SECOND STATION.
Rossinières—Our large Beehive—Life in the high valleys—The footpath—The young girls and the Sunday-school—Chateau-d'Œx—My Chateau—The meeting at La Lechevette—Rambles in the Alpine valleys—La Comballez—Les Ormondes—Pére Ansermez—The Folk-life of the high valleys—The Free Church—The Church of the future—Idea of Protestantism.
Rossiniéres, July 3d.—But lately, on the sunny heights of la Sauvabellin, at the gay folk's festival, with the vast and glorious view of Heaven and earth above and around me, now shut into a narrow, solitary valley of the Vaudois Alps, where one can see nothing but bare or wood-covered mountains, between which lie grass fields and low huts, and above which is seen a little stretch of sky, now dark with rain-clouds.
The journey thither, however, was beautiful and very queer. Imagine a labyrinthine road winding between lofty mountains, along which you are dragged, upwards, ever upwards, for several hours. So narrow were the mountain passes, sometimes, that you cannot conceive how you are to get through them; in other places so completely blocked up, that it seems as if you must drive right into the mountain, and if your carriage should get, as it were, a little shove on one side,—perhaps from the King of the mountain,—so that it is upset on the very brink of a precipice, you cannot see what should hinder you, and the horses, and the carriage, from tumbling down into the wild stream which thunders and foams below. It looks dangerous, and is not, indeed, wholly without danger, but both driver and horses are used to struggling up the steep roads of the mountain strongholds.
At the entrance of the narrow mountain pass, one comes upon the ruins of the castle of La Gruyères. In ancient times, it was the abode of the powerful Counts of that name; and they it was who first cultivated, and established inhabitants, in the high valleys which extend along the river Sarine—Rossinières, Chateau-d'Œx, Rougemont. One feels, whilst making this ascending journey, through these mountain passes, as if one were reading a romance of the middle age.
The sun was sending his last rays through the openings in the cliffs when I emerged to Rossinières. My abode is an immense chalet, or Swiss cottage—the largest amongst the Alps, it is asserted, in which a vast number of small windows, with their small panes, peep forth from beneath an enormous roof. The front and back of the house (the roof at the two ends reaches to the ground) are ornamented with a great number of painted figures; lions, deer, horses, flowers, flower-vases, birds, and other animals and figures, all more or less unnatural; scripture-texts remind the beholder of the shortness of life, of God's faithfulness and righteous judgment. The house was thus built, a century ago, by the grandfather of the present proprietor. The grandson, M. Henchey, has renewed the paintings and refitted the rooms in the spacious house, which is now opened to friends and strangers who desire to breathe the invigorating air of the high valleys. Higher up towards the mountains lies the village of Rossinières, with its lovely and finely-situated church and cluster of small houses. The whole valley is meadow and woodland. On every hand it is inclosed by mountains, the slopes of which are covered with pasturage. The loftiest of these, resembling in form a fortified castle, with five tall pinnacles, is called Rubli, and the tallest pinnacle Rubli-horn. The Sarine roars through the valley, along its stony bed, but lying so deep below its banks that the waters can only be seen when you stand close upon them.
The evening on which I arrived here was fine, but to-day one might fancy one's-self in Siberia! The black clouds rush along the mountain passes like avalanches, and pour down torrents of cold rain. Last night snow fell on the peaks and green pastures of Rubli.
The 10th.—Cold and rain still continue. I try to forget them, by reading in my Swiss history, yet I freeze and am “in a dreadful temper.” O, sun! sun! If one longs for thee on the plain, how much more here in the narrow valley, of which thou art the joy, and which without thee is only a hideous pit! Can the sun actually shine here? “Pays d'en haut” seems to me to be only a country up in the clouds, and such clouds! I never saw any thing like them. They hang like black crape over the heights; they roll in heavy masses down before them this—hu, hu, hu!
