'Thetimes! the times!'—the burden of that soundFalls ever on my ear, most dismally;And as from rock to hill its echoes bound,I ask my heart, 'And can it truly be,That 'Providence, which oft afflicts the just,'Has fore-ordain'd that all the banks shouldbu'st?''The times! the times!'—the cry of terror goesFrom field to field, o'er mountain, vale, and glen,And in a thousand anguish'd accents flowsFrom half the 'doubting, doting' sons of men;While they are joined the cadence of the hymn in,By half the girls, and all of the old women.Though these be days of steam-revolving pistons,And labor-saving tools, of every kind,Yet do we moderns slay our own Philistines,Much in the manner you may call to mindOf him of yore, who, neither weak nor lazy,Abstracted, one dark night, the gate of Gaza.Yea, prophets prophecy, and dreamers dream,While stupid men look on in wild derision,Nor things of sober earnestness they deemThe workings of each cabalistic vision,Which tells the causes of the things that ail 'em,As clearly as the ass explained to Balaam.''Tis for your sins!'—as Pollux link'd with CastorIs ever seen, so guilt with punishment;Each mortal sin provokes a fresh bank 'plaster,'Precisely at the rate of cent per cent.Oh! deeds of crime, at which the bosom sickens.Ye've hatch'd indeed a pretty brood of chickens!'Twas not for nought we made the Indians shank it,Far to the westward of the Mountains Rocky;While a tobacco-pipe, and three-point blanketWas all the guerdon of each hapless jockey:Fancy the march in dioramic views,Ye who have seen the 'Exit of the Jews!'The negroes! Hold we not this seed of Ham'sIn durance, equally inhuman, fully,To that which brought old Pharaoh to the clams?And why? Because their occiputs are woolly;Their lips are thick; their cheeks display no roses:And then, to cap the climax, oh! what noses!And meanwhile, drunkenness, on every hand,Hath rear'd her gilded shrines, and never rested;Till now, within the borders of the land,The onlydraughtsthat don't come back 'protested,'But currently are taken, till the stock fails,Are alcoholic potions, christen'd 'cock-tails.'And thus, while crime hath spread with stride portentous,Pray is it strange that evil o'er us lingers?That 'lots' of retribution have been sent us;And blessing (in disguise!) slip through our fingers;While ever and anon bursts some new bubble,To throw us neck and heels again in trouble?My country! thou art sick, and very bilious,From feeding high, and working very little,Whereby thou hast become quite supercilious,And, through the passing richness of thy victual,'Wax'd fat, like Jeshurun,' that noted kicker,In token of his wholesome meat and liquor.The sickness hath no bounds; alack! there bobs notA head, the holder of a limb unruly,Betwixt Ponchartrain and the fair Penobscot,That hath not told the tale of terror dulyTo scores of friends, in sympathizing masses;Like him of Uz who own'd the sheep and asses.And I, like 'Eliphaz the Temanite,'Would merely say, that on this mundane globe,'As sparks tend ever upward in their flight,'(A fact familiar both to him and Job,)'So man is born to misery' of some sort,And this was all the hapless patriarch's comfort.But as the hand of Time healed all his woes,And raised another batch of pigs and asses,So will its kindly influence interpose,With crops of rice, tobacco, and molasses,To dry thy tears, to bid thy murmurs cease,And bring again the days of palmy peace!
'Thetimes! the times!'—the burden of that soundFalls ever on my ear, most dismally;And as from rock to hill its echoes bound,I ask my heart, 'And can it truly be,That 'Providence, which oft afflicts the just,'Has fore-ordain'd that all the banks shouldbu'st?'
'The times! the times!'—the cry of terror goesFrom field to field, o'er mountain, vale, and glen,And in a thousand anguish'd accents flowsFrom half the 'doubting, doting' sons of men;While they are joined the cadence of the hymn in,By half the girls, and all of the old women.
Though these be days of steam-revolving pistons,And labor-saving tools, of every kind,Yet do we moderns slay our own Philistines,Much in the manner you may call to mindOf him of yore, who, neither weak nor lazy,Abstracted, one dark night, the gate of Gaza.
Yea, prophets prophecy, and dreamers dream,While stupid men look on in wild derision,Nor things of sober earnestness they deemThe workings of each cabalistic vision,Which tells the causes of the things that ail 'em,As clearly as the ass explained to Balaam.
''Tis for your sins!'—as Pollux link'd with CastorIs ever seen, so guilt with punishment;Each mortal sin provokes a fresh bank 'plaster,'Precisely at the rate of cent per cent.Oh! deeds of crime, at which the bosom sickens.Ye've hatch'd indeed a pretty brood of chickens!
'Twas not for nought we made the Indians shank it,Far to the westward of the Mountains Rocky;While a tobacco-pipe, and three-point blanketWas all the guerdon of each hapless jockey:Fancy the march in dioramic views,Ye who have seen the 'Exit of the Jews!'
The negroes! Hold we not this seed of Ham'sIn durance, equally inhuman, fully,To that which brought old Pharaoh to the clams?And why? Because their occiputs are woolly;Their lips are thick; their cheeks display no roses:And then, to cap the climax, oh! what noses!
