University of Virginia Library

INTRODUCTION.

It is not improbable that some of those who read
this book, may feel a wish to know in what manner
I became possessed of the manuscript. Such
a desire is too just and natural to be thwarted, and
the tale shall be told as briefly as possible.

During the summer of 1828, while travelling
among those valleys of Switzerland which lie between
the two great ranges of the Alps, and in
which both the Rhone and the Rhine take their
rise, I had passed from the sources of the latter to
those of the former river, and had reached that
basin in the mountains that is so celebrated for containing
the glacier of the Rhone, when chance gave
me one of those rare moments of sublimity and
solitude, which are the more precious in the other
hemisphere from their infrequency. On every side
the view was bounded by high and ragged mountains,
their peaks glittering near the sun, while directly
before me, and on a level with the eye, lay
that miraculous frozen sea, out of whose drippings
the Rhone starts a foaming river, to glance away
to the distant Mediterranean. For the first time,
during a pilgrimage of years, I felt alone with nature
in Europe. Alas! the enjoyment, as all such
enjoyments necessarily are amid the throngs of the
old world, was short and treacherous. A party

came round the angle of a rock, along the narrow
bridle-path, in single files; two ladies on horseback,
followed by as many gentlemen on foot, and preceded
by the usual guide. It was but small courtesy
to rise and salute the dove-like eyes and blooming
cheeks of the former, as they passed. They
were English, and the gentlemen appeared to recognize
me as a countryman. One of the latter
stopped, and politely inquired if the passage of the
Furca was obstructed by snow. He was told not,
and in return for the information, said that I would
find the Grimsel a little ticklish; “but,” he added,
smiling, “the ladies succeeded in crossing, and you
will scarcely hesitate.” I thought I might get over
a difficulty that his fair companions had conquered.
He then told me Sir Herbert Taylor was made adjutant-general,
and wished me good morning.

I sat reflecting on the character, hopes, pursuits
and interests of man, for an hour, concluding that
the stranger was a soldier, who let some of the ordinary
workings of his thoughts overflow in this
brief and casual interview. To resume my solitary
journey, cross the Rhone, and toil my way up
the rugged side of the Grimsel, consumed two more
hours, and glad was I to come in view of the little
chill-looking sheet of water on its summit, which is
called the Lake of the Dead. The path was filled
with snow, at a most critical point, where, indeed,
a misplaced footstep might betray the incautious to
their destruction. A large party on the other side
appeared fully aware of the difficulty, for it had

halted, and was in earnest discussion with the guide,
touching the practicability of passing. It was decided
to attempt the enterprise. First came a female
of one of the sweetest, serenest countenances
I had ever seen. She, too, was English; and though
she trembled, and blushed, and laughed at herself,
she came on with spirit, and would have reached
my side in safety, had not an unlucky stone
turned beneath a foot that was much too pretty for
those wild hills. I sprang forward, and was so
happy as to save her from destruction. She felt
the extent of the obligation, and expressed her
thanks modestly but with fervor. In a minute we
were joined by her husband, who grasped my hand
with warm feeling, or rather with the emotion one
ought to feel who had witnessed the risk he had just
run of losing an angel. The lady seemed satisfied
at leaving us together.

“You are an Englishman?” said the stranger.

“An American.”

“An American! This is singular—will you
pardon a question?—You have more than saved
my life—you have probably saved my reason—
will you pardon a question?—Can money serve
you?”

I smiled, and told him, odd as it might appear to
him, that though an American, I was a gentleman.
He appeared embarrassed, and his fine face worked,
until I began to pity him, for it was evident he
wished to show me in some way, how much he felt

he was my debtor, and yet he did not know exactly
what to propose.

“We may meet again,” I said, squeezing his
hand.

“Will you receive my card?”

“Most willingly.”

He put “Viscount Householder” into my hand,
and in return I gave him my own humble appellation.

He looked from the card to me, and from me to
the card, and some agreeable idea appeared to flash
upon his mind.

“Shall you visit Geneva this summer?” he asked,
earnestly.

“Within a month.”

“Your address—”

“Hotel de l'Ecu.”

“You shall hear from me.—Adieu.”

We parted, he, his lovely wife and his guides descending
to the Rhone, while I pursued my way to
the Hospice of the Grimsel. Within the month, I
received a large packet at l'Ecu. It contained a
valuable diamond ring, with a request that I would
wear it, as a memorial of Lady Householder, and
a fairly written manuscript. The following short
note explained the wishes of the writer.

I have rigidly complied with this request, and
having sent the two copies according to direction,
the rest of the edition is at the disposal of any one
who may feel an inclination to pay for it. In return
for the copy sent to Stonington, I received the following
letter.