And well might gentle Dante swoon with ruth Hath noon less glory mused upon by night? Less fragrant, and their diamond dews less bright New magic round the joys that are no more; Spring brightlier blooms by winter's dream-watched fire; To anguish; long-dead days from happy yore -Murray's Magazine. THE EVE OF ST. JOHN IN A DESERTED CHÂLET. BY FRANK COWPER. It was a beautiful day. A gray mist curled up from the lake and clung to the dark ravines of the mountains. As the sun grew warmer, a gentle breeze fanned the still water, and the mists rolled up to the mountain-tops. A few lazy patches lingered behind, lost in the deep gorges of the hills, where, blindly rubbing against the dark pines, they gradually melted be fore the mid-day heat, as luckless jelly-fish stranded on a sandy beach slowly evaporate under the fierce sun. The steamer was crowded with tourists, -girl-schools, spectacled Germans, smart young Frenchmen, the usual sprinkling of English, the inevitable curate or country rector, two friars, and one Swiss pusteur. This latter was a curious fossil. He was short, wizened, and decrepit. He wore a tall hat on the back of his head like the hatter in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland; his coat was long, his waistcoat low, and his necktie meagre and not clean. It was difficult to look at him and then at the friars without thinking of his tory. I never can see a friar, with his corded frock, sandalled feet, and bare head, without seeming to see romantic pictures of the past. All other costumes change. If I were intimately acquainted with the cut of the friar's dress in past ages, perhaps I should notice slight differences; but in the main the clothes they wore when the monks tore Hypatia to pieces, when Peter the Hermit preached, when Bernard and Abelard ruled their monasteries, when Chaucer wrote, when the fires of Smithfield blazed and the Inquisition terrified, are much the same clothes they wear now. The color may be different; but black, brown, or gray, a friar centuries ago would be a friar now. They are no anachronism but a reality. I could not help being struck at the contrast they afforded, those men apart, with their bleared eyes, sensual lips, dirty beards, as they came on board amid a crowd of simple school-girls and startled English matrons. Living assertors of eighteen centuries of celibacy, they moved about amid that ship-load of nineteenthcentury frivolity. Their power was gone, but their picturesqueness remained. And that insignificant comic little figure was the representative of the power that had supplanted them. How well he 4 seemed to typify the dry syllogisms of that dreary controversy of Predestination and Free-will! Could any spark of poetic fire come from so wizened and matterof-fact a being? Vates and Sacerdos are near akin, and those poetic souls who like mystery in their religion will always prefer a priesthood whose garb is poetic. And those who think a religion cannot be typified by a garb will prefer the dull prose of common dress. At the end of the lake I left the steamer. I intended to walk over the mountains by a little path marked in the Swiss Ordnance Survey, and which would lead me across the frontier into Savoy. The girl-school landed also. It is curious the way mothers dress their fair daughters abroad. Many of these girls were undoubtedly English. Fortunately they disguised the fact very well. " What shapeless frocks, what marvellous colors, these nymphs were clothed in! Were there girl-schools at Lausanne, I wonder, when Byron moped away his time at Meillerie opposite; and did he write that they always smelled of breadand-butter"-the fair, innocent ones! in bitter disappointment because they offered no other attractions! However, in spite of their chaotic clothes, these simple maidens seemed to enjoy themselves. They trooped up the road, under the chestnut and walnut trees, and laughed and chattered, and picked flowers, and ate biscuits and sandwiches, as healthy wholesome girls should. There were two girls who were really pretty, and with a flush of pride I was glad to recognize they were English. And not only were they pretty, but they were well dressed and, if the dress be an index of the mind, then these young ladies were indeed perfect; but perhaps their mother dressed them. How ever, I soon left these fair sirens behind, and, like the hero of "Excelsior," I steeled my heart against all softer feelings. I don't know how it would have been, however, had these young ladies gone so far as the strange young person in that incoherent poem. They didn't. Instead of any tender invitation, expressed verbally or ocularly, they only ate wild strawberries, and made remarks sotto voce, which, as laughter was the result, caused me, with that self-consciousness of a true Briton, to feel a twitching in the back as I walked on. It was hot. The mountain road wound up and up. No breath of air seemed able to penetrate those thick chestnut-woods. The grass under the trees was a perfect carpet of wild loveliness. Flowers of every kind grew thick all round-the