and the royal suites are just a series of square, prettily decorated and upholstered boxes, strung together, with doors between. One might as well set up a series of screens in a long hall. Even with the doors shut there could not have been much sense of privacy, certainly none of snugness. But then palaces were not meant to be cozy. We saw the bedrooms and dressing rooms and what not of the various queens, and we looked from an upper window down a long forest avenue that was finer than anything inside. Then we went back to the car and drove into the big forest for ten miles or more, to an old feudal castle--such a magnificent old castle, all towers and turrets and battlements--the château of Pierrefonds, one of the finest in France. It stands upon a rocky height overlooking a lake, and it does not seem so old, though it had been there forty years when Joan of Arc came, and it looks as if it might be there about as long as the hill it stands on. It was built by Louis of Orléans, brother of Charles VI, and the storm of battle has raged often about its base. Here and there it still shows the mark of bombardment, and two cannon balls stick fast in the wall of one of its solid towers. Pierrefonds was in bad repair, had become well-nigh a ruin, in fact, when Napoleon III, at his own expense, engaged Viollet le Duc to restore it, in order that France might have a perfect type of the feudal castle in its original form. It stands to-day as complete in its structure and decoration as it was when Louis of Orléans moved in, more than five hundred years ago, and it conveys exactly the solid home surroundings of the mediæval lord. It is just a show place now, and its vast court, its chapel and its halls of state are all splendid enough, though nothing inside can be quite so magnificent as its mighty assemblage of towers and turrets rising above the trees and reflecting in the blue waters of a placid lake. It began raining before we got to Paris, so we did not stop at Crépy-en-Valois, or Senlis, or Chantilly, or St. Denis, though all that land has been famous for kings and castles and bloodshed from a time farther back than the days of Cæsar. We were interested in all those things, but we agreed we could not see everything. Some things we saw as we went by; great gray walls and crumbling church towers, and then we were at the gates of Paris and presently threading our way through a tangle of streets, barred, many of them, because the top of the subway had been tumbling in a few days before and travel was dangerous. It was Sunday, too, and the streets were especially full of automobiles and pedestrians. It was almost impossible to keep from injuring something. I do not care for Paris, not from the driving seat of a car. Chapter XXII FROM PARIS TO CHARTRES AND CHÂTEAUDUN In fact, neither the Joy nor I hungered for any more Paris, while the others had seen their fill. So we were off, with only a day's delay, this time taking the road to Versailles. There we put in an hour or two wandering through the vast magnificence of the palace where the great Louis XIV lived, loved, and died, and would seem to have spent a good part of his time having himself painted in a variety of advantageous situations, such as riding at the head of victorious armies, or occupying a comfortable seat in Paradise, giving orders to the gods. They were weak kings who followed him. The great Louis reigned seventy-two years--prodigal years, but a period of military and artistic conquest--the golden age of French literature. His successor reigned long enough--fifty-nine years--but he achieved nothing worth while, and the next one lost his head. We saw the little balcony where the doomed Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette showed themselves to the mob--the "deluge" which the greater Louis had once predicted. The palace at Versailles is like other royal palaces of France--a fine show place, an excellent museum, but never in its day of purest domesticity could it have been called "a happy little home." Everything is on too extended a scale. Its garden was a tract of marshy land sixty miles in circumference until Louis XIV set thirty-six thousand men at it, turning it into fairyland. Laborers died by the score during the work, and each night the dead were carted away. When this was mentioned to the king he was troubled, fearing his supply of men might not last. However, the garden was somehow completed. Possibly Louis went out and dug in it a little himself. It is still a Garden of Eden, with leafy avenues, and lakes, and marvelous fountains, and labyrinths of flowers. Looking out over it from the palace windows we remembered how the king had given Madame Maintenon a summer sleigh-ride, causing long avenues to be spread with sugar and salt to gratify her idly-expressed whim. I am sorry, of course, that the later Louis had to lose his head, but on the whole I think it is very well that France discouraged that line of kings. Versailles is full of palaces. There is the Grand Trianon, which Louis XIV built for Madame Maintenon when she had grown weary of the great palace, and the Petit Trianon, which Louis XV gave to Du Barry and where Marie Antoinette built her Swiss village and played at farm life. There is no reason I should dwell on these places. Already volumes have been written of the tragic, gay, dissolute life they have seen, the gorgeous moving panoramas that might have been pictures passing in a looking-glass for all the substance they have left behind. Somewhere below Versailles, in the quietest spot we could find, by a still stream that ran between the meadow and the highroad, we made our luncheon and were glad we were not kings. Being royalty was a gaudy occupation, but too doubtful, too open to criticism. One of those Louis families, for instance, could never have stopped their motor by the roadside and prepared their luncheon in our modest, unostentatious way. They would have had all manner of attendants and guards watching them, and an audience would have collected, and some excited person might have thrown a brick and hit the jam. No, we would rather be just plain, unobtrusive people, without audience, and with no attendance but the car, waiting there in the shade to carry us deeper into this Land of Heart's Desire. It was at Rambouillet that we lodged, an ancient place with a château and a vast park; also an excellent inn--the Croix Blanche--one of those that you enter by driving through to an inner court. Before dinner we took a walk into the park, along the lakeside and past the château, which is a curious architectural mixture and not very sightly. But it is mingled with history. Francis I died there in 1547, and as late as 1830 the last Charles, the tenth of that name, signed his abdication there. It was too late for the place to be open, and in any case we did not care to go in. We had had enough of palaces for one day. We followed around the lake to an avenue of splendid Louisiana cypresses which some old king had planted. Beyond the avenue the way led into deeper wildernesses--a noble wood. We made a backward circuit at length, for it was evening and the light was fading. In the mysterious half-light there was something almost spectral in that sylvan place and we spoke in hushed voices. Presently we came to a sort of bower, and then to an artificial grotto--old trysting places. Ah, me! Monsieur and mademoiselle, or madame, are no longer there; the powdered hair, the ruffled waist-coat and looped gown, the silken hose and dainty footgear, the subdued laugh and whispered word, all have vanished. How vacant those old places seemed! We did not linger--it was a time for ghosts. We were off next morning, halting for a little at Maintenon on the road to Chartres. The château attracted us and the beautiful river Eure. The widow of the poet Scarron, who married Louis XIV and became Marquise de Maintenon, owned the château, and it belongs to the family to this day. An attendant permitted us to see the picture gallery and a portion of the grounds. All seemed as luxurious as Versailles. It is thirty-five miles from Maintenon to Versailles, but Louis started to build an aqueduct to carry the waters of the Eure to his gardens. He kept thirty thousand soldiers working on it for four years, but they died faster than he could replace them, which was such a bother that he abandoned the undertaking. Following the rich and lovely valley of the Eure, we came to Chartres, and made our way to the Cathedral square. We had seen the towers from a long distance, and remembered the saying that "The choir of Beauvais, the nave of Amiens, the portal of Rheims, and the towers of Chartres would together make the finest church in the world." To confess the truth, I did not think the towers of Chartres as handsome as those of either Rouen or Amiens. But then I am not a purist in cathedral architecture. Certainly the cathedral itself is glorious. I shall not attempt to describe it. Any number of men have written books, trying to do that, and most of them have failed. I only know that the wonder of its architecture--the marvel of its relief carving, "lace in stone," and the sublime glory of its windows--somehow possessed us, and we did not know when to go. I met a woman once who said she had spent a month at Chartres and had put in most of it sitting in the cathedral looking at those windows. When she told me of it I had been inclined to be scornful. I was not so any more. Those windows, made by some unknown artist, dead five hundred years, invite a lifetime of contemplation. It is about nine hundred years since the cathedral of Chartres was begun, and it has known many changes. Four hundred years ago one of its towers was rebuilt in an altogether different pattern from the other. I believe this variation is regarded as a special feature of their combined beauty. Chapels have been added, wings extended; changes inside and out were always going on during the first five hundred years or so, but if the builders made any mistakes we failed to notice them. It remains a unity, so far as we could see--a supreme expression of the old faith, whose material labor was more than half spiritual, and for whom no sacrifice of money or endeavor was too great. We left Chartres by one of the old city gates, and took the wrong road, and presently found ourselves in an open field, where our way dwindled out and stopped. Imagine a road good enough to be mistaken for a highway, leading only to a farmer's grainfield. So we went back and got set right, and through a heavenly June afternoon followed the straight level way to Châteaudun, an ancient town perched upon the high cliffs above the valley of the Loir, which is a different river from the Loire--much smaller and more picturesque. The château itself hangs on the very edge of the cliffs with startling effect and looks out over a picture valley as beautiful as any in France. This was the home of Dunois, Bastard of Orléans, who left it to fight under Joan of Arc. He was a great soldier, one of her most loved and trusted generals. We spent an hour or more wandering through Dunois's ancient seat, with an old guardian who clearly was in love with every stone of it, and who time and again reminded us that it was more interesting than many of the great châteaux of the Loire, Blois especially, in that it had been scarcely restored at all. About the latest addition to Châteaudun was a beautiful open stairway of the sixteenth century, in perfect condition to-day. On the other side is another fine façade and stairway, which Dunois himself added. In a niche there stands a fine statue of the famous soldier, probably made from life. If only some sculptor or painter might have preserved for us the features of Joan! Chapter XXIII WE REACH TOURS Through that golden land which lies between the Loir and the Loire we drifted through a long summer afternoon and came at evening to a noble bridge that crossed a wide, tranquil river, beyond which rose the towers of ancient Tours, capital of Touraine. One can hardly cross the river Loire for the first time without long reflections. Henry James calls the Touraine "a gallery of architectural specimens ... the heart of the old French monarchy," and adds, "as that monarchy was splendid and picturesque, a reflection of the splendor still glitters in the Loire. Some of the most striking events of French history have occurred on the banks of that river, and the soil it waters bloomed for a while with the flower of the Renaissance." Touraine was a favorite place for kings, and the early Henrys and Francises, especially, built their magnificent country palaces in all directions. There are more than fifty châteaux within easy driving distance of Tours, and most of the great ones have been owned or occupied by Francis I, or by Henry II, or by one of their particular favorites. We did not intend to visit all of the châteaux by any means, for château visiting, from a diversion may easily degenerate into labor. We intended especially to visit Chinon, where Joan of Arc went to meet the king to ask for soldiers, and a few others, but we had no wish to put in long summer days mousing about old dungeons and dim corridors, or being led through stiffly set royal suites, garishly furnished and restored. It was better to glide restfully along the poppied way and see the landscape presentment of those stately piles crowning the hilltops or reflected in the bright waters of the Loire. The outward semblance of the land of romance remains oftenest undisturbed; cross the threshold and the illusion is in danger. At the Central Hotel of Tours, an excellent place of modest charges, we made our headquarters, and next morning, with little delay, set out for Chinon and incidental châteaux. "Half the charm of the Loire," says James, "is that you can travel beside it." He was obliged to travel very leisurely beside it when that was written; the "flying carpet" had not then been invented, and James, with his deliberate locomotion, was sometimes unable to return to Tours for the night. I imagine he enjoyed it none the less for that, lazily watching the smooth water of the wide shallow stream, with never a craft heavier than a flat-bottomed hay boat; the wide white road, gay with scarlet poppies, and some tall purple flower, a kind of foxglove. I do not remember that James makes mention of the cliff-dwellers along the Loire. Most of them live in houses that are older, I suspect, than the oldest château of Touraine. In the beginning there must have been in these cliffs natural caves occupied by our earliest troglodyte ancestors. In time, as mentality developed and, with it, imagination, the original shelters were shaped and enlarged by excavation, also new ones built, until these perpendicular banks facing the Loire became the dwelling place for hundreds, even thousands. They are still numerously inhabited. The rooms or houses--some of them may be flats--range one above the other in stories, all up the face of the cliff, and there are smoke-places and little chimneys in the fields at the top. Such houses must have been here before the kings came to Touraine. Some of them look very ancient; some have crumbled in; some have been faced with stone or plaster. The cliff is honeycombed with them. Do their occupants have traditional rights from some vague time without date? Do they pay rent, and to whom? We might have found the answers to these questions had we cared to seek for them. It seemed better to content oneself with speculation. We did not visit the cliff-dwellers of the Loire. Neither did we visit the château of Luynes or of Langeais. Luynes is a fine old feudal pile on a hilltop just below Tours, splendid from the road, but it had no compelling history and we agreed that closer view could not improve it. Besides, it was hot, sizzling, for a climb; so hot that one of our aging tubes popped presently, and Narcissa and I had to make repairs in a place where there was a world of poppies, but no shade for a mile. That was one of the reasons we did not visit Langeais. Langeais was exactly on the road, but it had a hard, hot, forbidding look. Furthermore, our book said that it had been restored and converted into a museum, and added that its chief claim on history lay in the fact that Anne of Brittany was here married to Charles VIII in 1491. That fact was fine to realize from the outside, under the cool shadow of those gray walls. One could lose it among shiny restorations and stuffy museum tapestries. The others presently noticed a pastry shop opposite the château and spoke of getting something extra for luncheon. While they were gone I discovered a café below the château and, being pretty dry, I slipped down there for a little seltzer, or something. The door was open, but the place was empty. There was the usual display of bottles, but not a soul was in sight. I knocked, then called, but nobody came. I called and knocked louder, but nothing happened. Then I noticed some pennies lying by an empty glass on the bar. The amount was small and I left them there. A side door was open and I looked out into a narrow passage opening into a court at the