And meanwhile, drunkenness, on every hand,Hath rear'd her gilded shrines, and never rested;Till now, within the borders of the land,The onlydraughtsthat don't come back 'protested,'But currently are taken, till the stock fails,Are alcoholic potions, christen'd 'cock-tails.'
And thus, while crime hath spread with stride portentous,Pray is it strange that evil o'er us lingers?That 'lots' of retribution have been sent us;And blessing (in disguise!) slip through our fingers;While ever and anon bursts some new bubble,To throw us neck and heels again in trouble?
My country! thou art sick, and very bilious,From feeding high, and working very little,Whereby thou hast become quite supercilious,And, through the passing richness of thy victual,'Wax'd fat, like Jeshurun,' that noted kicker,In token of his wholesome meat and liquor.
The sickness hath no bounds; alack! there bobs notA head, the holder of a limb unruly,Betwixt Ponchartrain and the fair Penobscot,That hath not told the tale of terror dulyTo scores of friends, in sympathizing masses;Like him of Uz who own'd the sheep and asses.
And I, like 'Eliphaz the Temanite,'Would merely say, that on this mundane globe,'As sparks tend ever upward in their flight,'(A fact familiar both to him and Job,)'So man is born to misery' of some sort,And this was all the hapless patriarch's comfort.
But as the hand of Time healed all his woes,And raised another batch of pigs and asses,So will its kindly influence interpose,With crops of rice, tobacco, and molasses,To dry thy tears, to bid thy murmurs cease,And bring again the days of palmy peace!
Wilmington, (Del.,) September, 1837.
FROM ROUGH NOTES OF A VISIT TO ENGLAND, SCOTLAND, FRANCE, SWITZERLAND, AND GERMANY.
NUMBER FIVE.
PARIS, (CONCLUDED)—SWITZERLAND.
I havemarvelled at nothing more, in Paris, than the rarity of female beauty. I have been in the Boulevards, and other fashionable resorts, at fashionable hours, many a time and oft; but I do not recollect having seen a single French woman decidedly pretty. In some of the galleries, I observed occasionally a lady who might be called so, but they always proved to be English. It seemed more singular, as the prevalent notions of Paris with us led me to expect a brilliant display 'in this line.' But if the French damsels are deficient in personal attractions, they certainly are not in graceful and fascinating manners; and this remark will apply almost equally to the peasant girl and the queen. The style of dress of the Parisian ladies seemed to me very neat, simple, and tasteful, and certainly much lessshowythan that of the belles of Gotham, who, it must be owned, are apt to be somewhatultrain theextremesof foreign fashions. There is sound policy, no doubt, in the practice of employing young women as clerks in the shops; they certainly have an irresistible way of recommending their wares, charming you by their ineffable sweetness and apparent naïveté, while they draw as liberally as possible on your purse.
They have a queer way of naming, ordedicatingtheir shops;such as 'à la belles, Anglaise,' 'à la ville de New-York,' etc. In many of them there is a notification that the prices arefixedand unchangeable; but I understand they generally take care that theAnglaise, (who seem to be proverbial as a wealthy nation,) shall pay a suitable advance. 'Combien?' proves to be a very useful word, and answers just as well as 'Quel est le prix?' The bill of fare at the restaurants is quite a curiosity. You may have, in the medium establishments, an excellent dinner for twenty-five or thirty cents, including two or three 'plates,' and a choice from nearly one hundred and fifty, beside the dessert and thevin ordinaire. Omnibuses originated in Paris; and they are now very abundant, convenient, and cheap. You may ride from the Gobelins to Mont Mâitre, about four miles, for six sous; and if you wish to stop on the way, they will give you, gratis, acorrespondence-ticketto proceed. They are regulated by government, and taxed and licensed for so many passengers.
While admiring the palaces and public buildings in Paris, one cannot but be surprised that the meanest huts should be permitted to remain in their immediate neighborhood, as at the Louvre, Tuilleries, Luxembourg, and the palace of the Institute, where bits of book-stalls and shoe-makers' shops are placed against the very walls of those stately edifices.
An American, of course, notices as something strange, themilitarygovernment, which is every where so apparent. Wherever you go, in public buildings, in the parks, or in the streets, you are always sure to meet soldiers, policemen, or 'secret service' spies. The members of the 'National Guards' are, (apparently for a politic purpose,) interspersed among the 'troops of the line,' or standing army. The National Guards are citizen volunteers, who serve by turns a certain length of time. Their whole number is about two hundred and fifty thousand, and hence their immense importance to the government.
Paris affords an inexhaustible fund of topics for the travelling letter-writer, but I must recollect that ithasbeen spoken of,occasionally, before. Let me remind you again, my dear ——, that these rough memorandums are made almost literally 'on the gallop,' by abusinessyouth, and they are not intended to edify any one but yourself.[3]
Geneva, (Switzerland,) August 19, 1836.—Yes, it is even so! After a rather tedious journey of three days and four nights from Paris, I find myself in Switzerland; in Geneva, looking out upon Lake Leman by moonlight, on a lovely summer evening.
To retrace: At fourP. M., on the 14th, I seated myself in the diligence for Lyons. One of my companions was a veryniceand pretty young lady, who proved to be Paulina Celeste, a Signorina of Milan, returning with her mother from an engagement at the Italian Opera, in London. She was quite intelligent, but could not speak aword of English, except 'very warm,' (and indeed it was;) but I managed to amuse myself, if not her, in some funny attempts at conversation in French.