stately mountain-lily, bluebells, and yellow cowslips. Red, white, purple, and blue; yellow, green, mauve, and carmine: all the colors and blendings possible were spread everywhere. Delicate, dainty, mossy lawns, where the grass had just been cut, alternated with the rich wealth of unkempt pasture. The sunlight fell in brilliant patches across the twisting chestnut-boles, and on the cut and uncut grass. Bees hummed and flies persecuted, and all the while I trudged over ruthless stones upward and ever upward. It was hot! I could hear down below the merry laughter of the girls. A church clock struck the hour, and the thud, thud, thud of a distant steamer palpitated on the drowsy silence. The air quivered in the heat, a gray-green gloom shimmered under the fantastic chestnut-trees, velvety moss spread temptingly over shady banks. What a home for fairies! I sat down. But it would never do to waste time in dull sloth. I had many miles to go, and some fairly stiff climbing before me. There were awkward precipices to be faced, and Swiss weather is never certain. Up and up I trudged. The stony road had changed to a still more stony path. The chestnut-trees had given place to brushwood, where the hornbeam and mountain-ash reigned instead of the chestnut and walnut; a gentle breeze stirred the ferns, and the gray weather-worn sides of a few snow-streaked peaks rose above the foliage. How scarred and furrowed those solemn rocks looked! Snow still lay in the crevices, and little silver streaks trickled down their rugged faces. My object was to find the path which led up over these cliffs, across the neck which united them to the highest point, and so down into a deep valley where France and Switzerland joined hands across a foaming torrent. I had been warned the path was dangerous. Only a week ago a hapless professor from Vevey had fallen over a precipice and been killed. His body was brought over the day before I started. He was actually in the right path, and his death had been the result of a slip. A moun taineer whom I met told me it was because he wore Oxford shoes, and had no nails in them. I thanked Providence I had a heavy pair of stout boots, and, what appeared to me as I walked, a ton of nails in the soles. Up and up I clambered. The stony path had changed to a vague rut in the close herbage. The brushwood had yielded to a few straggling bushes, with here and there a clump of fir. Their sombre foliage and fragrant odor invited me to rest. The dry red cones lay all about under the solemn shade. No sound reached me now. The breeze fitfully whispered among the pine-plumes, but the stately trees disdained to break the brooding stillness. Far, far down below lay the blue lake. The basement of the peak whereon I sat was entirely hidden. The flowers and lower pine-trees seemed to spring at once from the small blue patch below. On the other side rose tier upon tier of jagged rocks. Range on range of precipitous peaks tossed themselves aloft, while above all, against the blue sky, soared the white billows of the Oberland of Berne, where the everlasting snows piled themselves along the horizon. How strange the contrast seems from the busy every-day life of that blue lake, with its fashionable hotels, tennis-lawns, and artificial society, to the unknown solitude of that arctic region! In that white mystery before me, so near and yet so far, lay spots as untrodden by man as any solitudes in Spitzbergen or Enderby land. There is no spot in the world which brings into such striking proximity the primeval and the ephemeral as Switzerland. posite Montreux. I knew the snow would present obstacles which might be very dangerous; but I calculated that a cliff in Switzerland must be very like a cliff in England. There was little or no snow here. There were only cliffs. But when I looked at them I could not help thinking, But what cliffs !" The track I had been doubtfully following led to the very base of au overhanging precipice, and there ended. I looked up at the gray height above me. Sheer walls of rock looked down at me. There was a sinister expression about the sharp lines which furrowed the face of the cliff. They went zigzag down the surface like the grim sneer on the face of some coldly sarcastic man. The silent gloom of the overshadowing rock chilled me. A little jet of water spouted over a black ledge above, and splashed into an old patch of snow below-so dirty and stone-covered a patch that at first I took it only for the brown soil of the mountain. It was tough and hard to tread on. I could hardly realize such a substance could melt. Clearly I had missed the path. Not even a goat could climb up there. However, climbing had to be done; it was getting late in the afternoon, and I had yet far to go. Without wasting time in going back to look for the path, I determined to get up this wall somehow. To my left was a dark gully, black and forbidding. I instinctively felt I could never get up that. any soli- get up that. To my right a few pines grew, stunted and wind-torn, and above them was a ledge which I felt I might reach. After