Chapter III: Part 3

As we returned from Grindelwald to Interlaken, we often paused to note the peasants toiling in the fields. So far as their appearance was concerned, we might have supposed them laborers on a Vermont farm; but their low carts were quite unlike our country hayracks; and the appearance of a single ox, harnessed with ropes around his horns, presented an amusing contrast to the sturdy beasts which, bound together by the yoke, drag to our barns their loads of fragrant hay. Women, of course, were working with the men; but female laborers in Switzerland are not in the majority. In many instances the ratio is but one to three.

These peasants look up curiously as we drive along, and no doubt think that we are favored beings, to whom our luxuries give perfect happiness. And yet the very tourists whom they thus envy may, in a single hour, endure more misery and heartache than they in their simplicity and moderate poverty will ever know. Among these people are not found the framers of those hopeless questions: "Is life worth living?" and "Does death end all?" The real destroyers of life's happiness are not a lowly home and manual labor. They are the constant worriments and cares of artificial life,—satiety of pleasures, the overwork of mental powers, and the disenchantment of satisfied desires.

Filled with such thoughts, as we beheld the humble but well-kept and ever picturesque dwellings of the farmers of this valley, I called to mind, as a consoling antidote to one's first natural sympathy with poverty, the story of the sultan who, despite all his wealth and power, was always melancholy. He had been told by his physician that, if he would be cured of all his real or fancied ailments, he must exchange shirts with the first perfectly happy man he could find. Out went his officers in search of such a person.

The hunt was long and arduous, but finally the fortunate being was found. When he was brought to the sultan, however, it was discovered, alas! that this perfectly happy individual was not the possessor of a shirt.

From Interlaken, every tourist makes a short excursion to one of the best known of Alpine waterfalls,—the Giessbach. Set in a glorious framework of dark trees, it leaves the cliff, one thousand feet above, and in a series of cascades leaps downward to the lake. If this descending torrent were endowed with consciousness, I fancy it would be as wretched in its present state as a captive lion in a cage, continually stared at by a curious multitude. For never was a cascade so completely robbed of liberty and privacy as this. A pathway crosses it repeatedly by means of bridges, and seems to bind it to the mountain as with a winding chain. Behind it are numerous galleries where visitors may view it from the rear. Arbors and seats are also placed on either side; and thus, through every hour of the day, people to right of it, people to left of it, people in rear of it, people in front of it, look on and wonder. Even at night it has but little rest; for hardly have the shadows shrouded it, when it is torn from its obscurity by torches, calcium lights, and fireworks, which all along its course reveal it to the admiring crowd in a kaleidoscope of colors.

Far happier, therefore, seems another waterfall of Switzerland,—the Reichenbach; for this is left comparatively undisturbed within its mountain solitude. Far off, upon a mountain crest, a blue lake, set like a sapphire amid surrounding glaciers, serves as a cradle for this new-born river. Thence it emerges, timidly at first, to make its way down to the outer world. With each descent, however, it gains fresh impetus and courage. Return is now impossible. The die is cast. Its fate is now decided. We almost wish that we could check its course amid this beautiful environment. It will not find a sweeter or a safer place. Too soon it will be forced to bear great burdens, turn countless wheels, and minister to thousands. Then, at the last, will come old Ocean's cold and passionless embrace, in which all its individuality will disappear.

Another portal to this land of mountains, rivaling Interlaken in attractiveness, is Lucerne, reclining peacefully beside its noble lake. I do not know a resting-place in Switzerland which is in all respects so satisfying as this.

Its hotels are among the finest in the world; the town itself is pretty and attractive; and in the foreground is a panorama too varied to become monotonous, too beautiful ever to lose its charm. Mount Pilate and the Rigi guard Lucerne like sentinels, the one on the east, the other on the west, like halting-places for the morning and the evening stars. Directly opposite, upon the southern boundary of the lake, miles upon miles of snow-capped mountains rise against the sky, as if to indicate the limit of the world.

One of the sentinels of Lucerne, as I have said, is Mount Pilate. Toward this the faces of all tourists turn, as to a huge barometer; for by its cap of clouds Pilate foretells the weather which excursionists must look for. There is hardly need to recall the popular derivation of the mountain's name. It was in olden times believed that Pontius Pilate, in his wanderings through the world, impelled at last by horror and remorse, committed suicide upon its summit. On this account the mountain was considered haunted. At one time the town authorities even forbade people to ascend it on a Friday! But now there is a hotel on the top, and every day in the week, Friday included, a railway train climbs resolutely to the summit, enabling thousands to enjoy every summer a view scarcely to be surpassed in grandeur or extent at any point among the Alps. No allusion to Lucerne would be complete without reference to that noble product of Thorwaldsen's genius, which, in more respects than one, is the lion of the place. It is difficult to imagine a more appropriate memorial than this, of the fidelity and valor exhibited one hundred years ago by the Swiss guard, who in defense of Louis XVI laid down their lives at the opening of the French Revolution. No view does justice to this famous statue. Within a monstrous niche, which has been hollowed out of a perpendicular cliff, reclines, as in some mountain cave, the prostrate figure of a lion, thirty feet in length. It is evident that the animal has received a mortal wound. The handle of a spear protrudes from his side. Yet even in the agony of death he guards the Bourbon shield and lily, which he has given his life to defend. One paw protects them; his drooping head caresses them, and gives to them a mute farewell. Beneath the figure, chiseled in the rock, are the names of the officers murdered by the mob; while above is the brief but eloquent inscription: "To the fidelity and bravery of the Swiss." In the whole world I do not know of a monument more simple yet impressive.

