Chapter II: Part 2

Once back at Aigle, we must take the little local railway that crosses the Rhone and lands us at the quiet market town of Monthey, in Valais, and at the foot of the Dent du Midi, whence an electric mountain railway will take us to Champéry. The fault about mountain railways connected with the railways of the plain is that you are apt to go right through to your destination, thus missing much that is of interest _en route_. This applies to Monthey; for all around this cigar-manufacturing _bourg_ there is much that really repays a halt. So halt we will.

Passing through the marketplace and crossing the old covered wooden bridge spanning the Vièze—a swift little river hurrying to join the Rhone, and whose source is in the mountains beyond Champéry—and following the road which rises straight in front of us across steep chestnut-shaded slopes, we come to the delightful hamlet of Choëx, the elegant white steeple of whose small white church is so prominent a landmark from Bex. In spring and early summer this quiet retreat, perched high among the rolling woods at the base of the Dent du Midi, and with its broad view across the Rhone valley to Villars, Leysin, the Tour d’Aï, and the Diablerets, is very charming. There is here, too, a wonderful wealth of flowers beneath the chestnut trees and in the woods and fields; indeed the neighbourhood of Monthey is quite as interesting in this respect as is the neighbourhood of Bex, and it can produce certain gems that are strangers on the other side of the valley. Not far from the road at _Fin du Bruit_ an ancient Druid’s altar has been discovered: great formidable rocks placed mysteriously as if on purpose, with an underground cavern beneath, containing, among other prehistoric objects, a stone coffin with a skeleton inside. Also in this subterranean chamber may be seen a crack that extends upwards in the rock to beneath the altar-rock above-ground, and some years ago I was told by the custodian that it was through this crack that the priests shouted up the messages of the gods to the assembled and trembling people. This may have been so, for it only follows the lines of the old Egyptian oracles; but unfortunately the tendency is to fake, or to supplement by the aid of plausible imagination, all that is authentic in such remains as these, particularly when a charge is made for viewing them. At any rate I believe I am right in saying that the stone-coffined skeleton, although genuinely prehistoric, was not discovered where it now lies, but in the quarries on the other side of Monthey. However, it is possible that the owner of this skeleton in life was one who worshipped in fear and trembling at this sacrificial altar; and it is a fascinating process to picture on these quiet, flowered slopes the quaking half-clad crowd, the human victim prone upon the great rock-slab, the white-bearded, white-robed priest with fanatic eye and gleaming knife upturned to the heavens—and all the awful ritual of those ancient heathen ceremonies.

And now we must push on to

MORGINS

Of course the orthodox way nowadays is to take the train to the village of Troistorrents and then to walk or drive to Morgins. Personally I prefer to walk from Monthey, as in days past, keeping to the old cobbled road as much as possible;[17] or, better still, mounting the woods and forest which rise immediately from the _Pierre des Marmettes_, and then crossing the high pastures leading eventually down upon Morgins. This latter route, although unusual, is preferable by far for those lovers of Nature who are eager to reap all they can from the delightful scenery. And then, all the time to the left, for nearly five miles, towers the glorious Dent du Midi with its seven peaks. I imagine that there is no more individual, graceful, and arresting mountain in the Alps of the whole wide world. Like the Matterhorn, it stands out, a living personality amid its neighbour mountains. As among the many and striking peaks at Zermatt the eye rests at once and all but always upon the Matterhorn, so among the many and striking peaks in this district of the Rhone valley does the eye immediately rest upon the Dent du Midi. One never tires of it. It is the first and the last upon which one gazes; it is the first and the last that one remembers afterwards throughout one’s days. Neither chocolate boxes nor picture postcards can dim its great appealing beauty. No _telephote_ contortion of its exquisite proportions, in conjunction with an over-small Castle of Chillon, can destroy its repute and fascination. Whether it be seen in all its breadth from Montreux, Champéry, or Lac Champex, or as a single peak from Bex or St. Maurice, it is unique, inimitable. No wonder that it was Javelle’s first absorbing love; no wonder that Juste Olivier and Eugène Rambert were moved to voice its mastering charms; no wonder that, before these other wielders of poetic pens, Senancour made his home at its feet and wrote rhapsodically of it in his famous _Obermann_.

