gcls_courant_021 4

164 THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL.
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Our European Correspondence.
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LAUSANNE, August 1st, 1859.
Having made up our minds to visit St. Gothard and the
Grimsel, we were compelled to return from Lucerne (where my
last letter was written), by the lake of the same name, to
Flüelin. Hence we footed it over the place just mentioned,
talking in our line, also, the Glacier of the Rhone, and many
valleys and gorges, too numerous to mention. It is scarcely
to be expected that I should give you the minutiæ of these
things, as the latter portion of my trip embraced not only most
of the grander of these, but also soft and humanized beauties in
addition. The pass of the Grimsel, however, I must say, has,
to my mind, no equal in its kind; and did our terms grandeur
and sublimity and solemnity convey any idea of extraordinary
power and magnificence, I should be glad to attempt its
description. But a poor, ill-used language, as ours, which is
made to call a mole-hill stupendous, an old-field school-
boy thrillingly eloquent, and a Laura-Matilda-verse-writer a
breather of the divine afflatus, must stand mute in the presence
of Nature, and confess her power of expression gone. But if
vast piles of snow-capped mountains, grey, ragged cliffs,
smiting the clouds as they pass; deep gorges trembling with
the ceaseless roar of wild cataracts, and all these viewed from
narrow pathways winding midway between heaven and earth--
if these can make a picture, take them, and when you have
combined in all proportions and attitudes, you will have
some idea of the Grimsel.
Thence to Meyringen, Interlachen, Berne and Freyburg.
This last was of considerable interest to me. The town itself
is most romantically, almost wildly, "situated on a promontory
formed by the windings of the Loarine" (MURRAY), and, seen
from the opposite side of the river, appears highly picturesque,
with its old roofs piled one above another on the hill. Then
the two suspension-bridges, one nine hundred and forty-one
feet long and one hundred and eighty feet high: the other six
hundred and forty feet long and three hundred and seventeen
feet high, are quite remarkable. The view from the last, of the
gorge below, the bare rocks around, and the quaint old city in
front, is very fine. The organ in the Church of St. Nicholas
is, perhaps, a greater notoriety still. The Church itself is a
handsome Gothic building, but one is apt to forget it in the
organ, or only to think of it as the casket of that precious
jewel. This instrument, built by ALOYS MOSER, a native of
the place, is said to bethe finest in the world. It can scarcely
be the most powerful, but in richness and fulness and variety,
I have never seen it even rivalled. A party of us went from
the hotel to hear it, on Sunday evening, at eight o'clock. Quite
a variety of pieces were played, consisting of selections from
the Church music, from the operas, and other music at large.
To the first it gave a power and a solemnity that, with all my
love for it, it never had for me before. Now came the low wail
of sorrow trembling through the dim aisles, as if some soul
lay gasping in a death of humiliation and hopelessness,--now
pealed clear strains of joy, as if some happy heart was trilling
jubilees from every niche and corner--now it rose in wild tones
of enthusiasm, as if some mighty spirit had burst forth in a
pæan of triumpth, flinging his fierce cries around to roof and
pillar and altar till the very stones shivered with the reverbe-
rations of his strain. And the storm was most admirable--
winds howling, thunders pealing, echoes rolling, rain pattering
and human voices shrieking, till at the close I rushed out to see
if there was not a storm!
There is a curious lime-tree here. After the battle of Morat,
in 1496, a young Freyburger soldier, eager to announce the
victory over the Burgunlians, ran all the way home, and was
just able to shout "victory!" when he fell dead from exhaus-
tion. The lime-twig he bore in his hand was planted, and its
venerable trunk still remains, a very shrine to the sons of
freedom.
Thence to Lausanne and Geneva. This last particularly
pleased me. The handsome houses and hotels along the lake,
the neat streets, and the view of the lake with mountains in
the back-ground, all make up a sight most refreshing after
other Swiss towns. When to this is added its historical celeb-
rity--its own part in history,andthe great men it has enter-
tained--Calvin (a colossal old fudge in some respects, but still
of much sense and courage), Rousseau, etc.--it becomes doubly
an object of interest. Of all places I have seen, Geneva takes
the lead in jewellery-stores. Watches, studs, buttons,brooches,
all manner of metal and jewel combinations stare and flash
and glitter in almost every window, till one feels like he is
strolling through Golconda, or measuring of his twenty-eight
inches amid

"The wealth of Ormus and of Ind."