One of the greatest pleasures of the tourist in Lucerne is to sail out, as he may do at almost any hour of the day, upon its lovely lake. This, in respect to scenery, surpasses all its Alpine rivals. Twenty-three miles in length, it has the form of a gigantic cross, each arm of which (when looked upon in the glow of sunset from a neighboring height) seems like a plain of gold and lapis-lazuli set in a frame-work of majestic mountains. No tour in Switzerland is complete without a sail upon this fair expanse of water. Hence more than half a million travelers cross it every year during the summer months alone, and tiny steamers are continually visible, cutting their furrows on its smooth, transparent surface, as sharply as a diamond marks a pane of glass.

Moreover, when the boat glides inward toward the shore, one sees that other elements of beauty are not wanting here. Pretty chalets with overhanging roofs; rich pastures, orchards, and gardens,—all these, with numerous villages, succeed each other here for miles, between the lake and the bold cliffs that rise toward Heaven. Nor is this all. The villages possess a history, since these romantic shores were formerly the stage on which Swiss patriots performed those thrilling scenes immortalized by Schiller in his drama of "William Tell."

In fact, at one point half concealed among the trees is the well-known structure, called Tell's Chapel. It stands upon the spot where, it is said, the hero, springing from the tyrant's boat, escaped the clutches of the Austrian governor. As is well known, doubts have been cast on even the existence of this national chieftain; and yet it is beyond peradventure that a chapel was erected here to his memory as early as the fifteenth century, and only eleven years ago this structure was restored at government expense. Moreover, once a year at least, the people of the neighboring cantons gather here in great numbers to celebrate a festival which has been held by their ancestors for centuries.

The little building is certainly well calculated to awaken patriotism. Appropriate frescoes, representing exploits ascribed to William Tell, adorn the walls; while opposite the doorway is an altar at which religious services are held. How solemn and impressive must the ceremony be, when religious rites are performed in such a historic and picturesque locality in the presence of a reverent multitude! At such a time this tiny shrine may be considered part of the sublime cathedral of the mountains, whose columns are majestic trees, whose stained glass is autumnal foliage, whose anthems are the songs of birds, whose requiems are the moaning of the pines, and whose grand roof is the stupendous arch of the unmeasured sky, beneath which the snow-clad mountains rise like jeweled altars, lighted at night, as if with lofty tapers, by the glittering stars.

But to appreciate the beauty of this sheet of water, one should behold it when its surface is unruffled by a breeze. Enamoured of their own beauty, the mountains then look down into the lake as into an incomparable mirror. It is an inverted world. The water is as transparent as the sky. The very breezes hold their breath, lest they should mar the exquisite reflection. The neighboring peaks display their rugged features in this limpid flood, as if unconscious of the wrinkles which betray their age. The pine trees stand so motionless upon the shore that they appear like slender ferns. Instinctively we call to mind those graceful lines, supposed to be addressed by such a lake to an adjoining mountain:

"I lie forever at thy feet,
Dear hill with lofty crown;
My waters smile thy crags to greet,
As they look proudly down.

The odor of thy wind-tossed pines
Is message sweet to me;
It makes me dimple with delight,
Because it comes from thee.

Thou, lofty, grand, above the world;
Its lowly servant, I;
Yet see, within my sunny depths
Is smiling thy blue sky.

Thou art so far, and yet how near!
For though we are apart,
I make myself a mirror clear,
And hold thee in my heart."

Above this lake itself extends for miles the famous Axenstrasse,—a splendid specimen of engineering skill, cut in the solid rock, hundreds of feet above the waves. Yet this is no exceptional thing in Switzerland, and nothing stamps itself more forcibly upon the tourist's mind within this region of the Alps than man's triumphant victory over obstacles, in the formation of its roads. Despite their great cost of construction these prove profitable investments; for the better the roads, the more people will travel over them. Referring to them, some one has prettily said, that by such means the Swiss transform the silver of their mountain peaks into five franc pieces, and change the golden glow of their sunrises and sunsets into napoleons.

How great the difference between the Switzerland of to-day and that of fifty years ago! Where formerly the solitary peasant and his mule picked their precarious way through mud or snow, luxurious landaus now roll easily along, on thoroughfares of rock, without a stone or obstruction of any kind to mar their surfaces. Nor is there danger of disaster. Walled in by massive parapets, an accident is here impossible; and in these mighty galleries, hewn from the mountain side itself, the traveler is perfectly secure, although an avalanche may fall or cyclones rage above him.