We rode out of Paris over Pont Neuf, passing Notre Dame and the Jardin des Plants, and proceeded by a dull and level road, (leaving Fountainbleau and St. Dennis on either side,) along the banks of the Yonne to Villeneuve, Pont-sur-Yonne, Sens, Joigny, etc., without any remarkable incident, except that I had the pleasure of being left behind at one of the stopping places, at eleven o'clock at night. The conducteurs, when they have taken your money for the whole route, care very little whether you proceed or not; and I was indebted to a long hill for detaining the diligence till I overtook it, after ahotchase of a couple of miles. The next morning at eleven o'clock we were graciously allowed time to break our fasts of twenty-seven hours; and a very ordinarydejéunerwas despatched, as you may imagine, with considerable zeal.
Nearly two-thirds of the journey is through corn-fields and vineyards, affording no fine scenery, but entering a score of petty villages, made up of the most uncouth and wretched huts imaginable. The only places worth mentioning, were Auxerre, an ancient town, fortified by the Romans; Autun, which we entered under a Roman arch or barrier; Metun, Avallon, Ville-Franche, and Chalons-sur-Soane, which latter is quite a pretty place, in a fine situation on the banks of the Soane. We dined there on poulet, pigeon, potage, melon, bits of lobsters, two inches long, and a variety of dishes so disguised as to be nameless; with fresh prunes, pears, and grapes for a dessert. Delicious fresh prunes and grapes may be had here almost for the taking, but apples, pears, and melons, are scarce and dear.
At eightA. M., on the 17th, we entered Lyons, the second city in the kingdom, celebrated for its silk and other manufactories. A great portion of all the French finery which you wear, comes from Lyons. This city is built between the Rhone and the Soane, which are here about an eighth of a mile apart, and both very rapid; so there are abundant facilities for water-power machinery. The bridges and quays are of stone, and are very handsome. Lofty heights, surmounted with fortifications, flank the city on either side, and give it an air of strength and importance. Eagerly looking forward to Italy, there was little to detain me here. I was disappointed, however, in not finding any conversible travellers here, on their way to the 'sunny land;' and ten minutes were allowed me to decide whether I would go alone to Marseilles, and take the steam-boat for Genoa and Naples, in the face of the cholera, and at the risk of horrible quarantines; or turn off to Geneva, with the chance of finding a companion across the Simplon. Thesaferalternative was adopted; and taking leave of the prettydanseuse, with a promise to call on her at Milan, I mounted the banquette, and had another uncomfortable night-ride.[4]
The next morning, however, was beautiful, and we already began to have a taste for Swiss scenery, which appears to extend forty orfifty miles into France. The remainder of the journey was over long hills and dales; and we walked a considerable portion of it, enjoying occasionally a noble view of rough mountains and green valleys. At every hamlet and village, our passports were examined by epauletted officers. Near the frontiers of Switzerland, the Rhone comes tumbling down between two steep and lofty hills; those referred to, probably, by 'Childe Harold:'
'Where the swift Rhone cleaves his way betweenHeights which appear like lovers who have partedIn haste—whose mining depths so interveneThat they can meet no more, though broken-hearted.'
'Where the swift Rhone cleaves his way betweenHeights which appear like lovers who have partedIn haste—whose mining depths so interveneThat they can meet no more, though broken-hearted.'
This is the only pass to this quarter of France, and is rendered impregnable by a strongly-fortified castle, lately built on the side of the crag,overthe road; so that all travellers must pass through the court-yard, and submit to close examination. At fiveP. M., our passports were received by an officer in more simple uniform than usual; and this was the first intimation that we had left the dominions of Louis Phillipe, and entered those of his republican neighbors. We soon saw other changes. The neat and comfortable cottages, and the taste and industry displayed in the adjoining grounds and gardens, in approaching Geneva, form a striking contrast to the miserable huts and farm-houses of the peasantry of France. Verily, the lower classes of the French are a filthy people. They seem to have no idea of neatness, propriety, and comfort, in any thing. As farmers, and in nearly all theusefularts, they are a century behind the English. Madame Trollope, methinks, might here indulge her satirical pen, to her heart's content. But we were entering Geneva.
It was on a 'soft and lovely eve,' at six, when this pretty town and prettier lake, with the charming walks and gardens of the environs, first greeted our admiring vision. The frowning Jura looks down upon the lake on one side, and the distant snow-capped Alps, with Mont Blanc duly conspicuous, bound the horizon on the other. At the gates of the town, which is strongly walled, those important documents, our passports, were again given up for inspection at the Bureau of the 'Confederation Fedérale.' The diligence passed round the famous great Hotel des Bergues, and over the pretty bridge which you see in the pictures, and set us down at the Hotel de l'Europe, where I wasfavoredwith a bit of a room on the fifth floor, for the hotels are all crowded. The Bergues, by the way, is considered the best public house on the continent. There you may mix with lords, princes, pretty ladies, and handsome equipages, from all parts of Europe. This place being the head-quarters for tourists to Italy, and noted for its delightful situation and pure air, is always a favorite resort, especially for the fashionable and wealthy English.
