Returned home, and listened to a
serenade to H. from a glee club of fifty performers, of the working
men of Geneva. The songs were mostly in French, and the burden of one
of them seemed to be in words like these: -
"Travaillons, travaillez,
Pour la liberte!"
Friday, July 15. Mrs. C. and her two daughters are here from Paris.
They intend to come to Madame Fazy till we leave.
Saturday, July 16. Our whole company resorted to the lake, and spent
the forenoon on its tranquil waters. If this life seem idle, we
remember that there must be valleys between mountains; and as, in
those vales, tired mountaineers love to rest, so we, by the silver
shore of summer Leman, while away the quiet hours, in this interval,
between great mountain epochs Chamouni and Oberland.
Monday, July 18. Weather suspicious. Stowed ourselves and our baggage
into our _voiture_, and bade adieu to our friends and to Geneva.
Ah, how regretfully! From the market-place we carried away a basket of
cherries and fruit, as a consolation. Dined at Lausanne, and visited
the cathedral and picture gallery, where was an exquisite _Eva._
Slept at Meudon.
Tuesday, July 19. Rode through Payerne to Freyburg. Stopped at the
Zahringer Hof - most romantic of inns. Our gentlemanly host ushered us
forth upon a terrace overhanging the deep gorge of the Saaerine,
spanned, to the right and left of us, by two immense suspension
bridges, one of which seemed to spring from the hotel itself. Ruins of
ancient walls and watch towers lined the precipice.
After dinner we visited the cathedral to hear the celebrated organ.
The organist performed a piece descriptive of a storm. We resigned
ourselves to the illusion. Low, mysterious wailings, swelling, dying
away in the distance, seeming at first exceedingly remote, drew
gradually near. Fitful sighings and sobbings rose, as of gusts of
wind; then low, smothered roarings. Anon came flashes of lightning,
rattling hail, and driving rain, succeeded by bursts of storm, and
howlings of a hurricane - fierce, furious, frightful. I felt myself
lost in a snow storm in winter, on the pass of Great St. Bernard.
One note there was of strange, terrible clangor - bleak, dark, yet of a
lurid fire - that seemed to prolong itself through all the uproar, like
a note of doom, cutting its way to the heart as the call of the last
archangel. Yes, I felt myself alone, lost in a boundless desert,
beyond the abodes of man; and this was a call of terror-stern, savage,
gloomy - the call as of fixed fate and absolute despair.
Then the storm died away, in faint and far-off murmurs; and we broke,
as it were, from the trance, to find ourselves, _not_ lost, but
here among the living. We then drove quietly to Berne.
Wednesday, July 20. Examined, not the lions, but the bears of Berne.
It is indeed a city of bears, as its name imports. There are bears on
its gates, bears on its fountains, bears in its parks and gardens,
bears every where. But, though Berne rejoices in a fountain adorned
with an image of Saturn eating children, nevertheless, the old
city - quaint, quiet, and queer - looks as if, bear-like, it had been
hybernating good-naturedly for a century, and were just about to wake
up.
Engaged a _voiture_, and drove to Thun. Dined, and drove by the
shore of the lake to Interlachen, arriving just after a brilliant
sunset.
Thursday, July 21. S. and G. remained at the Belvedere. W., II., and I
took a guide and _voiture_ for Lauterbrunn. Here we visited
Byron's apocalyptic horse-tail waterfall, the Staubbach. This
waterfall is very sublime, all except the water and the fall. Whoever
has been "under the sheet" at Niagara will not be particularly
impressed here. This picture is sufficiently accurate, with the
exception of the cottage. People here do not build cottages under
waterfalls.
[Illustration: _of the waterfall and cliff rising sharply to the left
of the roadway. A cabin appears to be located very near its base._]
Here we crossed the Wengern Alps to Grindelwald. The Jungfrau is right
over against us - her glaciers purer, tenderer, more dazzlingly
beautiful, if possible, than those of Mont Blanc. Slept at
Grindelwald.
LETTER XXXVIII.
DEAR CHILDREN: -
To-day we have been in the Wengern Alps - the scenes described in
Manfred. Imagine us mounting, about ten o'clock, from the valley of
Lauterbrunn, on horseback - our party of three - with two guides. We had
first been to see the famous Staubbach, a beautiful, though not
sublime, object. Up we began to go among those green undulations which
form the lower part of the mountain.
[Illustration: _of narrow, high alpine meadows with grazing livestock._]
It is haying time; a bright day; all is cheerful; the birds sing; men,
women, and children are busy in the field. Up we go, zigzag; it grows
steeper and steeper. Now right below me is a field, where men are
literally working almost on a perpendicular wall, cutting hay; now we
are so high that the houses in the valley look like chips. Here we
stand in a place two thousand feet above the valley. There is no
shield or screen. The horse stands on the very edge; the guide stops,
lets go his bridle, and composedly commences an oration on the scene
below. "0, for mercy's sake, why do you stop here?" I say. "Pray go
on." He looks in my face, with innocent wonder, takes the bridle on
his arm, and goes on.
Now we have come to the little village of Wengern, whence the Wengern
Alps take their name. How beautiful! how like fairyland! Up here,
midway in air, is a green nook, with undulating dells, and shadowy,
breezy nests, where are the cottages of the haymakers. The Delectable
Mountains had no scene more lovely. Each house has its roof heavily
loaded with stones.