back. I went out there, still signaling my distress. The sun was blazing and I was getting dryer every minute. Finally a stout, smiling woman appeared, wiping her hands--from the washtub, I judge. She went with me into the café, gathered up the loose change on the counter, and set out refreshments. Then she explained that I could have helped myself and left the money. Langeais is an honest community. Following down the Loire we came to a bridge, and, crossing to the other bank, presently found ourselves in a country where there were no visible houses at all. But there was shade, and we camped under it and I did some tire repairing while the others laid out the luncheon and set the little cooker going. Later we drowsed in the shade for an hour or more, with desultory talk of Joan, and of Anne of Brittany, and of the terrible Catherine de Medici, whose son the feeble Francis II had brought his young wife, Marie Stuart, the doomed Queen of Scots, to Chenonceaux for their honeymoon. It was strange to think that this was the environment of those half-romantic figures of history. Some of them, perhaps all, had passed this very spot. And so many others! the Henrys, the Charleses, the Louises--the sovereigns and soldiers and court favorites for four hundred years. What a procession--the pageant of the Renaissance! Chapter XXIV CHINON, WHERE JOAN MET THE KING, AND AZAY Chinon is not on the Loire, but on a tributary a little south of it, the Vienne, its ruined castle crowning the long hill or ridge above the town. Sometime during the afternoon we came to the outskirts of the ancient place and looked up to the wreck of battlements and towers where occurred that meeting which meant the liberation of France. We left the car below and started to climb, then found there was a road, a great blessing, for the heat was intense. There is a village just above the castle, and we stopped there. The château of Chinon to-day is the remains of what originally was three châteaux, built at different times, but so closely strung together that in ruin they are scarcely divided. The oldest, Coudray, was built in the tenth century and still shows three towers standing, in one of which Joan of Arc lived during her stay at Chinon. The middle château is not as old by a hundred years. It was built on the site of a Roman fort, and it was in one of its rooms, a fragment of which still remains, that Charles VII received the shepherd girl from Domremy. The château of St. George was built in the twelfth century by Henry II of England, who died there in 1189. Though built two hundred years after Coudray, nothing of it survives but some foundations. Chinon is a much more extensive ruin than we had expected. Even what remains to-day must be nearly a quarter of a mile in length, and its vast crumbling walls and towers make it strikingly picturesque. But its ruin is complete, none the less. Once through the entrance tower and you are under nothing but the sky, with your feet on the grass; there is no longer a shelter there, even for a fugitive king. You wander about, viewing it scarcely more than as a ruin, at first, a place for painting, for seclusion, for dreaming in the sun. Then all at once you are facing a wall in which, halfway up where once was the second story, there is a restored fireplace and a tablet which tells you that in this room Charles VII received Joan of Arc. It is not a room now; it is just a wall, a fragment, with vines matting its ruined edges. You cross a stone footbridge to the tower where Joan lived, and that, too, is open to the sky, and bare and desolate. Once, beyond it, there was a little chapel where she prayed. There are other fragments and other towers, but they merely serve as a setting for those which the intimate presence of Joan made sacred. The Maid did not go immediately to the castle on her arrival in Chinon. She put up at an inn down in the town and waited the king's pleasure. His paltering advisers kept him dallying, postponing his consent to see her, but through the favor of his mother-in-law, Yolande, Queen of Sicily, Joan and her suite were presently housed in the tower of Coudray. One wonders if the walls were as bare as now. It was old even then; it had been built five hundred years. But Queen Yolande would have seen to it that there were comforts, no doubt; some tapestries, perhaps, on the walls; a table, chairs, some covering for the stone floor. Perhaps it was even luxurious. The king was still unready to see Joan. She was only a stone's throw away, but the whisperings of his advisers kept her there, while a commission of priests went to Domremy to inquire as to her character. When there were no further excuses for delay they contrived a trick--a deception. They persuaded the king to put another on the throne, one like him and in his royal dress, so that Joan might pay homage to this make-believe king, thus proving that she had no divine power or protection which would assist her in identifying the real one. In the space where now is only green grass and sky and a broken wall Charles VII and his court gathered to receive the shepherd girl who had come to restore his kingdom. It was evening and the great hall was lighted, and at one end of it was the throne with its imitation king, and I suppose at the other the fireplace with a blazing fire. Down the center of the room were the courtiers, formed in two ranks, facing so that Joan might pass between them to the throne. The occasion was one of great ceremony--Joan and her suite were welcomed with fine honors. Banners waved, torches flared; trumpets blown at intervals marked the stages of her progress down the great hall; every show was made of paying her great honor--everything that would distract her and blind her to their trick. Charles VII, dressed as a simple courtier, stood a little distance from the throne. Joan, advancing to within a few steps of the pretended king, raised her eyes. Then for a moment she stood silent, puzzled. They expected her to kneel and make obeisance, but a moment later she turned and, hurrying to the rightful Charles, dropped on her knees and gave him heartfelt salutation. She had never seen him and was without knowledge of his features. Her protectors, or her gifts, had not failed. It was perhaps the greatest moment in French history. We drove down into Chinon, past the house where it is said that Rabelais was born, and saw his statue, and one of Joan which was not very pleasing. Then we threaded some of the older streets and saw houses which I think cannot have changed much since Joan was there. It was getting well toward evening now, and we set out for Tours, by way of Azay. The château of Azay-le-Rideau is all that Chinon is not. Perfect in condition, of rare beauty in design and ornamentation, fresh, almost new in appearance, Azay presents about the choicest flowering of the Renaissance. Joan of Arc had been dead a hundred years when Azay was built; France was no longer in dread of blighting invasion; a residence no longer needed to be a fortress. The royal châteaux of the Loire are the best remaining evidence of what Joan had done for the security of her kings. Whether they deserved it or not is another matter. Possibly Azay-le-Rideau might not have looked so fresh under the glare of noonday, but in the mellow light of evening it could have been the home of one of our modern millionaires (a millionaire of perfect taste, I hasten to add), and located, let us say, in the vicinity of Newport. It was difficult to believe that it had been standing for four centuries. Francis I did not build Azay-le-Rideau. But he liked it so much when he saw it (he was probably on a visit to its owner, the French treasurer, at the time) that he promptly confiscated it and added it to the collection of other châteaux he had built, or confiscated, or had in mind. Nothing very remarkable seems to have happened there--just the usual things--plots, and liaisons, and intrigues of a general sort, with now and then a chapter of real lovemaking, and certain marriages and deaths--the latter hurried a little sometimes to accommodate the impatient mourners. But how beautiful it is! Its towers, its stately façades, its rich ornamentation reflected in the water of the wide stream that sweeps about its base, a natural moat, its background of rich foliage--these, in the gathering twilight, completed a picture such as Hawthorne could have conceived, or Edgar Poe. I suppose it was too late to go inside, but we did not even apply. Like Langeais, it belongs to France now, and I believe is something of a museum, and rather modern. One could not risk carrying away anything less than a perfect memory of Azay. Chapter XXV TOURS In the quest for outlying châteaux one is likely to forget that Tours itself is very much worth while. Tours has been a city ever since France had a history, and it fought against Cæsar as far back as 52 B.C. It took its name from the Gallic tribe of that section, the Turoni, dwellers in those cliffs, I dare say, along the Loire. Following the invasion of the Franks there came a line of counts who ruled Touraine until the eleventh century. What the human aspect of this delectable land was under their dominion is not very clear. The oldest castle we have seen, Coudray, was not begun until the end of that period. There are a thousand years behind it which seem filled mainly with shields and battle axes, roving knights and fair ladies, industrious dragons and the other properties of poetry. Yet there may have been more prosaic things. Seedtime and harvest probably did not fail. Tours was beloved by French royalty. It was the capital of a province as rich as it was beautiful. Among French provinces Touraine was always the aristocrat. Its language has been kept pure. To this day the purest French in the world is spoken at Tours. The mechanic who made some repairs for me at the garage leaned on the mud guard, during a brief intermission of that hottest of days, and told me about the purity of the French at Tours; and if there was anything wrong with his own locution my ear was not fine enough to detect it. To me it seemed as limpid as something distilled. Imagine such a thing happening in--say New Haven. Tours is still proud, still the aristocrat, still royal. The Germans held Tours during the early months of 1871, but there is no trace of their occupation now. It was a bad dream which Tours does not care even to remember.[16] Tours contains a fine cathedral, also the remains of what must have been a still finer one--two noble towers, so widely separated by streets and buildings that it is hard to imagine them ever having belonged to one structure. They are a part of the business of Tours, now. Shops are under them, lodgings in them. If they should tumble down they would create havoc. I was so sure they would crumble that we did not go into them; besides, it was very warm. The great church which connected these towers was dedicated to St. Martin, the same who divided his cloak with a beggar at Amiens and became Bishop of Tours in the fourth century. It was destroyed once and magnificently rebuilt, but it will never be rebuilt now. One of these old relics is called the Clock tower, the other the tower of Charlemagne, because Luitgard, his third queen, was buried beneath it. The cathedral at the other end of town appears not to have suffered much from the ravages of time and battle, though one of the towers was undergoing some kind of repairs that required intricate and lofty scaffolding. Most of the cathedrals are undergoing repairs, which is not surprising when one remembers the dates of their beginnings. This one at Tours was commenced in 1170 and the building continued during about four hundred years. Joan of Arc worshiped in it when she was on her way to Chinon and again when she had set out to relieve Orléans. The face of the cathedral is indeed beautiful--"a jewel," said Henry IV, "of which only the casket is wanting." It does not seem to us as beautiful as Rouen, or Amiens, or Chartres, but its fluted truncated towers are peculiarly its own and hardly less impressive. The cathedral itself forms a casket for the real jewel--the tomb of the two children of Charles VIII and Anne of Brittany, a little boy and girl, exquisitely cut, resting side by side on a slab of black marble, guarded at their head and feet by kneeling angels. Except the slab, the tomb is in white marble carved with symbolic decorations. It is all so delicate and conveys such a feeling of purity and tenderness that even after four hundred years one cannot fail to feel something of the love and sorrow that placed it there. Tours is full of landmarks and localities, but the intense heat of the end of June is not a good time for city sight-seeing. We went about a little and glanced at this old street--such as Place Plumeran--and that old château, like the Tour de Guise, now a barrack, and passed the Théâtre Municipal, and the house where Balzac was born, and stood impressed and blinking before the great Palace of Justice, blazing in the sun and made more brilliant, more dazzling by the intensely red-legged soldiers that in couples and groups are always loitering before it. I am convinced that to touch those red-hot trousers would take the skin off one's fingers. We might have examined Tours more carefully if we had been driving instead of walking. I have spoken of the car being in the garage. We cracked the leaf of a spring that day at Chinon, and then our tires, old and worn after five thousand miles of loyal service, required reënforcement. They really required new ones, but our plan was to get home with these if we could. Besides, one cannot buy new tires in American sizes without sending a special order to the factory--a matter of delay. The little man at the hotel, who had more energy than anyone should display in such hot weather, pumped one of our back tires until the shoe burst at the rim. This was serious. I got a heavy canvas lining, and the garageman patched and vulcanized and sold me a variety of appliances. But I could foresee trouble if the heat continued. FOOTNOTES: [16] Tours during the World War became a great training camp, familiar to thousands of American soldiers. Chapter XXVI CHENONCEAUX AND AMBOISE (From my notebook) This morning we got away from Tours, but it was after a strenuous time. It was one of those sweltering mornings, and to forward matters at the garage I helped put on all those repaired tires and appliances, and by the time we were through I was a rag. Narcissa photographed me, because she said she had never seen me look so interesting before. She made me stand in the sun, bareheaded and holding a tube in my hand, as if I had not enough to bear already. Oh, but it was cool and delicious gliding along the smooth, shaded road toward Chenonceaux! One can almost afford to get as hot and sweltering and cross and gasping as I was for the sake of sitting back and looking across the wheel down a leafy avenue facing the breeze of your own making, a delicious nectar that bathes you through and cools and rests and soothes--an anodyne of peace. By and by, being really cool in mind and body, we drew up abreast of a meadow which lay a little below the road, a place with a brook and overspreading shade, and with some men and women harvesting not far away. We thought they would not mind if we lunched there, and I think they must have been as kind-hearted as they were picturesque, for they did not offer to disturb us. It was a lovely spot, and did not seem to belong to the present-day world at all. How could it, with the home of Diana of Poitiers just over there beyond the trees, with nesting places of Mary, Queen of Scots, all about, and with these haymakers, whose fashion in clothes has not much minded the centuries, to add the living human note of the past that makes imagination reality? Chenonceaux, the real heart of the royal district, like Chinon, is not on the Loire itself, but on a small tributary, the Cher. I do not remember that I noticed the river when we entered the grounds, but it is a very important part of the château, which indeed is really a bridge over it--a supremely beautiful bridge, to be sure, but a bridge none the less, entirely crossing the pretty river by means of a series of high foundation arches. Upon these arches rises the rare edifice which Thomas Bohier, a receiver-general of taxes, began back in 1515 and Catherine de' Medici finished after she had turned out Diana of Poitiers and massacred the Huguenots, and needed a quiet place for retirement and religious thought. Bohier did not extend Chenonceaux entirely across the river. The river to him merely served as a moat. The son who followed him did not have time to make additions. Francis I came along, noticed that it was different from the other châteaux he had confiscated, and added it to his collection. Our present-day collectors cut a poor figure by the side of Francis I. Think of getting together assortments of bugs and postage stamps and ginger jars when one could go out and pick up châteaux! It was Francis's son, Henry II, that gave it to Diana of Poitiers. Henry had his own kind of