Scenes in Switzerland by American Tract Society
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American Tract Society >> Scenes in Switzerland
Presently they came in sight of a magnificent castle, its walls white
and glistening; while the sunlight glinting against the deep windows,
flashed and scintillated like a bed of diamonds. As they came nearer,
the lady left the broad road, and wound along a narrow path, and came
to a little postern gate, and up a broad marble terrace, with
sparkling fountains, and with flowers brighter than he had seen
before, and birds of gay plumage flashing their beauty through the
tree-tops. At the top of the terrace she gave him into the care of an
elderly man, with a white flowing beard and eyes full of tenderness. A
few words were said, and the old man took Franz by the hand and led
him into a room, the floor of which was marble, smooth as glass, while
the walls were green and gold. In the centre was a marble basin or
pool, with steps leading down; the atmosphere was dim by reason of a
sweet and subtle perfume rising from the water. Franz was hardly
conscious till he came out of the bath; then his hair was carefully
dressed, and a new suit of clothes was brought him.
He had only time to look at himself in the mirror, when the lady
returned. She was dressed in a rich white silk, covered with lace and
sprinkled with pearls and diamonds. On her head she wore a crown;
bright and sparkling as it was, it was not half so beautiful as the
sweet face that beamed below it. The deep traces of sorrow were gone,
she looked like one happy in the consciousness of a good deed done,
and a sweet smile was on her lip as she held out her hand to Franz.
Together they walked down the marble hall and up the broad staircase,
on through rows of stately ladies and martial-looking men, the crowd
opening and bowing as they passed.
At length they came to a room larger, more magnificent than the rest.
Persian carpets covered the floor, and the windows were draped with
blue and gold. On a dais at the extremity of the room was an oaken
chair of quaint device, in which sat a proud-looking man, pale and
careworn as though weary of so much state and ceremony.
"My child," said the prince, "Do you feel like playing for me? I am
too weak to go to the cathedral, and I fancy if I can hear you play I
shall feel better."
Franz was a timid boy, but he loved to please. He was always ready to
play for his father. He glanced at the lady, there was a sweet smile
resting on her face. Dropping on his knee Franz kissed the hand of the
prince. "I will do my best, since you are so good as to ask me."
Franz looked up, and saw what he had not seen before, an organ quite
like the one his father so loved.
"Play just as you do in the old cathedral," whispered the lady, and
then she seated herself in a chair by the side of the prince. Franz
saw nothing but the keys, he heard nothing but the sweet soul harmony,
and this he must interpret to the beautiful lady and the sick prince
by means of his instrument. How long he played he never knew, but when
he ceased a slight hand lay on his shoulder, and a sweet face bent
above him.
"To do good, Franz, is the secret of happiness. This power is yours,
and so long as you use it, so long you will be happy. The dear,
heavenly Father watches over and cares for those whose lives are given
for the good of others." Saying this she led him away to the prince.
But what was Franz's surprise! beside him on his right hand were
Franz's father and mother, no longer blind, but dressed in costly
robes, their faces radiant with happiness, while Nanette looked
charmingly, in a white gauze dress and silver slippers. Franz was
bewildered, not knowing whether to advance towards the prince, or to
run and embrace his parents.
"This is the reward of obedience to your parents," said the lady,
kissing the boy's white forehead.
* * * * *
The light of day came streaming through the tower window--the child
awoke. It was cold. A chill ran through his frame. He had been in the
cathedral all night, and his parents--what anguish they must have
endured. Hastily as his numbed limbs would allow, he went down the
stairs. A few worshippers were bowing before the altar; Franz dropped
on his knees a moment, and then ran with all his speed out of the door
and down the street.
Very glad were Franz's parents when he returned, and Nanette wept for
joy; but when at breakfast he related his dream, the face of the old
organist lit up with a great hope.
"I know, my boy, it will all come true. So long as we love and trust
Him, the good Christ will not leave us to suffer."
Christmas had come. There were no presents for Franz and Nanette. Only
one could they make, and this was a nice, warm dressing-gown for their
blind father.
One day a beautiful lady took refuge in the cottage; her carriage had
broken down, and she must stop till the postilion could return to the
castle. At the cottage she heard Franz play and Nanette sing, and
listened to the blind organist, as the cathedral bells broke on the
evening air.
