Life in the Old World/Station 08

by Fredrika Bremer

 

EIGHTH STATION.

Neufchâtel—A Home upon the Heights—Charles Secretan—Flights—The Industrial High-valleys—La Chaux de Fonds—Locle and Travers—The Island of St. Piérre—Federal Festival at Berne—Again on Lake Leman—Chamouni and St. Bernard—Rest by “the living waters”—Last days in Switzerland—Monte Rosa—To Italy!

It was a deep interest of the soul which drew me to Neufchâtel. I was there to pay a visit to Charles Secretan, the youngest friend and cotemporary of Alexandre Vinet. The doctrine which Vinet enunciated in his Discours Evangeliques, Charles Secretan had independently developed in his Philosophie de la Liberté, and and afterwards in his Method for the Discovering of Truth, in that which concerns our higher interests.

I had derived too much good, and too much pleasure, too many rays of light, from these books, not to desire the acquaintance of their source—the author. I wished to become acquainted with him, that I might thank him, and that I might learn more about him; for I was still seeking for a lost word—for a master-key to certain trains of thought—to certain innermost questions of life—innermost chambers; and Secretan's works, beyond any others that I had met with of late years, had led me to the way where I had a presentiment—where I was certain—that this master-key was to be found; but I would now seek it with the help of his eyes.

I had been invited to his house ever since my first arrival in Switzerland. To see him there, to see the sun shine in the work-room of his mind, as I had seen it on the peaks of the Alps, and to be able to read its primeval word, was one of the objects of my visit to Switzerland—and without attaining to this, I was unwilling to leave the country.

Upon a height covered with trees, above the lake of Neufchâtel, and not far from the city, on its banks, stands a little house, which shines white against the blue back-ground of sky. A garland of green encircles it. Below it lies the clear lake, and behind this, a vast half-circle, an immense panorama of Alps, from the Jungfrau to Mont Blanc.

There, in that little white house upon the heights, dwells the author of Philosophie de la Liberté, with his wife and their children. But—he is ill, suffering from one of those bad, enigmatical nervous complaints which attack the soul, still more than the body, and darken its world. The athletic soul in the athletic body rises up against it; but the Nessus-garment adheres to the frame as by the power of an evil magic; the strength of Hercules does not suffice to rend it away.

But, happier than Hercules, the Christian philosopher in this case has still hope left, and in any case the unwavering certainty of God's mercy and fatherly providence.

It was very precious to me to spend a little time with Secretan, even though in a different manner to what either he or I had thought of. More than once I heard him painfully lament that, in consequence of his suffering, he could not make my visit what he would have desired, nor yet converse with me as he should have wished.

But, noble, generous friend! If thou hast not been able to say to me what thou wouldst have said, yet hast thou said that which God willed thee to say to me. What philosophy, indeed, could have had the value for me of those words which thy candor and thy suffering called forth from the depths of thy soul? What teaching could have been more instructive than that which thou gavest me with such rare and perfect candor?

For this I thank thee more than for all besides. And yet at the same time it is so infinitely much which thou hast given me in thy beautiful and richly-spiritual works!

In these, as also in the periodical, Revue Suisse, of which Charles Secretan is the editor, he stands as a mediator between two opposite parties, which are incessantly in combat, the one against the other, and whose representatives in Switzerland are, on the one side, Merle d'Aubigné, M. Gaussin, in his Theopneustie, and Count de Gasparin, in his periodical Archives du Christianisme, and the other Genevese, Edmund Scherer and his fellow-laborers in the Strasburg publication Revue de Theologie. The former maintain the literal inspiration of the Scriptures; the latter reject it, and—both parties go too far. Science, however, and the thinking public, are gainers in the mean time by the contention, because it is carried on with fairness by fair and learned men. Edmund Scherer, as an individual, is noble and amiable; but the unreasonable and intolerant conduct which he has met with in Switzerland, in many quarters, may well have tended to make his own behavior more unyielding and his opinions more one-sided. Between these combatant camps—in the east and west of Switzerland—stand Vinet and Secretan, and the school which they have founded. They say but little about the husk and the mere forms, but they study to preserve the kernel and the spiritual meaning, as well in life as in books. An independent thinker, M. de Rougemont, a Swiss of the Canton of Neufchâtel, has lately joined this party. I had often heard him spoken of, but it was in the house of Secretan that I first became well acquainted with him by his book, Christ et ses Temoins, a work which takes an important place in the theological literature of the present time. It has benefitted and interested me by its honest examination into points which less vigorous or less honest minds would willingly have turned aside from, and by the importance which he ascribes to the part of the Holy Spirit in the creation of the new time, and particularly of the church of the future. He is neither a perfectly lucid nor yet logical thinker, but he introduced much light into many questions by his honest and deep investigations, and the real geniality of his mind. Finally, M. Geltzer, in Basle, and Edmund de Pressancé, in Paris, are the Swiss minds which, whilst they ally themselves to this centre, open their monthly publications, Protestantische Blätter and Revue Chretienne, for discussion on every important topic in the realm of mind, on a high, true, liberal, evangelical basis. Such is the position of little Switzerland in the region of spirit and thought, between the great neighboring countries of Germany and France, and in the power of the Word active in both.

At the present moment Neufchâtel does not promise much in this department for the future. At the great annual examination of the schools generally, at which I was present, the male portion of the youth was severely blamed for their want of earnestness and perseverance in their various studies, for their deficiency in the feu sacre.

All the children of the home which was now my own—remarkably well endowed by mother nature—obtained each one a prize in their class. The eldest daughter carried away the highest prize which a female pupil could obtain.

“We have all got something!” said the little ones exultingly to me, “and Sophie, our dear Sophie, has got the highest prize!”

The happy mother contemplated her children with beaming eyes.

From Neufchâtel I made visits to two neighboring institutions, both celebrated in Switzerland, Mont Mirail and Prefargis.

Mont Mirail is an educational institution belonging to the Moravians, which has been established above a century, but which is still in a beautifully flourishing condition, under the protection of the United Brethren. All familes, both in German and French Switzerland, who place a high value on the religious tendency of education, desire to send their daughters thither. The life of the United Brethren is educational, inasmuch as it places the Christian life as the highest in its tendency, and a continued career in deeds of love as the true imitation of Christ. Hence it arises that they flourish peacefully in dissimilar countries, and amongst all Christian sects; hence their activity in the education of youth, and for missionary labor, and their success in both. They do not despise Christian science, but they lay the greatest weight upon prayer and the course of life.

“Pray and labor,” seems to me to be their motto. The faith which they have in a special providence (providentia specialissima) over every believer, and in His immediate guidance in all, even in the smallest event of their lives, gives to the members of this body a peace, which is not unfrequently perceptible in their demeanor, and which gives even to plain countenances a ray of beauty.

Prefarges is an institution for the insane, which is rendered by its beautiful situation and fine air, together with the affectionate zeal of its superintendents, a Bethesda for many of these unfortunates. The greater number of the female cases of mental suffering here, were, I was told, derived from the class of governesses! A fact well worthy of consideration in a country where so many young girls devote themselves to the vocation of teachers, without being led to do so by the highest motives, or by any decided capability for it.

Accompanied by Charles Secretan, and his wife—one of the noblest and most amiable women with whom I became acquainted in Switzerland—I set off to Chaux de Fonds. The road thither, was one continual wearisome ascent, but the grand views which it presented of Alpine scenery, made it a continual source of interest. Thus we ascended to La Fête de Rang, into the region of the pine and the north-wind, and beheld from its summit, the wooded district of Lorraine, on the soil of France, with the mountain-chain of the Vosges, in the blue distance. The early morning walk, on the day following, across the flowery, dewy meadows, amongst mountain lakes, and wooded hills, amongst herds of well-fed cattle, whose bells rang in a melodious chorus, whilst the larks sang their jubilant songs in the sunny air, and those Alpine views around us which ever increased in grandeur as we ascended—I cannot describe how glorious it was! Even Secretan was enlivened thereby.

Like a little town of Nuremberg toy-houses, which one takes out of a box, and places in stiff formality upon a table, lies the town of Chaux de Fonds upon its elevated plain, without trees, and without beauty, surrounded by bald, and not very lofty hills. One can hardly find a more unlovely situation. Nevertheless, a flourishing, well-to-do population of fifteen thousand souls lives within the town. Watch-making is the soul of its activity. Even the unpleasing character of the scenery and the severity of the climate contribute, I was told, to the success of the life of labor there. It is cold; it often rains; the people have nothing to divert them out of doors; they prefer rather to be in their houses at their work-tables.

I had intended to have paid the town merely a passing visit, but it turned out otherwise, owing to the hospitality which was shown me by the young couple, M. and Mme. Gerdt. I remained with them eight days, during which time I received from them, and several other cultivated persons of the place, a degree of cordial kindness, the memory, of which I retain with a grateful heart.