a collection and he used his papa's châteaux to keep it in. As he picked about the best one for Diana, we may believe that he regarded her as his choicest specimen. Unfortunately for Diana, Henry's queen, the terrible Catherine, outlived him; and when, after the funeral, Catherine drove around by Chenonceaux and suggested to Diana that perhaps she would like to exchange the place for a very excellent château farther up the road, Chaumont, we may assume that Diana moved with no unseemly delay. Diana tactfully said she liked Chaumont ever so much, for a change, that perhaps living on a hilltop was healthier than over the water, anyway. Still, it must have made her sigh, I think, to know that her successor was carrying out the plan which Diana herself had conceived of extending Chenonceaux across the Cher. We stopped a little to look at the beautiful façade of Chenonceaux, then crossed the drawbridge, or what is now the substitute for it, and were welcomed at the door by just the proper person--a fine, dignified woman of gentle voice and perfect knowledge. She showed us through the beautiful home, for it is still a home, the property to-day of M. Meunier of chocolate fame and fortune. I cannot say how glad I am that M. Meunier owns Chenonceaux. He has done nothing to the place to spoil it, and it is not a museum. The lower rooms which we saw have many of the original furnishings. The ornaments, the tapestries, the pictures are the same. I think Diana must have regretted leaving her fine private room, with its chimney piece, supported by caryatids, and its rare Flemish tapestry. We regretted leaving, too. We do not care for interiors that have been overhauled and refurbished and made into museums, but we were in no hurry to leave Chenonceaux. There is hardly any place, I think, where one may come so nearly stepping back through the centuries. We went out into the long wing that is built on the arches above the river, and looked down at the water flowing below. Our conductor told us that the supporting arches had been built on the foundations of an ancient mill. The beautiful gallery which the bridge supports must have known much gayety; much dancing and promenading up and down; much lovemaking and some heartache. Jean Jacques Rousseau seems to have been everywhere. We could not run amiss of him in eastern France and in Switzerland; now here again he turns up at Chenonceaux. Chenonceaux in the eighteenth century fell to M. Claude Dupin, farmer-general, who surrounded himself with the foremost artists and social leaders of his time. He engaged Rousseau to superintend the education of his son. "We amused ourselves greatly at this fine place," writes Rousseau; "the living was of the best, and I became as fat as a monk. We made a great deal of music and acted comedies." The period of M. Dupin's ownership, one of the most brilliant, and certainly the most moral in the earlier history of Chenonceaux, has left many memories. Of the brief, insipid honeymoon of the puny Francis II and Mary Stuart no breath remains. * * * * * Amboise is on the Loire, and there is a good inn on the quay. It was evening when we got there, and we did nothing after dinner but sit on the high masonry embankment that buttresses the river, and watch the men who fished, while the light faded from the water; though we occasionally turned to look at the imposing profile of the great château on the high cliff above the Loire. We drove up there next morning--that is, we drove as high as one may drive, and climbed stairs the remaining distance. Amboise is a splendid structure from without, but, unlike Chenonceaux, it is interesting within only for what it has been. It is occupied by the superannuated servants of the present owner, one of the Orléans family, which is fine for them, and proper enough, but bad for the atmosphere. There are a bareness and a whitewashed feeling about the place that are death to romance. Even the circular inclined plane by which one may ride or drive to the top of the great tower suggested some sort of temporary structure at an amusement park rather than a convenience for kings. I was more interested in a low doorway against the lintel of which Charles VIII knocked his head and died. But I wish I could have picked Charles VII for that accident, to punish him for having abandoned Joan of Arc. Though about a hundred years older, Amboise, like Chenonceaux, belongs mainly to the period of Francis I, and was inhabited by the same society. The Francises and the Henrys enjoyed its hospitality, and Catherine de' Medici, and Mary, Queen of Scots. Also some twelve or fifteen hundred Huguenots who were invited there, and, at Catherine's suggestion, butchered on the terrace just in front of the castle windows. There is a balcony overlooking the terrace, and it is said that Catherine and Mary, also Mary's husband and his two brothers, sat on the balcony better to observe the spectacle. Tradition does not say whether they had ices served or not. Some of the Huguenots did not wait, and the soldiers had to drown what they could catch of them in the Loire, likewise in view from the royal balcony. When the show was over there was suspended from the balcony a fringe of Huguenot heads. Those were frivolous times. There is a flower garden to-day on the terrace where the Huguenots were murdered, and one may imagine, if he chooses, the scarlet posies to be brighter for that history. But then there are few enough places in France where blossoms have not been richened by the human stain. Consider those vivid seas of poppies! Mary Stuart, by the way, seems entitled to all the pity that the centuries have accorded her. There were few influences in her early life that were not vile. On the ramparts at Amboise we were shown a chapel, with the grave of Leonardo Da Vinci, who was summoned to Amboise by Francis I, and died there in 1519. There is a question about da Vinci's ashes resting here, I believe, but it does not matter--it is his grave. If I were going back to Amboise I would view it only from the outside. With its immense tower and its beautiful Gothic and Renaissance façade surmounting the heights above the Loire, nothing--nothing in the world could be more beautiful. Chapter XXVII CHAMBORD AND CLÉRY Francis I had a fine taste for collecting châteaux picturesquely located, but when he built one for himself he located it in the most unbeautiful situation in France. It requires patience and talent to find monotony of prospect in France, but our hero succeeded, and discovered a dead flat tract of thirteen thousand acres with an approach through as dreary a level of unprosperous-looking farm district as may be found on the continent of Europe. It is not on the Loire, but on a little stream called the Cosson, and when we had left the Loire and found the country getting flatter and poorer and less promising with every mile, we could not believe that we were on the right road. But when we inquired, our informants still pointed ahead, and by and by, in the midst of nowhere and surrounded by nothing, we came to a great inclosure of undersized trees, with an entrance. Driving in, we looked down a long avenue to an expanse of architecture that seemed to be growing from a dead level of sandy park, and to have attained about two thirds its proper height. An old man was raking around the entrance and we asked him if one was allowed to lunch in the park. He said, "Oh yes, anywhere," and gave a general wave that comprehended the whole tract. So we turned into a side road and found a place that was shady enough, but not cool, for there seemed to be no large overspreading trees in this park, but only small, close, bushy ones. It is said that Francis built Chambord for two reasons, one of them being the memory of an old sweetheart who used to live in the neighborhood, the other on account of the abundant game to be found there. I am inclined to the latter idea. There is nothing in the location to suggest romance; there is everything to suggest game. The twenty square miles of thicket that go with Chambord could hardly be surpassed as a harbor for beast and bird. If Chambord was built, so to speak, as a sort of hunting lodge, it is the largest one on record. Francis kept eighteen hundred men busy at it for twelve years, and then did not get it done. He lived in it, more or less, for some seven years, however; then went to Rambouillet to die, and left his son, Henry II, to carry on the work. Henry did not care for Chambord--the marshy place gave him fever, but he kept the building going until he was killed in a tourney, when the construction stopped. His widow, the bloody Catherine de' Medici, retired to Chambord in her old age, and set the place in order. She was terribly superstitious and surrounded herself with astrologers and soothsayers. At night she used to go up to the great lantern tower to read her fortune in the stars. It is my opinion that she did not go up there alone, not with that record of hers. Mansard, who laid a blight on architecture that lasted for two hundred years, once got hold of Chambord and spoiled what he could, and had planned to do worse things, but something--death, perhaps--interfered. That was when Louis XIV brought Queen Maria Theresa to Chambord, and held high and splendid court there, surrounding himself with brilliant men and women, among them Molière and the widow of the poet Scarron, Françoise d'Aubigné, the same that later became queen, under the title of Madame de Maintenon. That was the heyday of Chambord's history. A large guardroom was gilded and converted into a theater. Molière gave first presentations there and received public compliment from the king. Diversion was the order of the day and night. "The court is very gay--the king hunts much," wrote Maintenon; "one eats always with him; there is one day a ball, and the next a comedy." Nothing very startling has happened at Chambord since Louis' time. Its tenants have been numerous enough, and royal, or distinguished, but they could not maintain the pace set by Louis XIV. Stanislas Leckzinski, the exiled Polish king, occupied it during the early years of the eighteenth century, and succeeded in marrying his daughter to the dissolute Louis XV. Seventy years later the revolution came along. An order was issued to sell the contents of Chambord, and a greedy rabble came and stripped it clean. There was a further decree to efface all signs of royalty, but when it was discovered that every bit of carving within and without the vast place expressed royalty in some manner, and that it would cost twenty thousand dollars to cut it away, this project was happily abandoned. Chambord was left empty but intact. Whatever has been done since has been in the way of restoration. There is not a particle of shade around Chambord. It stands as bare and exposed to the blazing sky to-day as it did when those eighteen hundred workmen laid down their tools four hundred years ago. There is hardly a shrub. Even the grass looks discouraged. A location, indeed, for a royal palace! We left the car under the shade of a wall and crossed a dazzling open space to the entrance of a court where we bought entrance tickets. Then we crossed the blinding court and were in a cool place at last, the wide castle entrance. We were surprised a little, though, to find a ticket box and a registering turnstile. Things are on a business basis at Chambord. I suppose the money collected is used for repairs. The best advertised feature of Chambord is the one you see first, the great spiral double stairway arranged one flight above the other, so that persons may be ascending without meeting others who are descending at the same moment. Many persons would not visit Chambord but for this special show feature. Our conductor made us ascend and descend to prove that this unrivaled attraction would really work as advertised. It is designed on the principle of the double stripes on a barber pole. But there are other worth-while features at Chambord. We wandered through the great cool rooms, not furnished, yet not empty, containing as they do some rare pictures, old statuary and historic furniture, despoiled by the revolutionists, now restored to their original setting. Chambord is not a museum. It belongs to a Duke of Parma, a direct descendant from Louis XIV. Under Louis XVIII the estate was sold, but in 1821 three hundred thousand dollars was raised by public subscription to purchase the place for the remaining heir of the Bourbon dynasty, the Duke of Bordeaux, who accepted with the gift the title of the Count of Chambord. But he was in exile and did not come to see his property for fifty years; even then only to write a letter renouncing his claim to the throne and to say once more good-by to France. He willed the property to the children of his sister, the Duchess of Parma, and it is to the next generation that it belongs to-day. Our conductor told us that the present Duke of Parma comes now and then for the shooting, which is still of the best. We ascended to the roof, which is Chambord's chief ornament. It is an architectural garden. Such elaboration of turrets with carved leafwork and symbolism, such richness of incrustation and detail, did, in fact, suggest some fantastic and fabulous culture. If it had not been all fairly leaping with heat I should have wished to stay longer. But I would not care to go to Chambord again. As we drove down the long drive, and turned a little for a last look at that enormous frontage, those immense low towers, that superb roof structure--all that magnificence dropped down there in a dreary level--I thought, "If ever a house was a white elephant that one is, and if one had to rename it it might well be called Francis's Folly." I suppose it was two hours later when we had been drifting drowsily up the valley of the Loire that we stopped in a village for water. There was an old church across the way, and as usual we stepped inside, as much for the cool refreshment as for anything, expecting nothing else worth while. How easily we might have missed the wealth we found there. We did not know the name of the village. We did not recognize Cléry, even when we heard it, and the guidebook gives it just four lines. But we had been inside only a moment when we realized that the Church of Our Lady of Cléry is an ancient and sacred shrine. A great tablet told us that since 1325 kings of France, sinners and saints have made pilgrimages there; Charles IV, Philippe VI, Charles VII, St. François Xavier, and so down the centuries to Marshal MacMahon of our own time. But to us greater than all the rest are the names of Dunois and Joan of Arc. Joan had passed this way with her army, of course; for the moment we had forgotten that we were following her footsteps to Orléans. The place was rich in relics. Among these the tomb of Louis XI and a column which inclosed the heart of Charles VIII. There could hardly have been a shrine in France more venerated in the past than this forgotten church by the roadside, in this forgotten village where, I suppose, tourists to-day never stop at all. It was hard to believe in the reality of our discovery, even when we stood there. But there were the tablets and inscriptions--they could not be denied. We wandered about, finding something new and precious at every turn, until the afternoon light faded. Then we crossed a long bridge over the Loire to the larger village of Meung, where there was the Hôtel St. Jacques, one of the kind we like best and one of the best of the kind. Chapter XXVIII ORLÉANS There is some sight-seeing to be done in Meung, but we were too anxious to get to Orléans to stop for it. Yet we did not hurry through our last summer morning along the Loire. I do not know what could be more lovely than our leisurely hour--the distance was fifteen miles--under cool, outspreading branches, with glimpses of the bright river and vistas of happy fields. We did not even try to imagine, as we approached the outskirts, that the Orléans of Joan's time presented anything of its appearance to-day. Orléans is a modern, or modernized, city, and, except the river, there could hardly be anything in the present prospect that Joan saw. That it is the scene of her first military conquest and added its name to the title by which she belongs to history is, however, enough to make it one of the holy places of France. It has been always a military city, a place of battles. Cæsar burned it, Attila attacked it, Clovis captured it--there was nearly always war of one sort or another going on there. The English and Burgundians would have had it in 1429 but for the arrival of Joan's army. Since then war has visited Orléans less frequently. Its latest experience was with the Germans who invested it in 1870-71. Joan was misled by her generals, whose faith in her was not complete. Orléans lies on the north bank of the Loire; they brought her down on the south bank, fearing the prowess of the enemy's forces. Discovering the deception, the Maid promptly sent the main body of her troops back some thirty-five miles to a safe crossing, and, taking a thousand men, passed over the Loire and entered the city by