"You must come with me," said the lady. "We have been planning
concerts at the castle, and you shall give them."
"My children are not old enough to go by themselves, and I am blind,"
replied the father.
"I will not deprive you of your children," said the lady; "my father
has influence. And besides, he has near him an eminent physician; it
is possible something can be done to restore your sight."
In three days the lady returned, and carried Herr Hoffner with his
wife and children to the castle. Charmed with the young musicians, the
elector repented of the thoughtless deed, in depriving the father of
his position as kappelmeister. Very tenderly did he treat him now, and
under the care of the skilful physician, it was soon announced there
was hope of his recovering his sight. This done, he was once more
offered the position; but Herr Hoffner was a just man; to do by
others as he would be done by was his motto. Herr Von Stein had filled
the post acceptably; it was no fault of his that the old organist had
lost his place. Herr Hoffner would not accept it, but only asked that
he might be allowed to give concerts with his children. Franz labored
diligently at his studies, and already was he beginning to surprise
his friends, not only with his playing, but with his composition.
Years passed: there was a great gathering in that grand old capital. A
musical festival was in progress, and all the celebrities the world
over had congregated there. Franz Hoffner was in the zenith of his
glory. At the close of the performance, and while the entire audience
joined in acclamations of praise to the youthful leader, a rich medal
was presented. On one side the profile view of the elector and his
daughter, set round with diamonds; on the other, "Music is only
valuable as it lifts the heart and purifies our fallen nature."
Franz Hoffner lived to be a great musician; but he never ceased to
think of his parents and Nanette. Honors were empty, and applause
vain, only so far as they contributed to the happiness of those he
loved.
The Glaciers Of Savoy
After a few weeks passed in Geneva, we determined to go on to
Chamouni, and for this purpose engaged a guide accustomed for years to
the mountain passes, and on whom we were told that we could rely
implicitly.
This being arranged, we took a last drive around the environs of the
city; the views of the lake and of the mountains in every direction,
were enchanting and sublime. From the head of the lake, a greater
variety of interesting objects met the eye than can be seen perhaps
from any other spot in Europe. At your feet you behold a venerable and
populous city; while a vast and beautiful lake spreads its clear waves
beyond, amid a landscape rich in all the products a cultivated soil
can furnish; while vast and gloomy mountains stretch their giant forms
on high. In clear weather, Mont Blanc appears the venerable monarch of
the Alps. Below this, Saleve rises to upwards of three thousand feet,
with the uninterrupted length of the Jura on the left, whose highest
point is over four thousand. Proceeding along the banks of the Arve,
we at length alighted at the entrance of a thicket, through which we
made our way with difficulty, the path being hilly and very slippery,
to a place where we saw at our feet the celebrated junction of the
Arve and the Rhone. The Arve has a thick soapy appearance; the Rhone
is of a fine dark green, and seems for a while to spurn a connection
with its muddy visitor. For two or three miles the Rhone keeps up its
reserve, and the rivers roll side by side, without mingling their
waters. At length they meet and blend: the distinction is lost, the
polluted Arve is absorbed in the haughty and majestic Rhone.
We were to leave Geneva the next morning. Before night our guide came:
he was ill, would we take his son? The proposition did not please us;
it was a dangerous journey, and many had been lost in the mountain
passes.
"Erwald knows as much of the passes as I do," said the father, "and he
is anxious to go; his sister lives at Maglan, and she is down with the
fever."
I saw how it was. Erwald was to go to Maglan to visit his sister; and
if the father could arrange for him to go with us, of course he
himself would be free to make another engagement.
"Do you feel sure that you can guide us safely?" I asked of Erwald.
"Certainly, monsieur; I have been over the way many times. If I was
not quite sure, I would not offer to go."
"Not if you could gain a good many francs by going?"
"It would not be right to say to you that I knew the way, if I did
not."
The boy's face was attractive, his voice gentle, and his blue eyes
full of tenderness. His look and his answer delighted me.
"No, it would not be right, Erwald; and because you love the right and
feel sure that you can serve us, I will take you in your father's
place."
"I am glad, very glad; and now I must see my mother. Vesta is sick and
she will be glad to see any one from home."
Erwald's face was glowing; I turned to the father.
"Erwald is a good child," he said. "At first we felt vexed with him
and Vesta for leaving the church, and not a few times did we punish
them. But they were so good and patient that it troubled us; and now
their mother is a Protestant, and I never go to mass."