The Axenstrasse may be said to form a part of that magnificent route from Switzerland to Italy, known as the St. Gotthard. It is, in truth, the king of Alpine roads; resembling a mighty chain which man, the victor, has imposed upon the vanquished Alps,—one end sunk deep in the Italian Lakes, the other guarded by the Lion of Lucerne,—and all the intervening links kept burnished brightly by the hands of trade. True, within the last few years, the carriage-road across the St. Gotthard has been comparatively neglected, since the longest tunnel in the world has to a great extent replaced it. Tranquil enough this tunnel frequently appears, but I have seen it when great clouds of smoke were pouring out of its huge throat, as from the crater of a great volcano. A strong wind blowing from the south was then, no doubt, clearing this subterranean flue; and I was glad that I had not to breathe its stifling atmosphere, but, on the contrary, seated in a carriage, could lose no portion of the glorious scenery, while drinking in great draughts of the pure mountain air.

Still, whether we travel by the railroad of the St. Gotthard or not, we must not underrate its usefulness, nor belittle the great engineering triumphs here displayed. Its length, too, amazes one, for not only is the principal tunnel nine and a half miles long, but there are fifty-five others on the line, the total length of which, cut inch by inch out of the solid granite, is more than twenty-five miles. When one drives over the mountain by the carriage-road, hour after hour, bewildered by its cliffs and gorges, it seems impossible that the engineer's calculations could have been made so perfectly as to enable labor on the tunnel to be carried on from both ends of it at the same time. Yet all was planned so well that, on the 28th of February, 1880, the Italian workmen and the Swiss both met at the designated spot, six thousand feet below the summit, and there pierced the last thin barrier that remained between the north and south.

The number of railroad bridges on the St. Gotthard astonished me. Their name is legion. Across them long trains make their way among the clouds like monster centipedes, creeping along the mountain-sides, or over lofty viaducts.

Here man's triumph over nature is complete. How puny seems at first his strength when measured with the wind and avalanche! But mind has proved superior to matter. The ax was made, and at its sturdy stroke the forest yielded up its tribute for the construction of this pathway. The caverns of the earth were also forced to surrender the iron treasured there for ages, and rails were made, along whose glittering lines a crowded train now glides as smoothly as a boat upon the waves. And yet these awful cliffs still scowl so savagely on either side, that the steel rail, which rests upon their shelves of rock, seems often like a thread of fate, by which a thousand lives are held suspended over the abyss.

The volume of freight transported along this route must be enormous. But why should tourists (unless compelled by lack of time) consent to be carried through this scenery like a bale of goods, in darkness rather than in daylight? The best way still to cross the Alps is to cross them, not to burrow through them. I should certainly advise the traveler to drive from Lake Lucerne over the St. Gotthard Pass, and then to take the train, if he desires to do so, on the Italian side, as it emerges from the tunnel. Thence, in a few brief hours one can embark upon Lake Como, or see the sunset gild the statue-laden spires of Milan's cathedral.

The finest scenery on the carriage-road of the St. Gotthard is in a wild ravine, through which the river Reuss rushes madly. Spanning the torrent in a single arch, is what is popularly called "The Devil's Bridge." Perhaps I should say bridges, for there are surely two of them, and though only the smaller one is attributed to his Satanic Majesty, it is probably by the newer, safer, and more orthodox one that Satan nowadays, like a prudent devil, prefers to cross. The legend of this celebrated bridge is extraordinary.

Some centuries ago, the mayor of the canton was one day in despair because the mountain torrent had swept off every bridge he had constructed here. In his vexation he was rash enough to use the name of the Devil, as some people will. Hardly had he uttered the word, when his door-bell rang, and his servant brought him a card, on which he read the words, "Monsieur Satan."

"Show him in," said the mayor. A gentleman in black made his appearance, and seated himself in an armchair. The mayor placed his boots upon the fender; the Devil rested his upon the burning coals. The subject of the bridge was broached, and the mayor finally offered the Devil any sum that the canton could raise, if he would build them a bridge which would last one hundred years. "Bah!" said Satan, "What need have I of money?" And taking with his fingers a red-hot coal from the fire, he offered it to his companion. The mayor drew back aghast. "Don't be afraid," said Satan; and putting the coal in the mayor's hand, it instantly became a lump of gold. "Take it back," said the mayor sadly; "we are not talking now of politics!" "You see," said the Devil, with a smile, "my price must be something else than money. If I build this bridge, I demand that the first living being that passes over it shall be mine." "Agreed!" said the mayor. The contract was soon signed. "Au revoir!" said the Devil. "Au plaisir!" said the mayor; and Satan went his way.

Early next morning the mayor himself hurried to the spot, eager to see if Satan had fulfilled his contract. The bridge was completed, and there sat Satan, swinging his legs over the stream and waiting for his promised soul. "What," he exclaimed, as he espied the mayor, "do you unselfishly resign _your_ soul to me?" "Not much," replied the mayor, proceeding to untie a bag which he had brought. "What's that?" cried Satan. There was a wild yell, and instantly a big black cat, with a tin pan tied to its tail, rushed over the bridge as if ten thousand dogs were after it. "There is your 'first living being,'" cried the mayor. "Catch him!" Satan was furious, but acknowledged that he had been outwitted and retired,—contenting himself with making the air of the ravine quite sulphurous with his remarks about home!