My impression of the life of the industrial population may be thus summed up:

Fresh life, fresh labor. Amongst the working classes a considerable degree of self-confidence and no want of levity. Too little thought for the morrow, and none for eternity; but good dispositions as fellow-citizens, mutual good-will and helpfulness. Marriages are numerous, and, mostly, early in life; divorces are very rare. Husband and wife work at the same occupation, and get good earnings, which makes living easy. The skillful workman soon builds his own house.^[1] The women can earn from three to fifteen francs a day; the greater number, however, less than five. They like their work, but become, in consequence, less clever as housewives; give themselves no time to attend to cooking, and their clothes, and often not even to take care of the child which is ill, which cannot be compensated for by any amount of pecuniary gains. This working-life is assuredly not altogether good for married women. For the unmarried, it appears to me a great blessing. But on this subject I will let my young and lovely hostess, Mme. Gerdt, speak:

“During my stay in some of the large cities of Germany, I often saw young girls in indigent circumstances, driven to miserable marriages for the sake of a living, and many even driven to an evil life, from the insufficiency of honest earnings. When I saw these unfortunate girls, whose appearance plainly testified of their wretched calling, I longed to arrest them, and say to them: ‘Oh, why do you not adopt some honest trade, and gain for yourselves a comfortable independence, and a respectable position in life? If you only knew how good, how beautiful, this would be!’

“The sight of this misery amongst the young women, actually affected my health. I no longer took pleasure in any enjoyment; I saw everywhere this secret cancer, and knew not how it was to be remedied! When I returned hither, people believed that I was seriously ill.

“Here I was not afflicted by this sight. Here every young woman can, without difficulty, acquire, by her own labor, an honorable living. She need not marry merely for the sake of a secure position in life. She can wait till the husband comes whom she can highly esteem and love; and if such a one does not offer, she can live actively and happily in her own home. Her labor maintains her. She is not a burden, but an assistance, to her family. If she falls into error, the cause lies in herself, but not in her circumstances; not in the bitter temptation—want!”

I had, during this time, the pleasure of reading, in my quiet chamber, the diary of Lavater, and thus making acquaintance with this spirit, which was vitalized and inspired by the light and love of God. He is not a strong, logical thinker, but a soul which, at one bound, embraces the central point of the Christian revelation, and presses it to his warm, deeply sensitive heart. Hence his ardent comprehension of the personality of Christ, as eternal life, eternal love, and eternal operative power; hence his rejoicing life in that divine love, even under the deepest consciousness of his own deficiency.

“Fear not!” he exclaims to the repentant; “fear not! You are already forgiven. Your sins are already swallowed up; God's Holy Spirit is already in your heart! You are more dear to God than you know of. God cannot hate the being he has created; he hates only that which destroys his most beautiful work. To eradicate this destructive element from human nature, is the work of Christ. Let us have faith and rejoice, even when we are compelled to despise ourselves a thousand and ten thousand times! This feeling of repentance is wholesome; but you must not stand still there. Have faith! have faith! A human being—for whom the Son of God has uttered a word of prayer, has permitted himself to be nailed to the cross—is of more value, in the sight of God, than ten thousand worlds without souls; and of what consequence is the whole world, in his sight, who numbers every hair of man's head, who takes heed of the sparrows which fall? Fear not, then; only have faith!”

I wish I could, impart this rising up into God above the wants and shortcomings of our humanity, to some of my Swiss friends, who sink themselves too much into the consciousness of sin. This they must have, that they may all the more inwardly, all the more lovingly, comprehend the Saviour.

From Chaux de Fonds, I went, with my kind entertainers, to Le Saut du Doubs, saw its beautiful cascade, and its wonderful natural basins, in the bosom of the rocks, which appear as if hewn, by the hand of man, into circular Colosseums—a glorious trip, on the loveliest of days. I then proceeded to Locle, where the inhabitants work and live as they do at Chaux de Fonds, and thence to the most beautiful of valleys,—Val Travers; the inhabitants of which are wealthy, by the manufacture of machinery for watch-making, but are said to be quarrelsome and disagreeable.

In Val Travers, however, I became acquainted with an amiable mother and daughter, my kind hostesses, ultra-Calvinists, who maintained that we, one and all of us, were “vipers;” and also with the work of Jean Reynaud, Terre et Ciel, which I shall add to my small library at home.

From the highlands of the Jura, I proceeded down to Sommerhause, a beautiful champaign, on a terrace, by the Lake of Neufchâtel, of which a young lady was the proprietor and mistress. Women, in the Canton Neufchâtel, attain to legal majority at the age of nineteen. There are several single women, of various ages, settled on their own fine properties, around the lake. Friendship, the beauties of nature, reading, and active benevolence, occupy their life, and make it good and happy. My young hostess was a rich heiress, but not on that account any the less humble and amicable. She, as yet, lives alone at her beautiful “Sommerhause.” Here I met a Swiss lady, who has become a Swede, by marriage. I cannot say how agreeable it was to me to become better acquainted with Baroness Raumel, née Dardel, now on a visit to her native country, and to spend a few days in her society.

My young hostess drove me to the island of St. Pierre. Hundreds of islands, larger and more beautiful than this, lie in the Mäler Lake, but none so celebrated. Its unequaled environment of lofty Alps, and Rousseau's memory, have made it a place of pilgrimage to tourists. It resembles a smaragdus, set in gray-stone, for the Bernese government has allowed a low stone wall to be built, upon which people can walk round the island. Beautiful ancient trees crown its lofty plateau. The only building on the island, the old convent, erected a thousand years ago, and dedicated to St. Peter and St. Paul, is now a farm-house, where strangers are also entertained, and where, at the present time, one could be splendidly regaled with strawberries and cream. Here it was that Rousseau dwelt; his room is held sacred, that is to say, is not inhabited. It has four bare walls, quite covered with the names and inscriptions of visitors. There is said to be one line, under which appears the name Pitt, as follows:—

“Conquer—no matter how!”

And not far off, another, signed Emanuel Kant, consisting of those words:

“Pure means for a pure object!”

The confessions of faith, of the head of a political party, and of the moral philosopher!

The visitor to Rousseau's room—which, however, is very uncomfortable, and has only one window without any view—must not forget to lift up the trap-door, and see the little, secret stairs by which Rousseau escaped from his numerous visitors. An institution which might be very valuable!

In itself, the little island is enchanting, from its luxuriant vegetation and its simple natural beauty. Its northern slopes are covered with vineyards. The people were at work in them, pruning the vine-shoots, so that they might bear more fruit.

I spent two days there, reading, botanizing, and enjoying the air—pure and delicious, as if of heaven,—the solitude, and the view of the Alpine chain during the magnificent evening-spectacle of death and resurrection—the “after-glow” dyeing the snow-clad summits with a transparent crimson brightness which seems not to be of the light of this world. I could very well understand how happy Rousseau must have felt himself here.

Hence I proceeded to Berne.

There was then holden in Berne—those first days in July—the great Federal festival, with Olympian games, in the spirit of the newer time. Shooting societies from nearly every Canton of the confederacy had hastened hither to compete with each other for prizes of from one thousand to three thousand francs. Exhibitions, deputations, toasts, songs, speeches, entertainments, waving flags, and everywhere scenes, partly of pleasure, partly of solemnity, were to be found.

An immense barracks, capable of entertaining four thousand persons, was used as a refreshment hall. Each Canton had its own division of table and seats; and each division its own appointed entertainers. The place for the great shooting matches was Enghe. The prizes were contained in a temple, around which waved the flags of all the Cantons. Omnibuses, crowded with people nodding to their friends, hurrahing, and waving hats and handkerchief, ran upon the road between Berne and Enghe through clouds of dust; but every body in the very best humor.

Every Canton had contributed its share to the great Industrial Exhibition in the city. The beautiful articles produced in asphaltum, from the Canton Neufchâtel, and the embroidery from St. Gall and Appenzell, were the most remarkable to me. It approaches almost to the incredible, to see what art can produce in these respects. The least cheering circumstance of which appears to me to be, that these beautiful productions of art foster the taste for personal luxury in dress and furniture. This cannot be good. It belongs to heathenism. Immense draperies of stuffs beautifully arranged, show what this industrious little Switzerland exports, in this branch, to other countries, to the East and West Indies!

That which especially pleased me at this Federal festival, was its spirit and temper. One could have fancied one's self to be at an immense, joyful family-feast. All was cordiality, kindness, and thorough enjoyment. The pleasurable gave its hand to the useful. All the Cantons met as brethren, as children of the same Liberty, of the same beloved mother-country, and here, united in sportive and earnest intercourse, learned to know each other better, and the better to understand the meaning of their Confederation.