From Geneva we went to Chamouni, in a lumbering old
diligence, filled to the mouth, of course. Among others, was
a jolly old priest, with whom we were not long in making
an acquaintance. We began with his remarking on some
apricots I was buying. (I forgot to say that I found Ger-
man die out below Freyburg.) He soon said something I
could not catch, not knowing a great deal of French at best,
which I told him. "Ah! From England?" (in French.)--
"No, from America." "Indeed! Yet you speak English!"
Shade of Solomon!
But he soon shewed a knowledge at least of men, and after
dining with him, and drinking two bottles of wine together, we
were forced to vote him a fine old fellow. Here we parted with
a "bon voyage," and we saw him no more. Before we leave
him here, however, I must add that he made another blunder
in ascribing our independence mainly to the assistance derived
from France in the Revolution. This is a common opinion in
Europe, and has been more than ever strengthened by that
recent absurd speech of Mr. DALLAS. The truth may not
always be pleasant to tell, but when a man injures his country
by the contrary course, why prefer the falsehood?
Chamouni (campus minutus, champs muni) is the most beauti-
ful of valleys, and presents the most pleasant reconcilement
and sisterhood between Nature and Art I have yet seen. It
appears as if the former had thrown up her fortresses around,
and taken up her abode in them, but stretched out a smooth
meadow in their midst, and given it to man to take and till. I
did not wonder at its celebrity--the vast mountains (Mont
Blanc among others) standing round with their snows and
glaciers and thousand "sonorous water-falls," and the rich,
green valleys, smooth as a table, and dotted over with twinkling
villages, present a variety and richness and harmoniousness
scarcely to be equalled. I rode from the proper entrance of
the vale to the village of the same name, outside an open car-
riage, and had thus an admirable view. The chain of Mont
Blanc is peculiarly interesting--there seemed to be such a
rivalry among the peaks. Raised above the rest of creation,
three heads seem to strive for the mastery (as seen from Cha-
mouni). One, the lowest, but lofty from its nearness, reached
up its slender, snow-tipped crags, as if to claim it--another
reared its vast, bold front, all white with almost unbroken
snow, as if to seize it--while last, a smooth, perfectly rounded,
spotless head of snow smiled in modest but conscious superi-
ority in the back-ground, and all confessed it the Mont Blanc.
This trio reminded me of our three great statesmen; how, it is
not difficult to see. My enjoyment was somewhat marred by
the loss of my great-coat, which I only recovered after a good
deal of quarrelling and uneasiness--it had been dropped in the
road.
On the morning after our arrival we set out to visit the
Meré de Glace, the king of glaciers, as Mont Blanc is of moun-
tains. We first explored the lower portion, or Glacier de
Bois--climbed over the terminal moraines, sometimes fifty or
seventy-five feet high, consisting of huge boulders of stone, cut
and scratched in every direction, and great heaps of dirt and
sand ground to the fineness of flower--jumped about among
the blocks of ice that lay around--and were trying some caves
which appeared most inviting from the blue light transmitted
through the ice, when the roar of a few avalanches far up the
gorge, and the popping of the mass around us, warned us to
retreat. The amount of waste matter thrown down by this
glacier is wonderful; it appears to have piled up in a miniature
mountain at its foot, on which there is a strong growth of pine,
to the size of which it adds every day by immense heaps of
stones, etc. We next climbed the Mantanoort, to view the
glacier proper. Having refreshed ourselves at the little inn
here, we descended to the surface of the vast sea of ice. It is
well named; for the frozen waves and curves and caverns give
it just the appearance of a sea in agitation. It seemed to de-
scend from beds of snow by two channels: which made a cen-
tral moraines strongly like the line between two streams flow-
ing together, and then stretched out for hundreds of feet in a
billowy, frozen, sparkling mass, of wonderful proportions;--
first piled up in needles and blocks, and then smoothing down
into the waves and chasms I have just mentioned. We walked
about on it, but found it so simple a matter to cross (the guides
having steps cut out in all places of the least difficulty) that
we did not care to go entirely across. Here we met a brisk
middle-aged French woman, whose daughter was just crossing.
As we went back she stopped us to talk and point at her hope-
ful (one of those plump human partridges, that make one hun-
gry to look at them) who, with her skirt tucked up above her
snowy petticoats, went bouncing along on the ice like a little
snow-ball. We waited to get a good look at Mademoiselle, but
a sudden attack of hunger compelled a retreat.
There down to the hotel, a good dinner, and a lazy, comfort-
able smoke, with the Alps glowing all around in the last purple
tints of sunset, and the darkening valley falling to sleep amid
the hum of distant water-falls and tinkling bells. Here one
feels the force of Byron's lines:

"Above me are the Alps,
The palaces of nature, whose vast walls
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,
And throned Eternity in icy halls
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls
The avalanche--the thunderbolt of snow!
All that expands the spirit, yet appals
Gather around these summits, as to shew
How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below."

Mont Blanc is, of course, the great lion here, and there was
a good deal of bustle about the ascent of it undertaken this
same day, by a party of five Englishmen, with eight guides and
porters. It is, I imagine, rather troublesome than dangerous;
but a three days' walk in snow is not to be laughed at; besides,
it costs about one hundred dollars!
Next day we took a porter for our luggage and set off for
Martigny. Walked twelve miles and dined, and then finished
the other twelve--a good day's work, I think. The scenery
along this route, especially around the Tete Noir, is very fine.
From one point the view of the dark gorge and its neces-
sary concomitant, an impetuous torrent, with a perfect cone
covered with houses and fields, rising up where the valley
opened into a level meadow below the mountains, was equal
to the Grimsel in grandeur, and superior in richness and va-
riety.
From Martigny we proceeded to Mount St. Bernard. To
Liddes we went in what they called an omnibus--a one-horse
vehicle, which, with crowding, could carry four persons. Now,
the name seemed misapplied--but I suppose they meant that
any and every body could get quarter therein, but as there
are only four quarters, of course, only four could be accomo-
dated.
From Liddes we were forced to foot it up a mule-path (that
is, most of the way) of considerable difficulty in places. We
were not long in reaching the region of nakedness, and when
in sight of the Hospice, we had already large fields of snow
below us, and only ragged cliffs occasionally tipped with scanty
grass around and above. It became excessively cold and
dreary, and we learned to appreciate the heart of him who
founded this place of refuge for travellers. Walking into the
Hospice, we rushed unawares into the hall where a party of
travellers were devouring the good things set out by the hospi-
tality of the monks--for you know every one is entertained
here three days gratis. We were invited to join them, and you
may venture something that we did. We were comfortably
lodged for the night in what looked to be the coldest and most
dismal of cloisters--which, with other things, very forcibly re-
minded me of the scene in "Little Dorrit." Waked on the
morrow (it was Sunday) by peals from the Chapel organ, we
proceeded to dress, and after visiting the place of worship
and depositing our alms, marched, heathen-like, down the
mountain to a warmer clime. We were escorted part of the
way by two of the convent dogs--immense animals, with an
extent of limb and thickness and length of hair that seemed to
fit them for any amount of danger and cold. They have six at
present, and their affection for humanity seemed to be only
equalled by the benevolence of their masters. I was not disap-
pointed here. The wild scenery, the solemn old Hospice, the
serious and kind monks, and the dogs, so famous throughout
the world, were all just as my fancy had painted them and
hoped to find them.
Hence to Martigny again; whence down the valley of
the Rhone amid most gorgeous mountains and meadow-lands
to Lake Leman, which we crossed to Vevay. "Mon Lac est le
premier," says Voltaire--and rightly, felt I then. It was a glo-
rious twilight, with the day just dying out behind the Jura,
and light and darkness mingling together the mountains and
fields and villages in a sort of indistinct loveliness, truly beau0
tiful. And so softened was every sound from the shores, and
every rippleof the waters, that one felt as if the very spirit of
music had descended upon the lake to soothe and bless the
scene. I did not wonder that some who once enjoyed these
beauties had forgotten one of God's names, and learned to ex-
ist alone in the other--Nature. If you have found no life in
Nature, and been able but to appreciate the Creator as a spir-
itual existence, and if you would learn to feel him in the power
and beauty of reality as well as in the cold idea,--visit such
scenes as this, or the one here in Lausanne, where Nature has
a voice of her own, and you shall feel as well as know Him!
How the Swiss should be so worthless in such a country is to
me a perfect mystery: for, since I have been here, the world
seems to me a being and and a reality it never did before--so much
so, that I fear I shall soon deserve that most unfortunate
epithet--a romantic man! NOUS VERRONS.
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FEELING.--A lecturer once claimed for feeling the whole of
the qualities that characterized all the senses as they are dis-
tinguished by the old dogma. He aruged that through the
eyes, ears, palate, nose, all arrived at the sensorium, and hence
were feeling. And there was truth and beauty in it; for what
were all those open doors to consciousness, if feeling were
wanting to give the glow to beauty, or the melody to song, or
the perfection to art? We see many living illustrations of the
truth of this in the world, in whom feeling lies an uncultivated
thing, withering in the air of frigid indifference. They are
called heartless people, which is very expressive; and we feel
chilled by contact with them, as though, in our summerish
feeling, a breeze from over an iceberg had fanned us.--Knitting
Work.
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MR. ARCHIBALD McBRYDE, of North Carolina, proposes to
form a company to pull down the pyramids of Egypt, for the
purpose of procuring the treasures supposed to be hidden
under them. He advances many plausible reasons why the
speculation would prove profitable, but forgets to mention a
fact settled by Egyptian antiquarians, that the pyramids, if
they ever contained treasure, were robbed of it ages ago, prob-
ably during the invasion of the country by Cambyses.
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PEACE is the evening star of the soul.
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