Project Gutenberg's Scenes in Switzerland, by American Tract Society This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Scenes in Switzerland Author: American Tract Society Release Date: May 7, 2005 [EBook #15782] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SCENES IN SWITZERLAND *** Produced by Bethanne M. Simms, Christine D and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. (www.pgdp.net) SCENES IN SWITZERLAND. PUBLISHED BY THE AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY, 150 NASSAU-STREET, NEW YORK. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868. by the American Tract Society, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. Contents. Gretchen 5 A Night in the Cathedral 28 The Glaciers of Savoy 45 The Bride of the Aar 63 A Sabbath in Lausanne 79 The Guide of Montanvert 96 Mont Blanc 127 From Berne to Basle 135 Scenes In Switzerland. Gretchen. Time flies swiftly when we are sightseeing; and it was late in the autumn of 18— when I reached Lindau. Lake Constance lay before me, a pale, green sheet of water, hemmed in on the south by bold mountain ranges, filling the interim between the Rhine valley and the long undulating ridges of the Canton Thurgau. These heights, cleft at intervals by green smiling valleys and deep ravines, are only the front of table-land stretching away like an inclined plane, and dotted with scattered houses and cloistering villages. The deep green of forest and pasture land was beginning to show the touch of autumn's pencil; the bright hues striking against gray, rocky walls; the topmost edge of each successive elevation crowned with a sharp outline of golden light, deepening the purple gloom of the shaded slopes. Behind and over this region towers the Sentis, its brow of snow bristling with spear points. It was altogether too late to think of the Baths, or even to look at the little lake of Wallenstatt; and still, I was unwilling to return without a friendly shake of the hand of my old friend Spruner, who had perched himself in one of the upper cantons. "You should have been here earlier," said the landlord; "in summer we have plenty of visitors." "I rather look upon the mountains in their parti-colored vests, than when dressed in simple green," I replied. "If you can stand the weather;" and he thrust his pipe deeper into his mouth, and twirled the button of his coat. Hastily making my adieus, the postillion cracked his whip, and we started. "There is no danger of bad weather for a month," said the driver, "and when we get up farther you will see what will pay you for the trouble of coming:" a speech that promised well for the day, I argued; and a certain share of respect leaped up for the man in his laced coat and steeple-crowned hat. A good specimen of his class—and once satisfied of this, I gave myself up to the present, without the least foreboding with regard to the future. Over us hung masses of gray cloud, stretching across the valley like a curtain, and falling in voluminous folds almost to the level of Lake Constance. As we passed through this belt, and came out, with cloud and mist below us, I listened as the postillion related the popular legends handed down from one generation to another, for the last six hundred years. Reaching the crest of the topmost height, he stopped suddenly. "It is just the day to see the herdsmen;" and he threw down the reins, and prepared to dismount. I stood up and looked around. "The battle you know between the herdsmen and the monks, with Austria to help. It was a hard battle, and the knights were whipped; and ever since, on certain days, the herdsmen are seen armed with bows and pikes," he continued. By this time I had taken in his meaning, and turning my attention to the misty curtain rolling up into clouds about the sides of the mountain, I had no difficulty in picturing the discomfited Austrians flying from the pursuit of the hardy mountaineers. "It was a great battle, and they have never tried it since," and there was a ring in the voice that sounded like the echo of Grütli. "No wonder, if your herdsmen are still ready to keep up the fight." "You do not see them," and he made a gesture in the direction where my eye still lingered. "As plainly as any body can," and I tried hard not to smile. "It is quite true this;" and he gathered up the reins. "I do not doubt it." As we passed on, the clouds rounded into islands, touched with silver on the upper edges. "This is the place for fine muslin and embroideries," said the postillion in a changed tone. "Where are they made?" I asked. "Every house has a loom," he said. A small way to manufacture muslins; but when the density of the population and the incessant labor is taken into consideration, it is not so strange. With regard to the houses I was greatly disappointed. Not only are they so near that neighbors can converse freely, but they are large, and even luxurious, in comparison with the same class in other parts of Europe. Many of these houses are four stories, with large, square rooms at the base; the upper ones narrowed by the high steeple roof which projects several