Part 6

The little building is certainly well calculated to awaken patriotism. Appropriate frescoes, representing exploits ascribed to William Tell, adorn the walls; while opposite the doorway is an altar at which religious services are held. How solemn and impressive must the ceremony be, when religious rites are performed in such a historic and picturesque locality in the presence of a reverent multitude! At such a time this tiny shrine may be considered part of the sublime cathedral of the mountains, whose columns are majestic trees, whose stained glass is autumnal foliage, whose anthems are the songs of birds, whose requiems are the moaning of the pines, and whose grand roof is the stupendous arch of the unmeasured sky, beneath which the snow-clad mountains rise like jeweled altars, lighted at night, as if with lofty tapers, by the glittering stars.

But to appreciate the beauty of this sheet of water, one should behold it when its surface is unruffled by a breeze. Enamoured of their own beauty, the mountains then look down into the lake as into an incomparable mirror. It is an inverted world. The water is as transparent as the sky. The very breezes hold their breath, lest they should mar the exquisite reflection. The neighboring peaks display their rugged features in this limpid flood, as if unconscious of the wrinkles which betray their age. The pine trees stand so motionless upon the shore that they appear like slender ferns. Instinctively we call to mind those graceful lines, supposed to be addressed by such a lake to an adjoining mountain:

"I lie forever at thy feet, Dear hill with lofty crown; My waters smile thy crags to greet, As they look proudly down.

The odor of thy wind-tossed pines Is message sweet to me; It makes me dimple with delight, Because it comes from thee.

Thou, lofty, grand, above the world; Its lowly servant, I; Yet see, within my sunny depths Is smiling thy blue sky.

Thou art so far, and yet how near! For though we are apart, I make myself a mirror clear, And hold thee in my heart."

Above this lake itself extends for miles the famous Axenstrasse,—a splendid specimen of engineering skill, cut in the solid rock, hundreds of feet above the waves. Yet this is no exceptional thing in Switzerland, and nothing stamps itself more forcibly upon the tourist's mind within this region of the Alps than man's triumphant victory over obstacles, in the formation of its roads. Despite their great cost of construction these prove profitable investments; for the better the roads, the more people will travel over them. Referring to them, some one has prettily said, that by such means the Swiss transform the silver of their mountain peaks into five franc pieces, and change the golden glow of their sunrises and sunsets into napoleons.

How great the difference between the Switzerland of to-day and that of fifty years ago! Where formerly the solitary peasant and his mule picked their precarious way through mud or snow, luxurious landaus now roll easily along, on thoroughfares of rock, without a stone or obstruction of any kind to mar their surfaces. Nor is there danger of disaster. Walled in by massive parapets, an accident is here impossible; and in these mighty galleries, hewn from the mountain side itself, the traveler is perfectly secure, although an avalanche may fall or cyclones rage above him.

The Axenstrasse may be said to form a part of that magnificent route from Switzerland to Italy, known as the St. Gotthard. It is, in truth, the king of Alpine roads; resembling a mighty chain which man, the victor, has imposed upon the vanquished Alps,—one end sunk deep in the Italian Lakes, the other guarded by the Lion of Lucerne,—and all the intervening links kept burnished brightly by the hands of trade. True, within the last few years, the carriage-road across the St. Gotthard has been comparatively neglected, since the longest tunnel in the world has to a great extent replaced it. Tranquil enough this tunnel frequently appears, but I have seen it when great clouds of smoke were pouring out of its huge throat, as from the crater of a great volcano. A strong wind blowing from the south was then, no doubt, clearing this subterranean flue; and I was glad that I had not to breathe its stifling atmosphere, but, on the contrary, seated in a carriage, could lose no portion of the glorious scenery, while drinking in great draughts of the pure mountain air.

Still, whether we travel by the railroad of the St. Gotthard or not, we must not underrate its usefulness, nor belittle the great engineering triumphs here displayed. Its length, too, amazes one, for not only is the principal tunnel nine and a half miles long, but there are fifty-five others on the line, the total length of which, cut inch by inch out of the solid granite, is more than twenty-five miles. When one drives over the mountain by the carriage-road, hour after hour, bewildered by its cliffs and gorges, it seems impossible that the engineer's calculations could have been made so perfectly as to enable labor on the tunnel to be carried on from both ends of it at the same time. Yet all was planned so well that, on the 28th of February, 1880, the Italian workmen and the Swiss both met at the designated spot, six thousand feet below the summit, and there pierced the last thin barrier that remained between the north and south.

