Chapter 3

"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 the beauty of holiness, and the happiness, in this life even, of a soul firmly anchored in the faith of Christ.

"Once, I remember, he steadied my feet to a rocky point overlooking the little town of Ferney, and the deserted château of Voltaire. And then followed a conversation, in which the tenderness of the good pastor's heart was manifest as he spoke of the fine mind wrecked on the sands of unbelief. 'And to think of this man's influence,' he said, with sorrow in his tones, and regrets over a lost life and a lost soul.

"Upon the shores of the lake stood the old home of De Stael; and nearly opposite, its white walls reflected upon the bosom of the water the house where Byron lived and wrote. In the distance we could see the gleaming roofs of Geneva, the dark cathedral, and the tall hotels. As the weeks wore on I grew stronger. Winter was coming, and the good pastor must go home. He would not hear of leaving me, and together we went down into Savoy, and over the 'mer de glâce,' and trod on the edge of frowning glaciers.

"We were sufficiently near the monastery of the great St. Bernard to take it in our path; toiling along where the ice cracked in the narrow footway, and the moon glittered on the waste of snow and glinted across the dark windows. Pastor Ortler was at home with the monks, and hardly had we thawed ourselves before the ample fireplace, when a supper was prepared, and over their well-spread tables the monks told stories of travellers lost among the granite heights, with clefts and ledges filled with ice.

"Among the rest, friar Le-Bon gave a description of the 'Ice Maiden,' or _'Bride of the Aar,'_ said to be seen often when the great glacier of Aar sends out icy breezes, and the echoes ring from rock to rock, as it were the audible voice of God.

"'Years ago,' he said, 'a young Englishman and his wife were travelling for scientific purposes; measuring heights, and sounding depths. They were always accompanied by guides; but now, charmed by the untold splendor, and urged by deep emotion, they climbed higher and higher, regardless of danger. Twice had the guide called out to them that the very beauty of the day, the sun obscured but not darkened, the softened air, were all favorable to a snowslide or avalanche.

"'Full of life and vivacity, the young wife went on from one point to another, higher and higher; her lithe figure brought out against the sky, as occasionally she plunged her iron-pointed staff deep into the snow, and turned to admire the vast panorama at her feet. Her husband was making the ascent at a slower pace, looking up to admire the boldness of the little woman, and then playfully scolding her as she stood poised in mid-air so far above him. Aware of her danger, and fearing to startle her, the guide had ascended, and now stood with the husband on a little ledge quite underneath the cliff on which stood the fearless bride.

"'A moment--there was a low, murmuring sound, as when the autumn leaves are swept by the evening breeze. The guide heard it, and his cheek paled. At the same time a voice was heard above.

"'"What is that, Walter, it seems as though the mountain was moving?"

"'"For heaven's sake, jump! we will catch you," shouted the guide.

"'"Quick, Gertrude!" A gleam of white shot over them, and a piercing shriek mingled with one long resounding crash, and the glittering crystal was plunged into the valley below, leaving nothing but bare jagged rocks and stunted shrubs, where all was smooth and white but a moment before. Months after, the bones of the fair English girl were buried here,' continued friar Le-Bon.

"'And her husband?' I asked.

"'They brought him here, and it was terrible to see his agony. When he grew stronger, we sent a novice with him to England; it would not do to trust him by himself.'

"'You do not mean to say that his reason was gone?' I asked.

"'He was never rational after that morning,' replied the friar; 'muttering and moaning, and repeating the name of Gertrude constantly. Carl left him with his friends, and we have never heard if he recovered.'

"'And the lady?' asked pastor Ortler.

"'On calm, still days, and just before an avalanche,' said the kind friar, 'her image is always seen standing upon the loftiest height, beckoning with her white taper fingers to some one below.'

"Entertained with so much hospitality, we were loath to leave the friendly hospice, only for the pastor's anxiety to reach home. Down into the sweet valley of the Megringen, and northward by Grindenwald and Thun, and up the steep heights over which falls the white foam of Reichenbach; and farther on towards the crystal Rosenlani, and the tall, still Engel Horner, we came to a little village cradled in security beneath the towering hills; the church-spire glancing in the sunlight, and the simple cottagers jubilant in welcoming home their beloved pastor.

"At the door of the pastor's home we were met by a sweet-browed woman with a lovely infant in her arms, crowing and laughing as the father kissed it over and over again; while a boy of ten and a girl of six summers, ran with open arms to greet him.

"'You stayed so long, papa.'

"'And we missed you so much,' after the first greeting.

"'This young friend was very ill; you would not have had me leave him?'

"'Oh, no, papa, but'--when the little Griselda stopped suddenly, and threw a half-defiant glance at my face, and Thorwald stood measuring me with his great black eyes.

"Hardly recovered from my illness, I stayed with the good pastor Ortler through Christmas week, and a month afterwards. Never did I pass pleasanter days. The wife Rosalind was as kind as a sister, and her children grew soon to like me as an old friend. Very simple was their manner of life, while the air they breathed was fragrant with the love they bore to Him who made and redeemed them, and who had in his good providence, set them in a pleasant place.

"Christmas to them was not a week of jubilee alone. Busy hands decorated the little church, and visits were made to the poor and sick, and presents were given without the hope of reward. Sitting by the parlor fire at night, the pastor told of the parishioners he had seen, their wants and needs; while Rosalind knit stockings, and fashioned garments.

"'It would seem that one so well fitted for society would tire of this narrow bound,' I once said. With an eye brimming over with tenderness, the pastor replied: 'There are souls to save here quite as precious as anywhere else.' I felt humbled before his quiet glance. This was the work for him to do; this was the work he loved. What matter in what part of the vineyard? wherever there was a soul. But this mountain grandeur pleased him. These quiet solitudes led him upward. The glorious diadem of the hills was always urging him onward. Hard and self-denying as his life, he had ample recompense in daily, hourly communion with the Father through the majesty of his works."

"I should like to live where I could see all this," whispered Carry.

"The heart that loves, finds beauty and grandeur everywhere," responded uncle Paul; "not only the mountain passes, but the valleys echo His praise, and there are few places so sterile but human lives abound."

"Griselda and Thorwald, have you seen them since?" asked Carry.

"Ten years afterwards, I saw them. Griselda was a tall stately girl, with blue laughing eyes, and curls of pale brown, and Thorwald was a student at Geneva. Pastor Ortler was still the same, preaching to his little flock, and giving freely of his means, his wife only slightly older. Once more we wandered over the heights and in the valleys, the spots where I lingered years before, plucking a flower and drinking from the cold glacier water. Afterward, when it became necessary for me to return, good pastor Ortler and his wife went with me, and together we passed a winter in Milan."

"And Griselda?" asked Carry.

"Oh, uncle Paul, Griselda was"--and Carry glanced up at the portrait of a young and beautiful woman hanging in a niche on the left-hand of the fireplace. Uncle Paul's portrait occupied the other side. Silence brooded over them; while to Carry it seemed the lady in the picture looked as if with recognition in her eyes. How delicate, how aerial she seemed! yet real, and true. Was it any wonder uncle Paul was so good, having had the companionship of such a spirit so many years? And as she looked, the stately frame seemed to open, and the lady to come down from her place and seat herself on the other arm of uncle Paul's chair, and to lay her head on his shoulder.

"To do good was her aim, Carry; may it be yours," said uncle Paul, and the spell was broken.

A Sabbath In Lausanne.

After a long journey we arrived at the head of the lake of Geneva, by far the most interesting portion of this sheet of water. The mountains on the left of the valley are extremely wild and majestic, and at their feet, close on the borders of the lake, is the little village where I had promised to spend the Sabbath with my old friend Wagner. The sun had gone down, but a rosy flush tinged the clouds and lingered about the tops of the mountains.

The walk was not long to the parsonage, a low rambling cottage, with deep windows and overhanging roof, embowered in trees and fragrant with the breath of flowers. All this we took in at a look, and without any break in the talk, taking us back as it did to the day when we bade good-by to the college and its professors, and shook hands with each other for the last time. Looking into Wagner's face it did not seem so long ago; while I, floating round the world, had gathered experience enough to make me feel, if not look, something older. At the porch we were met by Maude, her slight girlish figure rounded into the perfection of womanhood, the rich bloom of her cheek not quite as deep perhaps; but the sweet blue eyes met mine with all the old frankness, the charming naivete that had rendered her so much a favorite when a child.

Sitting there in the lessening light it all came back; the old university at Basle, and above all, the old professor, Maude's father, whom we all loved.

"His place is well filled, and still we miss him," said Wagner.

There were tears in the young wife's eyes, and rising hastily she disappeared into the house. A few moments later she appeared, her face smiling and glad, a very sweet-faced babe clasped in her arms, another tugging at her gown. "Allow me to show my treasures," she said, as she seated herself beside me. Hours passed as hours will when friends have been separated for years. Then came a summons to tea; and after that Maude put up her jewels, and the pastor introduced me to his study. Summer though it was, a bright fire of sticks was burning on the hearth; bright, but not too bright to exclude the outside view. Slowly the purple curtain drooped over the mountains, falling lower and lower, until the small village, the tiled roofs, and the wooden spire were wrapped in a cloud of dusky haze.

"You have wondered why I content myself here, when a professorship was offered me at Basle," said Wagner at length. "It was a temptation, I allow; and when I thought of Maude and the social position from which I had taken her, I hesitated. She did not, however. 'These people love you, and your preaching is blessed to them. I am afraid if you leave, there will be no one else; and one soul saved outweighs all their professorships.' It was sweetly said, and I knew by the look on her face that her heart was in keeping with her words, and I answered her accordingly."

It was late, and the next day would be the Sabbath. Maude joined us, when a hymn was sung and a prayer offered, and we slept.

The sun was shining when I awoke, and opening my lattice I looked away to, the mountains, their white heads mellowed with a glory that inspired only thoughts of that God who made all things, and who holds them by the power of his might. There was a stir in the village, just enough to show the inhabitants were not sleeping away the precious hours. A cheerful, calm reigned, in keeping with the hallowed day; the very birds sang in a subdued and still triumphant tone, as if they knew 'twas holy time; while the dumb cattle, feeding on the road, cropped the brown grass noiselessly. Gliding down the broad stairway, I opened the study door. The pastor was there, and I saw by the open book, with the cushion before it still deeply indented, that he had been kneeling. He advanced with his usual good-humored smile, while his voice had the mellowed sweetness of one who had been on the mount speaking face to face with the King of kings.

"I question if the Sabbath is as beautiful in the larger towns," said the pastor, leading me to the deep window.

Below, the garden sloped away to a considerable distance, and the flowers still sparkling with the dewdrops lifted their heads timidly. "You see there is some compensation for our solitude; with less temptations to draw away our thoughts, we are privileged to go up through these temple gates from glory to glory. Did you ever see anything more grand and inspiring?" and he stepped out on to the balcony, and pointed me to a range of hills ascending gradually till the top seemed to reach the clouds.

"Here linger yet the showers of fire, Deep in each fold, high on each spire On yonder mountain proud."

Up the walk came Maude, leading by the hand the little Lotchen, the prattle of the child showing the lesson the mother had been attempting to teach. Beautiful such a Sabbath! and my heart felt refreshed as I stood upon the threshold and looked out into the new day.

"We used to work together in Basle," said the pastor as we seated ourselves at the breakfast-table, "suppose we make the effort to-day."

"That will depend upon the portion that falls to my share," I replied.

"Give him the pulpit, Heinrich," said Maude naively.

"I am not sure that I wish him to fill it," replied the pastor with a smile.

"I more than half wish I could," came to my lips unbidden, and I could hardly keep the tears as I thought of the few months it had been mine to labor in this manner, then of that fearful illness, the loss of voice, and the journey to regain health and strength to be spent in His service.

"You remember the old Bible class," said Wagner; "I have one here, or rather two, for we meet twice a day, some finding it more convenient to come in the morning and others after service, so that my time is pretty well filled."

"And you would give me one of the classes," I said, as Maude filled my coffee cup the second time.

"This is what I propose to do."

"And I accept most cheerfully."

"We have but a little time; in an hour you will be ready," and the pastor went to his study.

An hour afterwards the street was full of eager faces, all going to the house of God, quiet and calm, but still cheerful and happy, stopping to interchange greetings with each other, above all glad of a welcoming look and smile from the pastor. I soon saw wherein was the charm; sympathizing and kindly affectioned toward his people the pastor interested himself in the little history of each, neglecting no one, and especially attentive to the poor and feeble aged ones of his flock. All loved him as a pastor, and by reason of this he persuaded them the more easily.

The church was a quaint structure, half gothic, and half of a nondescript architecture peculiar to itself. Leaving the vestibule we entered at once the main audience-room, large, and sufficiently commodious, but somewhat dark and gloomy. The pulpit was high, and looked like an upright octagonal vase perched on a square pedestal. This was unoccupied at present, the people taking their seats, and forming as I saw at once into two distinct classes. In a few words the pastor explained why it was thus, and then offering a prayer in which all joined he proceeded to give me one of the classes, while he began to question the others.