I wasso fortunate as to find a vacant room at Monsieur W——'s beautiful place in the environs, where I have the society of two or three English and American families, beside the Misses W——, who are intelligent, sensible girls, and speak English 'like a native.' It is a most interesting family—uniting the simplicity andstrengthof the Swiss character with the refinement and grace of the French.
Geneva, you well know, traces her origin far back into antiquity. It is mentioned by Julius Cæsar as a place of strength and importance. It now contains twenty-four thousand inhabitants. The city cannot boast much of architectural beauty. There are few public buildings of elegance, and the houses generally are antique and grotesque. The cathedral, (the same in which Calvin used to preach,) is the most conspicuous edifice in the town; but there are some large and substantial modern buildings, on the banks of the lake. The Rhone, which enters the lake at the other end, leaves it here, and, 'as if refreshed by its expansion, again contracts itself, and rushes through the city in two branches, with the impetuosity of a torrent.' On the little artificial island adjoining the bridge, is a bronze statue of one of Geneva's gifted sons,Jean Jacques Rousseau. BesideCalvin, she can also boast ofBeza,Calderini, andPictetamong her theologians.Sismondi, the distinguished historian, now resides here. The library of the college, (which has twelve professors, and six hundred students,) was founded byBonnivard, the 'prisoner of Chillon.'
After rambling about to the Hotel de Ville, Botanic Garden, and the beautiful ramparts, from whence there are charming views, I walked along the banks of the lake towardVoltaire's Villa, at Ferney, but by mistake took the road to Lausanne, equally noted as the place where Gibbon wrote the 'Decline and Fall.'
'Lausanne and Ferney! Ye have been the abodesOf names which unto you bequeathed a name.'
'Lausanne and Ferney! Ye have been the abodesOf names which unto you bequeathed a name.'
In the course of this solitary stroll, I found a retired little cove, and had the luxury of a bath in the lake, from the bottom of which I obtained several rather curious pebbles.
After dinner:
'Lake Leman wooed us with its crystal face,The mirror where the stars and mountains viewThe stillness of their aspect, in each traceIts clear depths yield of their far height and hue;'
'Lake Leman wooed us with its crystal face,The mirror where the stars and mountains viewThe stillness of their aspect, in each traceIts clear depths yield of their far height and hue;'
and a small party of us, therefore, took a small boat, and rowed a few miles over its glassy surface. The lake is literally as clear as crystal; the bottom is distinctly seen in every part of it; and you recollect Byron says in a note, that he once saw the distinct reflection in it of Mont Blanc and Mont Argentiére, which are sixty miles distant! We pushed out into the centre of the beautiful expanse of water, and 'lay on our oars' to enjoy a scene which must be almost unique in its loveliness, especially at this hour, when the distant, snow-white peak of the mighty Blanc is tinged with the rays of the setting sun. The picturesque buildings of the town rise above each other at the head of the lake; the banks on each side studded with villas, embosomed in trees, on green and verdant lawns; while the 'dark frowning Jura' forms an effective back-ground of the picture. In our sail, we passed the villa at Coligny, where Byron lived nine months, and wrote the third canto of 'Childe Harold.' He used often to go out on the lake alone, at midnight, in violent storms, which seemed to delight and inspire him. The change in the elementsdescribed in the third canto, might be a counterpart of the author's mind:
'Clear placid Leman! thy contrasted lake,With the wide world I dwell in, is a thingWhich warns me with its stillness to forsakeEarth's troubled waters for a purer spring:This quiet sail is as a noiseless wingTo waft me from distraction.'
'Clear placid Leman! thy contrasted lake,With the wide world I dwell in, is a thingWhich warns me with its stillness to forsakeEarth's troubled waters for a purer spring:This quiet sail is as a noiseless wingTo waft me from distraction.'
Mark the contrast:
'The sky is changed! and such a change! Oh night,And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,Yet lovely in your strength, as is the lightOf a dark eye in woman. Far along,From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud,But every mountain now hath found a tongue,And Jura answers from her misty shroud,Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!'
'The sky is changed! and such a change! Oh night,And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,Yet lovely in your strength, as is the lightOf a dark eye in woman. Far along,From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud,But every mountain now hath found a tongue,And Jura answers from her misty shroud,Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!'
We were threatened with 'such change,' which are said to be frequent and sudden; but it proved a false alarm.
But we must return:
'It is the hush of night, and all betweenThe margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seenSave darkened Jura, whose capt heights appearPrecipitously steep; and drawing near,There breathes a living fragrance from the shore,Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the earDrops the light drip of the suspended oar,Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more.'
'It is the hush of night, and all betweenThe margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seenSave darkened Jura, whose capt heights appearPrecipitously steep; and drawing near,There breathes a living fragrance from the shore,Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the earDrops the light drip of the suspended oar,Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more.'