The number of railroad bridges on the St. Gotthard astonished me. Their name is legion. Across them long trains make their way among the clouds like monster centipedes, creeping along the mountain-sides, or over lofty viaducts.

Here man's triumph over nature is complete. How puny seems at first his strength when measured with the wind and avalanche! But mind has proved superior to matter. The ax was made, and at its sturdy stroke the forest yielded up its tribute for the construction of this pathway. The caverns of the earth were also forced to surrender the iron treasured there for ages, and rails were made, along whose glittering lines a crowded train now glides as smoothly as a boat upon the waves. And yet these awful cliffs still scowl so savagely on either side, that the steel rail, which rests upon their shelves of rock, seems often like a thread of fate, by which a thousand lives are held suspended over the abyss.

The volume of freight transported along this route must be enormous. But why should tourists (unless compelled by lack of time) consent to be carried through this scenery like a bale of goods, in darkness rather than in daylight? The best way still to cross the Alps is to cross them, not to burrow through them. I should certainly advise the traveler to drive from Lake Lucerne over the St. Gotthard Pass, and then to take the train, if he desires to do so, on the Italian side, as it emerges from the tunnel. Thence, in a few brief hours one can embark upon Lake Como, or see the sunset gild the statue-laden spires of Milan's cathedral.

The finest scenery on the carriage-road of the St. Gotthard is in a wild ravine, through which the river Reuss rushes madly. Spanning the torrent in a single arch, is what is popularly called "The Devil's Bridge." Perhaps I should say bridges, for there are surely two of them, and though only the smaller one is attributed to his Satanic Majesty, it is probably by the newer, safer, and more orthodox one that Satan nowadays, like a prudent devil, prefers to cross. The legend of this celebrated bridge is extraordinary.

Some centuries ago, the mayor of the canton was one day in despair because the mountain torrent had swept off every bridge he had constructed here. In his vexation he was rash enough to use the name of the Devil, as some people will. Hardly had he uttered the word, when his door-bell rang, and his servant brought him a card, on which he read the words, "Monsieur Satan."

"Show him in," said the mayor. A gentleman in black made his appearance, and seated himself in an armchair. The mayor placed his boots upon the fender; the Devil rested his upon the burning coals. The subject of the bridge was broached, and the mayor finally offered the Devil any sum that the canton could raise, if he would build them a bridge which would last one hundred years. "Bah!" said Satan, "What need have I of money?" And taking with his fingers a red-hot coal from the fire, he offered it to his companion. The mayor drew back aghast. "Don't be afraid," said Satan; and putting the coal in the mayor's hand, it instantly became a lump of gold. "Take it back," said the mayor sadly; "we are not talking now of politics!" "You see," said the Devil, with a smile, "my price must be something else than money. If I build this bridge, I demand that the first living being that passes over it shall be mine." "Agreed!" said the mayor. The contract was soon signed. "Au revoir!" said the Devil. "Au plaisir!" said the mayor; and Satan went his way.

Early next morning the mayor himself hurried to the spot, eager to see if Satan had fulfilled his contract. The bridge was completed, and there sat Satan, swinging his legs over the stream and waiting for his promised soul. "What," he exclaimed, as he espied the mayor, "do you unselfishly resign _your_ soul to me?" "Not much," replied the mayor, proceeding to untie a bag which he had brought. "What's that?" cried Satan. There was a wild yell, and instantly a big black cat, with a tin pan tied to its tail, rushed over the bridge as if ten thousand dogs were after it. "There is your 'first living being,'" cried the mayor. "Catch him!" Satan was furious, but acknowledged that he had been outwitted and retired,—contenting himself with making the air of the ravine quite sulphurous with his remarks about home!

Although the St. Gotthard may be the grandest of all Alpine passes, the most historic of them is that of Mount St. Bernard. Some years ago, on the last day of October, I left the village of Martigny, which is the starting-point for the ascent, and, several hours later, as night came creeping up the Alps, found myself upon the famous pass, at a place already higher than our own Mt. Washington, but still two thousand feet below my destination,—the monastery. Through various causes our party had been delayed, and now with the approach of night a snow-storm swept our path with fearful violence. Those who have never seen a genuine Alpine storm can hardly comprehend its reckless fury. The light snow was whirled and scattered, like an ocean of spray, over all things. A thousand needles of ice seemed to pierce our skin. Drifts sprang up in our path, as if by magic. The winds howled like unchained demons through the jagged gorges, and a horrible feeling of isolation made our hearts falter with a sickening sense of helplessness. As mine was an October experience, I shudder to think of what a genuine winter's storm must be. For, as it was, we were all speedily numb with cold, blinded by the whirling snow, and deafened by the roaring wind, which sometimes drowned our loudest shouts to one another.

Up and still up we rode, our poor mules plunging through the snow, our fingers mechanically holding the reins, which felt like icicles within our grasp, our guides rubbing their well-nigh frozen hands, but, fortunately—most fortunately—never becoming confused as to the way.

At length I saw, or thought I saw, through the blinding snow, one of a group of buildings. I chanced to be the foremost in our file of snow-bound travelers, and shouting, "Here it is at last," I hastened toward the structure. No light was visible. No voice responded to my call for help. I pounded on the door and called again. No answer came; but at that moment I felt my arm grasped roughly by my guide. "In Heaven's name," he said, "do not jest on such a night as this."

"Jest!" I rejoined, with chattering teeth, "I have no wish to jest—I am freezing. Where is the boasted hospitality of your lazy monks? Shout! Wake them up!"

"They will not wake," replied the guide. "Why not?" I cried; and beating the door again, I called at the top of my voice: "Au secours! Réveillez-vous! Are you all dead in here?"

"Yes," replied the guide.

It was now my turn to stare at him. "What do you mean?" I faltered. "What—what does this house contain?" "Corpses," was the reply.

It was clear to me in a moment. I had mistaken the dead-house for the house of shelter! In fancy I could see the ghastly spectacle within, where bones of travelers whiten on through centuries in an atmosphere whose purity defies decay.

But, almost simultaneously with his other words, I heard my guide exclaim: "If you too would not join their number, _en avant, en avant, vite, vite_!" Then, seizing the bridle of my mule, he urged me toward the monastery. A few moments more and we arrived within its sheltering walls. One of the brothers helped me to dismount, and led me up the stone steps of the Hospice. And then, how blessed was our reception! How warm the fire blazing on the ample hearth! How good the hot soup and wine instantly brought us by the kind friars! How comforting the thought of our surroundings, as the baffled storm beat against the frost-covered windows, and seemed to shriek with rage at being cheated of its victims!

Never, while memory lasts, shall I cease to remember with love and gratitude those noble-hearted brothers of the St. Bernard.

Next morning the storm had cleared away; yet even in pleasant weather it is difficult to imagine anything more dreary than the situation of this monastery, locked thus in snow and ice, and sentineled by savage peaks, eight thousand feet above the sea. Even the pond adjoining it is gloomy from its contrast to all other lakes. Its waters are too cold for any kind of fish, and therefore fail to attract hither any kind of bird. Animal life has fallen off in making the ascent. Man and the dog alone have reached the summit.

It was with admiration that I looked upon the self-sacrificing heroes who reside here. What praise can be too high for these devoted men, who say farewell to parents and to friends, and leave the smiling vales of Switzerland and Italy to live upon this glacial height? Few of them can endure the hardship and exposure of the situation longer than eight years, and then, with broken health, they return (perhaps to die) to the milder climate of the valleys. During the long winter which binds them here with icy chains for nine months of the year, they give themselves to the noble work of rescuing, often amid terrible exposure, those who are then obliged to cross the pass. In this they are aided by their famous dogs, which, like themselves, shrink from no danger, and in their courage and intelligence rival the masters they so bravely serve. The travelers whom they receive in winter are not the rich, whose heavy purses might recompense them for their toil. They are mostly humble peasants, unable to give more compensation than the outpouring of a grateful heart. But there will come a day when these brave men will have their full reward; when He, who with unerring wisdom weighs all motives and all deeds, will say to them: "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto Me."

One of the most attractive of all the pleasure resorts in Switzerland is the lovely Vale of Chamonix. The first view one obtains of it, in coming over the mountains from Martigny, is superb. Three monstrous glaciers, creeping out from their icy lairs, lie beneath ice-fringed buttresses of snow, like glittering serpents watching for a favorable chance to seize and swallow their prey. Looking across the valley at them, it is true, they seem quite harmless; but in reality, such glaciers are the mighty wedges which have for ages carved these mountains into shape, and are still keeping them apart in solitary grandeur. What from a distance seems a little bank of snow is probably a wall of ice, one hundred feet in height. What look like wrinkles are crevasses of an unknown depth; and the seeming puff of smoke which one at times discerns upon them, is really a tremendous avalanche of snow and ice. Of the three glaciers which descend into the Vale of Chamonix, the one most frequently visited by tourists is the Mer de Glace. It is well called the "Sea of Ice," for its irregular surface looks precisely like a mass of tossing waves which have been crystallized when in their wildest agitation. To right and left, the ice is partially concealed by rocks and earth, which have been ground off from the adjacent mountain-sides, or which have fallen there, as the result of avalanches. Sometimes huge boulders are discernible, tossed here and there like nut-shells, the rocky _débris_ of ages.

What is there more suggestive of mysterious power than a frozen cataract like this? Apparently as cold and motionless as death, it nevertheless is moving downward with a slow, resistless march, whose progress can be accurately traced from day to day; so accurately, indeed, that objects lost to-day in one of these crevasses may be confidently looked for at the glacier's terminus after a certain number of years. Forever nourished on the heights, forever wasting in the valleys, these glaciers are the moving mysteries of the upper world; vast, irresistible, congealed processions,—the frozen reservoirs of rivers that glide at last from their reluctant arms in a mad haste to reach the sea.

"Perennial snow, perennial stream, Perennial motion, all things seem; Nor time, nor space will ever show The world that was an hour ago."

When we examine any portion of a glacier's surface, we find abundant evidence of its motion. It has been forced into a million strange, distorted shapes, many of which are larger than the grandest cathedrals man has ever framed. Between them are vast chasms of unknown depth. As it descends thus, inch by inch, obedient to the pressure from above, it flings its frigid waves to the right and left, close to the orchards and the homes of man. It is the ghastly synonym of death in life; for here a man may swing the scythe or gather flowers, while a hundred yards away his brother may be perishing in a crevasse!

To really understand a glacier one must venture out upon its icy flood. One day while on the Mer de Glace, I was (as usual in such expeditions) preceded and followed by a guide, to both of whom I was attached by a stout rope. On that occasion one thing impressed me greatly. It was a strange sound, called by the guides "brullen," or growling, which is in reality the mysterious moaning of the glacier, caused by the rending asunder of huge blocks of ice in its slow, grinding descent.

At times it seemed to me impossible to proceed, but the experienced guide who led the way laughed at my fears; and finally, to increase my confidence, actually entered one of the appalling caverns of the glacier, which like the jaws of some huge polar bear, seemed capable of closing with dire consequences. For a few minutes he remained seated beneath a mass of overhanging ice, apparently as calm as I was apprehensive for his safety. No accident occurred, and yet my fears were not unfounded. For though there is a fascination in thus venturing beneath the frozen billows of a glacier, there may be treachery in its siren loveliness. Huge blocks of ice frequently fall without the slightest warning, and many a reckless tourist has thus been killed, or perhaps maimed for life.

On entering the little town of Chamonix, the tourist sees in front of one of the hotels a group in bronze that rivets his attention and awakens thought. It represents the famous guide, Balmat, who first ascended Mont Blanc in 1786, enthusiastically pointing out the path of victory to the Swiss scientist, De Saussure, who had for years been offering a reward to any one who should discover a way to reach the summit. The face of the brave conqueror of Mont Blanc and that of the distinguished scholar are both turned toward the monarch of the Alps. Instinctively the traveler also looks in that direction.

It is a memorable moment when one gazes for the first time upon Mont Blanc. We understand at once the reason for its being called preëminently the "White Mountain." The title was bestowed upon it because of the magnificent snow-white mantle which it wears, at a height of almost sixteen thousand feet. Probably no other mountain in the world has so towered up on the horizon of our imaginations. Long before we have actually seen it, we have repeated Byron's words:

"Mount Blanc is the monarch of mountains; They crowned him long ago, On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow."

At once a strong desire seizes us to explore those boundless fields of crystal clearness, and yet we shrink from all the toil and danger thus involved. But, suddenly, as our gaze returns to earth, we find a means of making the ascent without fatigue—the telescope!

The placard suspended from it tells us that some tourists are actually struggling toward the summit. The chances are that they will return in safety; for the ascent of Mont Blanc, which Balmat made with so much difficulty, has now been reduced to a system. Yet after all, this Alpine climbing is a dangerous business. It is pathetic, for example, to recall the fate of poor Balmat himself. Despite his long experience, even _he_ lost his life at last by falling over a precipice. Only his statue is in Chamonix; his body lies in an immense abyss, four hundred feet in depth, where falling masses of rock and ice are constantly increasing his vast mausoleum, and the continual thunder of the avalanche seems like the mountain's exultation at its conqueror's destruction.