The 12th.—“Thou showest thyself once more, monarch of day, and joy of the earth, beloved, longed-for sun!” This commenced a sort of prose poem in which I this morning attempted to describe the combat between the sun and a huge gray cloud which would interrupt it, but which I shall not inflict on my reader. It is sufficient to say that the sun conquered the gray cloud; it fled away in scattered fragments over the mountains, and I, delighted, wandered in the sunshine, into the valley, saluted the flowers which raised their tear-drenched heads, and the trees which clapped their hands above them, and the heights which shone out in smaragdus green towards the blue heavens, and the castle whose bells rang jocundly from the mountains, and the country people, who were making hay along the banks of the rushing Sarine.
“There seems to be a heavy crop this year,” I said, in passing by.
“Yes,” replied they, “it has not been so good for these many years. And every thing else in the fields promises well!”
And they tossed the mown grass aloft in the air, with their great forks, that it might dry in the wind and the sun. That is the way here.
How the drops glittered in the sunshine! A glorious day!
The 18th.—Although the sun may be a rare guest in Rossinières valley, and seldom gives us its heart-cheering beams two days in succession, yet has it now afforded us, one day after another of indescribable beauty, when the wind has blown warm and yet fresh at the same time, the air been light, and when the whole of our little valley with its smaragdus-green pasture-fields and its fragrant hay-harvest, has been like a little abode of comfort and health. During this time our large bee-hive, as I call our chalet, with its many little rooms and windows, has filled with guests, who swarm forth into the valley. Two large tables are daily filled at noon and in the evening. There is an abundance of honey, milk, cream, butter, and cheese, in a word, of every kind of food belonging to pastoral life, and this of the very best—to say nothing of more substantial fare. People live here, for a season, simply and abundantly. I am perfectly amazed at the bowls of thick, whipped cream, which are carried every evening round the crowded tables and from which every guest can heap up his plate. Either with or without wood-strawberries, this prepared cream is really a heavenly kind of food. The crowning charm of the pastoral life of Rossinière is, that it is as cheap as it is excellent.
As in the mean time there is an incessant banging and slamming of doors in our bee-hive, I am as little within as possible, and as I do not like sitting long at table, and now yearn, above all things, for the quiet companionship of nature, I spend the greater part of my day in solitary rambles and little expeditions of discovery amongst the mountains.
Will you accompany me on one of these?—for one
will serve as a sample of the whole. Our guide shall
be the first good foot-path, because we cannot have a
better; and if you would thoroughly enjoy the
ramble, you must follow the path silently, and observe
every thing with which it presents you. True it may
be a little steep sometimes, but you will have secure
footing and almost a flight of steps up the mountain.
Here the path leads you over a noisy brook, there
through a thick wood, mostly of pine trees. The
tree-roots supply steps by which you climb ever higher
and higher—for our path still ascends. Soon you see
the valley behind you down below your feet, and you
stand on equal height with the snow-veins which furrow
the mountains on the other side of the Sarine;
you see the clouds sailing below the mountain pinnacles.
Now you are upon the height, and now the
path winds round the shoulder of a cliff, and you find
yourself upon a green meadow full of grassy hillocks,
in which feeds a herd of variegated, well-conditioned
cows, whose bells welcome you with a melodious
chorus.[1] You still proceed, and the path winds round
another mountain height, and a fresh view opens
before you; another extent of valley with
wood-crowned heights, the feet of which are scattered with little cottages. In the hollows of the valleys roars the
river; the clouds slowly roll along, dividing
themselves amongst the immense rocky heights. In whatever
direction you turn your sight, you behold Alps,
valleys, deep woods, soft, waving pasture meadows,
dark rifts of the mountain, whence, as you can see,
flow streams in the spring season. Every thing is
grand, wild, strong, but at the same time fresh and
peaceful. Are you weary?—are you thirsty?—sit
down upon that fragrant grass, beside this bank of
wild strawberries, as large as those grown in gardens.
More juicy, more beautiful ones cannot be found on
earth; and this air—ah! do you feel it? It is impossible
to describe its purity and freshness, its revivifying
power, both of soul and body. Look around!
Near you, and all around you, is a flower-world of old
and new acquaintance. Here the sweetly-fragrant
Alpine pink, with its spear-like leaf, Dianthus superbus,
well deserving of its name; there, tall and erect, like
a real king's candle, the stately yellow gentian,
Gentiana lautea, with thick clusters of gold-colored flowers;
and there, the most ornamental of all umbels, the
beautiful Astranstia major. Pretty, bright-colored thistles
shine out in crowds. Higher up come the Alpine
roses, Rododendrons, and many another sweet-smelling
plant which is only found there. But we will not go
any further to-day.