Miss B——, one of the American ladies at Monsieur W——'s, has resided four years in Italy. Among other anecdotes, of which she has an entertaining and extensive fund at command, she was telling us one, illustrating the reputation of our great republic with the common people of Europe. Near the Hotel de Secherons, on the banks of the lake, one mile from Geneva, she met a small boy at the gate of a cottage, and amused herself by a little talk with him. He seemed much surprised on learning the two facts, that she was an American lady, and that she boarded at the Secherons, 'where they paid more money for one dinner than he ever had in his life.' 'Did you ever hear of America?' 'Oh yes, father told me all about it. There was a famous Frenchman, Monsieur Lafayette, went there once, and conquered the country.' 'Indeed!' well, what did he do then?' 'Why, they wanted him to become king, but he wouldn't.' 'Why not?' 'Because,' said the boy, hesitating, lest he should give offence, 'because the Americans are so poor!' And thus he marvelled that one of them should be rich enough to patronize the Hotel de Secherons.
Sunday.—Attended the English Episcopal chapel, to hear the celebratedRev. J. W. Cunningham, author of the 'Velvet Cushion,'etc. He enjoined upon his audience, mostly English travellers or residents, to conduct themselves abroad as best became 'British Christians.' There are chapels of this kind for the English, in nearly all the large cities of Italy, and throughout Europe.
Chamouni, (foot of Mont Blanc,) August 23.—Those who describe Swiss scenery, with a feeling sense of its beauty and grandeur, are apt to incur the charge of coloring the picture under the influence of an inflated imagination; but I am sure of one thing, that no mere words ever did or could give me a correct and full impression of the scenes I have passed to-day, or of the one now before me. To say that I am in the valley of Chamouni, at the very base of the stupendous Mont Blanc and his gigantic neighbors, on a moonlight evening, is to say enough for your own imagination to fill up the picture. Well does Rogers remark of the distant view of the Alps from the Jura, where they are scarcely distinguishable from the vapors:
'Who first beholds those everlasting clouds,Seed-time and harvest, morning, noon and night,Still where they were, stedfast, immovable;Those mighty hills, so shadowy, so sublime,As rather to belong to heaven than earth,But instantly receives into his soul,A sense, a feeling, that he loses not,A something that informs him 'tis an hourWhence he may date henceforward and for ever.'
'Who first beholds those everlasting clouds,Seed-time and harvest, morning, noon and night,Still where they were, stedfast, immovable;Those mighty hills, so shadowy, so sublime,As rather to belong to heaven than earth,But instantly receives into his soul,A sense, a feeling, that he loses not,A something that informs him 'tis an hourWhence he may date henceforward and for ever.'
It certainly is a school, where the egotist may learn humility.
Our party, (Mr. and Miss M——, and myself,) left Geneva in a 'carry-all' yesterday morning at five o'clock. It was another clear and brilliant day, and the ride, of course, was delightful. Lake, hill, mountain, valley, cascade, river, in their happiest combination, presented a splendid panorama, during the whole distance to this place, fifty-four miles. By way of variety, I must tell you my troubles, also. About five miles from Geneva, we were made aware of having left the Swiss, and entered the Sardinian territory, by a summons, at a little frontier bureau, for our passports. When lo! it was discovered that mine was minus the signature of his Sardinian majesty's consul at Geneva,[5]and I was politely requested to return for it! This was particularly pleasant! For to do it, would be to lose the whole day, and the party beside. After some useless debate, thecarbinierkindly permitted me to send back the document by a loafer who happened along, knowing that I could not go far without it; and the next day I received it at Chamouni, and had the pleasure of paying five dollars for not heeding Madame Starke's directions.
We breakfasted at Bonneville, a little village on the Arve, worthy of its name; and we were soon ushered into a region of sublimer scenery than we had as yet visited. The craggy summits, even of the minor mountains, literally touch or rise above the clouds, while their sides, up to a fearful height, are covered with verdure, andstudded with cottages: and the valleys below are laid out in squares of varied green. At St. Martin, we changed our vehicle for achar-banc, better suited to the rough and narrow path, for we were now coming where nature displays some of her wildest scenes:
——'Above me are the Alps,The palaces of Nature, whose vast wallsHave pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,And throned eternity in icy hallsOf cold sublimity, where forms and fallsThe avalanche, the thunder-bolt of snow!All that expands the spirit yet appals,Gather around these summits, as to showHow earth may pierce to heaven, yet leave vain man below.'
——'Above me are the Alps,The palaces of Nature, whose vast wallsHave pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,And throned eternity in icy hallsOf cold sublimity, where forms and fallsThe avalanche, the thunder-bolt of snow!All that expands the spirit yet appals,Gather around these summits, as to showHow earth may pierce to heaven, yet leave vain man below.'
The village of Chamouni is situated in the middle of the valley of the same name, which is ten miles long, and forms one of the most popular 'lions' in Europe, for the botanist, mineralogist, and all nature's students. Our first expedition was to the celebratedMer-de-Glace. We set off from our inn on mules, headed by a guide, and shortly came to a steep and laborious ascent of some thousand feet, on Mont Anvert, from which, as we looked back, the objects in the valley appeared dwindled to atomies. In about three hours, that wonderful phenomena, thefrozen sea, suddenly burst upon our view:
'Wave upon wave! as if a foaming ocean,By boisterous winds to fierce rebellion driven,Heard, in its wildest moment of commotion,And stood congealed at the command of heaven!Its frantic billows chained at their explosion,And fixed in sculpture! here to caverns riven—There, petrified to crystal—at His nodWho raised the Alps an altar to theirGod.'