a difficult climb, and several narrow slips, I reached the ledge. How magnificent was the view! But I felt if I looked long I should grow giddy. I could no longer see any grass slope below. Not even the top of the last pine-tree was visible, although only a few feet beneath. There seemed nothing between me and that small blue patch, some five thousand feet below. I turned to look at the wall behind. Up and up I trudged. It was no longer sultry. The sun scorched, but the air was keen. I had passed all shade, except where the precipitous cliff flung its cool shadow over the deep ravine. The track was becoming difficult to find. I was climbing a steep slope of coarse grass littered with huge boulders. The path had dwindled to countless holes made by the hoofs of the goats who alone could browse up here. It was impossible to find any real track. And now my difficulties began. I was a novice in Alpine climbing. Counting on being what is usually called a good cragsman where crags are not frequent, I had anticipated little difficulty in surmounting the rugged cliffs which towered up op hind the towering precipice overhead. Its rich light flooded the downward slope of a grass patch to the right. There must be a gully there, down which the light can penetrate. The keen mountain air against the cold face of this never-warmed rock chilled me. That rock had never seen the sun. I buttoned up my coat, and altered my course for the gully. After great exertions, I managed to reach a fairly easy place. The narrow escapes I had gone through caused me to appreciate the change from the position of a fly when clinging to the ceiling to the less sustained effort of resting on a ledge of the cornice. At last I could sit down. There was the same view before me. A few more peaks of the Bernese Oberland rose up. The blue lake looked smaller and farther down. That was all. I looked at my watch. It was four o'clock. I must get on. I had taken an hour in climbing about two hundred feet. This would never do. After a little refreshment I buckled to my work. The gully was reached, the course became less hazardous, although rather more fatiguing. At last I was within sight of the top. A few more scrapings, a little more back wrenching, knee-twisting struggles, and I should be there. I endured them all, and -I was not there! I was on my ledge again, and very nearly in another world. My foot had slipped, as I tried for the thousandth time to bump my mouth with my knees, and, to the great destruction of my garments, I alighted on my feet and the ledge at the same moment- What anguish I suffered! I had come down in a second as many feet as it had taken me minutes to get up. But time is no measure of such effort. And then my garments! Luckily, at the rate I was progressing, it would be midnight before I reached the haunts of men. But what distressed me most was that I had broken my flask and dropped my match-box. After a little rest I set to work again, and this time I succeeded-that is, I climbed to within twenty feet of the top, and there found a perpendicular wall of sheer rock, utterly impossible to get up. I have since admired Alpine climbers much more. I thought they overrated themselves before; now I don't think they can estimate themselves enough. I am an Alpine climber. And so I had to come down half-way again. I did this less rapidly than before, but with more comfort. I began to realize that speed is not everything among the Alps. I was much too hurried before. But it was getting late. The shadows behind were growing longer, even a purple shade seemed to have reached the blue lake below. And, worst of all, a mist was creeping over the top of the cliff. Vague shreds, as if of cotton-wool, were spreading overhead. I should be in a cheerful position if a thick fog came on. I couldn't go down, I knew. It had taken me all I was capable of to get along that ledge when going up. It would be death to attempt it going down. way must be found past that twenty feet of cliff between me and dinner. A By warily hooking on to slight roughnesses in the sides of the gully, I managed to work my way so far to the right that I could see round the edge. There was a ledge beyond, which seemed to extend up to the top. Could I reach it? It was very ticklish work, but, thanks to my nails -I mean on my boots-I managed it. In another quarter of an hour I was a victor. I had gained the summit, but I was. utterly ignorant of where I was. Almost at the same moment that I set foot on the edge of the cliff, drops of rain began to fall, and in an instant, as it were, I was in a shroud of mist. "This is what I expected," I said; it won't last long. I've observed these fogs seldom do. Only I must be careful how I go." And so I warily stepped out into the unknown. Somehow I felt like a sort of Jack who had climbed his Beanstalk and was setting out for the ogre's castle. Presently I observed I was going down-hill. The descent became steeper. Once I nearly slipped. This would not do. I could see nothing ahead of me, and I knew that steep grass slopes like this often