We have arrived at Morgins; or, at least, we have it now before us, lying below the slopes we are descending—sheltered, secluded, rustic little Morgins, with its encircling hills, its dark pine forests and ruddy stream, its hotels and châlets embedded in green, and its quiet deep-green lake lying beside the Col de Morgins, whence a road winds over into Savoy, down the Valley of Abondance to Evian and Thonon on the shores of Lac Léman.[18] The red iron waters of Morgins have been long famous in fighting anæmia, and the quietude of the place itself is sought in summer by those suffering from overwork. But of late it has acquired a new fame, almost, if not quite, eclipsing the old: a fame that Mr Arnold Lunn, one of the best known and most intrepid of ski-ers in the Alps, has consented to explain: the fame of

MORGINS IN THE SNOW

“The Englishman has marked out a few corners of the Alps as
being exclusively British. There are, however, neutral zones
where Britons and Continentals meet, but the Englishman keeps
in the main to certain well-known routes. You will find him at
Zermatt, at Grindelwald, at Binn, and at Arolla. At Champex
he will be outnumbered, and at Morgins he was, until quite
recently, entirely unknown. It was the discovery of Morgins as
a winter sports centre that brought the tardy Englishman to
this retiring valley.

“Years ago I had looked across the waters of Léman to the
range of fronting hills, and idly wondered whether some
hidden and silent valley lurked among their recesses. Leslie
Stephen’s “Bye Day in the Alps”, which I discovered in an
old _Cornhill_—it was not reprinted in the “Playground of
Europe”—gave form and personality to an outstanding sentinel
of these Savoy hills, but it was some time before I explored
for myself these outlying heights that guard the central
citadels of the Alps. Since then I have often revisited the
long defile that leads to Morgins.

“You reach Morgins by a curious little mountain railway that
connects Monthey and Champéry. At Troistorrents you leave
the train and prepare for a sleigh drive up the valley which
branches off to the right. Troistorrents is a characteristic
Alpine village. It lies in the heart of the Val d’Illiez,
one of the loveliest of Alpine glens, which is still quite
unspoiled. The big hotels of Champéry are hidden from view
and there is nothing to disturb the quiet music of the three
streams that meet below the parish church, and give to
Troistorrents its name. Of course the chief glory of this
valley is the incomparable Dent du Midi. This mountain, or
rather this grouping of separate and successive rock towers,
has a curious fascination; it is so distinctive. There are
domes not unlike Mont Blanc, pyramids that resemble the
Matterhorn, peaks very like the Weisshorn; but in the whole
Alpine range you will find no match to the Dent du Midi. Its
outline is unique. Its history is interesting, and considering
its moderate height it has attracted a very large share of
Alpine literature. Like so many mountains, it was first climbed
by the parish priest of a neighbouring valley.[19] Its
conquest occurred in 1784. Sixty years later five men of the
Valais climbed the beautiful eastern peak that rises like a
lion above the towers of Bex. The last turret, the Eperon, only
yielded its secret as late as 1892.

“Those who have read Javelle’s delightful Alpine memoirs will
remember the fascination which this peak influenced on the
great climber. ‘I am completely captivated,’ he writes, ‘by the
Dents du Midi … is there anything astonishing in it? For two
years it has been before my eyes every moment of the day.[20]
The eastward aspect of my window provided that the first image
on which my waking eyes should rest was its graceful and
slender profile. At table a malicious fate had chosen my place
so well that between my two opposite companions the seven peaks
of the _arête_ were visible to me in a frame. What I specially
love is the eastern peak. She may not be the highest, but is
she not the proudest, the slenderest, the most beautiful? Is it
not the peak which gives the mountain all its character, and,
in spite of the few metres by which her western sister overtops
her, is it not she who first strikes the beholder and who
dwells in the memory?’”