a gate still held by the French. That the city was not completely surrounded made it possible to attack the enemy simultaneously from within and without, while her presence among the Orléanese would inspire them with new hope and valor. Mark Twain in his _Recollections_ pictures the great moment of her entry. It was eight in the evening when she and her troops rode in at the Burgundy gate.... She was riding a white horse, and she carried in her hand the sacred sword of Fierbois. You should have seen Orléans then. What a picture it was! Such black seas of people, such a starry firmament of torches, such roaring whirlwinds of welcome, such booming of bells and thundering of cannon! It was as if the world was come to an end. Everywhere in the glare of the torches one saw rank upon rank of upturned white faces, the mouths wide open, shouting, and the unchecked tears running down; Joan forged her slow way through the solid masses, her mailed form projecting above the pavement of heads like a silver statue. The people about her struggled along, gazing up at her through their tears with the rapt look of men and women who believe they are seeing one who is divine; and always her feet were being kissed by grateful folk, and such as failed of that privilege touched her horse and then kissed their fingers. This was the 29th of April. Nine days later, May 8, 1429, after some fierce fighting during which Joan was severely wounded, the besiegers were scattered, Orléans was free. Mark Twain writes: No other girl in all history has ever reached such a summit of glory as Joan of Arc reached that day.... Orléans will never forget the 8th of May, nor ever fail to celebrate it. It is Joan of Arc's day--and holy. Two days, May 7th and 8th, are given each year to the celebration, and Orléans in other ways has honored the memory of her deliverer. A wide street bears her name, and there are noble statues, and a museum, and holy church offerings. The Boucher home which sheltered Joan during her sojourn in Orléans has been preserved; at least a house is still shown as the Boucher house, though how much of the original structure remains no one at this day seems willing to decide. We drove there first, for it is the only spot in Orléans that can claim even a possibility of having known Joan's actual impress. It is a house of the old cross-timber and brick architecture, and if these are not the veritable walls that Joan saw they must at least bear a close resemblance to those of the house of Jacques Boucher, treasurer of the Duke of Orléans, where Joan was made welcome. The interior is less convincing. It is ecclesiastical, and there is an air of general newness and reconstruction about it that suggests nothing of that long-ago occupancy. It was rather painful to linger, and we were inclined now to hesitate at the thought of visiting the ancient home of Agnes Sorel, where the Joan of Arc Museum is located. It would have been a mistake not to do so, however. It is only a few doors away on the same street, rue du Tabour, and it is a fine old mansion, genuinely old, and fairly overflowing with objects of every conceivable sort relating to Joan of Arc. Books, statuary, paintings, armor, banners, offerings, coins, medals, ornaments, engravings, letters--thousands upon thousands of articles gathered there in the Maid's memory. I think there is not one of them that her hand ever touched, or that she ever saw, but in their entirety they convey, as nothing else could, the reverence that Joan's memory has inspired during the centuries that have gone since her presence made this sacred ground. Until the revolution Orléans preserved Joan's banner, some of her clothing, and other genuine relics; but then the mob burned them, probably because Joan delivered France to royalty. One finds it rather easy to forgive the revolutionary mob almost anything--certainly anything more easily than such insane vandalism. We were shown an ancient copy of the banner, still borne, I believe, in the annual festivals. Baedeker speaks of arms and armor worn at the siege of Orléans, but the guardian of the place was not willing to guarantee their genuineness. I wish he had not thought it necessary to be so honest. He did show us a photograph of Joan's signature, the original of which belongs to one of her collateral descendants. She wrote it "Jehanne," and her pen must have been guided by her secretary, Louis de Conte, for Joan could neither read nor write. We drove to the Place Martroi to see the large equestrienne statue of Joan by Foyatier, with reliefs by Vital Dubray. It is very imposing, and the reliefs showing the great moments in Joan's career are really fine. We did not care to hunt for other memorials. It was enough to drive about the city trying to pick out a house here and there that looked as if it might have been standing five hundred years, but if there were any of that age--any that had looked upon the wild joy of Joan's entrance and upon her triumphal departure, they were very few indeed. Chapter XXIX FONTAINEBLEAU We turned north now, toward Fontainebleau, which we had touched a month earlier on the way to Paris. It is a grand straight road from Orléans to Fontainebleau, and it passes through Pithiviers, which did not look especially interesting, though we discovered when it was too late that it is noted for its almond cakes and lark pies. I wanted to go back then, but the majority was against it. Late in the afternoon we entered for the second time the majestic forest of Fontainebleau and by and by came to the palace and the little town, and to a pretty hotel on a side street that was really a village inn for comfort and welcome. There was still plenty of daylight, mellow, waning daylight, and the palace was not far away. We would not wait for it until morning. I think we most enjoy seeing palaces about the closing hours. There are seldom any other visitors then, and the waning afternoon sunlight in the vacant rooms mellows their garish emptiness, and seems somehow to bring nearer the rich pageant of life and love and death that flowed by there so long and then one day came to an end, and now it is not passing any more. It was really closing time when we arrived at the palace, but the custodian was lenient and for an hour we wandered through gorgeous galleries, and salons, and suites of private apartments where queens and kings lived gladly, loved madly, died sadly, for about four hundred years. Francis I built Fontainebleau, on the site of a mediæval castle. He was a hunter, and the forests of Fontainebleau, like those of Chambord, were always famous hunting grounds. Louis XIII, who was born in Fontainebleau, built the grand entrance staircase, from which two hundred years later Napoleon Bonaparte would bid good-by to his generals before starting for Elba. Other kings have added to the place and embellished it; the last being Napoleon III, who built for Eugénie the Bijou theater across the court. It may have been our mood, it may have been the tranquil evening light, it may have been reality that Fontainebleau was more friendly, more alive, more a place for living men and women to inhabit than any other palace we have seen. It was hard to imagine Versailles as having ever been a home for anybody. At Fontainebleau I felt that we were intruding--that Madame de Maintenon, Marie Antoinette, Marie Louise, or Eugénie might enter at any moment and find us there. Perhaps it was in the apartments of Marie Antoinette that one felt this most. There is a sort of personality in the gorgeousness of her bedchamber that has to do, likely enough, with the memory of her tragic end, but certainly it is there. The gilded ceiling sings of her; the satin hangings--a marriage gift from the city of Lyons--breathe of her; even the iron window-fastenings are not without personal utterance, for they were wrought by the skillful hands of the king himself, out of his love for her. The apartments of the first Napoleon and Marie Louise tell something, too, but the story seems less intimate. Yet the table is there on which Napoleon signed his abdication while an escort waited to take him to Elba. For size and magnificence the library is the most impressive room in Fontainebleau. It is lofty and splendid, and it is two hundred and sixty-four feet long. It is called the gallery of Diana, after Diana of Poitiers, who for a lady of tenuous moral fiber seems to have inspired some pretty substantial memories. The ballroom, the finest in Europe, also belongs to Diana, by special dedication of Henry II, who decorated it magnificently to suit Diana's charms. Napoleon III gave great hunting banquets there. Since then it has been always empty, except for visitors. The custodian took us through a suite of rooms called the "Apartments of the White Queens," because once they were restored for the widows of French kings, who usually dressed in white. Napoleon used the rooms for another purpose. He invited Pope Pius VII to Fontainebleau to sanction his divorce from Josephine, and when the pope declined, Napoleon prolonged the pope's visit for eighteen months, secluding him in this luxurious place, to give him a chance to modify his views. They visited together a good deal, and their interviews were not always calm. Napoleon also wanted the pope to sign away the states of the Church, and once when they were discussing the matter rather earnestly the emperor boxed the pope's ears. He had a convincing way in those days. I wonder if later, standing on the St. Helena headland, he ever recalled that incident. If he did, I dare say it made him smile. The light was getting dim by the time we reached the pretty theater which Louis Napoleon built for Eugénie. It is a very choice place, and we were allowed to go on the stage and behind the scenes and up in the galleries, and there was something in the dusky vacancy of that little playhouse, built to amuse the last empress of France, that affected us almost more than any of the rest of the palace, though it was built not so long ago and its owner is still alive.[17] It is not used, the custodian told us--has never been used since Eugénie went away. From a terrace back of the palace we looked out on a pretty lake where Eugénie's son used to sail a miniature full-rigged ship--large enough, if one could judge from a picture we saw, to have held the little prince himself. There was still sunlight on the treetops, and these and the prince's little pavilion reflecting in the tranquil water made the place beautiful. But the little vessel was not there. I wished, as we watched, that it might come sailing by. I wished that the prince had never been exiled and that he had not grown up and gone to his death in a South African jungle. I wished that he might be back to sail his ship again, and that Eugénie might have her theater once more, and that Louis Napoleon's hunting parties might still assemble in Diana's painted ballroom and fill the vacant palace with something besides mere curiosity and vain imaginings. FOOTNOTES: [17] She lived six years longer, dying in 1920. Chapter XXX RHEIMS We had meant to go to Barbizon, but we got lost in the forest next morning, and when we found ourselves we were a good way in the direction of Melun, so concluded to keep on, consoling ourselves with the thought that Barbizon is not Barbizon any more, and would probably be a disappointment, anyway. We kept on from Melun, also, after buying some luncheon things, and all day traversed that beautiful rolling district which lies east of Paris and below Rheims, arriving toward evening at Épernay, the Sparnacum of antiquity and the champagne center of to-day. Épernay was ancient once, but it is all new now, with wide streets and every indication of business progress. We had no need to linger there. We were anxious to get to Rheims. There had been heavy rains in the champagne district, and next morning the gray sky and close air gave promise of more. The roads were not the best, being rather slippery and uneven from the heavy traffic of the wine carts. But the vine-covered hills between Épernay and Rheims, with their dark-green matted leafage, seemed to us as richly productive as anything in France. We were still in the hills when we looked down on the valley of the Vesle and saw a city outspread there, and in its center the architectural and ecclesiastical pride of the world, the cathedral of Rheims. Large as the city was, that great central ornament dwarfed and dominated its surroundings. Thus Joan of Arc had seen it when at the head of her victorious army she conducted the king to Rheims for his coronation. She was nearing the fulfillment of her assignment, the completion of the great labor laid upon her by the voices of her saints. Mark Twain tells of Joan's approach to Rheims, of the tide of cheers that swept her ranks at the vision of the distant towers: And as for Joan of Arc, there where she sat her horse, gazing, clothed all in white armor, dreamy, beautiful, and in her face a deep, deep joy, a joy not of earth; oh, she was not flesh, she was spiritual! Her sublime mission was closing--closing in flawless triumph. To-morrow she could say, "It is finished--let me go free." It was the 16th of July that Joan looked down upon Rheims, and now, four hundred and eighty-five years later, it was again July, with the same summer glory on the woods, the same green and scarlet in the poppied fields, the same fair valley, the same stately towers rising to the sky. But no one can ever feel what Joan felt, can ever put into words, ever so faintly, what that moment and that vision meant to the Domremy shepherd girl. Descending the plain, we entered the city, crossed a bridge, and made our way to the cathedral square. Then presently we were at the doorway where Joan and her king had entered--the portal which has been called the most beautiful this side of Paradise. How little we dreamed that we were among the last to look upon it in its glory--that disfigurement and destruction lay only a few weeks ahead! It is not required any more that one should write descriptively of the church of Rheims. It has been done so thoroughly, and so often, by those so highly qualified for the undertaking, that such supplementary remarks as I might offer would hardly rise even to the dignity of an impertinence. Pergussen, who must have been an authority, for the guidebook quotes him, called it, "perhaps the most beautiful structure produced in the Middle Ages." Nothing [he says] can exceed the majesty of its deeply recessed portals, the beauty of the rose window that surmounts them, or the elegance of the gallery that completes the façade and serves as a basement to the light and graceful towers that crown the composition. The cathedral was already two hundred years old when Joan arrived in 1429. But it must have looked quite fresh and new then, for, nearly five centuries later, it seemed to have suffered little. Some of the five hundred and thirty statues of its entrance were weatherworn and scarred, but the general effect was not disturbed. Many kings had preceded Joan and her sovereign through the sacred entrance. Long before the cathedral was built French sovereigns had come to Rheims for their coronation, to be anointed with some drops of the inexhaustible oil which a white dove had miraculously brought from heaven for the baptism of Clovis. That had been nearly a thousand years before, but in Joan's day the sacred vessel and its holy contents were still preserved in the ancient abbey of St. Remi, and would be used for the anointing of her king. The Archbishop of Rheims and his canons, with a deputy of nobles, had been sent for the awesome relic, after the nobles had sworn upon their lives to restore it to St. Remi when the coronation was over. The abbot himself, attended by this splendid escort, brought the precious vessel, and the crowd fell prostrate and prayed while this holiest of objects, for it had been made in heaven, passed by. We are told that the abbot, attended by the archbishop and those others, entered the crowded church, followed by the five mounted knights, who rode down the great central aisle, clear to the choir, and then at a signal backed their prancing steeds all the distance to the great doors. It was a mighty assemblage that had gathered for the crowning of Joan's king. France, overrun by an invader, had known no real king for years--had, indeed, well-nigh surrendered her nationality. Now the saints themselves had taken up their cause, and in the person of a young girl from an obscure village had given victory to their arms and brought redemption to their throne. No wonder the vast church was packed and that crowds were massed outside. From all directions had come pilgrims to the great event--persons of every rank, among them two shepherds, Joan's aged father and uncle, who had walked from Domremy, one hundred and twenty miles, to verify with their own eyes what their ears could not credit. Very likely the cathedral at Rheims has never known such a throng since that day, nor heard such a mighty shout as went up when Joan and the king, side by side, and followed by a splendid train, appeared at the