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 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
 THE MIDNIGHT SUN.

At this great height and northern latitude it did not sink to the
horizon, but merely paused, apparently some twenty feet above the
waves, then gradually rose again. It was the last of countless
sunsets which had that day been following each other round the
globe. It was the first of countless sunrises which, hour after hour, in
so many continents would wake to life again a sleeping world. I have
seen many impressive sights in many lands, but nothing, until Time
for me shall be no more, can equal in solemnity the hour when,
standing on this threshold of a continent, and on the edge of this
immeasurable sea, I watched, without one moment's interval of
darkness, the Past transform itself into the Present, and Yesterday
become To-day.
 KING OSCAR'S MONUMENT—NORTH
CAPE.

EIDFJORD IN HARDANGER—EXCURSION
BOAT.
 The Parsees say that mountains are the heads of the long pins
that bind the world together. Geologists assure us that they are
merely wrinkles on the face of Mother Earth, while we all know that,
relatively to the world's diameter, the highest elevation of our planet
is but the thickness of a hair laid on an ordinary globe.
 A CHATEAU NEAR INTERLAKEN.

But these comparisons do not affect the grandeur of the peaks

themselves, when we behold them face to face, crowned with
unmeasured miles of snow, girded with glaciers as with coats of
mail, and towering up among the clouds as though to storm the very
heights of Heaven. If it be true, as some have claimed, that travel
blunts the edge of enjoyment, and renders one indifferent and blasé,
it is true only of those artificial charms which form the attraction of
great cities and the pleasure-haunts of men. These may at last grow
wearisome. But Nature wears a freshness and a glory that can never
fade. Continual worship at her shrine increases our desire for that
happiness which only Nature gives, and adds to our capacity for its
appreciation.
 INTERLAKEN.

Switzerland, then, of all countries in the world, is the one of

which the traveler is likely to tire least. The vision of its kingly Alps
must always thrill the heart with exultation. Its noble roads and
unsurpassed hotels make rest or travel on its heights delightful;
while the keen tonic of its mountain air restores the jaded frame, as
ancients dreamed a draught would do from the pure fountain of
perpetual youth.

One of the most attractive gateways to this land of mountains is

Interlaken. All tourists in Switzerland come hither, almost of
necessity. No other point is quite so central for excursions. None is
more easy of approach. As its name indicates, it lies between two
famous lakes which rival one another in respect to beauty. Before it,
also, are the charming vales of Lauterbrunnen and Grindelwald,
which lead one into the very heart of the Bernese Oberland.
Moreover, from sixty to eighty thousand people come here every
year to render homage to the peerless sovereign who holds court at
Interlaken. There is no need to name the peak to which I thus
allude, for everywhere in Interlaken we discern the crowning glory of
the place—beside which all others fade—the lovely Jungfrau, queen
of Alpine heights. Her grand, resplendent form fills the entire space
between the encircling peaks, and forms a dazzling centre-piece of
ice and snow, nearly fourteen thousand feet in height. It is a never-
ending pleasure to rest upon the broad piazzas of Interlaken's
palatial hotels, and gaze upon this radiant mount. It sometimes
looks like a great white cloud forever anchored in one place, but
oftener sparkles as if covered with a robe of diamonds; mantled, as
it is, with snows of virgin purity from base to heaven-piercing
summit.
JUNGFRAU FROM INTERLAKEN.
 PARLIAMENT BUILDINGS, BERNE.

Yet were we to examine closely a single section of the Jungfrau,

we should discover that its shoulders are covered with enormous
snow-fields, the origin of stupendous avalanches. For amid all this
beauty there is much here that is harsh and terrible. Appalling
precipices, dangerous crevasses, and well-nigh constant falls of
hundreds of tons of rock and ice, render the wooing of this "Maiden
of the Alps" a difficult undertaking. In fact, the name Jungfrau, or
Maiden, was given to the mountain, because its pure summit
seemed destined to remain forever virgin to the tread of man. Many
had sought to make her conquest, but in vain. At last, however, in
1811 (nearly thirty years after the subjugation of Mont Blanc), two
brothers gained the crest; and since that time its icy slopes have
reflected the forms of many ambitious and courageous travelers.

No tourist who has been at Interlaken on a pleasant evening can

possibly forget the vision which presents itself as day reluctantly
retires from the Jungfrau at the approach of night.

THE HIGH BRIDGE AT BERNE.

BETWEEN INTERLAKEN AND THE
JUNGFRAU.

SUNSET AT INTERLAKEN.
 The sun is low;
Yon peak of snow
Is purpling 'neath the sunset glow;
The rosy light
Makes richly bright
The Jungfrau's veil of snowy white.

From vales that sleep

Night's shadows creep
To take possession of the steep;
While, as they rise,
The western skies
Seem loth to leave so fair a prize.

The light of Day

Still loves to stay
And round that pearly summit play;
How fair a sight,
That plain of light
Contended for by Day and Night!

Now fainter shines.

As Day declines,
The lustrous height which he resigns;
The shadows gain
Th' illumined plain;
The Jungfrau pales, as if in pain.

When daylight dies,

The azure skies
Seem sparkling with a thousand eyes,
Which watch with grace
From depths of space
The sleeping J ngf a 's lo el face
The sleeping Jungfrau's lovely face.

And when is born

The ruddy Dawn,
Forerunner of the coming Morn,
Along the skies
It quickly flies
To kiss the Maiden's opening eyes.

The timid flush,

The rosy blush,
Which then o'er brow and face do rush.
Are pure and fair
Beyond compare,
Resplendent in the illumined air.

And thus alway,

By night or day,
Her varying suitors homage pay;
And tinged with rose,
Or white with snows,
The same fair radiant form she shows.
 ON LAKE THUN.

I have said that Interlaken was an admirable place from which to

make excursions. Shall we not put this to the proof by entering now
the charming and romantic vale of Lauterbrunnen, dainty and lovely
as a dimple in the cheek of Nature? It is only half a mile in width,
and is bounded on both sides by lofty mountains, over which the
winter's sun can hardly climb till midday. And yet luxuriant
vegetation covers it, as with an emerald carpet. The bases of these
mountains seem to rest on flowers. The awful scenery which
surrounds it makes it seem doubly sweet and fair; and one can
hardly imagine a more striking picture than that of this peaceful
valley, looking smilingly up into the stern and savage faces of the
monsters which environ it, as if unconscious of its helplessness, or
trusting confidently in their mercy.
 THE STAUBBACH.

A little distance up the valley, we note its most remarkable

feature, the Fall of the Staubbach, or "Dust-brook," which here leaps
boldly over the brow of the mountain, nine hundred and eighty feet
above us. Long before it reaches the ground, it is converted into a
vast, diaphanous cloud of spray, which the breeze scatters into
thousands of fantastic wreaths. Whenever the sunlight streams
directly through this, the effect is marvelous. It then resembles a
transparent veil of silvery lace, woven with all the colors of the
rainbow, fluttering from the fir-clad rocks. Byron compared it to the
tail of a white horse, streaming in the wind; but Goethe's description
is best, when he exclaims:

"In clouds of spray,

Like silver dust,
It veils the rock
In rainbow hues;
And dancing down
With music soft,
Is lost in air."
 VALLEY OF LAUTERBRUNNEN

But the ambitious traveler will ascend far higher than the summit
of this waterfall to stand upon the mighty cliffs which line the valley
like gigantic walls.
GOING TO MÜRREN
 ZÜRICH.

COMFORT IN SWITZERLAND.
 The task is easily accomplished now. Ten years ago it was an
arduous climb, on horseback or on foot; but now an electric railroad
winds for miles along the edge of frightful precipices, and (where a
vertical ascent is absolutely necessary) another kind of car lifts one a
thousand feet or so toward heaven, as smoothly and as swiftly as a
hotel elevator.

MODERN ALPINE CLIMBING.

Truly the visitor of a dozen years ago perceives amazing changes

to-day among the Alps. Where, formerly, a man would hardly dare to
go on foot, trains now ascend with myriads of travelers! Hotels and
even railroad stations up among the clouds have driven from the
lofty crags the eagle and the chamois. This to the genuine Alpine
climber seems like sacrilege; but, after all, what contributors to the
happiness of mankind these mountain railroads are! Without them,
few would venture here; and all the pageantry of Nature in these
upper regions would unfold itself through the revolving years with
scarce an eye to note its beauty or voice to tell its glories to the
world.

MÜRREN.

In startling contrast to my first ascent to the place, now many

years ago, it was by this luxurious mode of travel that I recently
approached the little village known as Mürren. It is the loftiest
hamlet in all Switzerland, consisting of a cluster of Swiss cottages,
whose roofs, heavily freighted with protecting stones, project
beyond the walls like broad-brimmed hats. So singular is the
appearance of a village at this dizzy height, that one is tempted to
believe that the houses had been blown up from the valley by some
reckless blast, and dropped at random on the lonely tableland.

Yet here, to our astonishment, we find hotels, which somehow

year by year outlive the horrors of the Alpine winter, and in the
summer season welcome their hundreds of adventurous guests. But,
after all, where in Switzerland is there not a hotel? Fast as the
arteries of travel are extended, on every prominent point
commanding a fine view is planted a hotel, a forerunner of the world
of travel. This is, in fact, one of the charms of Switzerland. The
Andes and Himalayas may possess higher peaks and grander
glaciers; but there one cannot (as among the Alps) ride all day long
on perfect roads, and in the evening sit down to a well-cooked
dinner, hear music on a broad veranda, consult the latest
newspapers, and sleep in a comfortable bed.

Even before the advent of the railroad, I was a thousandfold

repaid for climbing up to Mürren; for here so closely do the Alpine
Titans press on every side, that if Mohammed had ever found his
way hither, he might well have believed that the mountains were
coming to him, and not he to the mountains.
 A HOTEL AT MÜRREN.

The surrounding summits reveal to the astonished sight heights,

lengths, and depths which overwhelm one with sublimity. What
seemed an hour ago mere glistening mounds are now transformed
by the grandeur of this Olympian elevation into vast snowfields,
miles in length, or into seas of ice, which pour down through the
valleys in slow-moving floods. In early summer, too, one hears at
frequent intervals the roar of some tremendous avalanche on the
great mountains opposite, from which the tourist is separated only
by a yawning gulf.

Never shall I forget the morning when I stood here waiting for
the sunrise view. There was none of that crowd of jabbering tourists
who often profane the summit of the Rigi, and seem to measure the
extent of their pleasure by the noise they make. I was well-nigh
alone. When I emerged from the hotel, a purple line was visible in
the east, but clouds and mists half veiled the mountains from my
sight. At length, however, noiselessly but steadily, a hidden hand
seemed to draw back the misty curtain of the night. Slowly the giant
forms molded themselves from darkness into light, until their
foreheads first, and then each fold and outline of their dazzling
shapes, stood forth in bold relief against the sky. The glaciers
sparkled with the first bright beams like jeweled highways of the
gods,—till, finally, as the sun's disk came fairly into view, the whole
vast range glowed like a wall of tinted porcelain. It seemed as if a
thousand sacred fires had been kindled on these mountain altars, in
glad response to the triumphant greeting of the god of day.

On descending from Mürren, the tourist is attracted to another

famous object, only a few miles from Interlaken,—the glacier of
Grindelwald.

A VIEW FROM MÜRREN.

 MÜRREN—HOTEL DES ALPES.

It was while visiting this sea of ice that my guide suddenly

turned and asked me with a smile, "Are you a clergyman?"

I answered that I could not claim that flattering distinction, but

begged to know the reason of his question. "Because," he said,
"clergymen seem to be unlucky in Grindelwald; all the accidents that
take place here somehow happen to them."
 A GLACIER.

As we were at that moment just about to venture on the ice, I

naturally recalled Charles Lamb's reply when he was requested to
say grace at dinner. "What," he exclaimed, "are there no clergymen
present? Then I will say, the Lord be thanked!"

A moment or two later we entered the well-known cavern in this

glacier—a strange and chilling passageway, two hundred feet in
length, cut in the solid ice, whose gleaming walls and roof seemed
to be made of polished silver.
A CHILLING PASSAGEWAY.
 GHOSTLY FINGERS.

As I was picking my way safely, though shiveringly, through this

huge refrigerator, I asked my guide to tell me about one of the
clerical misfortunes which had made him suspicious of gentlemen of
the cloth. He turned and looked at me curiously. "You know, of
course, the fate of our pastor, M. Mouron?" he exclaimed. I
confessed my ignorance. "Then come with me," he said. Accordingly,
emerging from the cavern, we climbed for nearly an hour over great
blocks of ice, until we came to a profound abyss. Suspended from
the frozen parapet a mass of icicles pointed mysteriously down like
ghostly fingers. Then all was dark. "It was by falling down this," said
the guide, "that the pastor of Grindelwald lost his life. He was
seeking one day to ascertain its depth by casting stones into its
cavernous maw and counting till he heard the sound of their arrival
at the bottom of the abyss. Once, in his eagerness, he placed his
staff against the opposite edge, leaned over and listened. Suddenly
the ice gave way, and he fell headlong into the crevasse. His guide
ran breathless to the village and informed the people of their loss.
But, to his horror, he found that he himself was looked upon with
suspicion. In fact, some went so far as to say that he must have
murdered their pastor, and robbed him of his watch and purse.

LAUSANNE.

"The guides of Grindelwald, however, who felt themselves

insulted at this accusation, united and agreed that one of their
number (chosen by lot) should, at the peril of his life, descend into
this crevasse to establish the innocence of the accused. The lot was
drawn by one of the bravest of them all, a man named Bergenen.
The whole village assembled on the flood of ice to witness the result
of the search. After partaking of the sacrament, Bergenen fastened a
rope around his waist and a lantern to his neck. In one hand he took
a bell. In the other he grasped his iron-pointed staff to keep himself
from the sharp edges. Four men then carefully lowered him down.
Twice, on the point of suffocation, he rang the bell and was drawn
up. Finally a heavier weight was felt upon the rope, and Bergenen
reappeared, bringing the body of the pastor from a depth of seven
hundred and fifty feet. A mighty shout went up from the guides and
populace as well. The man was innocent. Both watch and purse
were found upon the corpse!"

HAY-MAKING.
 UPON THE HEIGHTS.

As we returned from Grindelwald to Interlaken, we often paused

to note the peasants toiling in the fields. So far as their appearance
was concerned, we might have supposed them laborers on a
Vermont farm; but their low carts were quite unlike our country
hayracks; and the appearance of a single ox, harnessed with ropes
around his horns, presented an amusing contrast to the sturdy
beasts which, bound together by the yoke, drag to our barns their
loads of fragrant hay. Women, of course, were working with the
men; but female laborers in Switzerland are not in the majority. In
many instances the ratio is but one to three.
 A SWISS FARM-HOUSE.

These peasants look up curiously as we drive along, and no

doubt think that we are favored beings, to whom our luxuries give
perfect happiness. And yet the very tourists whom they thus envy
may, in a single hour, endure more misery and heartache than they
in their simplicity and moderate poverty will ever know. Among these
people are not found the framers of those hopeless questions: "Is
life worth living?" and "Does death end all?" The real destroyers of
life's happiness are not a lowly home and manual labor. They are the
constant worriments and cares of artificial life,—satiety of pleasures,
the overwork of mental powers, and the disenchantment of satisfied
desires.
 Filled with such thoughts, as we beheld the humble but well-
kept and ever picturesque dwellings of the farmers of this valley, I
called to mind, as a consoling antidote to one's first natural
sympathy with poverty, the story of the sultan who, despite all his
wealth and power, was always melancholy. He had been told by his
physician that, if he would be cured of all his real or fancied
ailments, he must exchange shirts with the first perfectly happy man
he could find. Out went his officers in search of such a person.

THE GIESSBACH.

The hunt was long and arduous, but finally the fortunate being
was found. When he was brought to the sultan, however, it was
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