An unclouded, clear, breezy morning, the air full of the
sounds of cascades, and of the little bells of the herds. As we began
to wind upward into that delectable region which forms the first stage
of ascent, I said to C., "The more of beautiful scenery I see, the
more I appreciate the wonderful poetry of the Pilgrim's Progress." The
meadows by the River of Life, the Delectable Mountains, the land of
Beulah, how often have I thought of them! From this we went off upon
painting, and then upon music, the freshness of the mountain air
inspiring our way. At last, while we were riding in the very lap of a
rolling field full of grass and flowers, the sharp blue and white
crystals of the glacier rose at once before us.
"O, I want to get down," said I, "and go near them."
Down I did get, and taking what seemed to be the straightest course,
began running down the hill side towards them.
"No, no! Back, back!" shouted the guide, in unimaginable French and
German. _"Ici, ici!"_
I came back; and taking my hand, he led me along a path where
travellers generally go. I went closer, and sat down on a rock under
them, and looked up. The clear sun was shining through them; clear and
blue looked the rifts and arches, all dripping and beautiful. We went
down upon them by steps which a man had cut in the ice. There was one
rift of ice we looked into, which was about fifty feet high, going up
into a sharp arch. The inside of this arch was clear blue ice, of the
color of crystal of blue vitriol.
Here, immediately under, I took a rude sketch just to show you how a
glacier looks close at hand.
[Illustration: _of the broken and chiseled surface of a glacier._]
C. wanted, as usual, to do all sorts of improper things. He wanted to
stone down blocks of ice, and to go inside the cave, and to go down
into holes, and insisted on standing particularly long on a spot which
the guide told him was all undermined, in order that he might pelt a
cliff of ice that seemed inclined to fall, and hear it smash.
The poor guide was as distressed as a hen when her ducks take to the
water; he ran, and called, and shouted, in German, French, and
English, and it was not till C. had contrived to throw the head of the
little boy's hatchet down into a _crevasse_, that he gave up.
There were two francs to pay for this experiment; but never mind! Our
guide book says that a clergyman of Yevay, on this glacier, fell into
a _crevasse_ several hundred feet deep, and was killed; so I was
glad enough when C. came off safe.
He ought to have a bell on his neck, as the cows do here; and
_apropos_ to this, we leave the glacier, and ride up into a land
of pastures. Here we see a hundred cows grazing in the field - the
field all yellow with buttercups. They are a very small breed,
prettily formed, and each had on her neck a bell. How many notes there
are in these bells! quite a diapason - some very deep toned, and so on
up to the highest! how prettily they sound, all going together! The
bells are made of the best of metal, for the tone is of an admirable
quality.
0, do look off there, on that patch of snow under the Wetterhorn! It
is all covered with cows; they look no bigger than insects. "What
makes them go there?" said we to our guides.
"_To be cool_" was the answer.
Hark! what's that? a sudden sound like the rush of a cascade.
"Avalanche! avalanche!" exclaimed the guide. And now, pouring down the
sides of the Wetterhorn, came a milk-white cascade, looking just like
any other cascade, melting gracefully over the rocks, and spreading,
like a stream of milk, on the soiled snow below.
This is a summer avalanche - a mere _bijou_ - a fancy article, got
up, or rather got down, to entertain travellers. The winter avalanches
are quite other things. Witness a little further in our track, where
our guide stops us, and points to a place where all the pines have
been broken short off by one of them. Along here some old ghostly
pines, dead ages ago, their white, ghastly skeletons bleached by a
hundred storms, stand, stretching out their long, bony arms, like
phantom giants. These skeleton pines are a striking image; I wonder I
have not seen them introduced into pictures.
There, now, a little ahead, is a small hut, which marks the summit of
the grand Scheidich. Our horses come up to it, and we dismount. Some
of the party go in to sleep - I go out to climb a neighboring peak. At
the foot of this peak lay a wreath of snow, soiled and dirty, as
half-melted snow always is; but lying amid the green grass and
luxuriant flowers, it had a strange air. It seemed a little spot of
death in the green lap of rejoicing life - like that death-spot which
often lies in the human heart - among all seeming flowers, cold and
cheerless, unwarmed by the sunbeam, and unmelted by the ray that
unfolds thousands of blooms around.
Now, I thought, I have read of Alpine flowers leaning their cheeks on
the snows. I wonder if any flowers grow near enough to that snow to
touch it. I mean to go and see. So I went; there, sure enough, my
little fringed purple bell, to which I have given the name of
"suspirium," was growing, not only close to the snow, but in it.
Thus God's grace shining steadily on the waste places of the human
heart, brings up heavenward sighings and aspirations which pierce
through the cold snows of affliction, and tell that there is yet life
beneath.