'Wave upon wave! as if a foaming ocean,By boisterous winds to fierce rebellion driven,Heard, in its wildest moment of commotion,And stood congealed at the command of heaven!Its frantic billows chained at their explosion,And fixed in sculpture! here to caverns riven—There, petrified to crystal—at His nodWho raised the Alps an altar to theirGod.'
When you reflect that this sea is eighteen miles long, and that the waves rise in abrupt ridges ten, twenty, and even forty feet, frozen to extreme solidity, with chasms between, some of which have been found to be three hundred and fifty feet deep, you will believe the poet has not exaggerated its appearance. It is surrounded by high mountains of dark-colored rock, which taper off in fantastic and beautiful cones; and altogether, it is a scene of striking and awful magnificence, which must leave an abiding impression on every visitor. The ice in the chasms is very clear, and of a beautiful vitriol tint. It is remarkable that this great natural curiosity was first made known to the world in 1741, by two adventurous English travellers, Windham and Pococke. Its origin, of course, remains a fearful mystery.
At the little hut on Mont Anvert, I obtained of the guides some specimens of minerals, fine stones, and achamois cane. By the way, you will excuse me perhaps, for copying these 'Lines on liberating a Chamois:'[6]
'Free-born and beautiful! The mountainHas naught like thee!Fleet as the rush of Alpine fountain—Fearless and free!Thy dazzling eye outshines in brightnessThe beam of Hope;Thine airy bound outstrips the lightnessOf antelope.'On cliffs, where scarce the eagle's pinionCan find repose,Thou keep'st thy desolate dominionOf trackless snows!Thy pride to roam, where man's ambitionCould never climb,And make thy world a dazzling visionOf Alps sublime!'How glorious are the dawns that wake theeTo thy repast!And where their fading lights forsake thee,They shine the last.Thy clime is pure—thy heaven clearer,Brighter than ours;To thee, the desert snows are dearerThan summer flowers.'
'Free-born and beautiful! The mountainHas naught like thee!Fleet as the rush of Alpine fountain—Fearless and free!Thy dazzling eye outshines in brightnessThe beam of Hope;Thine airy bound outstrips the lightnessOf antelope.
'On cliffs, where scarce the eagle's pinionCan find repose,Thou keep'st thy desolate dominionOf trackless snows!Thy pride to roam, where man's ambitionCould never climb,And make thy world a dazzling visionOf Alps sublime!
'How glorious are the dawns that wake theeTo thy repast!And where their fading lights forsake thee,They shine the last.Thy clime is pure—thy heaven clearer,Brighter than ours;To thee, the desert snows are dearerThan summer flowers.'
Our excursion had given us a capital relish for dinner, and that despatched, and 'our mules refreshed,' we set off again and climbed to theGlacier de Bossons, an immense mass of ice, congealed in beautiful pyramids, on the side of Mont Blanc. That 'mighty Alp' itself, we did not care to ascend; it is an achievement which has never been accomplished but thirteen times, as we were told by our guide, who was one of the six that escorted an Englishman to the summit this summer. The ascent is of course one of great fatigue and danger. It takes from two to three days, and costs nine hundred francs. It is impossible to remain on the top more than thirty minutes. The last adventurer was sick several weeks at the inn, after his return.
You may imagine something of the situation of this valley among the mountains, from the fact, that although it is itself two thousand feet above the Mediterranean, it receives the rays of the sun direct, only about four hours in the longest days of the year; and the moon, to-night, was not to be seen, in her whole course, though the opposite mountains were bright with her 'mellow light.'
The people of these valleys seem to be honest and industrious, as well as a little superstitious, if one may judge from the number of crosses, and little chapels, with images of the virgin, etc., which are placed by the way-side. On one of them, near Chamouni, is a proclamation in French, to this effect:
'Monseigneur Rey grants an indulgence of forty days to all the faithful who humbly and devoutly strike this cross three times, saying, 'God have mercy upon me!'
August 24.—At sixA. M., we mounted our mules for Martigny, by the pass of the Tête Noir. Like Dr. Beattie, on leaving Chamouni, I beg to refer you to the beautiful hymn which Coleridge wrote here before sunrise, painting its features alittlemore vividly than I can do it:
'Ye ice-falls! Ye that from the mountain's browAdown ravines enormous slope amain;Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,And stopped at once amidst their maddest plunge!Motionless torrents, silent cataracts!Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven,Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sunClothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowersOf loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?God!Let the torrents, like a shout of nations,Answer, and let the ice-plains echo,God!God!Sing, ye meadow streams with gladsome voice!Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,And in the perilous fall shall thunder,God!Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!Ye wild goats, sporting round the eagle's nest!Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm!Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!Ye signs and wonders of the elements!Utter forthGod! and fill the hills with praise!
'Ye ice-falls! Ye that from the mountain's browAdown ravines enormous slope amain;Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,And stopped at once amidst their maddest plunge!Motionless torrents, silent cataracts!Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven,Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sunClothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowersOf loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?
God!Let the torrents, like a shout of nations,Answer, and let the ice-plains echo,God!God!Sing, ye meadow streams with gladsome voice!Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,And in the perilous fall shall thunder,God!Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!Ye wild goats, sporting round the eagle's nest!Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm!Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!Ye signs and wonders of the elements!Utter forthGod! and fill the hills with praise!