Although the St. Gotthard may be the grandest of all Alpine passes, the most historic of them is that of Mount St. Bernard. Some years ago, on the last day of October, I left the village of Martigny, which is the starting-point for the ascent, and, several hours later, as night came creeping up the Alps, found myself upon the famous pass, at a place already higher than our own Mt. Washington, but still two thousand feet below my destination,—the monastery. Through various causes our party had been delayed, and now with the approach of night a snow-storm swept our path with fearful violence. Those who have never seen a genuine Alpine storm can hardly comprehend its reckless fury. The light snow was whirled and scattered, like an ocean of spray, over all things. A thousand needles of ice seemed to pierce our skin. Drifts sprang up in our path, as if by magic. The winds howled like unchained demons through the jagged gorges, and a horrible feeling of isolation made our hearts falter with a sickening sense of helplessness. As mine was an October experience, I shudder to think of what a genuine winter's storm must be. For, as it was, we were all speedily numb with cold, blinded by the whirling snow, and deafened by the roaring wind, which sometimes drowned our loudest shouts to one another.

Up and still up we rode, our poor mules plunging through the snow, our fingers mechanically holding the reins, which felt like icicles within our grasp, our guides rubbing their well-nigh frozen hands, but, fortunately—most fortunately—never becoming confused as to the way.

At length I saw, or thought I saw, through the blinding snow, one of a group of buildings. I chanced to be the foremost in our file of snow-bound travelers, and shouting, "Here it is at last," I hastened toward the structure. No light was visible. No voice responded to my call for help. I pounded on the door and called again. No answer came; but at that moment I felt my arm grasped roughly by my guide. "In Heaven's name," he said, "do not jest on such a night as this."

"Jest!" I rejoined, with chattering teeth, "I have no wish to jest—I am freezing. Where is the boasted hospitality of your lazy monks? Shout! Wake them up!"

"They will not wake," replied the guide. "Why not?" I cried; and beating the door again, I called at the top of my voice: "Au secours! Réveillez-vous! Are you all dead in here?"

"Yes," replied the guide.

It was now my turn to stare at him. "What do you mean?" I faltered. "What—what does this house contain?" "Corpses," was the reply.

It was clear to me in a moment. I had mistaken the dead-house for the house of shelter! In fancy I could see the ghastly spectacle within, where bones of travelers whiten on through centuries in an atmosphere whose purity defies decay.

But, almost simultaneously with his other words, I heard my guide exclaim: "If you too would not join their number, _en avant, en avant, vite, vite_!" Then, seizing the bridle of my mule, he urged me toward the monastery. A few moments more and we arrived within its sheltering walls. One of the brothers helped me to dismount, and led me up the stone steps of the Hospice. And then, how blessed was our reception! How warm the fire blazing on the ample hearth! How good the hot soup and wine instantly brought us by the kind friars! How comforting the thought of our surroundings, as the baffled storm beat against the frost-covered windows, and seemed to shriek with rage at being cheated of its victims!

Never, while memory lasts, shall I cease to remember with love and gratitude those noble-hearted brothers of the St. Bernard.

Next morning the storm had cleared away; yet even in pleasant weather it is difficult to imagine anything more dreary than the situation of this monastery, locked thus in snow and ice, and sentineled by savage peaks, eight thousand feet above the sea. Even the pond adjoining it is gloomy from its contrast to all other lakes. Its waters are too cold for any kind of fish, and therefore fail to attract hither any kind of bird. Animal life has fallen off in making the ascent. Man and the dog alone have reached the summit.

It was with admiration that I looked upon the self-sacrificing heroes who reside here. What praise can be too high for these devoted men, who say farewell to parents and to friends, and leave the smiling vales of Switzerland and Italy to live upon this glacial height? Few of them can endure the hardship and exposure of the situation longer than eight years, and then, with broken health, they return (perhaps to die) to the milder climate of the valleys. During the long winter which binds them here with icy chains for nine months of the year, they give themselves to the noble work of rescuing, often amid terrible exposure, those who are then obliged to cross the pass. In this they are aided by their famous dogs, which, like themselves, shrink from no danger, and in their courage and intelligence rival the masters they so bravely serve. The travelers whom they receive in winter are not the rich, whose heavy purses might recompense them for their toil. They are mostly humble peasants, unable to give more compensation than the outpouring of a grateful heart. But there will come a day when these brave men will have their full reward; when He, who with unerring wisdom weighs all motives and all deeds, will say to them: "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto Me."

One of the most attractive of all the pleasure resorts in Switzerland is the lovely Vale of Chamonix. The first view one obtains of it, in coming over the mountains from Martigny, is superb. Three monstrous glaciers, creeping out from their icy lairs, lie beneath ice-fringed buttresses of snow, like glittering serpents watching for a favorable chance to seize and swallow their prey. Looking across the valley at them, it is true, they seem quite harmless; but in reality, such glaciers are the mighty wedges which have for ages carved these mountains into shape, and are still keeping them apart in solitary grandeur. What from a distance seems a little bank of snow is probably a wall of ice, one hundred feet in height. What look like wrinkles are crevasses of an unknown depth; and the seeming puff of smoke which one at times discerns upon them, is really a tremendous avalanche of snow and ice. Of the three glaciers which descend into the Vale of Chamonix, the one most frequently visited by tourists is the Mer de Glace. It is well called the "Sea of Ice," for its irregular surface looks precisely like a mass of tossing waves which have been crystallized when in their wildest agitation. To right and left, the ice is partially concealed by rocks and earth, which have been ground off from the adjacent mountain-sides, or which have fallen there, as the result of avalanches. Sometimes huge boulders are discernible, tossed here and there like nut-shells, the rocky _débris_ of ages.