The new palace of the Federal government, at Berne, is nearly completed, and is a magnificent building. The government evidently is endeavoring still more to develop a central life in the confederated states, and, by so doing, to lead them to a higher unity and harmony. And is as it should be.

I returned by way of Freyburg from the great family feast to the shores of Lake Leman. In Freyburg I paid a visit to the grave of Père Girard, which a dirty Franciscan monk of Père Girard's convent, and who smelt strongly of brandy, showed to me. A snow-white marble stone, with a simple inscription, covers the resting-place of the friend of children. I heard in the Cathedral of Freyburg the remarkable organ which, like that at Rome, gives a perfect imitation of the crash of thunder, and the roaring of the wind, and choruses of beseeching human voices. The organist played “La Promenade sur Mer.”

Whilst on the shores of Lake Leman I again visited Montreux and Clarens, saw the Rhone valley at Bex, visited old and new friends in their summer home—the Alpine cottages on the glaciers, from the icy fountains of which the good housewives themselves fetched the snow to cool our refreshing beverages. The summer was in its prime, the Swiss scenery in its full splendor; and I thought to myself, there is yet Paradise upon earth!

Nevertheless, there passed even now through this Paradise—“the ruins of the lost Paradise,” say the pious Swiss—sounds of dissevering discord, misfortunes, the result of want of prudence, or of fool-hardiness, which were dividing loving hearts, and led to death and sorrow in families where life appeared till then in its purest bloom. People make their “reflexions chretiennes et morales,” but for such griefs as these I know of but one consolation, and that lies in the courageous exclamation, “Fear not them who can only kill the body!”

At the close of July I returned to Geneva, in order from that place to commence my last mountain journey in Switzerland, to Chamouni, St. Bernard, and Monte Rosa.

But first to Chamouni!

Chamouni has been so frequently visited, and so frequently described, that I shall say but little about it, and that little principally for the purpose of endeavoring to deter others from going thither—like me.

The kind parents Coulin intrusted to me their eldest daughter, my young friend Louise, as my companion on this journey; for she, no more than myself, had as yet seen the celebrated Mer de Glace.

Early in the morning of the 31st of July, we left Geneva. The sleepy little maid-servants, the morning winds, were up late, but at length, however, they came to sweep aside the masses of cloud, and pile them on the mountain-tops; but the dust of their so doing did not settle for a long time, and obscured our view.

“We shall not see Mont Blanc to-day, that is certain, and that is a pity!” thought I as we drove in the diligence through an atmosphere darkened with dust and mist, along the ever-narrowing mountain pass.

But suddenly an icy pyramid shot forth to the left of our path, then another and another, and finally Mont Blanc stood forth in his own lofty person with a night-cap on his summit. When, however, we arrived at Sallenches, the giant doffed his cloudy night-cap, for the sake of Louise's lovely eyes, as I averred, and the whole of the brilliant chain, in the midst of which Mont Blanc was enthroned, stood forth in full sun-splendor against the blue sky-background.

We hailed the sight with rejoicing eyes, ate a good little dinner at Sallenches, and journeyed onward.

In a cloud of dust, between five and six in the evening, we arrived at Chamouni, and obtained rooms at the Hotel de l'Union, on the brink of the roaring Arve, which rushes through the whole length of the narrow Chamouni valley—and with a view of Mont Blanc. But the Alps had again vailed themselves in cloud. However, at sunset, first one Alpine sphinx and then another, unvailed itself, and stood forth free from cloud, as if under the enchantment of the sun. And now indeed it was beautiful to behold the forms which by degrees presented themselves, the portals and the perspectives which opened, the fantastic forms which came and disappeared whilst sunbeams and clouds gamboled or strove together aloft, and one Alpine spire after another shot up above the region of clouds, shining as if of pure gold, till the whole mountain chain lay before us distinctly with its deep glaciers, its acute pyramids, even to the rounded colossus of Mont Blanc. Louise and I stood in a green meadow of the valley, contemplating this scene with uplifted eyes and hearts, which rose still higher—till the sun had set, and the after-glow had succeeded!

It would have been impossible for us to have had a lovelier evening at Chamouni.

But the initiation into the mysteries of the ice regions has other scenes than this, and I will now speak of one of them.

It was the following day. We ascended through pine-forest to Le Montanvert. It is here that one sees before one the so-called Mer de Glace, a broad stream of ice and snow, the offspring of the highest Alps, which pours itself between lofty mountain-ridges, down into the valley of Chamouni, where, from beneath its icy gates, issues the river of Arveron. I say “pours itself,” because the frozen river slides from the heights down into the valley, and these icy masses, are besides, as one knows, in a state of continual advance.

From the height of Montanvert we saw the Mer de Glace, also called Le Mont Blanc des dames, splendidly shining in the morning sun, and a party of gentlemen and ladies crossing to the opposite side. It looked quite calm and agreeable. Why should not we do the same? Oar guides encouraged us to do so, yet with a certain cautiousness of expression.

In half an hour we could cross the Mer de Glace; afterwards we should have about an hour “somewhat difficult road,” in the mountain to Le Chapeau, but once there, we should see a grand sight, and then also, every danger and difficulty would be over, “and—the guides would have earned a double day's wages!” Of this last consideration, however, they said nothing, but the knowledge of it was the reason of their encouraging words.

I was tempted, by the thought of becoming acquainted with the beauties and dangers of the Mer de Glace, and determined to undertake the hazardous journey; but how I repented of doing so, when, in its midst, I discovered what the nature of it was! For one did not merely run the continual danger of slipping and falling whilst climbing over the icy billows, but one found one's self perpetually on the brink of wide crevices in the ice-mass, of two or three hundred feet deep, and across which one must leap, without any other foot-hold than a smooth icy-wave or hillock. I was now in a state of silent despair at having undertaken this enterprise, particularly as I had Louise Coulin with me. If any thing should happen to this young girl! if I should not be able to restore her in safety to her parents! then—I could not live myself! I thought about turning back, but my guide assured me that we had already accomplished the worst part of the way; that what yet remained was, in comparison, without danger. Even he himself fell, more than once, on our slippery career.

With an anxiety which cannot be described, my eyes followed Louise, who went before me, with her guide, as lightly and nimbly as though they were dancing a minuet. This guide was a young man, who had only, within the last half year, become incorporated into the guild of Chamouni guides, and I, therefore, felt all the less dependence upon him; but he was light-footed and agile, and, in reality, better than my old, safe, but very heavy-footed, conductor. My guide was a peasant,—Louise's was a cavalier; but Louise's was not only young, strong, and safe upon his feet, but he enjoyed the undertaking, and never thought about danger. But as for me!——

And when we found ourselves midway on the Mer de Glace, and I was desired to notice the splendid walls of a broad ice-fissure, in the abyss of which the thundering roar of waters is heard, and was called upon to admire the brightness and width of the Mer de Glace, which is even from this point, up to the very top of the mountains, where it is born—I felt myself like one doomed to death, with the rope already round his neck, who is desired to notice “the beautiful prospect!” But I said nothing, and as Louise gayly recommended me to do, I broke off little pieces of ice, and let them melt in my mouth. This, and the beaming glances of my young friend, refreshed me.

The sun shone with great heat, melting the ice, and through the latter part of the road, we went sliding and splashing through a regular ice-slush. How delighted I was when I had once more firm footing on the earth, and I saw Louise there in safety. I gathered and kissed a little common crimson flower, which grew on the borders of the ice, like a kind salutation of welcome.

But the joy was of short duration; for, in order to reach Le Chapeau—the only way, on this side, down to Chamouni—one must clamber along the side of a perpendicular rock, without any thing to hold by but a rope, fastened by iron nails, as a hand-rail on the mountain wall. One walks along a narrow pathway cut in the rock, midway between two perpendicular mountain-walls,—the one above, the other below. At the depth of many hundred feet below this again, is the Mer de Glace, with its sheer descent. A moment's dizziness, and all would be over! The guides now began to advise us to hasten, “because stones are frequently precipitated from the rocks above.”

I glance up, and see that masses of stone are hanging above our heads, as it appeared, just ready to fall. But how is one to hasten here, where one must give heed to every step, and hold fast by the rope? And now even this ceases, and the path goes before me steep up hill. I have merely the guide's hand, who pulls me up.

“We shall go quite safely!” he says, consolingly.

“Nay, on, on, go on still faster!” I replied, whilst I see stones and debris giving way under each heavy step he takes, and I pray silently, “Deliver us from evil!”

Louise, with her light-footed guide, is already up and out of danger, upon firm ground, and now—I am so too,—and now the danger, and all the difficulties of the journey, are overcome. We are very near the Chapeau, and may quietly rest there, before we go further. I feel ready to cry.