There are two passes from Chamouni to the valley of the Rhone, viz: the Col de Balme, and the Tête Noire. The latter is distinguished for its awful wildness and grandeur. The narrow path barely affords room for mules, between steep rocky heights and frightful precipices, each of some thousand feet. Rushing streams of snow-water from the glaciers, cascades from the rocks, remains of avalanches, and overhanging cliffs abound on every side. Our cavalcade consisted of twenty-one mules, and six guides on foot. A great many travel here entirely on foot, equipped in a frock of brown linen, with belt, knapsack, a flask ofkirschwasser, and a six-foot pike-staff; and this is much the best way to explore the country leisurely.
Our speed on mules was not great; for we were all this day going twenty miles. At sixP. M., we came to the last descent, from whence was spread out before us the large and magnificent valley of the Rhone, dotted with villages, of which Martigny and Sion are the principal; and traversed by the river Rhone, and by Napoleon's great Simplon road, which may be seen for twelve miles, its course being as straight as an arrow, through highly cultivated fields and vineyards.
Martigny is the stopping place for tourists to Italy by the Simplon; and here I was to decide whether I would venture. There was the brilliant vision of Italy!—a name which called up my most ambitious youthful dreams; and I was now separated from it but by a day's journey. But alas! there were the cholera, and the fifteen days quarantine at almost every town; and I was alone, unknown to any mortal there, and to the language itself. Then a thousand dangers and vexations rose up before me; and yet, when the last ten minutes for decision came, 'I screwed my courage to the sticking point,' and resolved—to go. My baggage was sent over, my seat taken in the diligence for Milan; but my cane, which I had left at the inn, prevented my seeing Italy! In returning for it, I met a person who had come here for the same object, learned that it was impracticable, and soon persuaded me to give it up; so, with the consoling reflection that I might still go to Naples in November, I changed my course, hired a mule, and soon overtook the party who had set off for the convent on the Great St. Bernard.
Hospice de Saint Bernard, August 25, 1836.—I am now writing before a blazing fire, in the dining-room of the convent, eleven thousand feet above the Mediterranean; and a company of about thirty fellow-pilgrims, English, Scotch, French, German, Austrian,Russian, and American, are exercising their native tongues around me.
The distance to the Convent from Martigny, the nearest resting village, is twenty-seven miles, nine miles of it being the steep ascent of the mountain; of course it takes a long day to achieve it. When Napoleon made the celebrated passage of the St. Bernard, with the army of reserve in 1804, just before the battle of Marengo, the path was much worse than it is now, and the idea of transporting heavy ordnance, etc., for an army of sixty thousand, over a mountain which even now the sure-footed mules must tread with great caution, was considered madness. But Napoleon and Hannibal were not easily discouraged, neither were the heroic ladies of our little caravan, who were content to earn their supper and lodging in these upper regions, by two days' hard work of climbing and descending.
We did not achieve the victory without bloodshed. Two of the ladies were thrown violently from their mules, and one of the animals took it into his head to stop short in the midst of a pretty strong thunder-shower; and I had a nice chance of earning a reputation for gallantry, by pushing boldly forward, and returning with another mule for the hapless dame.
We all at last arrived, however, without broken limbs, plentifully drenched by the shower, and well able to appreciate the hospitality of the monks. They provided changes of raiment for those who brought none, piled the wood liberally on the fire, and soon spread the table as liberally with an excellent supper. The ladies and their attending squires supped by themselves, two of the most intelligent of the brothers officiating, and dispensingbon caféandbon mots, while the supernumerarymen-kindwere entertained in another room by the other monks, headed by the Superior.
This famous convent is a very plain, large wooden building, which at a distance you would take for a barn, situated far above the regions of vegetation, and several miles from the nearest habitation. It is partly supported by the governments of Sardinia and Switzerland, for the purpose of relieving travellers over the mountain; for without it, the pass would scarcely bepassedat all. The monks appear to be plain, sensible, and intelligent men, without that austerity usually associated with that order. They freely receive all who come here, either for curiosity or necessity, without charge; but visitors contribute whatever they please to the box in the chapel. They turned out their famous dogs for our amusement; in the winter, they are used for more important purposes. They are not so large as I expected, but they are really noble animals. Many a weary traveller have they rescued from death in the snow.
Some of the monks are the same who were here when Napoleon's army came over, and they have a picture of his arrival at the convent, in the little museum of antiquities. In the hall, is a tablet with this inscription:
'Napoleoni primo Francorum ImperatoriSemper Augusti Republica ValesianæRestaurotori Semper Optimo ÆgyptianoVis Italico, Semper Invicto in MonteIovis et Sempronii Semper MemorandoRepublica Valesia Grata,ii. Dec. AnniMDCCCIV.'
'Napoleoni primo Francorum ImperatoriSemper Augusti Republica ValesianæRestaurotori Semper Optimo ÆgyptianoVis Italico, Semper Invicto in MonteIovis et Sempronii Semper MemorandoRepublica Valesia Grata,ii. Dec. AnniMDCCCIV.'