What is there more suggestive of mysterious power than a frozen cataract like this? Apparently as cold and motionless as death, it nevertheless is moving downward with a slow, resistless march, whose progress can be accurately traced from day to day; so accurately, indeed, that objects lost to-day in one of these crevasses may be confidently looked for at the glacier's terminus after a certain number of years. Forever nourished on the heights, forever wasting in the valleys, these glaciers are the moving mysteries of the upper world; vast, irresistible, congealed processions,—the frozen reservoirs of rivers that glide at last from their reluctant arms in a mad haste to reach the sea.

"Perennial snow, perennial stream,
Perennial motion, all things seem;
Nor time, nor space will ever show
The world that was an hour ago."

When we examine any portion of a glacier's surface, we find abundant evidence of its motion. It has been forced into a million strange, distorted shapes, many of which are larger than the grandest cathedrals man has ever framed. Between them are vast chasms of unknown depth. As it descends thus, inch by inch, obedient to the pressure from above, it flings its frigid waves to the right and left, close to the orchards and the homes of man. It is the ghastly synonym of death in life; for here a man may swing the scythe or gather flowers, while a hundred yards away his brother may be perishing in a crevasse!

To really understand a glacier one must venture out upon its icy flood. One day while on the Mer de Glace, I was (as usual in such expeditions) preceded and followed by a guide, to both of whom I was attached by a stout rope. On that occasion one thing impressed me greatly. It was a strange sound, called by the guides "brullen," or growling, which is in reality the mysterious moaning of the glacier, caused by the rending asunder of huge blocks of ice in its slow, grinding descent.

At times it seemed to me impossible to proceed, but the experienced guide who led the way laughed at my fears; and finally, to increase my confidence, actually entered one of the appalling caverns of the glacier, which like the jaws of some huge polar bear, seemed capable of closing with dire consequences. For a few minutes he remained seated beneath a mass of overhanging ice, apparently as calm as I was apprehensive for his safety. No accident occurred, and yet my fears were not unfounded. For though there is a fascination in thus venturing beneath the frozen billows of a glacier, there may be treachery in its siren loveliness. Huge blocks of ice frequently fall without the slightest warning, and many a reckless tourist has thus been killed, or perhaps maimed for life.

On entering the little town of Chamonix, the tourist sees in front of one of the hotels a group in bronze that rivets his attention and awakens thought. It represents the famous guide, Balmat, who first ascended Mont Blanc in 1786, enthusiastically pointing out the path of victory to the Swiss scientist, De Saussure, who had for years been offering a reward to any one who should discover a way to reach the summit. The face of the brave conqueror of Mont Blanc and that of the distinguished scholar are both turned toward the monarch of the Alps. Instinctively the traveler also looks in that direction.

It is a memorable moment when one gazes for the first time upon Mont Blanc. We understand at once the reason for its being called preëminently the "White Mountain." The title was bestowed upon it because of the magnificent snow-white mantle which it wears, at a height of almost sixteen thousand feet. Probably no other mountain in the world has so towered up on the horizon of our imaginations. Long before we have actually seen it, we have repeated Byron's words:

"Mount Blanc is the monarch of mountains;
They crowned him long ago,
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds,
With a diadem of snow."

At once a strong desire seizes us to explore those boundless fields of crystal clearness, and yet we shrink from all the toil and danger thus involved. But, suddenly, as our gaze returns to earth, we find a means of making the ascent without fatigue—the telescope!

The placard suspended from it tells us that some tourists are actually struggling toward the summit. The chances are that they will return in safety; for the ascent of Mont Blanc, which Balmat made with so much difficulty, has now been reduced to a system. Yet after all, this Alpine climbing is a dangerous business. It is pathetic, for example, to recall the fate of poor Balmat himself. Despite his long experience, even _he_ lost his life at last by falling over a precipice. Only his statue is in Chamonix; his body lies in an immense abyss, four hundred feet in depth, where falling masses of rock and ice are constantly increasing his vast mausoleum, and the continual thunder of the avalanche seems like the mountain's exultation at its conqueror's destruction.

Availing ourselves of the telescope, we watch with ease and comfort the actual climbers on Mont Blanc. By this time they have bound themselves together with a rope, which in positions of peril is the first requisite of safety. For one must always think of safety on these mountains. With all their beauty and grandeur, they have sufficient capability for cruelty to make the blood run cold. They have no mercy in them; no sympathy for the warm hearts beating so near their surfaces. They submit passively to conquest, so long as man preserves a cool head and sure footing. But let him make one false step; let his brain swim, his heart fail, his hand falter, and they will hurl him from their icy slopes, or tear him to pieces on their jagged tusks, while in the roar of the avalanche is heard their demoniac laughter.