feet, forming balconies, beautifully carved and highly ornamented. The outer walls are covered with shingles from two to three inches broad, overlapping each other, and rounded at the ends; reminding one of old roofs seen in the French quarter. The lowest story is of stone, plastered, and whitewashed. Such a house is very warm, very durable; and painted by the successive changes of winter and summer, the external appearance is altogether pleasing. Our ascent was gradual; with stately houses one after another, and fruit-trees on the sheltered side. In the balconies, pots of bright-hued flowers, and sometimes a face to greet us. Towards sundown we halted at the little town where my friend had deposited himself; and as my foot touched the wooden step of the little hotel, whom should I meet but my old college chum; no longer thin and pale as when I knew him, but round-faced as an alderman, and merry as though his heart was full of new wine. "You are not to stop here," as the landlord came out to receive me: "My house is not far off, and Gretchen, you remember her? will be glad to see you." Of course I remembered Gretchen; but to meet her as my friend's wife was quite another thing. A few steps brought us to the door of a handsome establishment two centuries old, or more; the front frescoed, and the interior neat and orderly as a New England housewife's. The floor upon which we entered from the street was paved with a species of marble, black and white, diamond shaped, but too suggestive of cold to be altogether pleasing. A broad, wooden staircase of a peculiar rich brown hue led to the parlor on the second floor. The windows looking out into the mountain ranges were draped with ruby-colored damask; the floor was covered with a richly tufted carpet bordered with flowers, and sofas and easy chairs were temptingly arranged. On a table in the centre of the room, and under an elaborately chased lamp, were implements for letter-writing, magazines, and newspapers. Through the folding-doors we caught a glimpse of well-filled book-shelves, and a woman's voice came floating out to the rich, mellow accompaniment of the piano. There was the rustle of a silk dress. I turned my head. "This is my ambition," said my friend, while a look of pride blended with the manly expression of his handsome face. There stood Gretchen—the Gretchen I had known ten years before; no longer the slight blushing girl, but mature in her beauty, a happy wife and mother; the same sweet smile on her lips, and her eye full of gushing gladness as she welcomed me to her home. The fire was blazing cheerily, and we three talking of the old times, with hardly a thought of the broken links between. "The college is still the same," said my friend, "with the high cupola and long galleries. Gretchen and I visited it last summer; there were few that we knew, and many of the professors have slipped away. Gretchen's father was one of these. We missed him in his quiet home, and above all, in the old church. A man with dark hair and black flashing eyes stood in his place—a learned, man, but wanting in the inward fire, the simple eloquence of the old man we used to love. After service, I strolled past the college buildings, and tried to trace the names we cut on the old beeches, but they were all overgrown." "I know nothing that brings home to the heart so quickly the consciousness of increasing years, as to find those whom we used to look upon as children grown to maturity, taking upon themselves the care and responsibility of life. Here is Gretchen; a deeper bloom upon her cheek, and her eye sparkling with a higher pride." "Just as mid-day is brighter than the morning," said my friend. Down the hall came the pattering of little feet, and the nurse entered with two stout boys and a lovely girl, a second Gretchen, the same roguish blue eyes, and golden hair rippling away from her white forehead: "These are my hopes," said the father, and a smile curled his lip, amid, his eye filled with tenderness as he glanced at Gretchen's face. Lingering over the tea-table where Gretchen presided with more than youthful grace, we talked not only of the past, but of present work and life. "One," I continued, taking up the thread, "I met in Southern Italy, dreaming; as I was dreaming, by the dark grotto of Pausilippo. Meeting upon classic ground, it seemed strange to talk of old times, but we did. And sitting down upon the promontory of Baiæ, looking off upon the blue sea, we told each other our respective stories; just as ships will shift their course to come within speaking distance, compare longitude, and exchange letters, and—part. I have not heard from Eckerman since." My dreams were pleasant that night, and the next morning there was another surprise for me. Gretchen's brother was the pastor of a little church just above them; I must not go without seeing him, Gretchen said. How could I? Euler was my classmate; together we labored for knowledge, and our first manly sympathies run in the same channel. On Sabbath I saw my friend in the pulpit. "How like his father," I whispered to Gretchen; the poetry