“Let us first dispose of the rough guidebook facts. Let me tell
you that Morgins is 4800 feet above the sea level; that it
enjoys more than its fair share of snow; that it is one of the
great ski-ing centres of the Alps; and that the sun can find
its way to the rink during the best part of the day, while it
discreetly keeps off the northern ski-ing slopes save for a
short interval too brief to damage the snow.

“Each winter sport centre has its own peculiar atmosphere. Life
at Morgins is comparatively peaceful. We danced, of course;
we played the usual absurd games—trundling the potato and so
forth—but we were unmolested by a potato-trundling committee
with a special and peculiar badge. We were not troubled by
those who come to the winter Alps in order that they may
bask in the sun. The men of Morgins were built of sterner
stuff. Morgins will go down to history as the home of a great
renaissance. The English School of Skaters, driven out of
their old shrines, have founded a new Temple at Morgins. I do
not know much about skating myself, though I believe I am the
worst skater that ever passed the third-class test, but I am
told by those who do that English skating reflects our national
characteristics with most uncanny acuteness. I gather that
the main difference between the two schools is ethical. The
foreigner, when he wishes to make a ‘3’ turn, waves his arms,
kicks his leg into the air, sways his body, and in general
advertises his skill with no little success. The ladies
stand round and applaud, while the English skater curls a
contemptuous upper lip. Not for him the vulgar _réclame_. Body
stiff, unemployed leg gummed firmly into his trousers, arms
rigid … a twinkle of the shoulder blade … a slight movement of
the little finger … and the hardest of ‘B’ turns is a thing of
the discreetly successful past … no ladies stop and applaud …
only the initiated can detect the amazing skill involved in
this modest performance. The aim of the Continental school is
to emphasize apparent difficulty. The ideal of the English
school is to conceal difficulty. They skate for the joy of
the thing, careless of applause. The strong silent reserve
of the Briton that scorns vulgar advertisement finds perfect
expression in the sedate, dignified curves of the English
school … I hope I have made myself clear.

“But this is not an article on the rise and fall and subsequent
renaissance of the chaste and refined school of skating. I must
content myself with stating that Morgins is the winter home of
the great apostle of the counter-reformation. Mr. Humphry Cobb
pilots his novices into the true faith. Mr. Cobb and Rudolph
Bauman between them could make ice at the Equator, and the rink
at Morgins is all that devotion and genius can achieve. Ice
making, as Bauman understands the craft, is one of the fine
arts.

“But it is as a ski-ing centre that Morgins is famous. The
classic expedition is, of course, the Porte du Soleil. A
mighty host left for this pass the morning after my arrival.
In the night it had rained at other centres which shall be
nameless, but at Morgins, which is a well-behaved spot, it
had snowed, and the old crust was covered with a beautiful
dusting of fresh snow some two or three inches deep. It was a
glorious day. The clouds, that so often drift up after rain,
rested on the summits of the hills, and showed through casual
openings the blue sky of an Alpine winter. We wandered slowly
up a narrow valley, along a stream gagged with the covering of
snowdrifts, between pines that had not yet shaken off the new
load of snow. We soon branched off to the left, and marched
up open slopes to a little châlet, where we had lunch. Here
he who had carried the beer had an opportunity of testing the
ratio of potential thirst as anticipated in the valley, when
the rücksacks were being packed, with the actual thirst as
exhibited on the mountain-side, when rücksacks were unloaded.
After the customary pipe, and the still more customary remarks,
such as ‘Who would believe that one could sit in the sun with
one’s coat off in mid winter;’ or ‘Fancy the poor fellows
grinding away in their city offices;’ or again, ‘Just think of
the …’; after, in short, we had smoked all the tobacco that
there was, drunk all the beer that there was, made all the
quips that there were, ruptured all the infinitives that were
still united, and exhausted every cliché dear to those who
describe the Alps in winter—after all this (the proper ritual
of a ski-ing lunch) we turned upwards once more and marched
gaily forward to meet the pass. A long upward stretch brought
us to the foot of the last slope, a few more tacks and the Dent
du Midi shot out beyond the portals of the sun. At any time
this view must be singularly beautiful; as we saw it the vision
from the pass had a peculiar loveliness. Fleecy clouds driven
up by the breeze, ‘shepherded by the slow, unwilling wind’,
rested on the highest snows without materially restricting the
view. The battlements of the Dent du Midi were free from haze,
and the upper reaches of the Val d’Illiez, sadly brown, formed
a satisfying contrast to the snowy slopes round Morgins. Poor
Champéry! Scores of disconsolate exiles, thirsting for the real
winter, deserted Champéry for Morgins during the course of the
winter.