But following the tourists still farther up the mountain, we look with dismay at one of the icy crests along which they must presently advance. Not a charming place for a promenade, truly! Here it would seem that one should use an alpen-stock rather as a balancing-pole than as a staff. It is enough to make even a Blondin falter and retire. For, coated with a glare of ice, and bordered on either side by an abyss, the slightest misstep would inevitably send one shooting down this glittering slope to certain death in one of the vast folds of Mont Blanc's royal mantle.

Lifting now the telescope a little higher, we note another difficulty which mountain-climbers frequently encounter. For here they have come face to face with a perpendicular wall of ice which they must climb, or else acknowledge a defeat. The bravest, therefore, or the strongest, cuts with his ax a sort of stairway in this crystal barrier, and, making his way upward by this perilous route, lowers a rope and is rejoined by his companions. Imagine doing this in the teeth of such wind and cold as must often be met with on these crests! Think of it, when a gale is tearing off the upper snow, and driving it straight into the face in freezing spray like a shower of needles; when the gloves are coated with ice, and alpen-stocks slide through them, slippery as eels; and when the ice-bound rocks tear off the skin from the half-frozen fingers of the man who clings to them for life!

I know it is customary now to laugh at any dangers on Mont Blanc; and yet a terrible disaster took place there no longer ago than 1870.

In the month of September of that year, a party of eleven (including two Americans) started to climb the mountain. Near the summit a frightful tempest burst upon them. The guides no longer recognized the way, and, unable to return or find shelter, the entire party perished. The bodies of five were recovered. In the pocket of one of them (an American from Baltimore) were found these words, written to his wife: "7th of September, evening. We have been for two days on Mont Blanc in a terrific hurricane. We have lost our way, and are now at an altitude of fifteen thousand feet. I have no longer any hope. We have nothing to eat. My feet are already frozen, and I have strength enough only to write these words. Perhaps they will be found and given to you. Farewell; I trust that we shall meet in heaven!"

But such a mountain as Mont Blanc can rarely be ascended in a single day. Two days are generally given to the task. On the evening of the first day its would-be conquerors reach, at a height of ten thousand feet, a desolate region called the Grands Mulets. Here on some savage-looking rocks are two small cabins. One is intended for a kitchen, the other for a sleeping-room; that is, if one can sleep in such a place; for what an excitement there must be in passing a night at this great altitude! The distant stars gleam in the frosty air with an unwonted brilliancy and splendor. The wind surges against the cliffs with the full, deep boom of the sea; while the silence in the unmeasurable space above is awe-inspiring.

But, on the morrow, the glorious view repays one for a night of sleeplessness. At first one looks apparently upon a shoreless ocean, whose rolling billows seem now white, now opalescent, in the light of dawn. Then, one by one, the various mountain peaks appear like islands rising from the sea. At last, these waves of vapor sink slowly downward through the valleys, and disappear in full retreat before the god of day. But till they vanish, the traveler could suppose that he had here survived the deluge of the world, and was watching its huge shrouded corpse at his feet.

Between the Grands Mulets and the summit, Mont Blanc makes three tremendous steps, from eight hundred to one thousand feet in height, and between these are several frightful chasms, so perilous that on beholding them we catch our breath. There is something peculiarly horrible in these crevasses, yawning gloomily, day and night, as if with a never-satisfied hunger. A thousand—nay ten thousand—men in their cavernous jaws would not constitute a mouthful. They are even more to be dreaded than the avalanche; for the path of the avalanche is usually known; but these crevasses frequently hide their black abysses under deceitful coverlets of snow, luring unwary travelers to destruction. Nevertheless the avalanche is in certain places an ever-present danger. Mountains of snow stand toppling on the edge of some stupendous cliff, apparently waiting merely for the provocation of a human voice, intruding on their solitude, to start upon their awful plunge. The world well knows the fate of those who have been caught in such a torrent of destruction.

"No breath for words! no time for thought! no play
For eager muscle! guides, companions, all
O'ermastered in the unconquerable drift,
In Nature's grasp held powerless, atoms
Of her insensate frame, they fared as leaves
In the dark rapid of November gales,
Or sands sucked whirling into fell simooms;
One gasp for breath, one strangled, bitter cry,
And the cold, wild snow closed smothering in,
And cast their forms about with icy shrouds,
And crushed the life out, and entombed them there,—
Nobler than kings Egyptian in their pyramids,
Embalmèd in the mountain mausoleum,
And part of all its grand unconsciousness
Forever.
Its still dream resumed the Mount;
The sun his brightness kept; for unto them
The living men are naught, and naught the dead,
No more than snows that slide or stones that roll."

Finally, these and all other dangers being past, the wearied but exultant climbers reach the summit of Mont Blanc,—that strangely silent, white, majestic dome, so pure and spotless in its lofty elevation beneath the stars. To watch this scene from the Vale of Chamonix, when the great sovereign of our solar system sinks from sight, leaving upon Mont Blanc his crown of gold, is an experience that will leave one only with one's life. The concentrated refulgence on that solitary dome is so intense that one is tempted to believe that the glory of a million sunsets, fading from all other summits of the Alps, has been caught and imprisoned here. We know that sun will rise again; but who, in such a place, can contemplate unmoved the death of Day?

"The night has a thousand eyes,
And the day but one;
Yet the light of the bright world dies,
With the dying sun!

