University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
TAKE CARE!

Fair is the valley of Lauterbrunnen with its
green meadows and overhanging cliffs. The ruined
castle of Unspunnen stands like an armed warder
at the gate of the enchanted land. In calm serenity
the snowy mountains rise beyond. Fairer
than the Rock of Balmarusa, you frowning precipice
looks down upon us; and, from the topmost
cliff, the white pennon of the Brook of Dust shimmers
and waves in the sunny air!

It was a bright, beautiful morning after night-rain.
Every dewdrop and raindrop had a whole
heaven within it; and so had the heart of Paul
Flemming, as, with Mrs. Ashburton and her dark-eyed
daughter, he drove up the Valley of Lauter-brunnen,—the
Valley of Fountains-Only.

“How beautiful the Jungfrau looks this morning!”
exclaimed he, looking at Mary Ashburton.

She thought he meant the mountain, and assented.
But he meant her likewise.

“And the mountains, beyond,” he continued;
“the Monk and the Silver-horn, the Wetter-horn
the Schreck-horn, and the Schwarz-horn, all those
sublime apostles of Nature, whose sermons are
avalanches! Did you ever behold anything more
grand!”

“O yes. Mont Blanc is more grand, when
you behold it from the hills opposite. It was there
that I was most moved by the magnificence of
Swiss scenery. It was a morning like this; and
the clouds, that were hovering about on their huge,
shadowy wings, made the scene only the more magnificent.
Before me lay the whole panorama of
the Alps; pine forests standing dark and solemn at
the base of the mountains; and half-way up a veil
of mist; above which rose the snowy summits,
and sharp needles of rock, which seemed to float
in the air, like a fairy world. Then the glaciers

stood on either side, winding down through the
mountain ravines; and, high above all, rose the
white, dome-like summit of Mont Blanc. And
ever and anon from the shroud of mist came the
awful sound of an avalanche, and a continual roar,
as of the wind through a forest of pines, filled the
air. It was the roar of the Arve and Aveiron,
breaking from their icy fountains. Then the mists
began to pass away; and it seemed as if the whole
firmament were rolling together. It recalled to
my mind that sublime passage in the Apocalypse;
`I saw a great white throne; and him that sat thereon;
before whose face the heavens and the earth
fled away, and found no place!' O, I cannot believe
that upon this earth there is a more magnificent
scene.”

“It must be grand, indeed,” replied Flemming.
“And those mighty glaciers,—huge monsters with
bristling crests, creeping down into the valley! for
it is said they really move.”

“Yes; it filled me with a strange sensation of
awe to think of this. They seemed to me like

the dragons of Northern Romance, which come
down from the mountains and devour whole villages.
A little hamlet in Chamouni was once
abandoned by its inhabitants, terrified at the approach
of the icy dragon. But is it possible you
have never been at Chamouni?

“Never. The great marvel still remains unseen
by me.”

“Then how can you linger here so long? Were
I in your place I would not lose an hour.”

These words passed over the opening blossoms
of hope in the soul of Flemming, like a cold wind
over the flowers in spring-time. He bore it as best
he could, and changed the subject.

I do not mean to describe the Valley of Lauterbrunnen,
nor the bright day passed there. I know
that my gentle reader is blessed with the divine
gift of a poetic fancy; and can see already how
the mountains rise, and the torrents fall, and the
sweet valley lies between; and how, along the dusty
road, the herdsman blows his horn, and travellers
come and go in charabans, like Punch and

Judy in a show-box. He knows already how romantic
ladies sketch romantic scenes; while
sweet gentlemen gather sweet flowers; and how
cold meat tastes under the shadow of trees, and
how time flies when we are in love, and the beloved
one near. One little incident I must, however,
mention, lest his fancy should not suggest it.

Flemming was still sitting with the ladies, on
the green slope near the Staubbach, or Brook of
Dust, when a young man clad in green, came
down the valley. It was a German student, with
flaxen ringlets hanging over his shoulders, and a
guitar in his hand. His step was free and elastic,
and his countenance wore the joyous expression of
youth and health. He approached the company
with a courteous salutation; and, after the manner
of travelling students, asked charity with the confident
air of one unaccustomed to refusal. Nor
was he refused in this instance. The presence of
those we love makes us compassionate and generous.
Flemming gave him a piece of gold; and
after a short conversation he seated himself, at a

little distance on the grass, and began to play and
sing. Wonderful and many were the sweet accords
and plaintive sounds that came from that little
instrument, touched by the student's hand.
Every feeling of the human heart seemed to find
an expression there, and awaken a kindred feeling
in the hearts of those who heard him. He sang
sweet German songs, so full of longing, and of
pleasing sadness, and hope and fear, and passionate
desire, and soul-subduing sorrow, that the tears
came into Mary Ashburton's eyes, though she understood
not the words he sang. Then his countenance
glowed with triumph, and he beat the
strings like a drum, and sang;

Many were the words of praise, when the young
musician ended; and, as he rose to depart, they
still entreated for one song more. Whereupon he
played a lively prelude; and, looking full into
Flemming's face, sang with a pleasant smile, and
still in German, this little song.

The last stanza he sung in a laughing, triumphant
tone, which resounded above the loud clang
of his guitar, like the jeering laugh of Till Eulenspiegel.
Then slinging his guitar over his
shoulder, he took off his green cap, and made a
leg to the ladies, in the style of Gil Blas; waved
his hand in the air, and walked quickly down the
valley, singing “Adé! Adé! Adé!”