But a few minutes later, when we had reached the Chapeau, and little Alpine cottage, sheltered by a rock in the shape of a hat-crown, and seated upon a wooden bench, in the cheerful sunshine, with my young friend's hand clasped in mine, I felt so unspeakably thankful to have overcome all the perils of the way, that I could not do other than share Louisa's delight over the extraordinary spectacle which the Mer de Glace presented from this place: for at this place, the pressure from above has caused the ice to mass itself together, and to assume the most remarkable forms. Imagine to yourself a stream of ice-witches and hobgoblins, with their children, and bag and baggage, on their journey to—the lowest pit! Here a gray giantess, with three daughters, in hoods, shawls, and crinolines, are advancing majestically forward; there a whole procession of gray nuns; here monks without heads; there giants in berserker-mood; and yonder a castle of ice, with many towers, like an immense artichoke, with its points somewhat turning inwards. In general, it seemed to me that the figures of the Mer de Glace resemble the forms and peaks of the circumjacent mountains. Saussure saw, from the heights of Mont Blanc, groups of its pyramids and needles, like the leaves of an artichoke, turning inwards towards the middle;—imagine to yourself all this crowd of dirty-gray ice-witches, little and big hobgoblins, now in fantastical groups, now a solitary, lofty figure, amongst towers, columns, ruins, as of a demolished city;—imagine all this immovable, and yet advancing downwards, on a slope of from two to three leagues! Sometimes a witch loses her head, which, set at liberty by the sun, is precipitated into the depths below, and one hears it roaring down, like the sound of subterranean thunder.

My lively young friend was delighted with the strange scene. As for myself, with the impression of the excursion into this region of witchcraft fresh upon me, I felt, spite of the irresistibly comic character of the scene, grave and almost depressed in spirit. We partook of a poor, little, but expensive dinner, at “The Hat,” whilst we contemplated the witch-stream.

When, after this journey of eight hours, which I had made on foot, we returned to Chamouni, I felt myself “knocked up,” both soul and body; but I and my young friend took each a warm bath, drank a cup of refreshing tea, and went to bed, and instead of a restless night with dreams about witches and abysses, I had pleasant dreams, and in my waking intervals, clear, good thoughts; felt the witchcraft leave my limbs, and fresh vigor infused—delightful!

Afterwards I found these words in my “Bradshaw,” with regard to the journey across the Mer de Glace, and to the Chapeau, “This journey is so hazardous, that we will not advise any one to undertake it.” And I seriously would dissuade one and all from it, who may have weak knees, and an old heavy-footed guide, and a dear young friend, whether male or female, in company, and also, one and all, who may have the least inclination to dizziness.

But one and all may have entire pleasure in a journey to the source of the Arveron. The river issues from the foot of the Mer de Glace. We now see it from the green meadow below, where the icy sea abruptly terminates. Here, as on the precipitous descent, its fantastic icy-figures group themselves still more wildly, and seem to twine their arms round one another, as if to support themselves on the precipice—but in vain! They must be hurled down into the abyss and swell the roaring waters of the Arveron. One fancies that one sees an icy city and its inhabitants paralysed with horror, hurried onward to the gulf. Within the rigid, dead mass, life is yet roaring, but for them with a dissolving, destroying power. The river is born and emancipates itself in its subterranean vault.

One of the icy shapes towered above all the rest, and this was a form of beauty. The figure, the position, the clear, icy-draperies, every thing had a wonderful resemblance to the Sistine Madonna with the child. But this beautiful figure even, sped on towards the sheer descent.

On the evening of this day, the firing of a cannon announced that another ascent of Mont Blanc had been accomplished by some adventurous travelers. My guide blamed these adventurous people, and declared that it was a piece of pure “betise” of Messieurs et Dames, to risk their own lives and the lives of others, to climb up there to see—most frequently—nothing. He himself, had been more than once on these Mont Blanc journeys, and more than once had fallen into the crevices, up to his arms, and had been only saved by means of the rope by which the whole procession of ice-travelers are attached the one to the other, for no person undertakes the ascent of Mont Blanc attended by less than six guides. One of these gentlemen may still be seen in the valley of Chamouni with green gauze before his eyes, owing to the severe injury which they received from the ascent of Mont Blanc. The skin of most people peels off after this visit to the summit, and they suffer more or less in health. Three ladies only, and all three unmarried, have hitherto accomplished this journey—Mlle. Paradis, Mlle. d'Angeville, a lively, energetic French woman, whom I saw in Geneva, and an English woman whose name has escaped my memory. The two latter ladies, when they had attained the highest summit, had themselves lifted upon the shoulders of their guides, that they might rise to a greater height than any of their predecessors.

Mlle. d'Angeville was, however, accompanied upon this journey by a skillful draughtsman, who took views and sketches by the way, so that her undertaking was not without its results for the benefit of others. I know, however, that I have no desire to become the fourth of these aspiring ladies.

Horace Benedict de Saussure has connected his name for all time with that of Mont Blanc, because he was the first scientific man who penetrated its mysteries. But he was not the first who ascended it; this was a peasant from the Vale of Chamouni of the name of Balmat. He it was who discovered the path to the summit; but not possessing scientific culture he could not make scientific observations. Without Balmat, however, perhaps De Saussure might not have been able to reach the summit of Mont Blanc.

From childhood, De Saussure had a singularly deep love for mountains, and for wanderings amongst them. He had spent several years in ascending, for the purpose of scientific examinations, the greater number of the most considerable mountain-chains of Europe. But Mont Blanc still stood vailing itself and its Alpine chain in mystery, in defiance of the young mountain-explorer's longings and endeavors.

“It had become with me,” he writes, “a kind of disease. My eyes never beheld this mountain, which can be seen from so many places in our district, without my experiencing a painful feeling.”

At length, after twenty-seven years of longing and fruitless endeavor, Saussure succeeded in August, 1737, in achieving the longed-for ascent, and from the summit, was able to survey the Alpine chain in all directions.

“The arrival on the summit,” he writes, “did not give me, immediately, all the pleasure which might have been expected;—because the length of the struggle, and the sense of the trouble which it had cost me to reach it, seemed, as it were, to have irritated me. And it was with a kind of wrath, that I trampled the snow upon its highest point. Besides, I feared not being able to make the observations which I desired, so greatly was I troubled by the rarity of the atmosphere, and the difficulty I found in breathing, and in working at this height. We all suffered from fever.”

Everything, however, succeeded to Saussure, beyond his expectations, he saw every thing, and was able to make all the observations which he had so long, and so ardently desired to do.

“I scarcely believed my own eyes,” he says; “I seemed to myself to be dreaming, when I saw beneath my feet the terrific, majestic peaks, the acute summits of Midi, Argentiere, and Le Geant, the very bases of which it had been to me so difficult and hazardous to climb. I understood their connection and their form, and at one single glance was able to clear up the uncertainty which years of labor alone could not have done.”

Amongst the lesser observations which De Saussure made on the ascent, the following have interested me. “We saw,” says he, “near the summit, only two butterflies; the one was a little gray night-butterfly (phaline), which flew across the first snow; the second, a day-butterfly, which appeared to me to be le myrtil. The flower, belonging to the perfect class, which I found at the greatest altitude, was a silene acaulis. Small mosses were, however, growing upon the very highest rocks.”

Saussure, when in shadow, saw from the summit of Mont Blanc, the stars in the light of day; and the color of the sky was almost black.

He was able only to remain four hours and a half on the summit of the mountain, when he was obliged return. But in the stillness of the night, when he recalled all that he had actually seen, and felt the grand picture of the mountains clearly imprinted upon his brain, then he experienced an unmingled satisfaction. And well, indeed, might he! He had accomplished a great undertaking for science. Even science has its heroes and noble martyrs.

But how any body can desire—for no other purpose than to be able to say, “I have done it”——but enough on this subject.”

On the 4th of August, Louise and I set off, through the Tete Noire, to Martigny, one of the most beautiful journeys which any one can take on a summer's day. Good roads, magnificent scenery, both behind and before, and through the whole valley, bold forms of wooded rocks, fresh rushing waters, the purest mountain atmosphere;—I seemed to myself to be reading one of Sir Walter Scott's Highland novels. The moon rose above the beautiful chestnut woods as we reached Martigny, in the Rhone valley, where we found the air oppressively warm.

The following day, we took a little carriage, and proceeded to the Great St. Bernard. The road is good, but narrow, and the turns are everywhere so precipitous on the one side, that it is impossible to avoid feeling dizzy at the thought of being upset. And such misadventures do happen at times.