in him warming his soul into a burst of fervid eloquence, and his face glowing with the beautiful truths he was unfolding to his hearers. An uncouth church of rough stone, with quaint windows and curious carvings, the ceiling arched, with a blue ground on which blazed innumerable stars. Strange and novel as it was, my eye never wandered from the speaker; the voice and expression so like the kind and generous man who had presided over the college, and who carried with him the affections of each succeeding class. This seems to me more of a triumph now, than it did then. A cultivated mind may challenge respect, but there is need of a noble one to win affection. It was a week before I could think of leaving, and then the clouds twisted through and around the severed pyramids of the Alps, and the rain began. In such weather the scenery is not only shrouded, but the people are shut up in their homes. Pastor Euler had an ample study however, and here we read and wrote, and talked; with his wife, a pleasant- voiced woman, to enliven the pauses with music, and children dashing into the study giving abrupt and sudden turnings to our dreaming. Christmas was near, and I was easily persuaded to see more of a people, shut in as they were from the noise and commotion of the lower world, and still not so far as to be unknowing of all that was taking place, whether in deliberative bodies, state policies, or the lighter chit-chat of the day. "You will have an opportunity to see more of my parish than you can possibly see on a Sabbath occasion. I visit them as often as I can, and twice a year I receive them at my own house. The 'Weihnachtsgeschenk' is looked forward to with great pleasure, and the meeting of the Landsgemeinde in April is sure to bring my people together." Gretchen and her husband were clamorous for me to remain, and there was no resisting the pleading tones of the children, their little clinging fingers stronger than bands of iron. All night the rain beat against my chamber window, and in the morning the lower slopes of the mountain were white with new snow. Dark clouds lay heavily on the Alpine peaks, the air was raw and chilly—still it was Christmas. I was aroused at daybreak by the chiming of village bells, and then a procession of choral singers went through the streets, pausing under the window of each house, and singing Christmas hymns. As they passed on, the children caught up the refrain, and joining hands made the halls resound with their gleeful voices. Before breakfast a huge bowl was passed around with a foaming drink, not unlike egg-nog in appearance, but differing in taste materially. "May your Christmas be a merry one," as it passed from lip to lip; "and a profitable one," was always responded. Church was open an hour earlier than on ordinary occasions, "so that the people may have ample time for dinner," said the pastor. Religion with these mountain worshippers was not a form. The birthday of the blessed Redeemer was to them a reality. They believed that he was born and that he died; and it was to commemorate his nativity that hymns were sung and garlands wound. At an early hour they began to gather, and before the time of service the house was closely packed. There were no chains of evergreen, but small fir-trees were occasionally placed. These were covered with garlands and crowns of bright-hued flowers, giving a novel and striking appearance, as of some floral temple or mosque, set in a great pavilion. The high pulpit was draped in white, and a voluminous white curtain covered the background. The effect was charming. And as the pastor began the service, the melody of his voice broke away into tenderness as he touched upon the love of God in giving his Son to be the propitiation for sin: holding up the picture so vividly, and telling the simple story with a pathos and a power that little children even could not fail to see and to appreciate. How much better than studied and elaborate essays, diving into metaphysics and technicalities so deeply that beauty is lost, and the mind diverted by the difficulty of following the intricate windings. First did he impress his hearers with the fact that God loved the world, and through the fulness of that love the Son came down to suffer and to die: secondly, that the natural heart is at enmity with God, not willing that God should rule. Thus a change must be effected; a reconciliation made. This could only be wrought by sacrifice; and Christ was offered once for all; his blood cleanseth from all sin. A plain, simple statement, and it sunk into the hearts of his hearers with a power sure to tell upon their future lives. After the blessing, each remained silently upon his knees for a few moments. Then all was greeting and congratulation; all were friends; the idea never entered their heads that a stranger could be among them at that season. At dinner I was introduced to the landamman and two other members of the council, and from them gathered brief notes with reference to the little democracy won, and held intact for so many years. The dessert was hardly removed before they began to come: first the old men in black coats and high hats, and women with white, pointed caps and wide ruffles; then the middle-aged, fathers and mothers, bringing little children, all with the same conscientious expression on their faces, the same "Happy Christmas," while the pastor's "God bless you," was a benediction that carried happiness to the hearts of those who heard it. Lastly came the youths; maidens with eyes full of a childlike innocence, the quick color coming and going as they greeted the pastor and his friends, and received his blessing in return. Gretchen and her husband were with us, and Gretchen number two was my especial escort, leading me through the rooms, and introducing me in her naive manner, "Mamma's friend, and papa's, and uncle Euler's." Christmas festivities were kept up during the week; and before that elapsed, I was won to add a month, and then another, it being quite impossible to slip away from the kind friends with whom I had so much in common; the fascination only the more potent as we listened to the beating winds, and looked out into the slippery paths leading down into the cantons beneath. Spring had come when it was "fit to travel," as Gretchen said. The green of the landscape was brilliant and uniform; the turf sown with primrose, violet, anemone, veronica, and buttercups. It was time for me to leave; neither could I be persuaded to stay till the meeting of the Landsgemeinde. It was sad to leave them, and the little Gretchen was only pacified by my assurance that, if possible, I would return at no distant day. My friend Spruner had business at Herisau, and spending one more evening together, our prayers mingling for the last time, we parted. Our way led through the valley of the Sitter, a stream fed by the Sentis Alps, and spanned by a bridge hundreds of feet above the water. The same smooth carpet of velvet green was spread everywhere. "There is no greener land," said Spruner; "the grass is so rich that the inhabitants cannot even spare enough for vegetable gardens. Our tables are supplied from the lower vallies." "In our country we should not dream of making hay in the month of April," I remarked, seeing several stout men already in the field. "With suitable care they can mow the same field every six weeks," responded my friend. "And it is no doubt this peculiar process that gives such sweetness and splendor of color, seen nowhere else, not even between the hedgerows of England." The day proved to be neither clear nor rainy: a steel blue sky brought out the broken peaks of Kasten, while the white shoulders of the Sentis were veiled with a thin, gray suit. "A month later and we should see the herdsmen," remarked Spruner. "The leader of the herd marches in front with a large bell suspended from his neck by a handsome leathern band; the others follow, some with garlands of flowers and straps of embroidered leather, with milking pails suspended between the horns." Before nightfall, occasional streaks of sunshine shot across the mountain. It did not last, however, and when we reached our stopping-place, it was raining below and snowing above us. The next morning our road dropped into a ravine, bringing something to admire at every turn. Leaving our course, we visited the Cascade of Horsfall, the beauty of which amply repaid us for the delay it cost. That night we slept at Herisau, the largest town in the Canton, and here I was to part with Spruner. There was no difficulty in reaching the lower valley. With many shakes of the hand, and "May God's blessing be upon you,'" we parted: one to take the railroad to Zurich, the other back to his household charms, and the work he had chosen. A Night In The Cathedral. Franz Hoffner's father was kappelmeister; and the old cathedral with its grained arches and cloistered aisles resounded with rare music, as the organist took his seat, and run his fingers over the keys with the careless ease of one who knows not only to control, but to infuse something of his own spirit into the otherwise senseless machine before him. Under his inspiration it became a living, breathing form; lifting the hearts of worshippers, and giving them glimpses of what is hereafter to be obtained. Herr Hoffner was a rare musician; but, alas, musicians are no exception to the rule: the wheel is always turning; one goes up and another goes down. A new star had risen. Court belles and beauties grew enthusiastic. The elector's heart was touched; his influence was asked. "Herr Hoffner has been here long enough," it was said. There was a twinge of the electoral conscience. Herr Hoffner went to his house a ruined man; and the new favorite, Carl Von Stein, played upon the keys so dear to the heart of the old organist. Herr Hoffner had a wife and two lovely children; and one would suppose that he could live in the beautiful cottage the elector had given him, independent of the favorite. But no; deprived of his old instrument all else was lost to him. For hours would he sit before his humble door, heedless of his wife's entreaties or the childish prattle of Franz and Nanette; his eye riveted on