great side entrance and moved slowly to the altar. I think there must have fallen a deep hush then--a petrified stillness that lasted through the long ceremonial, while every eye feasted itself upon the young girl standing there at the king's side, holding her victorious standard above him--the banner that "had borne the burden and had earned the victory," as she would one day testify at her trial. I am sure that vast throng would keep silence, scarcely breathing, until the final word was spoken and the dauphin had accepted the crown and placed it upon his head. But then we may hear borne faintly down the centuries the roar of renewed shouting that told to those waiting without that the great ceremony was ended, that Charles VII of France had been anointed king. In the _Recollections_ Mark Twain makes the Sieur de Conte say: What a crash there was! All about us cries and cheers, and the chanting of the choir and the groaning of the organ; and outside the clamoring of the bells and the booming of the cannon. The fantastic dream, the incredible dream, the impossible dream of the peasant child stood fulfilled. It had become reality--perhaps in that old day it even _seemed_ reality--but now, after five hundred years, it has become once more a dream--to-day _our_ dream--and in the filmy picture we see the shepherd girl on her knees, saying to the crowned king: "My work which was given me to do is finished; give me your peace and let me go back to my mother, who is poor and old and has need of me." But the king raises her up and praises her and confers upon her nobility and titles, and asks her to name a reward for her service, and in the old dream we hear her ask favor for her village--that Domremy, "poor and hard pressed by reason of the war," may have its taxes remitted. Nothing for herself--no more than that, and in the presence of all the great assemblage Charles VII pronounces the decree that, by grace of Joan of Arc, Domremy shall be free from taxes forever. Here within these walls it was all reality five hundred years ago. We do not study this interior to discover special art values or to distinguish in what manner it differs from others we have seen. For us the light from its great rose window and upper arches is glorified because once it fell upon Joan of Arc in that supreme moment when she saw her labor finished and asked only that she might return to Domremy and her flocks. The statuary in the niches are holy because they looked upon that scene, the altar paving is sanctified because it felt the pressure of her feet. We wandered about the great place, but we came back again and again to the altar, and, looking through the railing, dreamed once more of that great moment when a frail shepherd girl began anew the history of France. Back of the altar was a statue of Joan unlike any we have seen elsewhere, and to us more beautiful. It was not Joan with her banner aloft, her eyes upward. It was Joan with her eyes lowered, looking at no outward thing, her face passive--the saddest face and the saddest eyes in the world. It was Joan the sacrifice--of her people and her king. Chapter XXXI ALONG THE MARNE It may have been two miles out of Rheims that we met the flood. There had been a heavy shower as we entered the city, but presently the sun broke out, bright and hot, too bright and too hot for permanence. Now suddenly all was black again, there was a roar of thunder, and then such an opening of the water gates of the sky as would have disturbed Noah. There was no thought of driving through such a torrent. I pulled over to the side of the road, but the tall high-trimmed trees afforded no protection. Our top was a shelter, but not a complete one--the wind drove the water in, and in a moment our umbrellas were sticking out in every direction, and we had huddled together like chickens. The water seemed to fall solidly. The world was blotted out. I had the feeling at moments that we were being swept down some great submarine current. I don't know how long the inundation lasted. It may have been five minutes--it may have been thirty. Then suddenly it stopped--it was over--the sun was out! There was then no mud in France--not in the high-roads--and a moment or two later we had revived, our engine was going, and we were gliding between fair fields--fresh shining fields where scarlet poppy patches were as pools of blood. There is no lovelier land than the Marne district, from Rheims to Chalons and to Vitry-le-François. It had often been a war district--a battle ground, fought over time and again since the ancient allies defeated Attila and his Huns there, checking the purpose of the "Scourge of God," as he styled himself, to found a new dynasty upon the wreck of Rome. It could never be a battle ground again, we thought--the great nations were too advanced for war. Ah me! Within two months from that day men were lying dead across that very road, shells were tearing at the lovely fields, and another stain had mingled with the trampled poppies. Chalons-sur-Marne, like Rheims and Épernay, is a champagne center and prosperous. There were some churches there, but they did not seem of great importance. We stopped for water at Vitry-le-François, a hot, uninteresting-looking place, though it had played a part in much history, and would presently play a part in much more. It was always an outpost against vandal incursions from the north, and Francis I rebuilt and strengthened it. At Vitry we left the Marne and kept the wide road eastward, for we were bound now for the Vosges, for Domremy on the Meuse, Joan's starting place. The sun burned again, the road got hot, and suddenly during the afternoon one of our tires went off like a gun. One of our old shoes had blown out at the rim, and there was a doubtful look about the others. Narcissa and I labored in the hot sun--for there was no shade from those slim roadside poplars--and with inside patches and outside patches managed to get in traveling order again, though personally we were pretty limp by the time we were ready to move, and a good deal disheartened. The prospect of reaching Vevey, our base of supplies, without laying up somewhere to order new tires was not bright, and it became even less so that evening, when in front of the hotel at St. Dizier another tire pushed out at the rim, and in the gathering dusk, surrounded by an audience, I had to make further repairs before I could get into the garage. Early next morning I gave those tires all a pretty general overhauling. I put in blow-out patches wherever there seemed to be a weak place and doubled them at the broken spots. By the time I got done we were carrying in our tires all the extra rubber and leather and general aid-to-the-injured stuff that had formerly been under the back seat, and I was obliged to make a trip around to the supply garages for more. Fortunately the weather had changed overnight, and it was cool. Old tires and even new ones hold better on cool roads. It turned still cooler as we proceeded--it became chilly--for the Fourth of July it was winterish. At Chalons we had expended three whole francs for a bottle of champagne for celebration purposes, and when we made our luncheon camp in a sheltered cover of a pretty meadow where there was a clear, racing brook, we were too cold to sit down, and drank standing a toast to our national independence, and would have liked more of that delicious liquid warmth, regardless of cost. There could hardly have been a more beautiful spot than that, but I do not remember any place where we were less inclined to linger. Yet how quickly weather can change. Within an hour it was warm again--not hot, but mildly pleasant, even delightful. Chapter XXXII DOMREMY We were well down in the Vosges now and beginning to inquire for Domremy. How strange it seemed to be actually making inquiries for a place that always before had been just a part of an old legend--a half-mythical story of a little girl who, tending her sheep, had heard the voices of angels. One had the feeling that there could never really be such a place at all, that, even had it once existed, it must have vanished long ago; that to ask the way to it now would be like those who in some old fairy tale come back after ages of enchantment and inquire for places and people long forgotten. Domremy! No, it was not possible. We should meet puzzled, blank looks, pitying smiles, in answer to our queries. We should never find one able to point a way and say, "That is the road to Domremy." One could as easily say "the road to Camelot." Yet there came a time when we must ask. We had been passing through miles of wonderful forest, with regularly cut roads leading away at intervals, suggesting a vast preserved estate, when we came out to an open hill land, evidently a grazing country, with dividing roads and no definite markings. So we stopped a humble-looking old man and hesitatingly, rather falteringly, asked him the road to Domremy. He regarded us a moment, then said very gently, pointing, "It is down there just a little way." So we were near--quite near--perhaps even now passing a spot where Joan had tended her sheep. Our informant turned to watch us pass. He knew why we were going to Domremy. He could have been a descendant of those who had played with Joan. Even now it was hard to believe that Domremy would be just an old village, such a village as Joan had known, where humble folk led humble lives tending their flocks and small acres. Very likely it had become a tourist resort--a mere locality, with a hotel. It was only when we were actually in the streets of a decaying, time-beaten little hamlet and were told that this was indeed Domremy, the home of Joan of Arc, that we awoke to the actuality of the place and to the realization that in character at least it had not greatly changed. We drove to the church--an ancient, weatherworn little edifice. The invaders destroyed it the same year that Joan set out on her march, but when Joan had given safety to France the fragments were gathered and rebuilt, so if it is not in its entirety the identical chapel where Joan worshiped, it contains, at least, portions of the original structure and stands upon the same ground. In front of the church is a bronze statue of the Maid, and above the entrance a painting of Joan listening to the voices. But these are modern. Inside are more precious things. It is a plain, humble interior, rather too fresh and new looking for its antiquity, perhaps because of the whitened walls. But near the altar there is an object that does not disappoint. It is an ancient baptismal font--the original font of the little ruined chapel--the vessel in which Joan of Arc was baptized. I think there can be no question of its authenticity. It would be a holy object to the people of Domremy; to them Joan was already a saint at the time of her death, and any object that had served her was sacred. The relic dug from the ruined chapel would be faithfully guarded, and there would be many still alive to identify it when the church's restoration was complete and the ancient vessel set in place. It seems a marvelous thing to be able to look upon an object that may be regarded as the ceremonial starting point of a grace that was to redeem a nation. Surely, if ever angels stood by to observe the rites of men they gathered with those humble shepherd folk about the little basin where a tiny soul was being consecrated to their special service. In the church also is the headstone from the grave of Joan's godmother, with an ancient inscription which one may study out, and travel back a long way. Near it is another object--one that ranks in honor with the baptismal font--the statuette of St. Marguerite, before which Joan prayed. Like the font this would be a holy thing, even in Joan's lifetime, and would be preserved and handed down. To me it seems almost too precious to remain in that ancient, perishing church. It is something that Joan of Arc not only saw and touched, but to which she gave spiritual adoration. To me it seems the most precious, the most sacred relic in France. The old church appears so poor a protection for it. Yet I should be sorry to see it taken elsewhere. [Illustration: BIRTHPLACE OF JOAN OF ARC] Joan's house is only a step away--a remnant of a house, for, though it was not demolished like the church, it has suffered from alterations, and portions of it were destroyed. Whatever remained at the time of Louis XI would seem to have been preserved about as it was then, though of course restored; the royal arms of France, with those accorded by Charles VII to Joan and her family, were combined ornamentally above the door with the date, 1481, and the inscription, in old French, "_Vive labeur; vive le roy Loys._" The son of Joan's king must have felt that it was proper to preserve the birthplace of the girl who had saved his throne. Doubtless the main walls of the old house of Jacques d'Arc are the same that Joan knew. Joan's mother lived there until 1438, and it was less than fifty years later that Louis XI gave orders for the restoration. The old walls were solidly built. It is not likely that they could have fallen to complete ruin in that time. The rest is mainly new. What the inside of the old house was in Joan's time we can only imagine. The entrance room was the general room, I suppose, and it was here, we are told, that Joan was born. Mark Twain has imagined a scene in the house of Jacques d'Arc where a hungry straggler comes one night and knocks at the door and is admitted to the firelit room. He tells us how Joan gave the wanderer her porridge--against her father's argument, for those were times of sore stress--and how the stranger rewarded them all with the great Song of Roland. The general room would be the setting of that scene. Behind it is a little dungeon-like apartment which is shown as Joan's chamber. The walls and ceiling of this poor place are very old; possibly they are of Joan's time--no one can really say. In one wall there is a recess, now protected by a heavy wire screen, which means that Joan set up her shrine there, the St. Marguerite and her other holy things. She would pray to them night and morning, but oftener I think she would leave this dim prison for the consolation of the little church across the way. The whole house is a kind of museum now, and the upper floor is especially fitted with cases for books and souvenirs. In the grounds there is a fine statue by Mercié, and the whole place is leafy and beautiful. It is not easy, however, to imagine there the presence of Joan. That is easier in the crooked streets of the village, and still easier along the river and the fields. The Fairy Tree--_l'Arbre Fée de Bourlement_--where Joan and her comrades played, and where later she heard the voices, is long since gone, and the spot is marked by a church which we cared to view only from a distance. It seems too bad that any church should be there, and especially that one. The spot itself, marked by a mere tablet, or another tree, would be enough. It was in January, 1429, that Joan and her uncle Laxart left Domremy for Vaucouleurs to ask the governor to give her a military escort to the uncrowned king at Chinon. She never came back. Less than half a year later she had raised the siege at Orléans, fought Patay, and conducted the king to his coronation at Rheims. She would have returned then, but the king was afraid to let her go. Neither did he have the courage to follow or support her brilliant leadership. He was weak and paltry. When, as the result of his dalliance, she was captured at Compiègne, he allowed her to suffer a year of wretched imprisonment, making no attempt at rescue or ransom, and in the end to be burned at Rouen as a witch. I have read in an old French book an attempt to excuse the king, to show that he did not have armed force enough to go to Joan's rescue, but I failed to find there any evidence that he even contemplated such an attempt. I do find that when Joan had been dead thirteen years and France, strong and united, was safe for excursions, he made a trip to Lorraine, accompanied by Dunois, Robert de Baudricourt, and others of Joan's favorite generals. They visited Domremy, and Baudricourt pointed out to the king that there seemed to be a sadness in the landscape. It is said that this visit caused Charles to hasten the process of Joan's rehabilitation--to reverse the verdict of heresy and idolatry and witchcraft under which she had died. But as the new hearing did not begin until eleven years after the king's visit to Domremy, nearly twenty-five years after Joan's martyrdom, the word "hasten" does not seem to apply. If Charles VII finally bestirred himself in that process, it was rather to show before he died that he held his crown not by the favor of Satan but of saints. The memory of Joan of Arc's fate must always be a bitter one to France, and the generations have never ceased to make atonement. Her martyrdom has seemed so unnecessary--such a reproach upon the nation she saved. Yet perhaps it was necessary. Joan in half a year had accomplished what the French armies, without her, had been unable to do in three quarters of a century--she