We are now in the Canton Valais. At one point of the road we met a procession of monks, together with men and women, who were murmuring prayers to the ringing of bells, dressed in white, and on their way to some shrine of the Virgin in the neighborhood, to pray for rain. The procession came from villages in the mountains where the drought was fearful, and harvests burned up in consequence.

As far as Cautine du Praz, the road is passable for a carriage, afterwards you must either ride or walk. Louise chose to walk with me, and our guide went before us with the mules and our traveling bags.

The sun was still burning hot, but the pilgrims who had been praying for rain appeared not to have put up their prayers in vain. Clouds were gathering; thunder was heard, and very soon it began to rain. We toiled wearily onward with our Alpine staves in our hands; but now it grew dark, ever thicker clouds gathered above us and the ground was wet with snow. And the Hospice, the so-much-longed-for Hospice, would not come into sight! At length, however, we beheld a large, regular, gray mass of buildings arise from the gray rocks around it; and seldom has the hospitable herberge been greeted with greater joy. The sympathizing salutation of the monks “Pauvres dames!” sounded to us like delicious music. The latter part of the way we had to walk through deep snow, and were wet through, both by it and the rain. But we changed our clothes, and were then taken into a large room where a good fire rejoiced both soul and body, and were now seated at table with many other travelers, partaking of tea and bread and butter. And as she regaled herself with the oriental nectar, Louise turned her beaming glasses upon me, whispering “c'est bon!”

We then lay down to rest, on very massive beds, under whole avalanches of sheets and feather-beds. About one hundred and fifty persons, mostly poor travelers, were lodged at the Hospice this night.

I was awaked in the morning by the pealing roar of the organ. It was morning mass; at the latter part of which, I was present, but not much edified, owing to the incongruous mixture of spiritual and worldly music.

You are shown, in the little church, the grave of General Dessaix.

“I will give you the Alps for your monument!” said Napoleon to his dying general, after the battle of Marengo; “you shall rest on their loftiest inhabited point,—in the church of St. Bernard!”

I had some conversation on the life in the convent, with Père Clavendier, a very kind and well-informed man, who appears to have the especial charge of travelers of the more cultivated class.

“I should not remain here long by myself,” said he, “but we are many, and so I stay. We often witness sorrowful occurrences. Two years ago, two of our brethren went out, with a couple of servants, to seek for a man who was supposed to have lost himself in the mountains; they were scarcely fifty paces from the house, when we saw an immense avalanche fall and bury our poor friends under eighteen feet of snow. When we recovered them, they were dead! We often find poor travelers, whose feet are frozen, and here we nurse them till they are sufficiently recovered to continue their journey.”

It is now an unfrequent occurrence for travelers to perish in this region; the cases of being frozen to death usually do not exceed two in the course of the year.

“We ourselves,” said Père Clavendier, “may hold out twelve or fifteen years, but our dogs not above seven or eight years; they then become rheumatic and die. Is it not so, Mors?” continued he, as he patted one of the large, pious dogs; “thou wilt hold out for another year, and then thou wilt die!”

Mors wagged his tail assentingly, and I thought of Luther's words to his dog:

“Don't grumble, little Hans; thou, too, shalt have a golden tail some day!”

The Hospice of St. Bernard was founded about a thousand years ago, by the pious Count Bernard, of Menthone. From eighteen to twenty thousand travelers, passing between Italy and Switzerland, are annually entertained here, without the good Augustine monks exacting the smallest payment. The more wealthy travelers generally leave a donation in the alms' box of the church, and the country people carry thither, sometimes, gifts of butter, cheese, &c. But this does not amount to much. The convent supports itself, and also its thousands of pilgrims, by its own funds. During the revolution of 1847, these funds were seized upon, and the fathers removed from the convent. But the travelers across the mountain loudly demanded the accustomed fathers, and the old hospitality. The government was obliged to reinstate both; and thus St. Bernard's Hospice remains at the present day, a monument of Christian love, and an honor to the Catholic church.

But its time will soon be over. The Sardinian minister, Cavour, has obtained the consent of government to the construction of a railway, which will run right through the Alps—Mont Cenis being even now tunneled for that purpose—uniting Piedmont with Switzerland and the rest of Europe. In about ten years, it is said, that this great work will be accomplished, and then St. Bernard, the herberge of ten centuries, will be deserted; for no one will take a difficult journey of four or five days, when they can, without fatigue, and at small cost, accomplish the same in twelve hours.

A separate building, near the Hospice, contains the bodies of those who have perished on their journey across the mountain. They are arranged along the walls, and present a fearful sight. By degrees, they fall to pieces, and the floor is strewn with skulls and bones.

Why do they not allow the earth to cover these remains? They cannot teach any thing, and they inspire a horror which does not belong to the death, which is the cause of their being here.

“Death by freezing,” said the young guide, on our way, “is not painful. One goes to sleep, and does not wake any more. And when one is poor, without any thing to look forward to on earth, a little sooner, or a later, what does it matter? All must go the same road. It is a good thing to die without suffering!”

A melancholy little mountain lake lies at a short distance from the gloomy tenement; and just below, the road begins to descend on the Italian side, into Piedmont, and the lovely valley of Aosta.

Not far from the Hospice, stood, in former times, a temple of Jupiter, to which, probably, the same merciful duties were attached, as belong to the Christian refuge for Alpine travelers; in proof of which, we may accept a small, but very remarkable collection of antiquities, which have been found on the spot where the temple stood, and which are now preserved within the convent. Several bronze plates are amongst these, inscribed with thanksgivings to Jovis Pœninus, for his protection, and a number of delicately worked bronze figures of heathen divinities, appear, like the others, to be ex votos, consecrated to his temple by grateful travelers across the mountain. There is also, in this collection, a beautiful female hand, also in bronze, around wrist and fingers of which, a snake twines itself.

“This represents the hand of Eve,” said the good monk who showed us these things.

“But—Eve's hand in the temple of Jupiter?”

“Oh!” replied he, “they had also, amongst the heathen, the traditions of the fall!”

The air was damp and cold, this morning, and heavy hailstorms made the ground white around the Hospice; the sky was heavy and cloudy,—every thing was gray and gloomy. Nature is here eternally vailed; it knows neither the life nor the flowers of summer.

With a grateful heart, and a sense of high esteem, I took my leave of the pious men who live here to rescue their fellows; caressed the large, good-tempered dogs, who participate in their work of love, and availing ourselves of a break in the clouds, I and my young friend set forth on our return. We reached La Cautine happily before the rain began, and made the remaining descent of the mountain amidst storms of rain.

At seven o'clock in the evening we were again at Martigny, where we found it very hot. We had in this day passed from the climate of Spitzbergen to that of northern Italy.

We should now have undertaken the journey to Monte Rosa, but that sun and fine weather were necessary, which at the present time we did not enjoy. The heavens were clothed in rain-clouds, and the barometer had fallen; we therefore determined to defer the journey, and return at once to Geneva.

In the early dusk of morning, we drove through the Rhone valley, from the swampy, sterile district around Martigny, to the woody and fertile neighborhood of Bex, magnificently embraced, both on the right and the left, by the mountain chains of Vaud and Valais.

We enjoyed the fresh air, freed from dust, which the rain had laid, the fantastic cloud-imagery which gathered around the mountains, and the ever-varying play of light, and shadow. Thus we sped along, on the wings of steam, from Bex to Villeneuve, and thence, by the steamer L'Hirondelle, across the waters of Lake Leman, and so to Geneva. And there, by lantern-light, I was able, thanks be to our Lord, to restore my beloved young companion safe and sound to her parents and relatives, who were waiting for her on the shore. And again I spent a few days with her in the good home which I am able to call mine, and where they would scarcely receive thanks for all the kindness which I enjoyed there.

“The home of the pastor of souls ought to be hospitable!” said the good Pastor Coulin, when I thanked him for the beautiful hospitality which he and his family had shown to me.

And now let me linger somewhat upon these last days in my Swiss home, where, for the last time, I was able to partake of the refreshment of repose, such as can only be enjoyed in a home like this!

Do not let it, dear R——, appear too tedious for thee to linger yet a few moments with me. Soon, very soon, we shall cross the Alps, and then—proceed far out into the wide world; now, however, let us linger and rest a moment in the home beside the living waters!

I transcribe the following from my diary:

Jargonaut, August 15th.—A still summer rain has been falling ever since morning; it seems to us all like pleasant music, because, for the last two months there has been no rain here, and the earth thirsts and languishes for it. The nightingales sing no longer in the wood, and the great walnut tree is now bearing fruit, and pears and plums are ripening around my quiet home, where every thing is alike good, pleasant, and peaceful.