“Of the descent it is hard to speak with decent restraint.
There are some two thousand feet leading direct from the
pass to the glen. As we found them the snow was in perfect
condition. One put one’s ski together and let gravity do the
rest. You start off with a thousand feet of easy, gradual
slopes, which you can take nearly straight. There is not a
single difficulty to give one pause; it is all plain sailing,
or rather plain ski-ing. Then comes a slight ascent, promptly
followed by one of the best bits of running in the district.
If you can take this stretch of some thousand feet without
using your sticks or pulling up you are something of a runner.
You begin with a gentle swoop down into a hollow, you swing
round by a telemark or stemming turn, and then you have a wide
choice of some good snow for the next lap. Follows a somewhat
steep slope, which will give you a chance of putting in four
sharp curves; swing round to the right, and then take the
last stretch of a hundred feet straight, and wind up with a
Christiania before the stream. The rest of the run home is not
so good, but it affords some very excellent short bits and some
pretty work through the woods.

“An alternative to this expedition is to cross the Porte du
Soleil to Champéry. You start with a stiffish traverse, and
then spin down some divine slopes to the Col de Coux, winding
up with a run down an easy pass to Champéry. In a good season,
when there is plenty of snow at Champéry, this run is well
worth making. After an excellent light repast at Champéry you
return by road to Troistorrents, quite enjoyable ski-ing of its
kind, and then home either on foot or by sleigh. Or you might
sleep at Champéry and return the next day over the same pass.

