Scenes in Switzerland | Page 9

"Erwald is a good child," he said. "At first we felt vexed with him and
Vesta for leaving the church, and not a few times did we punish them.
But they were so good and patient that it troubled us; and now their
mother is a Protestant, and I never go to mass."
It was explained, the serene calm of the earnest blue eyes: Erwald was
a Christian.
Early in the morning our guide made his appearance. His countenance
sweet and pleasing as it was the night previous. He was accompanied
by a little woman in a black gown and bodice, with a high cap and the
whitest of kerchiefs--a mild sweet-faced woman, whom we knew at
once as his mother.
"You'll tell Vesta mother thinks of her all the time, and prays the Father
every hour to make her well again."
On my asking if she was not afraid to have her son go on so dangerous
a journey, she answered:
"Our Father will take care of him and bring him back to us."
The simple faith of the good woman struck me as greatly to be desired.
With all her simplicity she had the true Wisdom: and her good
motherly face went with me long after I left Erwald in Chamouni.
A few miles from Geneva, we entered Savoy. Here the scenery of the
Alps began to open before us. On the right the Arve was seen winding
through a cultivated and luxuriant valley; on both sides, hills and rooks
rose to a considerable elevation, and behind, the mountains of the Jura
range closed in grandeur the delightful view. We passed through a
succession of peaceful villages, and at length reached by a long avenue
of elms the little town of Bonneville on the Arve. The town is
embosomed in the mountains, and watered by the river. It has a fine old
bridge over the river from which the country is viewed to great,
advantage. On the right the môle is elegantly formed, and terminates in
a peak, a complete contrast to Mont Brezon on the left, wild and savage
in its aspect, and little more than a bare and rugged rock with
occasional pitches of verdure.
[Illustration]
From Bonneville the road passes over the bridge to the foot of the môle,
and traverses a lovely valley, hemmed in by lofty mountains, and rich
in scenes of pastoral beauty. The road is lined on each side with

walnut-trees, which afford a grateful shade. Passing the village of
Sigony, Erwald pointed to the remains of an old convent far up the
mountain, whose inmates were wont to welcome the traveller, when
these valleys, destitute of good roads and inns, were explored with
difficulty and with danger.
From this place the mountains closed upon us; rocks began to overhang
the road, and the Arve was rather heard than seen. At length we crossed
a romantic looking bridge and entered the little town of Cluse, enclosed
on both sides by rocky ramparts, and sheltered equally from sunbeams
and from storms. Following the various windings of the valley, the
Arve seemed to spread itself into a series of lakes, each presenting its
own peculiar loveliness and majesty. The sides of the mountains were
occasionally bare and rugged, but for the most part they were clothed
with forests of fir; while above, pointed summits and fantastic crags
everywhere met the eye, and filled the beholder with admiration and
awe.
A few miles up the valley, Erwald called our attention to the entrance
of the cavern of Balme. It is a natural gallery in the rock and well worth
a visit. The valley now becomes more spacious; while its boundaries
increase in grandeur. The meadows, adorned with groves of beech-trees,
rise in gentle swells from the verge of the Arve, and spread their green
carpet, dotted with cottages and watered by innumerable streams, to the
base of the neighboring heights. At one of these cottages we rested for
the night. I never dreamed of a fairer scene; it was too beautiful for
sleep; the murmurings of the Arve were the only sounds that broke
upon the ear, while all around tremendous precipices rose to heaven,
shutting out from us the cares and tumults of the busy world. To pay
for my enthusiasm I arose with a headache and a feeling of weariness
that sensibly diminished the enjoyment of the morning.
Leaving this enchanted spot, we passed the waterfall D'Orli, and a few
miles beyond we paused to admire the cataract of Arpenas. Its height is
estimated at eight hundred feet. The water rushes with considerable
volume over a tremendous precipice of dark and fantastic rocks. At first
it divides into separate streams that in their fall resemble descending
rockets, till at length, caught by the