We will descend and enter some of the little cottages at the feet of the mountains. We must not leave the foot-path without having become acquainted with the principal places to which it leads, the dwellings where human beings reside, spirits who love or hate, suffer and hope, worship and pray. Let us enter the first cottage on our way.
Within it is a young and pretty woman and four little boys. Three of them are platting straw. The youngest of these little workers is only three and a half years old. The little home, of one room and a kitchen, exhibits neatness and a certain degree of prosperity. We see well-supplied beds, and in the kitchen many shelves on which are ranged plates and well-scoured, nicely-kept wooden bowls. The young mother is kind and civil, and the boys, nice little fellows, but very pale. Straw-platting, which has now for some time become a branch of industrial labor in the valleys, and which brings a little money into the cottages, is not beneficial to the health of women, and least of all to that of children. It keeps the young ones too quiet, and their tendency to scrofula is increased by the straw-platting, which requires the finger to be always kept moist with water. This is not right, and even this young mother conceded the same. But what can people do? The children are many; they require food and clothing, and there is no other profitable labor in the valley for her and the children, and the father's earnings are not sufficient for them all!
The old, sorrowful story!
Let us look into this second lonely cottage, so small and so queer, that it might have been built by a hobgoblin as a home for himself. And there he comes out of the door. Nay, don't be afraid! It is true, he is as wild-looking and shaggy almost, as one of the aborigines of the country—at least as we fancy them—but he smiles very good-naturedly and mildly for all that, and he salutes us almost like a gentleman. And he is really a kind of Alpine gentleman; assists us politely across the mountain torrent; points out to us a better way amongst the labyrinthine paths, and accompanies us himself, talking whilst he does the honors of his little country estate. Yes, he really is a landed proprietor. The little hill yonder he has cultivated with his own hands, and planted with potatoes and beans, and even dug and sowed a little hay-field; and he will dig and cultivate till the whole circuit of little hills has become fertilized. He lives here alone; is already old, but contented with his lot. He has also his good qualities; he appears pious and peaceful—a happy man.
We now return home to our valley.
It is evening. See how the sun gilds the naked mountain tops in the east, Rubli-horn and the cupolas of the Mittags Mountain! Now it is gone, and how soon it becomes dark in the valley! The peace of evening drops down over man and beast; but still, on every hand, is heard the chorus of the cattle-bells amongst the mountains. When all else is gone to rest in the valley, this is still heard. Towards ten o'clock even that has become silent, and the chirp of the crickets and the soft murmuring Sarine are the only sounds audible in the quiet valley of Rossinières.
But if the valley goes to rest betimes, so is it also early in motion. Already before five in the morning, the goats and the cows come up for milking. Smoke rises from the cottages, and all the doors begin to slam in our great cottage. I live as the valley lives; rise early, and am early to bed; and it just suits me.
The people in the valley are peaceable and industrious; influenced by the calm and earnest spirit of the surrounding scenes to look into the depths of the soul and up to heaven, which rests above them. Their mental sphere of vision and their desires seem to be circumscribed, like their valley. They demand but little from life; are satisfied with the little they receive. Their longings do not extend beyond the narrow valley; and if they leave it for the plain, or for life in the town, they always return hither again. They read much during the long winters, either books of grave import or travel. Religion and the church are the topics most interesting to them, and in these they are well read. Merry-makings they have none. Religious gatherings form their principal social intercourse. Marriages are few, and in these, love is less the question than the means of living. The bride is often older than the bridegroom. Morals are so pure that during a hundred years there has not been a single illegitimate child born here. The health is good although straw-platting within the last few years has been found injurious, especially in the case of children. I have seen several very pretty young girls, but the older women have hideous goitres. Yet it seems to incommodate them but little. The costume is not picturesque, and the women's black caps especially becoming. But a good-tempered kindliness, simplicity and earnestness render the expression agreeable, both in men and women.
“The people here are no better than elsewhere,” said the good and thoughtful pastor of the valley, M. Becket, “but they have fewer temptations to evil and more inducement to a serious life.”
The greater portion of the people of Rossinières belong to the national church, and merely some few of its population to the Free Church, the principal congregations of which are in the valleys of the Chateau-d'Œx and Les Ormondes. Good pastors of the old church have for a great number of years fallen to the lot of the people of Rossinières, and they have operated beneficially upon the moral condition of their flocks.
A lady, one of my English friends, amongst the inmates of the great bee-hive, and I, one day, during a ramble, passed a cottage from which proceeded the sweet singing of female voices. We stopped, and softly entered. We knew already that the proprietor of the cottage, Esther Marmilliere, was dying of a severe injury of the knee. She reclined in a half-sitting posture on a clean, comfortable bed. The whole room was neat and clean, although evidencing poverty. Two pretty and well-dressed young women sat, one at each window, at work, during which they sang a hymn in duet, in which the sick woman joined. They were her daughters, who lived in service at Lausanne and Vevay, and were now come over to see their aged, sick mother. At our request, they continued the hymn which we had interrupted. The expression of the old woman's wasted countenance, and the purity and strength of her voice, were wonderful; so also were her pious trust and peace in the prospect of a long and painful combat with mortal disease. Such flowers of spiritual life are not unfrequent in these valleys, and they testify nobly for the church which makes one of its missions the founding of a general priesthood in its congregation. What a sermon is this poor woman's sick bed!
Our large bee-hive becomes more and more populous with guests from many lands. Whole schools come hither, that the young girls may enjoy the fresh, country air for one or two weeks. Whilst the girls ramble through the valleys, the youths climb the ridges and summits of the mountains, making long and laborious excursions. And now and then, even a spirited young girl will accompany her father and brother on similar mountain rambles, and is in so doing as brave as the bravest.
A great number of the guests here are English families, mostly abounding in daughters. I regarded with somewhat melancholy foreboding, the future of a flock of six young sisters, between the ages of twelve and twenty, thinking how they would be able to find, each one for herself, space and a sphere of activity, without which no one can be happy in the world. One of these girls, my neighbor at the table, very tall, although still young, with a grave countenance, and wearing spectacles, and who blushed every time she spoke or was spoken to, seemed to me no unworthy candidate for a professor's chair,—but——
But the young girls practically replied to my “how” and my “but.”
M. Becket, who had long wished to establish a Sunday-school in Rossinières, announced, the preceding Sunday, from the pulpit, that this would now be commenced. The primitive population, some so young that they could scarcely talk, flocked with great curiosity to the school-house, and here I saw, to my edification, my young girls, five of the six sisters, and two pretty young Americans, each taking her part, as teacher of a little troop of children. My bashful, blushing, and grave neighbor, with her spectacles, I saw surrounded by a dozen boys, whom she instructed with perfect self-possession, and at the same time with youthful delight and motherly sobriety.
After all, the better day dawns for the life of woman on earth; the narrow valley extends its bounds, and many paths are opened. There will be room, work, and life's gladness sufficient for all who sincerely seek and desire to find. Thus spake the conviction of my soul in the Sunday-school of Rossinières.
July 24th.—I have taken my last ramble amongst the mountains which surround this valley. The valleys of Chateau-d'Œx and Rossinières, are seen stretched out, from above, like verdant pasture-meadows, surrounded on every side by lofty mountain walls; and there below, have small two-legged creatures, called human beings, built little dwellings for themselves, no larger, apparently, than mole heaps, with openings on the sunny side.
These Alps are traversed in every direction by footpaths. However high you may ascend, you always find a winding road between the mountains, and just when you fancy yourself at the top of the mountain, you see before you, a grassy plain, a Swiss cottage, children and flowers, sometimes the prettiest group of pines and deciduous trees, and before you, new heights, with pasture, fields, cattle, and cottages, and so on, everywhere, till at last wood and pasturage cease and the bare mountain alone rears towards heaven its bold peaks and horns. These rambles are sometimes fatiguing, but nevertheless indescribably refreshing, full of surprises and romantic natural scenery.
I have sketched “Rubli-horn;” and taken leave of my acquaintance in the bee-hive, amongst whom I shall miss an earnest, delightful young English couple, as fresh and full of the soul's life as the Alpine scenery itself, and whom I have occasionally taken with me on my mountain rambles. In a few hours I set off to Chateau-d'Œx, where I shall remain a couple of weeks, and shall study the life of the Free Church in conversation with one of its most pious and learned teachers, Pastor B.
Chateau-d'Œx, July 26th.—My chateau is, for the present, a little Chaumière on the slope of a verdant mountain, at the southeastern end of Chateau-d'Œx Valley. The valley of Chateau-d'Œx is the largest and most important of these highland valleys, containing several villages and a wealthy population. It is considerably more open and of a more cheerful character than that of Rossinières. The pyramidal heights, which, of ever-varying form, inclose the large lower pastures, and within the recesses of which are many lesser valleys and heights, appear of a lower altitude. La Sarine here roars along a broader bed, with a greater wealth of water. In the middle of the valley, rises a large, round hill, where stood in ancient times the fortified tower which ruled it, and on which now stands the church, amid a garland of leafy trees. From my little room, which with its three windows is much more airy, more comfortable and agreeable than that I had in the great bee-hive, or in the elegant pension at Lausanne, I have a free view over the valley. My host and hostess are peasants. M. Favrodcour is one of the elders of the Free Church. After he has spent the day in the business of his small farm, he closes the evening with divine service in his own house. His wife—I wish you could see her, the pretty, kind-hearted woman, in the simple costume of the country people, but with the demeanor and conversation of the most educated lady. She is the daughter of the former surgeon of the valley,—with a benevolence so cordial, and an attention so delicate and so full of nice feeling, that one feels it a privilege to be the object of it. I only wish you could see how quietly and cheerfully she cares for husband and child, and the whole household, and the guest of the house, just as if it were a pleasure to her! She and her husband belong to a class which is constantly met with in Switzerland, but seldom in any other country, except in the United States of America, which, by education and natural refinement, resemble the higher classes of society, whilst they live simply, and labor like peasants.
My hostess has a great deal to do to-day, for she has to prepare and put up the food for the whole family, who are, setting off in the morning to the annual meeting of the Free Church of the high valleys, which this year, is held at “La Lechevette,” a lofty plain lying between the valleys of Chateau-d'Œx, Rougemont and Les Ormondes. It lies two heavy leagues from here, high up in the mountains. There all the members of the Free Church of the surrounding valleys are to assemble, and celebrate divine worship under the open sky.
Yes, but how does the sky look? It looks dark and threatening. Last evening, there was a magnificent thunder-storm; to day it has rained from morning to night. If it should be fine in the morning, I shall go on foot with the rest of the inhabitants of the valley, although the road is said to be tolerably fatiguing, for I have greatly desired to be present at one of these assemblies, of which I have heard so much, and which reminds one of the inspired times of the early reformers, when the new-born church sprang forth from Romish Catholicism, and sung its Te Deum in the open fields or in the depths of the forests, under the bright, free vault of heaven.
If my journey to La Lechevette be prosperous, and the weather favorable, I shall continue my pedestrian journey as far as the Valleys of Comballez and Les Ormondes, so celebrated for their beauty, after which, I shall return hither. But, it rains, and the heavens are full of clouds.
Chateau-d'Œx, August 2d.—Again I am here, after—but I will relate every thing in due course. And first and foremost, I will speak of
THE MEETING AT LA LECHEVETTE.
At four o'clock in the morning, it was still cloudy, with mizzling rain, but by five the clouds had begun to disperse, and the sun faintly to illumine the mountain tops. It promised a fine day. The whole house was in motion; people were getting ready for the meeting. At six o'clock, I set out on my way thither, accompanied by the maidservant of the house, a certain strong and stout Julie, who carried my small traveling-bag, and who, except for her name, and a pair of lovely eyes, certainly bore as little resemblance as possible to Julie of “The New Heloise.” My host and his family were to set out an hour later.
The little journey was glorious in the fresh morning air, and under the brightening sky. The clouds dispersed over the mountain tops, or sank into their clefts, and I gave them good-speed with my gaze. Here and there, people were seen leaving their dwellings in the valley, and setting out for the meeting. I seemed to speed along as if I had wings.
But now comes the climbing. Up! It is steep, and not to be done without labor, and pausing to take breath. My stout Julie puffs and pants under the burden of my little bag, to such a degree, that it goes to my heart. I perceive, with some surprise, that the poor, stout girl, labors under weakness of the chest. I hasten, therefore, to take a few small things out of the bag, which are absolutely necessary for me, and leave it at the post-house, which we are just now passing—and, in passing, it may be told that the post-mistress is a peasant woman, who carries on the business with good management and skill, since the death of her husband.
With light hands and hearts we proceed after this, onward and upward, continually clambering among stones, and only now and then consoled by a little piece of good road. On one side of the road lies a precipice, at the bottom of which is a mountain torrent, on the other a perpendicular wall of rock, here and there covered with pine wood. The valley becomes ever narrower and wilder. There again comes an ascent, and, this time, of an hour's length, and very difficult into the bargain; after that, a second, but not so laborious. And now, after three hours, we are at our journey's end.
The narrow mountain pass at once emerges into an
open, grassy plain, surrounded in the distance by
pointed Alps, and thinly scattered with cottages.
The morning wind blows cool over the fine, waving
grass. This is “La Vallèée des Mosses,” and the
portion in which we find ourselves, La Lechevette.
How delightful is it to rest myself here on soft
couches of mown grass, which is drying in the sun,
and to look around one on the extensive scene.
Troops of people are seen in long procession across the fields, hastening to the place of meeting; and as they meet from the various quarters, you see bright, kindly glances, and hear the cordial greetings and inquiries: “Comment êtes vous! Comment votre mêre,” and so on. “Mais tres joliment! Mais pas mal!” etc.
The people of the valleys are frequently related to each other, and they who now meet here have not seen one another since the last annual gathering.
In the mean time, you see the pastors and elders of the congregations busied in selecting the particular spot for the assembly, and afterwards preparing it for that purpose. The spot which they selected on this occasion, was a wood, the thick pine trees of which afforded a shelter from the heat of the sun. I was still busied looking around me on the scenery, and in watching the groups of people who had thrown themselves on the grass to converse, and to take breakfast, when a hymn, sung in quartette, was heard, strong and melodious, to proceed from the depth of the pine wood. Here, the little assembly of two or three hundred persons had grouped themselves, standing or sitting under the trees. In the midst, upon a somewhat open space, stood the pastors of the various congregations, and around them the elders, with their grave, honest countenances. The youngest of the teachers gave out, as the principal subject for meditation, the words of the Apostle Paul: “Rejoice always;” admonishing his hearers to examine what was the cause of a continued joy, even during the sins and sorrows of our earthly life. The cause of this, he declared to them, was the free grace of Christ.
The dark-eyed and dark-haired, but mild Penchaud, uttered a prayer full of ardent love. The elders, alternately with the clergy, took their turn in urging the importance of a more true, more perfect life in Christ. And thus the divine service was continued, with alternating prayer and the singing of hymns. All this was good, but I felt a want of a loving and elevating spirit, and felt in particular, the want of a mental communication of spiritual experience, which I had looked for from the numbers of this assembly, meeting together again after the interval of twelve months, and I was inclined to attribute these wants to the desire which the leaders of the meeting had, rather to instruct themselves than to induce those present to take part in its business. Long pauses intervened between the addresses.
About twelve o'clock, the forenoon service was ended, and the assembly broke up into parties and family groups for dinner. This partaking of the contents of the various provision baskets, was a time of joyous conversation. Such as had not brought victuals with them, were invited to partake with those who had abundance. Nobody was overlooked or uncared for; all were regarded as guests by a good housewife.
During the dinner, it was communicated from group to group, that a celebrated spiritual preacher from Geneva had arrived quite unexpectedly at the meeting. During the singing of one of the hymns in the forenoon service, I had heard a voice at a distance exclaim, “Look! there is the assembly!”—“Voila la réunion!”