had crippled the English power in France. Her work was not finished--though defeated, the enemy still remained on French soil, and unless relentlessly assailed would recover. After the coronation at Rheims there would seem to have fallen, even upon Joan's loyal followers, a reaction, a period of indifference and indolence. Joan's fearful death at the stake awoke her people as nothing else could have done. By a lonely roadside far up in Normandy we passed, one day, a small stone column which recorded how upon this spot was delivered the battle of Formigny, April 15th, in the year 1450, under the reign of Charles VII, and how the French were victorious and the English armies forced to abandon Norman soil. Joan of Arc had been dead nineteen years when that final battle was fought, but it was her spirit that gave the victory. Chapter XXXIII STRASSBURG AND THE BLACK FOREST Our tires were distressingly bad now. I had to do some quick repairing at Domremy, also between Domremy and Vaucouleurs, where we spent the night. Then next morning at Vaucouleurs, in an unfrequented back street behind our ancient inn, I established a general overhauling plant, and patched and relined and trepanned during almost an entire forenoon, while the rest of the family scoured the town for the materials. We put in most of our time at Vaucouleurs in this way. However, there was really little to see in the old town. Our inn was as ancient as anything, and our landlord assured us that Joan's knights probably stopped there, and even Uncle Laxart, but he could not produce his register to prove it. There are the remains of the château where Joan is said to have met the governor, and a monument to the Maid's memory has been begun, but remains unfinished through lack of funds. The real interest in Vaucouleurs, to-day, is that it was the starting point of Joan's great march. One could reflect upon that and repair tires simultaneously. We got away in time to have luncheon in the beautiful country below Toul, and then kept on to Nancy. At both places there seemed to be nothing but soldiers and barracks, and one did not have to get out of the car to see those. Not that Nancy is not a fine big town, but its cathedral and its Arch of Triumph are both of the eighteenth century. Such things seemed rather raw and new, while museums did not interest us any more. Lorraine itself is beautiful. It seemed especially fair where we crossed the line into Germany, and we did not wonder that France could not forget her loss of that fertile land. There was no difficulty at the customs. We were politely O. K.'d by the French officials and courteously passed by the Germans, with no examination beyond our _triptyques_. Then another stretch of fine road and fair fields, and we were in a village of cobbled streets and soldiers--German soldiers--and were told that it was Dieuze; also that there was an inn--a very good inn--a little way down the street. So there was--an inn where they spoke French and German and even a variety of English, and had plenty of good food and good beds for a very modest sum indeed. Dieuze was soon to become a war town, but beyond a few soldiers--nothing unusual--we saw no signs of it that first week in July. [Illustration: STRASSBURG, SHOWING THE CATHEDRAL] Strassburg was our next stopping place. We put in a day there wandering about its fine streets, looking at its picturesque old houses, its royal palace, and its cathedral. I do not think we cared for the cathedral as we did for those of France. It is very old and very wonderful, and exhibits every form of architecture that has been employed in church building for nearly a thousand years; but in spite of its great size, its imposing height, its rich façade, there was something repellant about it all, and particularly in its great bare interior. It seemed to lack a certain light of romance, of poetry, of spiritual sympathy that belongs to every French church of whatever size. And we were disappointed in the wonderful clock. It was very wonderful, no doubt, but we had expected too much. We waited for an hour for the great midday exhibition, and collected with a jam of other visitors in the little clock chapel, expecting all the things to happen that we had dreamed of since childhood. They all did happen, too, but they came so deliberately and with so little liveliness of demonstration that one had to watch pretty closely sometimes to know that anything was happening at all. I think I, for one, had expected that the saints and apostles, and the months and seasons, would all come out and do a grand walk around to lively music. As for the rooster that crows, he does not crow as well as Narcissa, who has the gift of imitation and could have astonished that crowd if she had let me persuade her to try. There have been several of these Strassburg clocks. There was one of them in the cathedral as far back as 1352. It ran for about two centuries, when another, finished in 1574, took its place. The mechanism of the new clock was worn out in another two centuries, but its framework forms a portion of the great clock of to-day, which dates from 1840. It does a number of very wonderful things, but in this age of contrivance, when men have made mechanical marvels past all belief, the wonder of the Strassburg clock is largely traditional. The rooster that crows and flaps his wings is really the chief feature, for it is the rooster of the original clock, and thus has daily amused the generations for five hundred years. Gutenberg, the first printer, began his earliest experiments in a cloister outside the Strassburg gates, and there is a small public square named for him, and in the center of it a fine statue with relief groups of the great printers of all nations. Of course Franklin was there and some other Americans. It gave us a sort of proprietary interest in that neighborhood, and a kindly feeling for the city in general. It was afternoon when we left Strassburg, and by nightfall we were in the Black Forest--farther in than we had intended to be, by a good deal. With our tires in a steady decline we had no intention of wandering off into dark depths inhabited by fairies and woodcutters and full of weird enchantments, with all of which Grimm's tales had made us quite familiar. We had intended merely to go in a little way, by a main road that would presently take us to Freiburg, where there would be a new supply of patches and linings, and even a possibility of tires, in case our need became very sore. But the Black Forest made good its reputation for enchantments. When we came to the spot where, by our map, the road should lead to Freiburg, there were only a deserted mill, with a black depth of pine growing where the road should have been. Following along, we found ourselves getting deeper and deeper into the thick forest, while the lonely road became steeper and narrower and more and more awesome in the gathering evening. There were no villages, no more houses of any kind. There had been rain and the steep hills grew harder to climb. But perhaps a good fairy was helping us, too, a little, for our crippled tires held. Each time we mounted a perpendicular crest I listened for the back ones to go, but they remained firm. By and by we started down--down _where_ we had no notion--but certainly down. Being under a spell, I forgot to put on the engine brake, and by the time we were halfway down the hill the brake bands were hot and smoking. By the time we were down the greasy linings were afire. There was a brook there, and we stopped and poured water on our hot-boxes and waited for them to cool. A woodcutter--he must have been one, for only woodcutters and fairies live in the Black Forest--came along and told us we must go to Haslach--that there was no other road to Freiburg, unless we turned around and went back nearly to Strassburg. I would not have gone back up that hill and through those darkening woods for much money. So we went on and presently came out into a more open space, and some houses; then we came to Haslach. By our map we were in the depths of the Schwarzwald, and by observation we could see that we were in an old, beautiful village, of the right sort for that locality, and in front of a big inn, where frauleins came out to take our bags and show us up to big rooms--rooms that had great billowy beds, with other billowy beds for covering. After all, the enchantment was not so bad. And the supper that night of _Wiener schnitzel_ and _pfannekuchen_ was certainly good, and hot, and plentiful beyond belief. But there was more trouble next morning. One of those old back tires was in a desperate condition, and trying to improve it I seemed to make matters worse. I took it off and put in a row of blow-out patches all the way around, after which the inner tubes popped as fast as I could put them in and blow them up. Three times I yanked that tire off, and then it began to occur to me that all those inside patches took up too much room. It would have occurred to any other man sooner, but it takes a long and violent period of pumping exercise to get a brain like mine really loosened up once it is caked by a good night's sleep. So I yanked those patches out and put on our last hope--a spare tire in fairly decent condition, and patiently patched those bursted tubes--all of which work was done in a hot place under the eyes of a kindly but maddening audience. Three times in the lovely land between Haslach and Freiburg Narcissa and I had to take off a tire and change tubes, those new patches being not air-proof. Still, we got on, and the scenery made up for a good deal. Nothing could be more picturesque than the Black Forest houses, with their great overhanging thatched roofs--their rows and clusters of little windows, their galleries and ladders, and their clinging vines. And what kindly people they are. Many of the roads are lined with cherry trees and this was cherry season. The trees were full of gatherers, and we had only to stop and offer to buy to have them load us with the delicious black fruit, the sweetest, juiciest cherries in the world. They accepted money, but reluctantly; they seemed to prefer to give them to us, and more than once a boy or a man ran along by the car and threw in a great loaded branch, and laughed, and waved and wished us _gute reise_. But this had happened to us in France, too, in the Lorraine. Chapter XXXIV A LAND WHERE STORKS LIVE We were at Freiburg in the lower edge of the Black Forest some time during the afternoon, one of the cleanest cities I have ever seen, one of the richest in color scheme. Large towns are not likely to be picturesque, but Freiburg, in spite of its general freshness, has a look of solid antiquity--an antiquity that has not been allowed to go to seed. Many of the houses, including the cathedral, are built of a rich red stone, and some of them have outer decorations, and nearly all of them have beautiful flowers in the windows and along the balconies. I should think a dweller in Freiburg would love the place. Freiburg has been, and still is, celebrated for many things; its universities, its cathedral, its ancient buildings, in recent years for its discovery of "twilight sleep," the latest boon which science has offered to sorrow-laden humanity. It is a curious road from Freiburg to Basle. Sometimes it is a highway, sometimes it is merely a farm road across fields. More than once we felt sure we were lost and must presently bring up in a farmyard. Then suddenly we would be between fine hedges or trees, on a wide road entering a village. We had seen no storks when we left Freiburg. We had been told there were some in Strassburg, but no one had been able to point them out. We were disappointed, for we had pictured in our minds that, once really in the Black Forest, there would be, in almost any direction, a tall chimney surmounted by a big brushy nest, with a stork sitting in it, and standing by, supported on one very slim, very long, very perpendicular leg, another stork, keeping guard. This is the picture we had seen many times in the books, and we were grieved, even rather resentful, that it was not to be found in reality. We decided that it probably belonged only in the books, fairy books, and that while there might have been storks once, just as there had once been fairies, they had disappeared from mortal vision about the same time--that nobody in late years had really seen storks--that-- But just then we really saw some ourselves--sure-enough storks on an old steeple, two of them, exactly as they always are in the pictures, one nice mother stork sitting in a brushy nest and one nice father stork standing on his stiff, perpendicular leg. We stopped the car to gaze. The church was in an old lost-looking village, which this stork seemed to own, for there were no others, and the few people we saw did not appear to have anything like the stork's proprietary interest. We could hardly take our eyes from that old picture, suddenly made reality. We concluded, however, that it was probably the only stork family in Germany; but that, also, was a mistake. A little farther along, at another village, was another old stubby steeple, and another pair of storks, both standing this time, probably to see us go by. Every village had them now, but I think in only one village did we see more than a single pair. That little corner of the Schwarzwald will always remain to us a part separated from the rest of the world--a sort of back-water of fairyland. The German customs office is on one side of a road, the Swiss on the other, and we stopped in a shady place and interviewed both. We did not dread these encounters any more. We had long since learned that if there was one class of persons abroad likely to be more courteous than others to travelers, that class is the customs officials. This particular frontier was in the edge of Basle, and presently we had crossed a bridge and were in the city, a big, beautiful city, though not so handsome as Freiburg, not so rich in color, not quite so clean and floral. We did not stop in Basle. There are wonders to be seen, but, all things considered, we thought it better to go on. With good luck we might reach Vevey next day, our European headquarters and base of supplies. We had been more than two months on the road already; it was important that we get to headquarters--more important than we knew. Chapter XXXV BACK TO VEVEY So we went wandering through a rather unpopulous, semi-mountainous land--a prosperous land, from the look of it, with big isolated factory plants here and there by strongly flowing streams. They seemed to be making almost everything along those streams. The Swiss are an industrious people. Toward evening we came to a place we had never heard of before, a town of size and of lofty buildings--a place of much manufacturing, completely lost up in the hills, by name Moutier. It was better not to go farther that night, for I could see by our road map that there was going to be some steep climbing between Moutier and the Lake Geneva slope. There are at least two divides between Moutier and Geneva, and Swiss watersheds are something more than mere gentle slopes such as one might meet in Ohio, for instance, or Illinois. They are generally scrambles--they sometimes resemble ladders, though the road surface is usually pretty good, with a few notable exceptions. We met one of these exceptions next morning below Moutier. There had been rains, and the slippery roads between those perpendicular skyscraping bluffs had not dried at all. Our route followed a rushing stream a little way; then it turned into the hill, and at that point I saw ahead of me a road that was not a road at all, but a semi-perpendicular wallow of mud and stone that went writhing up and up until it was lost somewhere among the trees. I had expected a good deal, but nothing as bad as this. I gave one wild, hopeless thought to our poor crippled rear tires, threw the lever from third to second, from second back to first, and let in every ounce of gasoline the engine would take. It really never occurred to me that we were going to make it. I did not believe anything could hold in that mud, and I expected in another minute to be on the side of the road, with nothing to do but hunt up an ox-team. Whir! slop! slosh! slide!--grind!--on one side and on the other--into a hole and out of it, bump! thump! bang!--why, certainly we are climbing, but we would never make the top, never in the world--it was hardly to be expected of any car; and with those old tires! Never mind, we would go till we stalled, or skidded out of the road. We were at the turn! We had made the turn! We were going straight up the last rise! Only a little more, now--ten feet--five feet, _six inches_! _Hooray!