end in terrible precipices. I must be careful. I stopped and picked up a stone-a large one. I let it roll gently out of my hand. It bounded away in an instant. I heard one bump not far off, then absolute silence. This looked awkward. I hardly dared to move. seemed little use going back; to go forward was very like walking to certain death. It was better to stand still, and hope for the mist to lift. It After sitting shivering in the cold air, wet to the skin, for about half an hour, a yellow gleam rent the veil before me, and, almost like magic, a wonderful picture appeared. So dazzling was the sudden change, that I could not look at it at first. When I could bear the light, I saw that I had done well to stop. Far down below me were a few dots on a green patch. These were châlets; beyond wound a silver streak. Opposite rose a towering wall of rock, clothed half-way up with trees, mostly fir, and then ending in precipitous jagged cliffs. Through a gap in this wall a gleam of gold stretched far away. A gray line separated it from the sun, whose level rays were streaming over the saw-like edge of the cliffs before me, and lighting up the roof of purple mist which floated overhead. Far down on the right, the blue lake seemed to girdle a collection of boxes. This was a town on the edge of the water. The sense of height, of space, of distance, was so great, I seemed to be sitting in the car of a balloon, and looking down on the world. below. Beautiful as it was, I could not help feeling giddy as I peered into the dim depths beneath, and thought how much safer the car of a balloon was than the slippery slope of that dizzy height. The clouds still clung to the mountain behind, but I saw enough to tell me I must little way The sickly light of the sunset, dazzling as it was, did not forebode a dry evening. I was already shivering with cold; how should I manage if I had to pass the night this bleak peak? The snow lay in broad patches around, and the chill evening air cut through my tattered clothes. I hastened to find a way down. After walking across a pretty level patch of scrub, a steep slope fell away before me. Cautiously going down this, I had almost reached the edge, where it seemed I might find foothold down the cliff, when the sunlight disappeared, and like a pall the mist closed in again. go a on back. But I could not stop now: I was too cold, and it was getting dark. I could see the face of the precipice, and a little ledge seemed to give hopes of a footing. The descent was not so sheer as had been that of the cliff up which I had climbed. For some little distance I managed famously, when suddenly I missed my footing, and-well, I don't know what happened for the following hour or so. The next thing I can remember is that I was lying on my side, very cold and wet, and rather Every stiff. My head seemed aching a good deal, and I could not make out where I was. I turned over and sat up. It was quite dark. Gradually recollection came back, and I cautiously tried to get up. As I succeeded, I felt tolerably certain no bones were broken; but my head felt strange. I sat down again to collect my thoughts. I seemed to have fallen on a grassy patch. As I sat, a church bell, far below, sounded. I counted the strokes. It was ten o'clock. How bitterly cold it was! The mist had cleared away and the stars were shining. All was absolutely still. A black object loomed up before me, on either side was gray obscurity. The shape of the thing looked like a house. What luck! I should now get some milk and be put on the right road. "What a fortunate tumble !" I thought; "I should never have hit upon this had I not come down that short cut." I got up. I felt very dizzy. thing I had on was dripping wet. Never mind. With a fire such as is always quickly kindled in a châlet, and with hot milk, I should soon be warm again. With much caution I groped my way through the long grass, avoiding the stones which lay all about as well as I could. I had hardly taken three steps, when to my further relief I noticed the châlet was lighted up. A pale light streamed out from some opening on the side away from me. All doubt was at an end now. I stepped through the long wet grass more confidently. In a few minutes I had reached the angle of the wall. I noticed that the ground dropped directly from the edge of the further side of the building. It behooved me to be very careful. I had no wish for another descent. The light still threw its pale beam across the darkness. In another moment I stood before a black patch in the gray mass in front. light had disappeared. I thought it odd ; but concluded that, alarmed by the steps of some unknown person, the occupant had concealed the light. I took the dark patch before me for a door. I tapped at it with my stick; but it touched nothing. The door must be open. I called out. No answer. There was absolute silence, as there had been since the church clock boomed far down below in the valley. Not a sound in that quiet ledge, surrounded by precipices above and below, broke the utter stillness of the solemn gloom. The |