It was explained, the serene calm of the earnest blue eyes: Erwald was
a Christian.
Early in the morning our guide made his appearance. His countenance
sweet and pleasing as it was the night previous. He was accompanied by
a little woman in a black gown and bodice, with a high cap and the
whitest of kerchiefs--a mild sweet-faced woman, whom we knew at once
as his mother.
"You'll tell Vesta mother thinks of her all the time, and prays the
Father every hour to make her well again."
On my asking if she was not afraid to have her son go on so dangerous
a journey, she answered:
"Our Father will take care of him and bring him back to us."
The simple faith of the good woman struck me as greatly to be desired.
With all her simplicity she had the true Wisdom: and her good motherly
face went with me long after I left Erwald in Chamouni.
A few miles from Geneva, we entered Savoy. Here the scenery of the
Alps began to open before us. On the right the Arve was seen winding
through a cultivated and luxuriant valley; on both sides, hills and
rooks rose to a considerable elevation, and behind, the mountains of
the Jura range closed in grandeur the delightful view. We passed
through a succession of peaceful villages, and at length reached by a
long avenue of elms the little town of Bonneville on the Arve. The
town is embosomed in the mountains, and watered by the river. It
has a fine old bridge over the river from which the country is viewed
to great, advantage. On the right the mole is elegantly formed, and
terminates in a peak, a complete contrast to Mont Brezon on the left,
wild and savage in its aspect, and little more than a bare and rugged
rock with occasional pitches of verdure.
[Illustration]
From Bonneville the road passes over the bridge to the foot of the
mole, and traverses a lovely valley, hemmed in by lofty mountains, and
rich in scenes of pastoral beauty. The road is lined on each side with
walnut-trees, which afford a grateful shade. Passing the village of
Sigony, Erwald pointed to the remains of an old convent far up the
mountain, whose inmates were wont to welcome the traveller, when these
valleys, destitute of good roads and inns, were explored with
difficulty and with danger.
From this place the mountains closed upon us; rocks began to overhang
the road, and the Arve was rather heard than seen. At length we
crossed a romantic looking bridge and entered the little town of
Cluse, enclosed on both sides by rocky ramparts, and sheltered equally
from sunbeams and from storms. Following the various windings of the
valley, the Arve seemed to spread itself into a series of lakes, each
presenting its own peculiar loveliness and majesty. The sides of the
mountains were occasionally bare and rugged, but for the most part
they were clothed with forests of fir; while above, pointed summits
and fantastic crags everywhere met the eye, and filled the beholder
with admiration and awe.
A few miles up the valley, Erwald called our attention to the entrance
of the cavern of Balme. It is a natural gallery in the rock and well
worth a visit. The valley now becomes more spacious; while its
boundaries increase in grandeur. The meadows, adorned with groves of
beech-trees, rise in gentle swells from the verge of the Arve, and
spread their green carpet, dotted with cottages and watered by
innumerable streams, to the base of the neighboring heights. At one of
these cottages we rested for the night. I never dreamed of a fairer
scene; it was too beautiful for sleep; the murmurings of the Arve were
the only sounds that broke upon the ear, while all around tremendous
precipices rose to heaven, shutting out from us the cares and tumults
of the busy world. To pay for my enthusiasm I arose with a headache
and a feeling of weariness that sensibly diminished the enjoyment of
the morning.
Leaving this enchanted spot, we passed the waterfall D'Orli, and a
few miles beyond we paused to admire the cataract of Arpenas. Its
height is estimated at eight hundred feet. The water rushes with
considerable volume over a tremendous precipice of dark and fantastic
rocks. At first it divides into separate streams that in their fall
resemble descending rockets, till at length, caught by the rocks
beneath, they meet and mingle in one mass of foam.
At the cataract we had an instance of that deception which is produced
to the eye by the magnitude of the objects which compose the scenery
of these Alpine regions. Viewed from the road the fall did not appear
by any means so considerable as it measurement determines; while at
its foot there was a little green hillock to the summit of which it
seemed a few steps would reach. To this hillock we determined to
proceed. But what was our astonishment when we found a mountain
before us, and when we reached its top, the cataract loomed up in
inconceivable vastness, rushing into a wild abyss beneath, that
deafened us with its uproar and bedewed us with its spray.
We now approached the village of Maglan, where Vesta lived. As we drew
near, I observed Erwald's face flush and grow pale; that dear sister
he had not seen since his father drove her from the house because of
her apostasy. Now she was ill and had sent for him. How great the
change! His mother was a Christian and his father did not go to mass.
As we entered the village I was struck with the pleasing, intelligent
faces of all that we met. Leaving us at the door of the only
lodging-house in the place, Erwald went to visit his sister; but not
before I had asked that he would return for me provided that he found
her comfortable. In an hour or more, he returned, his countenance
sad, but still peaceful. Vesta was sicker than he had dreamed of; it
was feared that she would not recover.
"Do you think it will not hurt her, for me to see her?" I asked.
"Oh, no, she said that she would like to see you."
During our short walk few words were said. As we reached the cottage a
young man came out to meet us, with a flaxen-haired, blue-eyed child
in his arms, and another clinging to his hand. It was Vesta's husband,
and these were her children. Following them into the cottage, I found
myself at once in the presence of the dying woman. The sight of a
strange face did not disturb her. With a look that seemed to
comprehend the Christian bond of union between us she held out her
hand.
"I have come with Erwald," I said, "to see his sister. I am sorry to
find you so very ill."
"Almost home," she gasped.
"You do not feel that you are alone; there is One to walk with you?"
"Jesus, my Redeemer, my Comforter."
Erwald was kneeling by the bed, his eyes were full of tears, and his
hand trembled as he clasped the pale thin fingers.
"You will get well, Vesta, you will come to the old home once again,
mother expects you, and father." The words were gone. Sobs echoed
through the cottage.
"Tell mother, not an hour but I have thought of her. Tell her that I
am glad she loves Jesus; and father, ask him for my sake to read the
little Bible that I sent him. I would so like to see them, Erwald;
but it cannot be. For this, as well as for my husband and children, I
would live; but I go to Jesus. Live so as to meet me there."
There was no excitement, only a weary look stole over the face.
Leaving Erwald, I walked back to the inn. Though far away from home,
and surrounded by strange scenery and strange people, it was
delightful to find the same faith here as in my own home, the same
heaven inspired confidence in the Redeemer.
The next morning the sick woman was more comfortable. Erwald did not
say it, but I knew that he wanted to stay with her.
"Go with us to Le Prieure," I said to him, "and then you shall return.
In the valley of Chamouni I feel sure we can procure a guide."
As we left Maglan, our road, or rather path, led up a deep and fertile
valley, watered by the Arve, rich in woods of fir, and bounded by
mountains of various forms and of tremendous altitudes; their rugged
peaks sometimes lost in the clouds; at others, their heads towered in
majesty above them. Bathed in the blue ether of the heavens they
looked as if themselves ethereal, oftentimes exhibiting a play of
colors, having the appearance of transparent matter, of the purest
elements and richest hues, and when seen in the light of the setting
sun they were only more glorious. At the upper end of the valley we
came upon the cataract of the Chede. It is elegant in form. The
scenery that surrounds it is sylvan and sequestered. The torrent that
feeds it rushes down a succession of precipices, hurrying dashing
along to meet the waters of the Arve.
The path now became extremely difficult, and we continued to ascend,
till we reached the lake of Chede, whose water is famed as the purest
in the Alps. From this point we saw Mont Blanc--saw the clouds roll
off, and leave its rugged head white with the snows of ages--a
beautiful contrast with the deep azure of the sky it seemed almost to
touch. Looking, our eyes were dazzled by the vast and spotless object
before us; pure and fleecy as were the light clouds that lingered
round it, they were dark compared with its glittering brightness;
while the obscurity in which the lower scenes were wrapt gave it the
appearance of a crystal mountain in a sea of clouds. With Erwald
standing at my side, it seemed but a step from earth to heaven,
through those regions of the purest white, untrodden solitudes, meet
only for the visits of celestial beings.
Thus far our way had been comparatively safe. Now, we had need of
caution at each step; scrambling along ledges of lofty rocks, with
deep ravines beneath; then crossing mountain torrents where a single
misstep would have been fatal. Before night we passed the remains of
an avalanche, an enormous mass of snow crushing as it fell everything
in its path. We were now in the valley of Chamouni. At the sight of
the first glacier I felt some little disappointment. It is not itself
a mountain of ice, but lies in a deep sloping ravine between two
mountains, filling it up, and differing in height according to the
base. There are five of these glaciers in the valley. They usually lie
in a direction north and south, and thus deeply imbedded in the clefts
of the valley the sun rarely visits them.
From Savoy our numbers were greatly increased, and as the daylight
vanished we quickened our pace. Le Prieure was before us. This was
the place where I had promised to part with Erwald. There were plenty
of guides; but none of them with the sweet calm look of the boy face
before me.
"You will think of us sometimes," he said as I held his hand at
parting, "and when you pray to our heavenly Father, ask Him to look
upon us in mercy."
"I will ask Him, Erwald; and I shall always remember the journey from
Geneva to Chamouni as the most varied and interesting of my life."
"The Bride Of The Aar."
It was the day after Christmas; a heavy fall of snow during the night,
the tiny flakes full of graceful motion till long past noon, had made
a gloomy day for the inmates of Myrtlebank. True, there was many a gay
trill and clear silvery laugh ringing through the old rooms. Alick was
spending his college vacation at home, and Frank and Carry were merry
as school-girls are wont to be, when books are flung aside, and fun
and frolic take the place of study and recitation.
"What are you dreaming about, uncle Paul?" and Carry perched herself
on the arm of her uncle's chair, and patted his cheek with her little
dimpled hand.
"I have been thinking, child"--and there was a choking sensation in
uncle Paul's throat, and a strange mist in his clear gray eyes.
Carry's sympathies were awakened.
"Thinking about something long time ago, uncle Paul?" and the rosy
cheek was laid close to the thin, pallid one.
"Tell us, uncle Paul; you know you promised us;" and Carry slid her
arms about her uncle's neck, and felt his great heart beat against her
own.
"It was a long time ago," began uncle Paul. "I had just finished my
studies, and not being strong, the physician advised a year's travel
on the continent. My father was a merchant, and had friends in the
different European cities, and there was little danger that I should
lack for attention; and with a supply of letters, and one in
particular to a friend of my father's, a pastor among the mountains
of Switzerland, I started. I pass over the leave-taking; finding
myself alone on the sea; the nights of calm when leaning over the
ship's side, looking down into the dark depths, murmuring snatches of
home songs, bringing up vividly before me faces of those I loved; and
as the ocean swells came rocking under us, down we went into the
valleys and up over the hills of water. I felt as safe, rocked in the
great cradle of the deep, as when at home. His eye was upon me; His
arm encircled me.
"But pleasant as the voyage and full of memories, I see that you are
impatient to pass over to the mountains of Switzerland. Words are weak
to describe the magnificence of the Juras: looking upon the rolling
heights shrouded with pine-trees, and down thousands of feet at the
very roadside, upon cottage roofs and emerald valleys, where the deer
herds were feeding quietly. All this I had seen, and then we came to a
little town called Bex; and here, from too much expenditure of
enthusiasm perhaps, I was confined for weeks with a raging fever.
"One day, when the fever left me weak and feeble as a child, who
should enter but the good pastor Ortler. He had heard of my illness,
and leaving home, he had travelled over the hills to nurse me in my
weakness; and when I grew strong enough to bear it, he treated me to
short drives along Lake Leman, whence we could see the meadows that
skirt Geneva, the rough, shaggy mountains of Savoy, and far behind
them, so far that we could not distinguish between cap and cloud, Mont
Blanc and the needles of Chamouni.
"The good pastor Ortler, with his fine voice and clear, earnest eyes,
was in possession at all times of a charm of manner that had for me
an irresistible fascination. But when he talked of God, his greatness
as seen in his works, the magnificent and matchless glory by which we
were surrounded: above all, when he spoke of His tenderness and love,
I realized as I had never done before the beauty of holiness, and the
happiness, in this life even, of a soul firmly anchored in the faith
of Christ.
"Once, I remember, he steadied my feet to a rocky point overlooking
the little town of Ferney, and the deserted chateau of Voltaire. And
then followed a conversation, in which the tenderness of the good
pastor's heart was manifest as he spoke of the fine mind wrecked on
the sands of unbelief. 'And to think of this man's influence,' he
said, with sorrow in his tones, and regrets over a lost life and a
lost soul.