_ we were on top of the hill, b'gosh! I got out and looked at the back tires. It was incredible, impossible, but they were as sound and solid as when we left Moutier. Practically our whole weight had been on those tires all the way up that fearful log-haul, for that is what it was, yet those old tubes and outer envelopes had not shown a sign. Explain it if you can. There was really no trouble after that. There were hills, but the roads were good. Our last day was a panorama of Swiss scenery in every form; deep gorges where we stopped on bridges to look down at rushing torrents far below; lofty mountains with narrow, skirting roads; beautiful water-fronts and lake towns along the lakes of Biel and Neufchâtel, a final luncheon under a great spreading shade--a birthday luncheon, as it happened--and then, toward the end of the lovely July afternoon, a sudden vision, from high harvest meadows, of the snow-clad mountaintops beyond Lake Geneva--the peaks of the true Alps. And presently one saw the lake itself, the water--hazy, dreamy, summery, with little steamers so gay and toylike, plying up and down--all far below us as yet, for we were still among the high hayfields, where harvesters were pitching and raking, while before and behind us our road was a procession of hay wagons. It was a continuous coast, now, down to Lausanne--the lake, as it seemed, rising up to meet us, its colors and outlines becoming more vivid, the lofty mountains beyond it approaching a little nearer, while almost underneath us a beautiful city was gleaming in the late afternoon sunshine. We were by this time among the vineyards that terrace those south-facing steeps to the water's edge. Then we were at the outskirts of the city itself, still descending, still coasting, for Lausanne is built mainly on a mountainside. When we came to a comparative level at last, we were crossing a great bridge--one of those that tie the several slopes of the city together; then presently we were at St. Frances's church, the chief center, and felt almost at home, for we had been here a good many times before. We did not stop. Vevey was twelve miles down the lake--we had a feverish desire to arrive there without having to pump those tires again, if possible. Leisurely, happily, we covered that final lap of our long tour. There is no more beautiful drive in Europe than that along Lake Geneva, from Lausanne to Vevey on a summer evening, and there never was a calmer, sweeter summer evening than that of our return. Oh, one must drive slowly on such an evening! We were anxious to arrive, but not to have the drive ended. Far down the lake the little towns we knew so well began to appear--Territet, Montreux, Clarens, Vevey la Tour--we could even make out the towers of Chillon. Then we passed below the ancient village hanging to the mountainside, and there was Vevey, and there at its outskirts our pretty hotel with its big gay garden, the blue lake just in front, the driveway open. A moment more and the best landlady in Europe was welcoming us in the most musical French and German in the world. Our long round was ended--three thousand miles of the happiest travel to be found this side of paradise. By and by I went out to look at our faithful car in the little hotel garage. It had stood up to the last moment on those old tires. I suppose then the tension was too much. The left rear was quite flat. Chapter XXXVI THE GREAT UPHEAVAL It was the 10th of July that we returned to Vevey, and it was just three weeks later that the world--a world of peace and the social interchange of nations--came to an end. We had heard at Tours of the assassination of the Austrian archduke and his duchess, but no thought of the long-threatened European war entered our minds. Neither did we discover later any indications of it. If there was any tension along the Franco-German border we failed to notice it. Arriving at Vevey, there seemed not a ripple on the drowsy summer days. Even when Austria finally sent her ultimatum to Serbia there was scarcely a suggestion of war talk. We had all the nations in our hotel, but they assembled harmoniously in the little reading room after dinner over the papers and innocuous games, and if the situation was discussed at all, the word "arbitration" was oftenest heard. Neither did the news come to us gradually or gently. It came like a bomb, exploded one evening by Billy Baker, an American boy of sixteen and a bulletin of sorts. Billy had been for his customary after-dinner walk uptown, and it was clear the instant he plunged in that he had gathered something unusual. "Say, folks," he burst out, "did you know that Austria has declared war against Serbia and is bombarding Belgrade, and now all the others are going to declare, and that us Americans have got to beat it for home?" There was a general stir. Billy's items were often delivered in this abrupt way, but his news facts were seldom questioned. He went on, adding a quick, crisp detail, while the varied nationalities assumed attitudes of attention. The little group around the green center table forgot what they were there for. I had just drawn a spade when I needed a heart, and did not mind the diversion. Billy concluded his dispatches: "We've all got to beat it, you know, _now_, before all the ships and trains and things are used for mobilization and before the fighting begins. If we don't we'll have to stay here all winter." Then, his mission finished, Billy in his prompt way pulled a chair to the table. "Let me in this, will you?" he said. "I feel awfully lucky to-night." Americans laugh at most things. We laughed now at Billy Baker--at the dramatic manner of his news, with its picturesque even if stupendous possibilities--at the vision in everyone's mind of a horde of American tourists "beating it" out of Europe at the first drum-roll of war. But not all in the room laughed. The "little countesses"--two Russian girls--and their white-haired companion, talked rapidly and earnestly together in low voices. The retired French admiral--old and invalided--rose, his long cape flung back across his shoulder, and walked feebly up and down, stopping at each turn to speak to his aged wife, who sat with their son, himself an officer on leave. An English judge, with a son at home, fraternized with the Americans and tried to be gay with them, but his mirth lacked freedom. A German family instinctively separated themselves from the others and presently were no longer in the room. Even one of the Americans--a Southern girl--laughed rather hysterically: "All my baggage but one suit case is stored in Frankfort," she said. "If Germany goes to war I'll have a gay time getting it." Morning brought confirmation of Billy Baker's news, at least so far as Austria's action was concerned, and the imminence of what promised to be a concerted movement of other great nations toward war. It was said that Russia was already mobilizing--that troops were in motion in Germany and in France. That night, or it may have been the next, a telegram came for the young French officer, summoning him to his regiment. His little son of nine or ten raced about excitedly. "_L'Allmagne a mobilisé--mon père va à la guerre!_" The old admiral, too feeble, almost, to be out of bed, seemed to take on a new bearing. "I thought I was done with war," he said. "I am an invalid, and they could not call on me. But if France is attacked I shall go and fight once more for my country." The German family--there were two grown sons in it--had already disappeared. It was about the third morning that I took a walk down to the American Consulate. I had been there before, but had not found it exciting. It had been a place of silence and inactivity. There were generally a few flies drifting about, and a bored-looking man who spent an hour or two there morning and afternoon, killing time and glad of any little diversion in the way of company. The Consulate was no longer a place of silence and buzzing flies. There was buzzing in plenty, but it was made by my fellow countrymen--country-women, most of them--who were indeed making things hum. I don't know whether the consul was bored or not. I know he was answering questions at the rate of one per second, and even so not keeping up with the demand for information. "Is there going to be a war?" "Is England going into it?" "Has Germany declared yet?" "Will we be safe in Switzerland?" "Will all Americans be ordered home?" "Are the trains going to be stopped?" "Will we have to have passports?" "I have got a sailing in September. Will the ships be running then?" "How can I send a letter to my husband in Germany?" "How about money? Are the Swiss banks going to stop payment on letters of credit?"--these, repeated in every varying form, and a hundred other inquiries that only a first-class registered clairvoyant could have answered with confidence. The consul was good-natured. He was also an optimist. His replies in general conveyed the suggestion to "keep cool," that everything was going to be all right. The Swiss banks, however, did stop payment on letters of credit and various forms of checks forthwith. I had a very pretty-looking check myself, and a day or two before I had been haggling with the bank man over the rate of exchange, which had been gently declining. I said I would hold it for better terms. But on the day that Germany declared war I decided to cash it, anyway, just to have a little extra money in case-- Oh, well, never mind the details. I didn't cash it. The bank man looked at it, smiled feebly, and pointed to a notice on the wall. It was in French, but it was an "easy lesson." It said: No more checks or letters of credit cashed until further notice. By order of the Association. I don't know yet what "Association" it was that was heartless enough to give an order like that, but I hoped it would live to repent it. The bank man said that in view of my position as a depositor he might be induced to advance me 10 per cent of the amount of the check. The next day he even refused to take it for collection. Switzerland is prudent; she had mobilized her army about the second day and sent it to the frontier. We had been down to the big market place to see it go. I never saw anything more quiet--more orderly. She had mobilized her cash in the same prompt, orderly fashion and sent it into safe retirement. It was a sorrowful time, and it was not merely American--it was international. Switzerland never saw such a "busted community" as her tourists presented during August, 1914. Every day was Black Friday. Almost nobody had any real money. A Russian nobleman in our hotel with a letter of credit and a roll of national currency could not pay for his afternoon tea. The little countesses had to stop buying chocolates. An American army officer, retired, was unable to meet his laundry bill. Even Swiss bank notes (there were none less than fifty francs in the beginning) were of small service, for there was no change. All the silver had disappeared as if it had suddenly dissolved. As for gold--lately so plentiful--one no longer even uttered the _word_ without emotion. Getting away, "beating it," as Billy had expressed it, was still a matter of prime importance, but it had taken second place. The immediate question was how and where to get money for the "beating" process. The whole talk was money. Any little group collected on the street might begin by discussing the war, but, in whatever language, the discussion drifted presently to finance. The optimistic consul was still reassuring. To some he advanced funds--he was more liberal than the Bank of Switzerland. There was a percentage, of course--a lucky few--who had money, and these were getting away. There were enough of them along the Simplon Railway to crowd the trains. Every train for Paris went through with the seats and aisles full. All schedules were disordered. There was no telling when a train would come, or when it would arrive in Paris. Billy Baker promptly mobilized his party and they left sometime in the night--or it may have been in the morning, after a night of waiting. It was the last regular train to go. We did not learn of its fortunes. No word came back from those who left us. They all went with promises to let us know, but a veil dropped behind them. They were as those who pass beyond the things of earth. We heard something of their belongings, however. Sometimes on clear days a new range of mountains seemed to be growing in the west. It was thought to be the American baggage heaped on the French frontier. Very likely our friends wrote to us, but there was no more mail. The last American, French, and English letters came August 3d. The last Paris _Herald_ hung on the hotel file and became dingy and tattered with rereading. No mails went out. One could amuse himself by writing letters and dropping them in the post office, but he would know, when he passed a week later, that they had remained there. You could still cable, if you wished to do so--in French--and there must have been a scramble in America for French dictionaries, and a brisk hunting for the English equivalents of whatever terse Berlitz idiom was used to convey: "Money in a hurry--dead broke." Various economies began to be planned or practiced. Guests began to do without afternoon tea, or to make it themselves in their rooms. Few were paying their hotel bills, yet some went to cheaper places, frightened at the reckoning that was piling up against settling day. Others, with a little store of money, took very modest apartments and did light housekeeping to stretch their dwindling substance. Some, even among those at the hotels, in view of the general uncertainty, began to lay in tinned meats and other durable food against a time of scarcity. It was said that Switzerland, surrounded by war, would presently be short of provisions. Indeed, grocers, by order of the authorities, had already cut down the sale of staples, and no more than a pound or two of any one article was sold to a single purchaser. Hotels were obliged to send their servants, one after another, and even their guests, to get enough sugar and coffee and salt to go around. Hotel bills of fare--always lavish in Switzerland--began to be cut down, by _request of the guests themselves_. It was a time to worry, or--to "beat it" for home. We fell into the habit of visiting the Consulate each morning. When we had looked over the little local French paper and found what new nations had declared war against Germany overnight, we strolled down to read the bulletins on the Consulate windows, which generally told us what steamer lines had been discontinued, and how we couldn't get money on our checks and letters of credit. Inside, an active commerce was in progress. No passport had been issued from that Consulate for years. Nobody in Europe needed one. You could pass about as freely from Switzerland to France or Germany as you could from Delaware to New Jersey. Things were different now. With all Europe going to war, passports properly viséd were as necessary as train tickets. The consul, swamped with applications, had called for volunteers, and at several little tables young men were saying that they did not know most of the things those anxious people--women, mainly--were asking about, but that everything would surely be all right, soon. Meantime, they were helping their questioners make out applications for passports. There were applications for special things--personal things. There was a woman who had a husband lost somewhere in Germany and was convinced he would be shot as a spy. There was a man who had been appointed to a post office in America and was fearful of losing it if he did not get home immediately. There were anxious-faced little school-teachers who had saved for years to pay for a few weeks abroad, and were now with only some useless travelers' checks and a return ticket on a steamer which they could not reach, and which might not sail even if they reached it. And what of their positions in America? Theirs were the sorrowful cases, and there were others. But the crowd was good-natured, as a whole--Americans are generally that. The stranded ones saw humor in their situation, and confessed to one another--friends and strangers alike--their poverty and their predicaments, laughing a good deal, as Americans will. But there were anxious faces, too, and everybody wanted to know a number of things, which he asked of everybody else, and of the consul--oh, especially of the consul--until that good-natured soul was obliged to take an annex office upstairs where he could attend to the manufacture of passports, while downstairs a Brooklyn judge was appointed to supervise matters and deal out official information in judicial form. The judge was qualified for his appointment. Every morning before ten o'clock--opening time--he got together all the matters--letters, telegrams, and the like--that would be apt to interest the crowd, and dealt this substance out in a speech, at the end of which he invited inquiries on any point he had failed to make clear. He got them, too--mainly questions that he had already answered, because there is a type of mind which does not consider information valid unless delivered to it individually and, in person. I remember, once, when among other wild rumors it had been reported that because of the food scarcity all foreigners would be ordered out of Switzerland in five days, a woman who had listened attentively to the judge's positive and thrice-repeated denial of this canard promptly asked him if she could stay in Switzerland if she