I have spent the morning in reading, and in the comparison of the ancient classical ideal of man and life with that of more modern times; that is to say, of Christianity. The differences are, in many respects, great, but in none greater and more striking than in the doctrine of the aim and purport of life, and of the immortality of the human soul. The former, amongst the wise of antiquity, is confined merely to the perfecting of the individual as regards his relationship to the state. They know nothing of a life devoted to the service of humanity. And as regards the latter, there is always in the minds of the most enlightened, a constantly recurring doubt, like a cloud over their brightest yearnings. They stand hesitating over the question, “to be or not to be!” Such are Cicero, Seneca, Marcus Aurelius. Socrates believed more and hoped more, but still how feeble and dreamy, even in Phædon, are the images of a future life! How differently do Peter, Paul, and all the Christian prophets speak! New revelation—new inspiration!

Comparisons of this kind are the enjoyment of my soul. They are Alpine journeys, which invigorate instead of wearying. And I rejoice far more than De Saussure did, when from the newly attained summit I can survey the various branches and scope of the Alpine chain, which is denominated by me, the Education of the Human Soul.

Sunday, August 16th.—Morning family worship is already over. After breakfast, Nancy carried, as usual, the Bible to her father, who read from its pages the fourth Psalm of David, and at its conclusion made the following observations:

“Parents can love their children with an equal affection, and yet at the same time have for each, separate child a separate tenderness and care with reference to the child's character, or talents— sometimes even faults. Thus is God in relationship to mankind. He loves them all equally, but yet every separate individual with an especial care, so that every one may regard himself as standing in a separate relationship, as it were apart with Him. We see in this the relationship of Christ Jesus to his disciples. Every one of us can then severally say with David, that he is loved of God. Every one of us has from Him an especial ray of His light and grace. Therefore, Father, we pray for ourselves and for all, '‘Lift thou up the light of thy countenance upon us!’ ”

The observations of the excellent Pastor Coulin seldom extend beyond five minutes; but there is more matter in them than is generally found in longer discourses. We conversed afterwards, for a short time, of persons who, even under the most severe trials, have yet possessed within their souls this sense of the Divine Fatherly care and guidance.

August 17th.—My birthday. I have not mentioned it to any one in my kind home. No beloved sisters have, as on so many a former occasion, greeted me on this anniversary with flowers, presents, and little amusing devices. But pleasant and strengthening thoughts have visited me, and made this day to me like a festival. Partly by conversation, partly by reading, partly, and above all, by the soul's centring itself into its own depth, meditating upon its highest phenomena, have I been, during my residence, carried forward in the inquiry which, beyond every thing else, drew me hither. This summer has been especially favorable to me. The flower which had long been in bud within me, has here blown—I know not how. Probably like other flowers, by God's light in connection with the impelling force of natural growth. How can it be otherwise?—that which I sought to know I have now found; and of this I will speak more particularly another time. But that which I would here exclaim to all seeking and thirsting souls, is:

Have no mistrust! Brother, sister, thy thirst, thy seeking, are prophetic. They testify of the fountain; and they will, sooner or later, lead thee on to it, and give refreshment and peace to thy soul.

Whilst yet very young, I wrote, on one of the few occasions when I gave vent in words to an overflowing but as yet unenlightened soul:

“O thou consuming flame of my silent nights and restless days! what wouldst thou with me? There are moments in which thou illuminest eternities, others in which thou merely burnest and tormentest me.”

I am now become old, and I still feel the flame there, as formerly, but it no longer burns and torments me. God first kindled it. It has been fed by Him and He has allowed it to become for me a silent, guiding light,—an eye for His sun. He has changed my unrest into rest. I have thanked God for the gift of life.

In the shelter of the peaceful home, which is one of the most beautiful flowers of the Swiss soil, I will cast a last glance upon the state of the Confederacy, and ask:

What fruit has its tree of freedom borne?

That the confederate people, spite of their being split into small states, with dissimilar laws, languages, religious creeds, manners, and usages, feel themselves nevertheless, brethren, by a common mother-country and a common freedom, and that they feel this mother-country and this freedom to be their most precious possession, and will defend them with life and blood, is proved by the last general rising on the threatened war with Russia, during the foregoing winter. That the Cantons during the times of peace squabble one with another, is no less one of their everyday customs, as it is amongst not very good brothers and sisters in many homes. And sometimes even bloody quarrels have grown out of squabbles, as in the war of the Sonderbund. The sentiment of freedom has hitherto been more Cantonal than Federal.

Many people upbraid the present government with endeavoring to obliterate local interests and local considerations in order to effect a greater centralization, a common feeling for the Confederate state. But this is, after all, evidently a great step towards a higher union. And the common festivals and exhibitions, by means of which the government is endeavoring to awaken in the individual Cantons the mind to the common unity and the common home, as well as to call forth brotherly love, are beautiful and estimable in themselves, and especially calculated for the purpose intended. Yet they have not succeeded in assembling all the children of the land. Neither Graubündten, Valais, nor Tessin, were to be met with at these gay national festivals. However, railroads extend out their arms more and more into all parts of the country, and before long, Graubündten,^[2] Valais, and Tessin, will no longer sit solitarily behind their mountains remote from Berne, Geneva, and Zürich, as they do at present.

As regards political freedom in the Cantons, I have heard more evil spoken than good. Party feeling is often carried to an unprincipled length. The better class of citizens are set aside to give place to the worse; the bold, unprincipled man is the conqueror, and the ignorant set themselves in the place of the wise. The later revolutions in the Cantons have nearly always taken this direction. These facts have led me to the conviction that the Constitutional Monarchy must be, perhaps, of all forms of government, the safest and the best for the freedom and prosperity of the people. In the mean time it is clear that amidst these agitations, the Swiss people are receiving a political education, and that the new governments, compelled by the pressure of public opinion, are adopting a course favorable to the education of the people, and consequently salutary. And until this general political education is completed, no one can judge with any certainty of the republican form of government. Switzerland is as yet young in her public life. It is only a few years since its union established its form of government on that of the North American States. Is it not under the shelter of its republican freedom that Switzerland has already produced so many men remarkable for their influence on the development of mankind in almost every branch of human culture?^[3] Is it not under the shelter of this tree of freedom that so many excellent educational institutions have sprung up and daily increase for the younger generation, so many beautiful asylums for the aged, and for those who have suffered shipwreck in life? Is it not in its shelter that every home, and every private individual has the opportunity of enjoying independence of conscience and the noblest culture? Let us not fail in the due estimation of such fruits of popular freedom!

There exists in Switzerland—whether it be the result of the political institutions of the country, or from any other influences—a certain high-toned opinion with regard to that which is right, moral, and of general utility; and as regards the duty of every man to labor for that end, which operates beneficially, and in the spirit of the highest education, upon its youth, and even upon strangers who have remained in the country any length of time. The mind of many a thoughtless young man, from other lands, has here taken a more serious direction, and he has learned to live for higher interests than hitherto. And if the governments of the different cantons would be willing to give higher salaries, and improve the outward circumstances of persons who devote themselves to the education of youth, then Switzerland would soon stand, amongst its Alps, as a high-school for the young of all nations of the Christian world, for both women and men have the most decided gifts for this noble calling.

That of which I found the want in Switzerland, even in education, is the free, and, in its highest sense, universal spirit, which I felt to be so vitalizing, so regenerative, in the United States of America; and amongst the multitudes of lectures and sermons of this country, I should have wished to hear something which extended the political and social horizon sufficiently to embrace other nations also, and the universal human interests, the great confederation of mankind! That the Swiss republic is not altogether indifferent to these, is proved, in the mean time, by its sympathy with the struggle for liberty in Greece, and its zeal for missionary labors.

The women of the educated classes stand high in religious earnestness and activity in works of human love. They are truth-loving, industrious, maternal, full of an educational spirit. It is customary in the Cantons Vaud and Geneva, for every young girl, after her first communion, to take upon herself the instruction and charge of a poor child. I have rarely met with peculiarity of character among the ladies; the requirement and aspiration of higher intelligence, more rarely still. Domestic life, the religious life, and nature, seem to be all suffering for the generality. The woman in Switzerland, who enjoys, at the present time, the largest mental horizon, and who, with the most ardent heart, embraces the highest interests of social life, and who regards the Swiss Confederation from its highest point of view, is not a woman of Switzerland at all, but a daughter our unenfranchised country, of the people of Roumelia, Countess Dora d'Istria.

The men appear to me to be of sterling character, prudent and energetic, but many of them have, as regards the other sex, a good deal to learn from the French, and even from Englishmen. The Swiss man, it appears to me, does not often regard his wife, according to the requirement of the beautiful Swedish term, Maka, or equal; and not unfrequently, an otherwise good and distinguished man, deserves the satire which the little son of one of my acquaintance, on one occasion, unconsciously expressed, when he said to his little sister:

“Now, thou shalt be my wife. Go and stand in the corner!”