It was a novel group, the women in black skirts, with square boddices, surmounted by white kerchiefs, with long flowing sleeves of white. But the head had the strangest appearance. The more elderly women wore a black cap, from the edge of which depended a trimming rising perpendicularly from the cap from four to eight inches and gave to the head the appearance of wings. Strange as it at first seemed, I soon forgot all but their eager, animated attention. The theme was the love of God in giving his only Son to be the propitiation for our sins. Very evidently, it was no stranger of whom we were speaking. Not satisfied with a mere bearing of his name, they knew and loved him. His divine arm had been reached down to them. Charmed with his sweet countenance, and won by his gentle, loving words, "Come unto me," they came with the trust and confidence of little children, acknowledging their sin, but taking him at his word, "I, even I am he that blotteth out thy transgressions, for my own sake, and will not remember thy sins." It was sweet to talk of him, this Saviour, who had done so much for them; and before I was aware the tears were running down my own cheeks, and my words were broken and fragmentary. In the meantime other worshippers came in. The hour for this kind of instruction was over. The pastor availed himself of a moment's respite, and the next was seen ascending the pulpit stairs. Maude was seated among the singers, and the morning services commenced.

I had never heard my friend deliver a formal discourse, but I knew it mattered little to him whether his message was given to few or many--love for Christ, and earnestness to save souls was the all-absorbing passion of his heart. It was only a continuation of what he had been saying, the sweetly touching story of Christ's love told simply, and still with the earnest, truthful spirit of one who knew by blessed experience the reality of what he was saying. Standing in his place and holding up the cross, for the moment it seemed that we could see Him, the Divine Son, hanging, bleeding, dying that sinners like us might be redeemed, saved, reinstated. What love! What tenderness! Is it any wonder that we wept? Not a dry eye was in the house. Those hardy peasants, with little intellectual culture, had hearts to love, hearts that could understand and appreciate in some feeble manner the promise of pardon and peace through a crucified Redeemer.

It was an hour well spent. Never have I felt nearer the divine presence, nor more of the joy, the rest that springs from intimate communion with the blessed Saviour. How strange the revulsion of feeling in a few moments of time. I had looked with a little of pleasantry upon the quaint figures and novel costumes of the worshippers; now, I saw only the earnest attitude, the anxious gaze, the loving look. Jesus was all in all, and their love for him beautified their faces.

As we went home many kindly words were interchanged, the pastor seeking out the elderly feeble ones, and Maude speaking with the mothers, and patting the heads of little children, while I found my way to a group of youths, to deepen if possible the impression of the morning.

After dinner there was a repetition of the Bible-class, though now they met at the pastor's house. As it was warm and pleasant we seated ourselves in the garden, dividing into three groups. This class was entirely different from the one of the morning, being made up of those, many of them mothers, who could not leave their children to go out earlier; and with some, this service was the principal one of the day. The attention was quite as good, and the manner the same. It was a pleasure to teach, and the sun was throwing his last red beams on the hillside as the last one left the garden. It had been a long day, but we felt repaid.

"You have had a glimpse of our family and of our work," said the pastor. "How do you like it?"

"Is this a specimen of all your Sabbaths?"

"Just the same, with the fluctuating difference of numbers; scattered as our people are, many of them living halfway up the mountains, they are not always able to be here."

"I agree with Maude that your service is needed here."

"I knew you would. There are souls to save here as well as in Basle, and sometimes I think the love of these simple hearts is sweeter to Jesus."

Far away the mountains were lifting their heads, bathed in the golden glory from the setting sun. Maude caught the direction of my eyes.

"Perhaps I fear to much the effect upon my own soul; but these grand temple-gates are always open, and from their entrance we seem to catch glimpses of the celestial city beyond, inspiring only good and noble thoughts, with an anxious, earnest endeavor to reach higher resting-places."

"And you fear this would be less in the noise and din of the city."

"Not quite that, for the heart that loves Jesus can live and work for him anywhere; but with a free choice I prefer this."

I felt that she was right, it was the work God had given her to do, and she was willing to do it; while the question returned to me with tenfold force, Are you as willing to labor in the field that He has given to you? The man with a vineyard places his laborers as he would have them, giving each one according to his capacity, be it more or less. Our Father has a vineyard; it is the world, and his children are the laborers. "Go work in my vineyard," is the command. The choice is His who placed us there; to work is ours.

"Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you; and lo! I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world."