wanted to. The judge's speech became the chief interest of the day. It was the regular American program to assemble in front of the Consulate, exchanging experiences and reading the bulletins until opening time. The place was in a quiet side street of the quaint old Swiss city, a step from the lake-front promenade, with a background of blue mountains and still bluer water. Across the street stood a sixteenth-century château with its gardens of greenery. At ten the Consulate doors opened and the little group pressed in for the speech. I am sure no one in our stranded assembly will easily forget those mornings. Promising news began to come. The judge announced one morning that five hundred thousand francs had been placed to the consular credit in Switzerland by America for the relief of her citizens. Great happiness for the moment! Hope lighted every face. Then some mathematician figured that five hundred thousand francs amounted to a hundred thousand dollars, and that there were ten thousand Americans in Switzerland--hence, ten dollars apiece. The light of hope grew dim. There was not a soul in that crowd who needed less than two hundred dollars to pay his board and get him home. Ten thousand times two hundred--it is a sizable sum. And what of the rest of Europe? The mathematician figured that there were a quarter of a million Americans in Europe, all willing to go home, and that it would take fifty million dollars and a fleet of five hundred fair-sized ships to deliver them in New York. Still, that five hundred thousand francs served a good purpose. An allotment of it found its way to our consul, to use at his discretion. It came to the right man. Here and there were those who had neither money nor credit. To such he had already advanced money from his own limited supply. His allowance, now, would provide for those needy ones until more came. It was not sufficient, however, to provide one woman with three hundred francs to buy a set of furs she had selected, though she raged up and down the office and threatened to report him to Washington, and eventually flung some papers in his face. It turned out later that she was not an American. I don't know what she was--mostly wildcat, I judge. Further news came--still better. The government would send a battleship--the _Tennessee_--with a large sum of gold. The deposit of this specie in the banks of Europe would make checks and letters of credit good again. Various monies from American banks, cabled for by individuals, would also arrive on this ship. Things generally looked brighter. With the British fleet protecting the seas, English, French, and Dutch liners were likely to keep their schedules; also, there were some Italian boats, though these were reported to be overrun by "swell" Americans who were paying as high as one thousand dollars for a single berth. Perhaps the report was true--I don't know. None of our crowd cared to investigate. There were better plans nearer home--plans for "beating it" out of Switzerland on a big scale. Special trains were to be provided--and ships. A commission was coming on the _Tennessee_ to arrange for these things. The vessel had already left New York. The crowd at the Consulate grew larger and more feverishly interested. Applications for passports multiplied. Over and over, and in great detail, the Brooklyn judge explained just what was necessary to insure free and safe departure from Europe when the time came to go. Over and over we questioned him concerning all those things, and concerning ever so many other things that had no particular bearing on the subject, and he bore it and beamed on us and was fully as patient as was Moses in that other wilderness we wot of. Trains began to run again through France; at least they started, and I suppose they arrived somewhere. Four days, six days, eight days was said to be the time to Paris, with only third-class coaches, day and night, all the aisles full--no food and no water except what was carried. It was not a pleasant prospect and few of our people risked it. The _Tennessee_ was reported to have reached England and the special American trains were promised soon. In fact, one was presently announced. It went from Lindau, through Germany, and was too far east for most of our crowd. Then there were trains from Lucerne and elsewhere; also, special English trains. Then, at last a Simplon train was scheduled: Territet, Montreux, Vevey, Lausanne, Geneva--all aboard for Paris! Great excitement at the Consulate. The _Tennessee_ money could arrive any day now; everybody could pay up and start. The Brooklyn judge rehearsed each morning all the old details and presented all the news and requirements. The train, he said, would go through a nation that was at war. It would be under military surveillance. Once on the train, one must stay on it until it arrived in Paris. In Paris passengers must go to the hotels selected, they must leave at the time arranged and by the train provided, and must accept without complaint the ship and berth assigned to each. It would be a big tourist party personally conducted by the United States for her exiled citizens. The United States was not ordering its citizens to leave Switzerland; it was merely providing a means for those who must go at once and had not provided for themselves. The coaches would be comfortable, the price as usual, red cards insuring each holder a seat would be issued at the Consulate. Tickets through to New York would be provided for those without funds. The government could do no more. Any questions, please? Then a sharp-faced, black-haired, tightly hooked woman got up and wanted to know just what style the coaches would be--whether they would have aisles down the side; whether there would be room to lie down at will; whether meals would be served on the train; whether there would be time at Dijon to get off and see some friends; whether she could take her dog; whether her ticket would be good on another train if she didn't like this one when she saw it. The judge will probably never go into the tourist-agency business, even if he retires from the law. Well, that particular train did not go, after all. Or, rather, it did go, but few of our people went on it. There was a misunderstanding somewhere. The Germans were getting down pretty close to Paris just then, and from the invisible "somewhere" an order came countermanding the train. The train didn't hear of it, however, and not all of the people. Those who took it must have had plenty of room, and they must have gone through safely. If the Germans got them we should have heard of it, I think. Those who failed to take it were not entirely sorry. The _Tennessee_ money had not been distributed yet, and it was badly needed. I don't know what delayed it. Somewhere--always in that invisible "somewhere"--there was a hitch about that, too. It still had not arrived when the _next_ train was scheduled--at least, not much of it. It had not come on the last afternoon of the last day, when the train was to go early in the morning. It was too bad. There was a borrowing and an arranging and a negotiating at the banks that had become somewhat less obdurate these last days, with the _Tennessee_ in the offing. But many went away pretty short, and, but for the consul, the shortness would have been shorter and more general. It was a fine, big, comfortable train that went next morning. A little group of us who were not yet ready to "beat it" went down to see our compatriots go. There seemed to be room enough, and at least some of the coaches had aisles down the sides. I do not know whether the sharp-faced, tightly hooked woman had her dog or not. There was a great waving, and calling back, and much laughter as the train rolled away. You could tell as easily as anything that the Americans were "beating it" for home. Heavy installments of the _Tennessee_ money began to arrive at the Consulate next day. I got some of it myself. A day or two later I dropped into the Consulate. It had become a quiet place again, as in the days that already seemed very long ago. It was hard to believe in the reality of the eager crowd that used to gather there every morning to tell their troubles and laugh over them, and to collect the morning news. Now, again, the place was quite empty, except for a few flies drowsing about and the rather tired, bored-looking man who came to spend an hour or two there every morning, killing time and glad of any little diversion in the way of company. Chapter XXXVII THE LONG TRAIL ENDS It was not until near the end of October that we decided to go. We had planned to remain for another winter, but the aspect of things did not improve as the weeks passed. With nine tenths of Europe at war and the other tenth drilling, there was a lack of repose beneath the outward calm, even of Vevey. In the midst of so many nervous nations, to linger until spring might be to remain permanently. Furthermore, our occupations were curtailed. Automobiles were restricted, the gasoline supply cut off. The streets had a funereal look. I was told that I could get a special permit to use the car, but as our gasoline supply consisted of just about enough to take us over the Simplon Pass into Italy, we decided to conserve it for that purpose. The pass closes with the first big snow, usually the 15th of October. The presence of many soldiers there would keep it open this year a little longer. It could not be risked, however, later than the end of the month. We debated the matter pretty constantly, for the days of opportunity were wasting. We wasted ten of them making a little rail and pedestrian trip around Switzerland, though in truth those ten glorious days of October tramping along the lakes and through the hills are not likely to be remembered as really wasted by any of us. When we returned I got a military pass to take the car out of Switzerland, but it was still another week before we packed our heavy baggage and shipped it to Genoa. We were a fair example of any number of families, no longer enthralled by Europe and not particularly needed at home. I think hesitation must have nearly killed some people. It was the 27th of October--a perfect morning--when for the last time I brought the car to the front of our hotel, and we strapped on our bags and with sad hearts bade good-by to the loveliest spot and the best people in Europe. Then presently we were working our way through the gay, crowded market place (though we did not feel gay) down through the narrow, familiar streets, with their pretty shops where we had bought things, and their little _pâtisseries_ where we had eaten things; down through La Tour, and along the lake to Clarens and Montreux, and past Chillon, and so up the valley of the Rhone to Brigue, the Swiss entrance to the Simplon Pass. We had new tires now, and were not troubled about our going; but the world had grown old and sad in three months, and the leaves were blowing off of the trees, and the glory had gone out of life, because men were marching and killing one another along those happy fields that such a little while before had known only the poppy stain and the marching of the harvesters--along those shady roads where good souls had run with the car to hand us cherries and wish us "_Gute reise._" We crossed the Simplon in the dullness of a gray mist, and at the top, six hundred feet in the peaks, met the long-delayed snowstorm, and knew that we were crossing just in time. Down on the Italian slope the snow turned to rain and the roads were not good. The Italians dump rock into their roads and let the traffic wear it down. We were delayed by a technicality on the Swiss border, and it was dark by the time we were in Italy--dark and rainy. Along the road are overhanging galleries--really tunnels, and unlighted. Our prestolite had given out and our oil lamps were too feeble. I have never known a more precarious drive than across that long stretch from Gondo to Domodossola, through the night and pouring rain. It seemed endless, and when the lights of the city first appeared I should have guessed the distance still to be traveled at forty miles. But we did arrive; and we laid up three days in a hotel where it was cold--oh, very cold--but where blessedly there was a small open fire in a little sitting room. Also, the food was good. It had not quit raining even then, but we started, anyway. One can get a good deal of Domodossola in three days, though it is a very good town, where few people stop, because they are always going somewhere else when they get there. Our landlady gave us a huge bunch of flowers at parting, too huge for our limited car space. A little way down the road I had to get out and fix something; an old woman came and held an umbrella over me, and, having no Italian change, I gave her the flowers, and a Swiss nickel, and a German five-pfennig piece, and she thanked me just as if I had contributed something valuable. The Italians are polite. We went to Stresa on Lake Maggiore, and stopped for the night, and visited Isola Bella, of course, and I bought a big red umbrella which the others were ashamed of, and fell away from me when I opened it as if I had something contagious. They would rather get soaking wet, they said, than be seen walking under that thing. Pride is an unfortunate asset. But I didn't have the nerve myself to carry that umbrella on the streets of Milan. Though Stresa is not far away, its umbrellas are unknown in Milan, and when I opened it my audience congested traffic. I didn't suppose anything could be too gay for an Italian. We left the car at Milan and made a rail trip to Venice. It was still raining every little while and many roads were under water, so that Venice really extended most of the way to Milan, and automobile travel was thought to be poor in that direction. All the old towns over there we visited, for we were going home, and no one could say when Europe might be comfortable for tourists again. A good deal of the time it rained, but a good deal of the time it didn't, and we slept in hotels that were once palaces, and saw much, including Juliet's tomb at Verona, and all the things at Padua, and we bought violets at Parma, and sausages at Bologna. Then we came back to Milan and drove to Genoa, stopping overnight at Tortona, because we thought we would be sure to find there the ices by that name. But they were out of them, I suppose, for we could not find any. Still we had no definite plans about America; but when at Genoa we found we could ship the car on a pretty little Italian vessel and join the same little ship ourselves at Naples, all for a very reasonable sum. I took the shipping man to the hotel garage, turned the car over to him, and the thing was done. So we traveled by rail to Pisa, to Florence, to Rome, to Naples and Pompeii, stopping as we chose; for, as I say, no one could tell when Europe would be a visiting place again, and we must see what we could. So we saw Italy, in spite of the rain that fell pretty regularly, and the rather sharp days between-time. We did not know that those rains were soaking down to the great central heat and would produce a terrible earthquake presently, or we might have been rather more anxious to go. As it was, we were glad to be there and really enjoyed all the things. Yet, there was a different feeling now. The old care-freedom was gone; the future had become obscure. The talk everywhere was of the war; in every city soldiers were marching, fine, beautiful regiments, commanded by officers that were splendidly handsome in their new uniforms. We were told that Italy would not go to war--at least not until spring, but it was in the air, it was an ominous cloud. Nowhere in Europe was anything the same. One day our little ship came down from Genoa, and we went aboard and were off next morning. We lay a day at Palermo, and then, after some days of calm sailing in the Mediterranean, launched out into the Atlantic gales and breasted the storms for nearly two weeks, pitching and rolling, but homeward bound. * * * * * A year and four months from a summer afternoon when we had stood on the upper deck of a little French steamer in Brooklyn and looked down into the hold at a great box that held our car, I went over to Hoboken and saw it taken from another box, and drove it to Connecticut alone, for the weather was cold, the roads icy. It was evening when I arrived, Christmas Eve, and when I pushed back the wide door, drove into the barn, cut off the engine, and in the dim winter light saw our capable conveyance standing in its accustomed place, I had the curious feeling of never having been away at all, but only for a winter's drive, dreaming under dull skies of summertime and France. And the old car--that to us had always seemed to have a personality and sentience--had it been dreaming, too? It was cold there, and growing dark. I came out and locked the door. We had made the circuit--our great adventure was over. Would I go again, under the same conditions? Ah me! that wakens still another dream--for days ahead. I suppose one should not expect more than one real glimpse of heaven in this world, but at least one need not give up hoping.