“The second expedition was almost as good as the Porte du
Soleil. In fact I am inclined to give it the place of honour.
Much the same party started off quite gaily for the Bellevue.
We climbed steepish sunny slopes above the hotel for a couple
of hours to a typical little châlet, where we had lunch. One
of the party was something of an epicure, and he had provided
himself with a spirit lamp, and so we had the benefit of hot
tea—a great luxury. After lunch two of us climbed still higher,
to the actual summit. It was well worth the slight additional
toil. The view was lovelier than I had anticipated. The
Bellevue is well placed, as it commands the great giants of the
Pennine Alps. In the west Mont Blanc towered into a stainless
sky. The Dent du Midi showed up well above Champéry, and beyond
on the left the Combin showed terrace upon terrace of dazzling
snows. I fancy we also saw the Weisshorn and Dent Blanche,
but I am not certain on these points. Certainly the chiefs of
the Oberland greeted us from beyond the Diablerets, and my
companion hailed with joy the cone of the Wetterhorn, which
he had climbed in earlier days. At our feet lay the long arm
of Geneva, and we made out with interest Chillon’s snow-white
battlements. The winter resorts above Montreux looked woefully
brown and bare of snow, and we turned with satisfaction to
contrast them with the white slopes of Morgins. We were more
than ever convinced that Morgins enjoys even more snow than a
place of its very respectable altitude deserves. The view from
the Bellevue has the charm of the prospects from those lesser
summits of the Alps that are not too near the greater peaks to
be overshadowed, nor too remote to lose the essential majesty
of the greater giants. The blending of lake and forest, quiet
snow-clad hills, and forest-bound cliffs has a charm lacking in
the innermost recesses of the chain. The descent to the châlet
was very fine. The first hundred feet required some care, but
this was followed by a long slope just steep enough to take
at full speed without any fear of a fall. A gentle swing and
a beautiful piece of snow brought us back to the rest of the
party. We then spent a merry half-hour or so practising swings,
and once more turned to the pass between the Bellevue and
the Corbeau. This brought us on to the northern slopes, and
a perfect dive over steep, but not too steep, gradients led
to an opening in the wood, and by the time we had run through
the forest we felt that we had acquitted ourselves tolerably
well, and enjoyed some capital sport. But there was much good
snow still to furrow. Some long, open slopes of good snow gave
plenty of opportunity to put into practice the swings and turns
we had been performing so gaily after lunch. These ended, the
snow became worse, and the last short stretch into the valley
was not a joy; we had descended some distance below Morgins,
and had pierced the belt below which rain had descended instead
of welcome snow. This short bit was of very brief duration, and
only served to accentuate the glorious running above. At Vonne
we had a cup of tea and some delightful honey, and so home
across the short road pass.

“These are the only two expeditions which I can vouch for from
personal knowledge. But unless the map lies, and unless other
runners at Morgins also speak the thing which is not, there
must be a number of other expeditions up to this standard.
There are fine slopes between Vonne and Chatel, and a jolly
expedition can be made to La Chapelle. The Val de Morgins and
its bounding hills still offer plenty of prizes to the diligent
explorer after new routes, and the pass at the head of the
valley should certainly be crossed. For the mountaineer there
are fine high-level routes to Salvan, Sixt, and Chamonix, and I
fancy that the Dent du Midi would yield to a determined attack,
but I should advise the ski-runner to tackle it from the south
side, and not from Champéry. It is best attacked in winter from
the Salanfe side, though this hardly comes into the category
of Morgins excursions. The rocks of the Dent Jaune have a
southern aspect, and should go quite well in winter.

“But Morgins has other things to offer the visitor besides
the best ski-ing in this part of the Alps. (My own private
conviction is that the ski-ing at Morgins will take a lot of
beating, go where you will.) There is an excellent skating
and curling rink, beautifully placed, within full reach of
the sun’s attack. Mr. E. F. Benson thought very highly of the
situation and upkeep of the rink. Then there is some very good
tobogganing, and I believe an ice-run is to be built another
winter. There are some glorious rambling walks. You can slip
over to France in half an hour and take tea at Vonne; and in
the evening there are all the amusements associated with life
in winter-sports hotels. There is bridge for the sedate, and
bumps for the elderly, and dances for children and Nature’s
children, of whom there were not a few to be found within a
mile of Morgins. And there is—but why add to this catalogue of
good things? Those who have gone to Morgins once will return
there, and those who have not will soon seek out this valley in
the Savoy hills, and find a certain reward.

“ARNOLD LUNN.”