We were nearly all early to bed, and those who lingered, were packed off by the monks at ten, according to rule. We were roused before sunrise by the lusty ringing of the chapel bell for matins, which were zealously kept up for two or three hours; but I was heretic enough to abscond, for the purpose of climbing the peak behind the convent, from which I could look down on the side of the mountain toward Italy:
'Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee,Full flashes on the soul the light of ages,Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee,To the last halo of the chiefs and sagesWho glorify thy consecrated pages:Thou wert the throne and grave of empires.'
'Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee,Full flashes on the soul the light of ages,Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee,To the last halo of the chiefs and sagesWho glorify thy consecrated pages:Thou wert the throne and grave of empires.'
IfI could weep with customary wo,I, that have seen the goodBorne on the rending flood,And mark'd the thing most loved the first to go;I that have seen the beautiful, the cherish'd,The earliest to depart;'Twould bring unto my heartA pang like that I've felt when dearer things have perish'd.To see thee now, so innocent and sweet,Bud of the breathing morn,From life's young bosom torn,Doom'd, in thy properest bloom, the sudden stroke to meet;And, with an idle interest, I had prayedThe doom for sterner heads,And colder climes and beds,Such as may better meet the tempest and the shade.Yet could such prayer avail, and the stern doomBut spare this sweetest flower,The blight would lose its power,For in this blessed safety all would bloom.A mortal hand had never snapp'd its stem,Nor with an eye to mark,Its white amid the dark,Have trampled down to dust so rich a gem.Its doom, to us so dread, was writ on high,Where glories richer yet,In brighter circles set,Make it of little count when such as this must die.Though to thyself no loss—thy loss to know—How much was thy delight,How lovely to the sight,Might make the fate go weep that dooms thee so.
IfI could weep with customary wo,I, that have seen the goodBorne on the rending flood,And mark'd the thing most loved the first to go;
I that have seen the beautiful, the cherish'd,The earliest to depart;'Twould bring unto my heartA pang like that I've felt when dearer things have perish'd.
To see thee now, so innocent and sweet,Bud of the breathing morn,From life's young bosom torn,Doom'd, in thy properest bloom, the sudden stroke to meet;
And, with an idle interest, I had prayedThe doom for sterner heads,And colder climes and beds,Such as may better meet the tempest and the shade.
Yet could such prayer avail, and the stern doomBut spare this sweetest flower,The blight would lose its power,For in this blessed safety all would bloom.
A mortal hand had never snapp'd its stem,Nor with an eye to mark,Its white amid the dark,Have trampled down to dust so rich a gem.
Its doom, to us so dread, was writ on high,Where glories richer yet,In brighter circles set,Make it of little count when such as this must die.
Though to thyself no loss—thy loss to know—How much was thy delight,How lovely to the sight,Might make the fate go weep that dooms thee so.
E.
ASCENT AND FATAL DESCENT IN A PARACHUTE, OF MR. COCKING, OF ENGLAND.
Probablysince the melancholy result of MadameBlanchard's ascent in a balloon, in France, no circumstance connected with these aërial ships has created a more general and intense excitement, than the awful termination of a recent adventure in the air by a Mr.Cocking, of the metropolis. The London daily journals, and indeed periodicals of every class, are rife with the thrilling particulars of the catastrophe. We gladly avail ourselves of the kind courtesy of the Editor of the 'Albion,' to lay them, in a condensed form, before our readers, accompanied with two engravings, explanatory of the dreadful event. It should be premised, that the balloon is the same in which the distinguished aëronaut, Mr.Green, accompanied by two or three English gentleman, made the well-known night-ascension and journey, which terminated at day-break the next morning in a German province, several hundred miles from London.
The present ascent was made from Vauxhall Gardens, London, in the presence of an immense concourse of people. The parachute was the invention of the unfortunate man, whose coffin it finally proved, and was of a novel construction, being in the form of an umbrella reversed, the cavity containing the air being turned uppermost, to prevent disastrous oscillation. It was constructed of fine Irish linen, and was one hundred and seven feet in circumference. A car of wicker-work was suspended to it, in which sat the ill-fated victim, expressing confidence of success, but evincing, by restless looks and a nervous manner, that it was a confidence which he did not feel. Prior to the parachute being attached to the balloon, Mr.Greencaused a trial to be made with the view of ascertaining whether the buoyancy of the latter was sufficient to carry up the former with safety. The result of this trial, (after some arrangements with respect to the ballast, of which he was compelled to give out six hundred pounds, had been effected,) was satisfactory. The abandonment of this large quantity of ballast he found to be absolutely requisite, in order with safety to commence the ascent. The balloon was then allowed gently to rise a sufficient height to be conveyed over the parachute; and 'at twenty minutes before eight o'clock, every thing being in readiness and the parachute attached to the car of the balloon, the ascent took place. Nothing could be more majestic. The weight and great extent of the parachute apparently rendered the motion of the balloon more steady than on any former ascent, and the almost total absence of wind assisted in keeping the balloon in a perfectly perpendicular position. There was not the slightest oscillation; the balloon and parachute sailed through the air with a grandeur that exceeded any thing of the kind ever before witnessed, and continued in sight for about ten minutes. A good deal of ballast was discharged almost immediately over the inclosure, after which the huge machine rose rapidly, but not so suddenly as to break the even current of its course,' and was soon lost in the clouds.
The subjoined engraving represents the ascent of the balloon, with the parachute attached: