Here are some of
those everlasting mountain ranges, whose light is not of the sun, nor
of the moon, but of the Lord God and of the Lamb. Here is, as it were,
a great white throne, on which One might sit before whose face heaven
and earth might flee; and here a sea of glass mingled with fire. Nay,
rather, here are some faint shadows, some dim and veiled resemblances,
which bring our earth-imprisoned spirits to conceive remotely what the
disencumbered eye of the ecstatic apostle gazed upon.
With solemn thankfulness we gazed - thankfulness to God for having
withdrawn his veil of clouds from this threshold of the heavenly
vestibule, and brought us across the Atlantic to behold. And as our
eyes, blinded by the dazzling vision, - which we might reside here
years without beholding in such perfection, - filled with tears, we
were forced to turn them away and hide them, or fasten them upon the
dark range of Jura on the other side of us, until they were able to
gaze again. Thus we rode onward, obtaining new points of view, new
effects, and deeper emotions; nor can time efface the impressions we
received in the depths of our souls.
A lady, at whose door we alighted for a moment to obtain a particular
point of view, told us that at sunset the mountain assumed a peculiar
transparency, with most mysterious hues of blue and purple; so that
she had seen irreligious natures, frivolous and light, when suddenly
called out to look, stand petrified, or rather exalted above
themselves, and irresistibly turning their faces, their thoughts,
their breathings of adoration up to God.
I do not wonder that the eternal home of the glorified should be
symbolized by a Mount Zion. I do not wonder that the Psalmist should
say, "I will lift up mine eyes unto the _hills,_ from whence
cometh my help!" For surely earth cannot present, nor unassisted fancy
conceive, an object more profoundly significant of divine majesty than
these mountains in their linen vesture of everlasting snow.
Tuesday, June 28. The morning dawned clear, warm, and cloudless. A
soft haze rested on the distant landscape, without, however, in the
least dimming its beauty.
At about eleven we set off with two horses in an open carriage, by the
left shore, to visit St. Cergue, and ascend the Jura. All our way was
gradually ascending, and before us, or rather across the lake on one
side, stood the glorious New Jerusalem scene. We were highly favored.
Every moment diminished the intervening mountains, and lifted the
gorgeous pageant higher into the azure.
Every step, every turn, presented it in some new point of view, and
extended the range of observation. New Alps were continually rising,
and diamond-pointed peaks glancing up behind sombre granite bulwarks.
At noon _cocher_ stopped at a village to refresh his horses. We
proceeded to a cool terrace filled with trees, and lulled by the
splash of a fountain, from whence the mountain was in full view. Here
we investigated the mysteries of a certain basket which our provident
hostess had brought with her.
After due refreshment and repose we continued our route, ascending the
Jura, towards the Dole, which is the highest mountain of that range. A
macadamized road coiled up the mountain side, affording us at every
turning a new and more splendid view of the other shore of the lake.
At length we reached St. Cergue, and leaving the carriage, H. and I,
guided by a peasant girl, went through the woods to the highest point,
where were the ruins of the ancient chateau. Far be it from me to
describe what we saw. I feel that I have already been too
presumptuous. We sat down, and each made a hasty sketch of Mont Blanc.
We took tea at the hotel, which reminded us, by the neatness of its
scoured chambers with their white bedspreads, of the apartments of
some out-of-the-way New England farm house.
The people of the neighborhood having discovered who H. was, were very
kind, and full of delight at seeing her. It was Scotland over again.
We have had to be unflinching to prevent her being overwhelmed, both
in Paris and Geneva, by the same demonstrations of regard. To this we
were driven, as a matter of life and death. It was touching to listen
to the talk of these secluded mountaineers. The good hostess, even the
servant maids, hung about H., expressing such tender interest for the
slave. All had read Uncle Tom. And it had apparently been an era in
their life's monotony, for they said, "O, madam, do write another!
Remember, our winter nights here are _very_ long!"
The proprietor of the inn (not the landlord) was a gentleman of
education and polished demeanor. _He had lost an Eva_, he said.
And he spoke with deep emotion. He thanked H. for what she had
written, and at parting said, "Have courage; the sacred cause of
Liberty will yet prevail through the world."
Ah, they breathe a pure air, these generous Swiss, among these
mountain tops! May their simple words be a prophecy divine.
At about six we returned, and as we slowly wound down the mountain
side we had a full view of all the phenomena of color attending the
sun's departure. The mountain, - the city rather, - for so high had it
risen, that I could imagine a New Jerusalem of pearly white, with Mont
Blanc for the central citadel, or temple, - the city was all a-glow.
The air behind, the sky, became of a delicate apple green; the snow,
before so incandescent in whiteness, assumed a rosy tint. We paused -
we sat in silence to witness these miraculous transformations.
"Charley," said H., "sing that hymn of yours, the New Jerusalem." And
in the hush of the mountain solitudes we sang together, -
"We are on our journey home,
Where Christ our Lord is gone;
We will meet around his throne,
When he makes his people one
In the New Jerusalem.