CHAMPÉRY

Time presses, and to gain Champéry we must either pass over the Col de la Chavanette or else go back to Troistorrents and thence by the village of Val d’Illiez. Like Villars, Champéry has experienced phenomenal development within the past few years. Although for long it has been patronized as a delightful summer resort, it has more than doubled its importance since its condition in winter was discovered to be anything but disagreeable. This, of course, has been the common experience of such places over almost the whole of Alpine Switzerland, and it appears to synchronize with the arrival of the ski from the north. The _luge_ has done something, and so has the bobsleigh, towards Switzerland’s new-found prosperity in winter; but the ski has contributed the most. Nor has the ski brought a revelation only to visitors; it has caused even the peasantry to take a new delight in their surroundings. At Champéry, for instance, one may see not alone the men and boys, but also the women and girls—wearing businesslike trousers—practising the art on the rapid snow-slopes.[21] Yet it is but yesterday that the only outdoor winter distraction here was luging down the village street and over the snow-covered pastures; whilst strangers were noticeable by their almost entire absence. It was in those quiet days at Champéry, and about Christmas-time, that was enacted one of the most impressive, haunting scenes that ever I have witnessed in the Alps. Two young men from Lausanne (if memory serves me, one was an American) started from Salvan to walk over the Col de Susanfe (about 7500 feet) to Champéry. As nothing more was heard from them, parties of guides from both Salvan and Champéry started out to find them. The search was ineffectual for several days, but at length the bodies of the poor fellows were found below the Pas d’Ancel. I shall never forget the sight, as the bodies, wrapped in sacking, were brought upon hand-sledges through the village after nightfall—the weird light of the torches upon the snow and the awed faces of the villagers; the sturdy band of guides, sad-visaged and weary; and the tense silence of it all nothing but the scrunch of frozen snow and the bated prayers of women. Here was one of those strong, aery scenes which bring one face to face with the grim side of life in the Alps, and with the people’s stanch devotion, however difficult, however daunting.

It may be that I look upon things Alpine with the particular eye of the enthusiast for solitude; at any rate I think that Champéry, in spite of its great gaiety and _entrain_ in winter and summer, is really its most radiant, loveliest self in spring and autumn. The lofty precipices of the Dent du Midi, the great rock-masses of the Dent de Bonaveau and the Dents Blanches are scarcely more bewitching or inspiring than when dressed in the first snows of autumn or the receding snows of spring. With what transporting shine and fire does the Dent du Midi reflect the autumn sunset; with what arresting energy do the Dents Blanches in spring rid themselves of their winter covering! Never can ravishing dreamland seem so real, so concrete, as when, amid autumn’s soft, white, drifting mists, the snowy summits of the Dent du Midi glow clear coral-pink and crimson; never is the renewal of life proclaimed more loudly or impressively than when, beyond a calm foreground of glistening crocus and dainty soldanella, titanic avalanches hurl themselves upon the plateau of Barmaz.

Champéry and its surroundings are a nest of beauty-spots, in which flowers flash and sparkle like a myriad jewels. Unfortunately no space remains for detailing these many charms; even not to tell where the white rhododendron grows. There is, however, one spot that cannot pass without some notice: the exquisite _vallon_ of Susanfe, by which climbers usually ascend the Dent du Midi. Small as it is, it has all the sweet severity and wild attractiveness of true Alpine circumstance. Barmaz may possess a potent lure, so may the Col de Coux and the Porte du Soleil, but untamed, unspoilt Susanfe, though more difficult of access, is pre-eminently seductive; it is, in fact, the outstanding jewel in this neighbourhood of Champéry. Desolation is there, to be sure, in the hanging glacier and lingering snow, the gaunt rock precipices and tumbled boulders, the avalanche-swept turf, and cold-grey screes; but there, also, are the myriad flowers of brightest Alpine hues, the swift and babbling stream rushing to throw itself into the abyss below Bonaveau, the little blue-green icy lake bordered in part by walls of sunlit snow, and over all the glorious solitude at times quite awesome.

Once upon a spotless autumn day I was sketching there belated spring flowers next the snow. All was still, save for the _peek-peek_ of some small linnet-like mountain bird among the boulders by the glacier-stream, and the occasional shrill alarm-cry of marmots disturbed whilst collecting grass for making tight and snug their prospective winter quarters sounds which, with their echoes, merely accentuated the prevailing silence. Then of a sudden the air was rent as if by a terrible explosion, and, looking up, I saw tons upon tons of sea-green ice split from the glacier and come roaring, hurtling down over the rock-wall. The noise for a while was deafening. Then all once again was silent, with nothing to tell of the giant uproar but the amethyst-blue scar above the precipice. Never in my life have I felt solitude so acutely; never have I felt so insignificant and paltry. Not far off among the edelweiss, I knew, was a shepherd and his flock of three or four hundred sheep; but in the presence of this devastating force of “inert” nature, solitude and loneliness were mine in all their belittling power.