The mind has a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one;
Yet the light of a whole life dies,
When love is done."

One singular experience of Alpine travel is indelibly impressed upon my memory. It occurred on my passage of the Gemmi into the valley of the Rhone. The Gemmi Pass is no magnificent highway like the St. Gotthard, macadamized and smooth and carefully walled in by parapets of stone. It is for miles a rough and dangerous bridle-path, the edge of which is sometimes decorated with a flimsy rail, but often has not even that apology for safety. One can thus readily believe that, like the Jordan, the Gemmi is emphatically "a hard road to travel." At all events I found it so, especially as I crossed it early in the season, before the winter's ravages had been repaired. Since I was at the time suffering from a temporary lameness, I could walk but little. With this road dates my first acquaintance with a mule,—an intimacy that will never be forgotten! All day long that memorable beast would never for one instant change his gait, nor was the monotony of his dreadful walk once broken by a trot. My only consolation was in the thought that if the beast did change it, my neck, as well as the monotony, would probably be broken. Thus, hour after hour, I kept moving on and up, my knees forced wide apart by this great, lumbering wedge, until I felt like a colossal wish-bone, and as though I should be bow-legged for the rest of my life.

Nor was this all; for, as the day wore on, the mule took special pains to make my blood run cold by a variety of acrobatic feats, which might have made a chamois faint with vertigo. For example, wherever a rail was lacking in the crazy fence, he would deliberately fill the space with his own body and mine, walking so dangerously near the brink, that half my form would be suspended over the abyss! Of course, the moment it was passed, I laughed or scolded, as most travelers do; yet, after all, in such cases we never know how great the peril may have been. A little stone, a clod of earth, a movement in the nick of time—these are sometimes the only things which lie between one and the great Unknown, and hinder one from prematurely solving the mysterious problem of existence.

Nevertheless, on the fearful precipices for which the Gemmi is noted, one may be pardoned for being a trifle nervous. At certain points the bridle-path so skirts the chasm that one false step would land the fragments of your body on the rocks a thousand feet below; while, on the other side, the mountain towers up abrupt and bare, with scarce a shrub or tree to cling to or console the dizzy traveler. My flesh creeps now to think of some of these places; and in the same space of time I think I never repented of so many sins, as during that passage of the Gemmi. At length, however, the climax seemed reached; for at the brink of one abyss the path appeared to end. I cautiously advanced to the edge and looked over. It was a fearful sight, for here the mountain falls away to a sheer depth of sixteen hundred feet, and the plumb-line might drop to that full length without encountering any obstacle.

When Alexander Dumas came to this place, and (unprepared for what he was to see) looked down from the brink of the stupendous precipice, he fell back unconscious; and afterward, while making the descent, his teeth so chattered with nervousness, that he placed his folded handkerchief between them. Yet when, on reaching the valley, he removed it, he found it had been cut through and through as with a razor. I cannot, certainly, lay claim to nervousness like that; but I could sympathize with one of our fellow-countrymen, against whose name on the hotel register I next day saw these words: "Thank God, we don't raise such hills as these in the State of New York!"

At the other side of the Gemmi, and almost at the base of these gigantic cliffs, there lies a little village. When I stood on the precipice above it, I thought that a pebble hurled thence from my hand would fall directly on its roofs; but in reality their distance from the cliffs was greater than it seemed. This village is the celebrated Leuk, whose baths have now acquired a world-wide reputation. Leuk has, however, this misfortune: so many strangers come here now to bathe, that many of the inhabitants themselves think that they can dispense with the luxury.

I never shall forget the baths of Leuk. Shades of the Mermaids! what a sight they presented. In a somewhat shabby hall, containing great compartments of hot water, I saw a multitude of heads—long-haired and short-haired, light and dark, male and female—bobbing about like buoys adorned with sea-weed. A fine chance this to study physiognomy, pure and simple. In front of these amphibious creatures were floating tables, upon which they could eat, drink, knit, read, and even play cards to pass away the time. As these waters are chiefly used for skin diseases, one might suppose that each bather would prefer a separate room; but no, in this case "misery loves company." The length of time which one must remain soaking in these tanks of hot water makes solitary bathing unendurable.

I asked one of these heads how long it had to float here daily. The mouth opened just above the water's edge and answered: "Eight hours, Monsieur; four before luncheon, and four before dinner; and, as after each bath we have to spend an hour in bed, ten hours a day are thus consumed."

It may seem incredible, but I assure the reader that some of these parboiled bathers actually sleep while in these tanks. I, myself, saw a head drooped backward as though severed from the body. Its eyes were closed; its mouth was slightly open; and from the nose a mournful sound came forth at intervals, which told me that the man was snoring. Before him, half-supported by the little table, half-bedraggled in the flood, was a newspaper. Bending over the rail, I read the title. Poor man! I no longer wondered that he slept. Those who have read the ponderous sheet will understand its soporific effect. It was a copy of the London _Times_.

After the baths of Leuk and the stupendous precipices of the Gemmi, it is a pleasure to approach a less imposing but more beautiful part of Switzerland,—Geneva and its lake. The bright, cream-colored buildings of the one present a beautiful contrast to the other's deep blue waves. Next to Stockholm and Naples, Geneva has, I think, the loveliest situation of any city in Europe. Curved, crescent-like, around the southwest corner of the lake, the river Rhone with arrowy swiftness cleaves it into two parts, thus furnishing the site for all the handsome quays and bridges which unite the various sections of the town.