the old cathedral, and his hands playing nervously, as though cheating himself with the idea he was still at the organ. Then roused by a sudden inspiration, he would rush to the piano and play till his hands dropped from mere exhaustion. Franz and Nanette loved music, and they could play skilfully, but they were all too young to be of service; and thus they lived cut off from all outward influences befitting their age; loving music above everything else, and yearning for the time when they could go out and win for their father, as he had once done for them. Years passed. Franz Hoffner was a tall, slight boy, and his father was blind. Sitting at his cottage door he could no longer see the tall towers of the old cathedral, but he could hear the chime of stately bells—and his fingers played on: while Franz and Nanette not unfrequently climbed up the winding stairs, just to beg Herr Von Stein to let them touch the keys their father used to love. It happened one day the organist went out and left the key in the lock. Franz entered with the evening worshippers. A nameless feeling seized him. Urged on by the sudden impulse, he mounted the stairs. He did not dream of playing, he only thought of the organ as his father's friend; and to seat himself on the stool where his father had so often sat was all he aimed to do. A moment, and he spied the key; would there be any harm in raising the lid and playing himself? Herr Von Stein had never denied him. He grew courageous. A few chords and Franz forgot that his father would be expecting him; piece after piece was played till his memory could serve him no longer, and then he began to improvise. All at once heavy shadows were cast over the keys: he looked down into the church, it was dark and still. A strange awe seized him, he felt that it was night; and the great doors locked. Hastily as his trembling limbs would allow, he crept down the stairs. Darkness shrouded the aisles. He reached the doors, they were barred and bolted. What would his father say? and Nanette, would she think where he was, and rouse the old door-keeper? High up through the tower-window he caught sight of a star; and the moon poured her silver radiance full on the face of the organ. Creeping up the stairs, he once more opened the instrument. Surely some one would hear him if he played, and Nanette he knew would not leave him to stay in the old cathedral alone. Hours passed: the full moon cast her splendor on a sweet child-face bent over the keys in the organ-loft of the old cathedral, a smile still played about his lips, and his light brown hair lay in rings on his broad, white forehead. Franz was asleep, and while asleep he dreamed. A beautiful lady, he thought, came to the cottage; she had a sweet, lovely face, but so sad that Franz wondered what sorrow could have come to one so rich and beautiful. The lady caught the expression of his eye, and slipping her arm around him, drew him still nearer. "You think because I am rich that I must be happy. Learn then, my child, that wealth does not bring happiness; neither does beauty win lasting favor. To be good is to be rich, and it also makes us beautiful. The power that we have in ourselves is far superior to the outward circumstances that surround us." "My father had this power," replied Franz. "You see it did not profit him; for when he thought himself secure as kappelmeister, the elector gave his place to another, and now he is growing old and blind." "Is this so?" exclaimed the lady, a warm light flashing into her gray eye. "Did the elector give his place to another?" "Indeed, he did; and it broke my father's heart," replied Franz. "Since then, we have neither of us known pleasure; only when we go to the cathedral, Nanette and me; and when we return, our father never tires of asking questions." "This must not always be," replied the lady. "Will you come with me, my child, and it is possible we can show you a way whereby you can do something for a father whom you so much love." "I will go with you," replied Franz; "but I must not be gone long, for my father will miss me when he wakes." Then Franz gave his hand to the beautiful lady, and she led him by a smooth way through the most lovely wood; tall trees, filled with singing birds, skirted the banks of clear, running streams, while flowering shrubs and vines flung their perfume to the air. At length she came to a gate so strong and high Franz thought it would be impossible to open it. But as they approached, it seemed to swing back noiselessly on its hinges. Franz saw there was a lodge there, with a gray- haired man, and little children playing before the door, and as the lady passed all bowed to her. 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, Saléve 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 môle 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. From Bonneville the road passes over the bridge to the foot of the môle, 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 Prieuré," 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 Prieuré 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...