“I am just now, as you may see,
Very unfit to put so strange a thought
In an intelligible dress of words;
But take it as my trust.”

FOOTNOTES

[1] See _Lausanne_ in this series.

[2] Champéry 1049 metres; Villars 1256 metres.

[3] See _Lucerne_ in this series.

[4] This was at a time when the bulls were let out by day. Now there is restriction upon the liberty of these uneven-tempered animals.

[5] Geologists hold that in the remote past these two mountains were connected and formed a continuous chain.

[6] Goethe, who visited St. Maurice with the Duke of Weimar in 1779, probably saw this treasure, as do most visitors, but his mind seems to have been greatly occupied by the bad state of the roads.

[7] The Croix de Javernaz may be seen in the picture of the Dent de Morcles taken from Bex in spring.

[8] The hot, drying south wind from Italy. Sometimes up at Villars one can hear it roaring down below in the valley as it rushes through the gap at St. Maurice.

[9] See _Lausanne_ in this series.

[10] Hopeless pessimists there are everywhere and in every domain, but if there is one quarter of the globe where their unqualified discourse is out of place it is in the Alps. On the fiftieth anniversary (1913) of the Swiss Alpine Club there were those who did not hesitate to say: “Close your doors; your usefulness is past!” Just fancy! Why, the club was never more virile in its life; never more youthful; never more useful! The Alps have still much to give and tell men; in fact, as regards the generality of mankind, they are a mine of physical health and mental wealth that so far has only been scratched. And the club is needed to this end.

[11] There are a number of Forclazs in the Alps. This one is a small village below the Chamossaire and facing Sépey.

[12] The rare excellence of the ice is in no small measure due to the insistent care of the Vice-President of the Skating Club, Mr. A. G. Topham. Colonel Cobbett, Hon. Sec. of the National Skating Association, is a member of the Villars Sports Club.

[13] Mr. A. Henderson Bishop, Vice-President of the Royal Caledonian Curling Club, is President of the Villars Curling Club, and Captain Holmes Tarn is Patron.

[14] See _Lausanne_ in this series.

[15] Let there be no misunderstanding among the uninitiated: these skeletons are a form of _luge_, which is a Swiss toboggan.

[16] This admirable custom also finds a place at Villars and Champéry. For their pleasures in the Alps visitors owe much to the kindliness of the Swiss people, however much may be said about the manifest benefit brought to the country by its so-called _industrie des étrangers_. It makes for less heartburnings and more good fellowship to bring the Swiss themselves into the circle of our enjoyment in their Fatherland; and it is a thoughtful attention that would bear extension.

[17] These rough and steep old roads are met with all over Switzerland, where they are crossed and recrossed by the modern, less rapid, and more circuitous tourist roads. Many of them probably date back to Roman times, if not further, and are very suggestive of the extreme hardship and toil of peasant life in the past—that sturdy peasant life which has done so much to make Switzerland what it is.

[18] See _Lausanne_ in this series.

[19] The curé of Champéry.

[20] Javelle was a schoolmaster at Vevey, on Lac Léman.

[21] The old custom of wearing trousers for outdoor work by the women and girls of Champéry is not as usual now as it used to be when strangers were rare in the land. By their manner of regarding this sensible costume, visitors occasioned shyness; indeed, I believe that some years ago the parish priest advised the women not to wear trousers except in the dead season or upon the higher pastures.

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN

_At the Villafield Press, Glasgow, Scotland_

End of Project Gutenberg's Villars and its Environs, by George Flemwell