What a surprising change has taken place in the appearance of the river Rhone since it first poured its waters into Lake Geneva at its other extremity, forty-five miles away! There it is muddy, dark, and travel-stained from its long journey down the valley. But here it has become once more as pure as when it left its cradle in the glaciers. Its sojourn in the lake has given it both beauty and increased vitality; and as it starts again upon its course and darts out from Geneva with renewed strength and speed, its waters are superbly blue and clear as crystal.

As it emerges from the lake, a sharp-pointed island confronts the rapid stream, as if awaiting its advance. Its station here before the city resembles that of some fair maid of honor who precedes a queen. It is called Rousseau's Island, in honor of the famous man whose birth the city claims. Geneva certainly should be grateful to him, for it was he who first made this fair lake renowned in literature, and called to it the attention of the world. In fact, he did almost as much to render famous this enchanting spot, as Scott did for the region of the Trosachs. Appropriately, therefore, a fine bronze statue of Rousseau has been erected on the island, the figure looking up the lake, like the presiding genius of the place.

One can with both pleasure and profit spend a fortnight in Geneva. Its well-kept and luxurious hotels all front upon the quays, and from your windows there (as from the Grand Hotel in Stockholm) you look upon an ever-varying panorama—a charming combination of metropolitan and aquatic life. Boats come and go at frequent intervals, accompanied by the sound of music. The long perspectives of the different bridges, full of animated life, afford perpetual entertainment; while, in dull weather, the attractive shops, in some respects unrivaled in the whole of Europe, tempt you, beyond your power to resist, to purchase music-boxes or enameled jewelry. After all, one's greatest pleasure here is to embark upon the lake itself. This famous body of water forms a beautiful blue crescent, forty-five miles in length and eight in breadth. Tyndall declared that it had the purest natural water ever analyzed; Voltaire called it the "First of Lakes;" Alexander Dumas compared it to the Bay of Naples; while Victor Hugo, Lamartine, and Byron have given it boundless praise in their glowing verse. It has been estimated that should the lake henceforth receive no further increase, while having still the river Rhone for its outlet, it would require ten years to exhaust its volume. It might be likened, therefore, to a little inland sea. In fact, a pretty legend says that the ocean-deity, Neptune, came one day to see Lake Leman, and, enraptured with its fresh young beauty, gave to it, on departing, his likeness in miniature. Moreover, it has another charm—that of historical association. Its shores have been the residence of men of genius. Both history and poetry have adorned its banks with fadeless wreaths of love and fame. Each hill that rises softly from its waves is crowned with some distinguished memory. Byron has often floated on its surface; and here he wrote some portions of "Childe Harold," which will be treasured to the end of time.

The poet Shelley narrowly escaped drowning in its waters. At one point Madame de Staël lived in exile; another saw Voltaire for years maintaining here his intellectual court; while at Lausanne, upon the memorable night which he has well described, Gibbon concluded his immortal work, "The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire." But of all portions of Lake Leman, that which charms one most is the neighborhood of Montreux and Vevey, and the historic Castle of Chillon. A poet's inspiration has made this place familiar to the world. No English-speaking traveler, at least, can look upon these towers, rising from the waves, without recalling Byron's "Prisoner of Chillon," and reciting its well-known lines:

"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."

This time-worn structure boasts a thousand years of story and romance. In fact, more than a thousand years ago, Louis le Débonnaire imprisoned here a traitor to his king. Here, also, five centuries ago, hundreds of Jews were tortured, and then buried alive, on the infamous suspicion of poisoning the wells of Europe. But of all the memories which cluster round its walls the most familiar is that of Bonnivard, the Swiss patriot, who languished for six years in its dark dungeon, till he was released by the efforts of his enthusiastic countrymen. During those gloomy years of captivity his jailers heard from him no cry and no complaint, save when some tempest swept the lake. Then, when the wind moaned, as if in sympathy, around the towers, and waves dashed high against the walls, they could distinguish sobs and cries, proving that, when apparently alone with God, the captive sought to give his burdened soul relief.

"Chillon! thy prison is a holy place,
And thy sad floor an altar—for 't was trod
Until his very steps have left a trace
Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod,
By Bonnivard!—May none those marks efface!
For they appeal from tyranny to God."

When finally his liberators burst into his cell, they found him pale and shadow-like, still chained to the column around which he had walked so many years. A hundred voices cried to him at once: "Bonnivard, you are free!" The prisoner slowly rose, and his first question was: "And Geneva?" "Free, also!" was the answer.

One night, some eighty years ago, a little boat came toward this castle, leaving behind it in its course a furrow silvered by the moon. As it reached the shore, there sprang from it a man enveloped in a long black cloak, which almost hid his feet from view. A close observer would have seen, however, that he limped slightly. He asked to see the historic dungeon, and lingered there an hour alone. When he had gone, they found on the stone column to which Bonnivard had been chained a new name carved. The traveler sees it there to-day. It is the name of Byron.