She.—“But why must I be thy wife?”

He.—“That I may have somebody to scold!”

But this behavior is perhaps an exception to the rule.

The position of the young woman of the educated classes, in the house of her parents, appears to me, on the contrary, near to perfection; at all events, it is so in French Switzerland. The daughters are there educated to the right use of freedom, and they obtain this freedom in their best years. Every young girl, whether she marries or not, receives a settlement from her parents, and the means for an independent life before she attains to her five and twentieth year. In the good home, which is for the present mine, the two daughters were each allotted their portion equally with their brother, when he entered upon his office, and commenced life for himself. Nevertheless they know not a better home than that of their parents. And I do not believe that any country can exhibit more beautiful relationships between parents and children, and especially between daughters and their fathers. I have already spoken on this subject. But it is scarcely possible to say too much on these beautiful, perfect relationships. In them lie noble seeds of the future. For good, well-educated daughters, become good mothers, and it is upon the mother that the future of the child, and of the nation, more essentially depends.

In a few days I shall leave Switzerland, probably forever. Monte Rosa is the last point which I visit within its realm, arid I am to be accompanied to Monte Rosa by both my young sisters, Louise and Nancy, from my beloved home beside the Living-waters.

Zermatt, September 3d.—We are seated in the valley, at the foot of Monte Rosa; and whilst we are resting here, so that in the morning we may be able to ascend to the celebrated rock-rose, we are writing, the youthful sisters to their parents, and I to thee, my R——.

On the 1st of September we left Geneva. The morning was warm, the lake like a mirror; but the old “Helvetia,” soon made its waters foam and roar. The sun had not yet risen; dark, purple-tinted clouds hung above the heights in the direction in which it would rise; it looked like a chamber-alcove, behind the curtains of which the glimmer of the night-lamp, contended with the light of day, and where all is silent and mysterious.

But not for long. The sun came forth “like a bridegroom out of his chamber; and like a giant who rejoices to run his course.” The day was beautiful, although not perfectly clear. A soft, misty vail rested upon the heights; not a breath of wind stirred. But Lake Leman had never been more animated; steamers came and steamers went, saluting one another in passing by lowering their great red flags, with the white cross of the Confederation, down to the blue waves, which they seemed to kiss. Life upon Lake Leman and its banks, at this moment is a daily festival. The numbers of travelers either of great celebrity or high rank greatly increase it; the King of the Belgians, the Grand Dukes of Russia, Marshal Pellissier (the conqueror of Sebastopol), the French philosopher Cousin, and I know not how many other celebrities from foreign lands. The region where formerly the people contended together in bloody strife, has become that in which they, by preference, assemble for the cheerful and amiable enjoyment of life. Everywhere people are in movement to look about and to amuse themselves. On every hand flags are waving and salutes are given. And besides all this, these rich banks are at this moment infinitely beautiful. They are clothed again in new verdure after the late rain. The fruit-harvest is almost as abundant as the corn-harvest has been, and for many a year the vineyards have not displayed such a wealth of clusters. There is a universal blessing over the earth!

In passing by, I cast grateful, leave-taking glances, at the various places where I enjoyed life with nature and with man, and where I sometimes experienced the most amiable hospitality,—St. Prix, Lausanne, Clarens, Montreux! They lay peacefully surrounded by their splendid grounds and walnut trees,—the loveliest trees on the banks of Lake Leman.

So farewell, thou beautiful, richly blessed land! Mayst thou bear thy beauty, and thy harvests, for the joy of millions, and bless and benefit many a stranger, as thou hast benefited and blessed me!

At Bex, we were met by the kind Pastor Secretan, who conducted us to his hospitable table. At Bex, our little party was joined by a kind young girl, who wished to see Monte Rosa, and I am now the mother of three young daughters, whom I shall introduce to the regions of the new-world. Increased responsibility, and with it increased anxiety as to the event of the journey, for the sky is becoming cloudy.

We roll along, by diligence, to Sion, the chief town of Canton Valais, between the mountain-walls of the Rhone valley, which look down gloomily upon us. We stop at Sion, and set off early the next morning to Viege. The clouds travel with us, or rather rush on after us, till finally they drop down upon us in downright rain. A dismal prospect for Monte Rosa; but my young friends are in the highest spirits, form one droll impossible scheme after another, to accompany me to Italy, and laugh heartily at their own fancies. I cannot but laugh with them, but yet am myself any thing but merry.

We have dinner at Viege,—an excellent little dinner, and are waited upon by a handsome, clever Rosa. Viege lies at the entrance of the Zermatt valley, and here the mountain-river, the Viege, throws itself into the Rhone.

At Viege, we must decide either for or against the journey to Monte Rosa. We inquire from all weather-oracles, and behold, the sky grows clearer, and seems to promise favorably. We determine to venture the attempt. This evening we shall reach St. Nicholas. It is two short days' journey, through the Zermatt valley, which is celebrated for its grand scenery.

We set off. Two of us ride, two of us walk with long Alpine staffs in our hands, two guides accompanying us. We see, in Viege, many traces of the earthquake which occurred, last year, in the Canton Valais. The church roof has fallen in; many houses are in ruins. Our journey is beautiful; the valley infinitely picturesque. Both on the right hand, and on the left, shine out glaciers and cascades, from the woods and the mountains; amongst the former, the glacier Balferni stands out like a giant. It was not till dark that we arrived at St. Nicholas, where we obtained good quarters. The next morning looked likely for rain; nevertheless, we are up early, and when we come abroad, behold! yonder gleam forth the eternal mountains,—the snow-clad summits of Monte Rosa, in clear sunshine, directly before us, at the end of the long valley. It was heart-stirring, and so was the morning air,—fresh and pure. One did not feel either one's body or one's feet; one seemed to have wings.

And our journey was beautiful, this day, between the lofty mountains, from amongst which gleamed forth snow and fields of ice, whilst the pleasantest woods of melize-trees come down from the mountains, to the banks of the foaming Viege, which roars through the valley. Our road lies along the riverside, by a good footpath. Little villages, with their white churches, lie in picturesque disorder, upon the mountain plains. Even amongst these, has the earthquake left traces of its desolating power.

The weather becomes more and more hopeful. We pursue our journey cheerfully, botanizing and talking by the way; and the higher we ascend, the more am I at home among the vegetation. I am able to present my young friends with Swedish whortleberries and mosses. The light, agile forms of the young girls, the gay effect of the fluttering ribbons of their broad hats, gladdened me during our ramble; and both they and I agreed that we had never enjoyed a more agreeable journey. They will now, all of them, go on foot with me. One of the mules goes along unencumbered, and the other carries our small amount of baggage.

The valley becomes narrower by degrees, and assumes a more gloomy character, but the grand object, at its further end, stands forth, vast and elevating to the soul. We are now within view of the glacier of Matterhorn, which comes down from the rock in a serpent-like sweep; and now of Matterhorn himself,—a colossal snow-giant, of indescribably defiant aspect, and which seems to lift up his proud neck towards heaven, as if he would defy both God and man.

The valley is shut in, at Zermatt, by the Riffelberg, a plateau of 7,000 feet above the level of the sea; and this plateau is the footstool, as it were, of the giant-forms of Matterhorn and Monte Rosa. Matterhorn (in French, Mont Cervin,) looks out over Switzerland; Monte Rosa towards Italy,—which beautiful land one seems to behold, as in a grand panorama, from its snowy summit.

We reach Zermatt in good time, in the day, and in the evening ramble on the foot of the Riffelberg, along green meadows, where the cattle are grazing on the edge of the glaciers. In the morning, we would ascend the mountain, but the sky is again becoming cloudy, and the spaces of blue growing ever less and less!

Riffel, September 15th, at an altitude of 7,500 feet.—Whilst thick mist and cold surrounds us here, in the midst of the region of ice, and prevents our seeing any thing of its wondrous forms, I will, with sunshine in my heart, give some account of our ascent hither during yesterday.

The night before, at Zermatt, I had been awaked by the rain beating against my chamber-window.

“That is pleasant!” thought I; “and think of all the young girls who have accompanied me hither, on purpose to see Monte Rosa!”

In an hour's time, however, the rain had ceased, the moon shone through my window, consolingly, and I—went to sleep.

In the morning, I was awoke by Nancy's joyful exclamation:

“Mont Cervin est tout decouvert!”

I hastened up, and assuredly, there stood the defiant ice-clad giant,—or, more properly, giantess, for it is in the form of a woman, with an immense crinoline,—in glittering splendor, raising her proud head towards the clear blue heavens. Not a cloud was to be seen. How happy we were over our breakfast; and after breakfast, we began the ascent.

We were soon, all of us, either on horse or on foot, clambering up Riffelberg,—now under the leadership of Ignace Biner, the best guide in this Alpine region. And ever, as we climb, we behold the Alp-horizon become more extensive; one ice-peak after another rises up, and immense ice-fields spread out their white, shining table-cloths, between them, until the whole northern chain of Swiss Alps stands in a vast semicircle around the horizon. We halt upon gum plains on the mountain, to contemplate the glorious spectacle, whilst we rest in the sunshine. I felt indescribably grateful to be able to see this in company with my young friends, because I saw through all their eyes,—and how those eyes beamed!

Monte Rosa and its world were, as yet, concealed from us, by the heights of the Riffelberg. Matterhorn alone enthroned, without a rival, from the east to the south. But the ascent begins to be very difficult for me; I never felt it more so. I am obliged to stop every five minutes, to recover my breath. Is it owing to the increasing rarity of the air, or is it old age? But Louise maintains that it is the air.

We have left behind us the last Alpine huts, and now even the last trees,—the delicate melize-trees, which look as if they, too, like me, had a difficulty in climbing the ascent. The last tree reached a little higher than the others, and stands bowing to the mountain, as if it said, “We can how go no further!”

The shrubs of the Alpine rose, and every other larger kind of plant and shrub, have ceased. There are now only little mountain-flowers—Nancy's little favorites—low grass, as well as mosses and lichens, accompany us still. The wind has become cold, and the piled-up mass of the Riffelberg comes ever nearer to us. At length, after three hours' ascent, we have reached the first great plain of the Riffelberg,—bare, save for a little yellowish grass,—but where La Maison du Riffel, the ugliest and most inconvenient of all Swiss hostels, was welcomed by us with great satisfaction.

A large fire was burning in the saloon, where we rested and had dinner. We had now Matterhorn, so to speak, exactly before our eyes, but Monte Rosa was altogether hidden from sight, by the loftiest summit of the Riffelberg,—Gornergratt.

The height of Gornergratt is 2,000 feet above the herberge of Riffel, and Ignace Biner dissuades us from undertaking the ascent to-day, because “it is already late,” and we might now, at all events, see Monte Rosa from the plateau of Gugli. It is best to defer the ascent of Gornergratt till the morrow. Good,—so said and so done.

In the afternoon, when we had dined, we all turn out, as merry as can be, to botanize on the heights of the Riffelberg, because the weather is enchanting, and a breath of ill-humor on the part of Matterhorn, with cloud and cold wind, has vanished again. The sun shines, and the air has the amenity of summer.

We climb, without difficulty, up some of the little hills, where a flock of sheep still find pasturage. We leave the mass of the Riffelberg on the right, we make a circuit round the Gornergratt, to the left, and now, almost all at once, a spectacle presents itself, so grand, so extraordinary, and at the same time so beautiful, that it is overpowering.

It is a world of snow and ice,—towers, mountains, valleys, streams, fields, waves,—but not harsh, not terrible,—a fantastic world, in which the large in mass unites itself to softness and beauty in form; and there,—there to the left, southward, towards Italy,—lies, upon shining white hills, the immense snow rose,—Monte Rosa,—round and soft in all its outlines, like a Provence rose, although its projecting petals are blocks of granite. Clouds sink caressingly into its soft, half opened, chalice, and throw its southern edge what into shadow; but the sunbeams caress it at the same time, as if to take leave, lighting up, continually, new regions of its inner world. Far below our feet, creeps the Gorner glacier,—an immense icy path, nine leagues in length. It requires an hour to go straight across it from the point where we sit. On the opposite side rise the giant mountains, Castor and Pollux, Breithorn, St. Theodule's Horn, with many other horns and waving icy summits, on to the Matterhorn, which bounds the view to the north. Every one of these giants is from twelve to thirteen thousand feet in height, above the level of the sea. Monte Rosa is upwards of fourteen thousand; and this is second only to Mont Blanc, amongst the Alpine heights of Switzerland; but its soft, rounded form, does not give the full idea of its altitude, whilst the Matterhorn, which is upwards of one thousand feet lower, rising up boldly, as it does, in its crinoline, appears considerably higher and more mighty.

We sat, for a whole hour, on the summit of Gugli, contemplating the wonderful world of snow, and listening, now to the thundering din which was heard at times, proceeding from it, telling of the fall of an avalanche, which we, with our eyes, could only discern by a little white smoke arising here and there; and now to the echoes, like silvery voices, which Ignace awoke by his laughter, in the mountains. Louise fancied she heard little enchanted princes laughing in the ice-palaces.

The sun, in his descent, cast the brightest beams over the soft peaks of Cima di Jazi, which shone white towards the heaven of Italy,—as white, as pure, and as soft, as if they had belonged to some snow paradise. We were never tired of watching the struggle of the sunbeams in the chalice of Monte Rosa, with the clouds, which seemed as if they would imbed themselves there; but suddenly a violent wind arose from the side of Matterhorn, and we saw the wicked giantess, as if jealous of the attention we bestowed upon Monte Rosa, encircled with a girdle of dark cloud, and assembling a whole host of the same above her head. They were evidently not to be trifled with, and we were obliged to make the best of our way to the inn. And there we have been obliged to remain ever since, enveloped in mist and cloud, which Matterhorn, the wicked witch, has gathered around us. We console ourselves with good books and good humor, but as regards the journey up Gornergratt, and its view of the Alp-panorama, both southward and northward, there is but little hope. It is as cold as in the middle of our Swedish winter, and probably we must soon relinquish our lofty abode.

We have, however, seen Monte Rosa, and its ice realm. Chamouni is nothing in comparison with it!

Viege, September 7th.—Fear for the continuance of the mist and the cold up in the snow-region, caused us to descend to Zermatt, without reaching the summit of Gornergratt. I am sorry for it, on account of my young friends, who, in the mean time, are amiable and contented with what they have seen. And very cheerful was the return with them, on foot, through the beautiful Zermatt valley, and in good weather. We spread out our dinner on the edge of the spring, and drank of their refreshing waters; we thought our mode of traveling was the most agreeable in the world.

Query: Could we not also in Sweden contrive short pedestrian journeys of this kind for our young girls?

I am now alone. I have separated from my amiable young Swiss sisters, who have returned to the homes of their parents. If I am right in my conjectures, there will soon be a great change for one of them—Louise. May it tend to her own happiness, and to that of her family! She and they have become cordially dear to me! They will constitute my family bond with Switzerland.

And now Italy, to thee, to thee! This very night I shall cross the Simplon.

1. The High-valleys of Neufchâtel have produced several remarkable tradesmen and citizens. One of these, M. David Pury, whose statue stands in one of the principal marketplaces of the city of Neufchâtel, was a poor, fatherless, and motherless boy, supported by some of the towns-people, yet by industry and genius, he became one of its wealthiest men. Grateful for past kindness, he bequeathed by will, the whole of his large, self-acquired fortune, amounting to four and a half millions of francs, to the town. One little trait of this man's life has appeared to me so beautiful and instructive, that I cannot avoid here mentioning it. A young man in M. Pury's office, one day, cut up a pen with his pen-knife, and then threw it away, carelessly, from him.

   “Why do you throw that pen away?” inquired his principal, mildly; “I will show you that it will still serve for some good purpose.”

   He took up the pen, mended it carefully, and then wrote with it a check for a large sum, which he immediately handed to the young man, for the benefit of his indigent family.

   
   “Osterwald,” is a name which the inhabitants of Neufchâtel reckon amongst their great names, “perhaps, because we, ourselves, are small!” pleasantly, said one of the representatives of the Canton to the Federal Council.—Authors Note.

2. And Graubundten ought to be the last of all to absent herself from the union-feast of all the Cantons, because she constitutes the great Schweitsari of the Confederate states. She is the Canton which produces the most delicious tarts and pasties, and many other kinds of confection, and which sends out to every country in Europe, artistes of this class, who are known under the name of Schweitsari. This art is said to have been introduced into Graubündt by emigrants from the Roman states during the gastronomic period of the Empire, and has there established itself, together with a number of Latin words, which make the dialect of Graubundten very peculiar and prove its Roman origin; Graubundten deserves, therefore, a place of honor at the table of Sworn-Confederates.—Author's Note.
3. Geneva alone has given to the world several of the most celebrated amongst these; Jean Jaques Rousseau, the social reformer and friend of mankind; the naturalists Bounet, De Saussure, and De Candolle; the teacher of Political Economy, Say; the historians, Sismondi, and Merle d'Aubigné, and many another celebrated name; besides the most intellectual, most gifted with genius, and at the same time most warm-hearted of female writers, the daughter of Neckar, the noble-minded Mme. de Staël.—Author's Note.