And soon after, the congregation was increased by the arrival of a great number of strangers, to whom, at the time, but little attention was paid. Soon after the close of the simple meal, divine service again commenced. When the first hymn had been sung, I heard a voice, the energy of which greatly struck me. Under the aged pine trees, upon an elevation of the field, stood a tall, broad-shouldered man, whose whole exterior was remarkable. The forehead, beneath which a pair of deep-set eyes flashed lightning, the nose, the jaw, the whole features, stood forth powerful and irregular as the block of an Alp; whilst a tempest seemed to have passed through his wild, bushy hair. John the Baptist might have appeared such as he. It was the celebrated preacher from Geneva,—M. Berthollet. From the moment that he first rose, he ruled the assembly, and the assembly acknowledged in him its centre.
He began by stating that whilst on a visit to his native place in the neighborhood, he heard of the proposed meeting at La Lechevette, and had come thither without really knowing the exact point of meeting; but the singing of the hymn in the pine wood suddenly revealed this to him, and he now must say how happy he felt in finding himself here, in this assembly, amongst the Alps, beneath God's open heaven, and that he would avail himself of the occasion to address a few words to them from the depths of his heart. And with a powerful voice, full of ever-varying expression, and with arms outstretched, now towards the heights, now towards the assembly, he conjured his hearers “to think of the last hour, of the dark flood to which all must come, and to hold themselves in readiness for the last journey; because, as in the old time, no one could pass over Jordan who could not properly pronounce the word Shibboleth, so, on the day of judgment, no one could enter the kingdom of heaven who could not pronounce the name Jesus.” After which, a discourse followed, so rich in anecdote and narrative from England, Switzerland, Hindostan, Nova Zembla, Canada, the Cape, and, in. fact, from all parts of the world, of the miracles of Christianity, histories of conversion, of Christian death-beds, of souls saved out of mortal anguish, and all this interspersed with ardent prayers and beseechings to them “to reflect, to lay these things to heart, to come, come now at that moment to the Saviour,” and all poured forth in a rushing torrent of spiritual eloquence, so that, altogether, it was—wonderful.
Here was a popular preacher of the right sort; one really mighty to rouse souls out of a state of lethargy and dullness.
Amongst the various anecdotes, some striking, some affecting, which he poured forth out of his cornucopia over the assembly, I particularly remember the following, which he related in the most admirable manner:
“Some years ago, one of the most remarkable of the so-called street preachers in London, was a man named Rowland Hill. One day, the rich and worldly Lady Erskine came driving in her carriage across the very market-place where he was preaching. Seeing the crowd assembled round him, she ordered her carriage to stop, and inquired what was going forward, and was told that it was Rowland Hill, who was preaching to the people. She had heard speak of him, and curious to hear him herself, she alighted from her carriage, and accompanied by her servants, made her way into the crowd, which immediately opened for the elegant lady; and at once, without suffering himself to be disturbed by her presence, Rowland exclaimed:
“ ‘My friends, here comes a soul which is to be put up for auction!’
“The people were startled, and some laughed. This rich, grand lady, to be sold by auction! Lady Erskine advanced nearer, and Rowland Hill continued:
“ ‘I see three buyers about to bid for her. The first is called The World. Well, what wilt thou give, oh World, for this soul?’ The World replies, ‘Pleasures, ornaments, flatteries, festivities, for every day of her life!’ ‘All pleasures, and flatteries, and festivities, will come to an end, whilst this soul will last on, because it is immortal! It is too little which thou offerest, O World, and thou canst not have her! Now comes the second bidder; it is The Devil. How much, Satan, wilt thou bid for this soul?’ ‘All the power of the world, and the glory thereof.’ ‘But all the power of the world, and its glory, will pass away, whilst this soul wilt last on. Thou canst not have her, Satan, for thou offerest too little! The third bidder presents himself. Ah, that is the Lord Jesus! I expected no less of thee, O Lord! What, then, dost thou bid for this soul?’ ‘My peace in this life, and after it eternal bliss!’ ‘Take her, Lord, take her! She is thine, for a higher price no one can offer!’ ”
Berthollet added, that Lady Erskine was so affected by these words, that she made them a prophecy of the truth; she abandoned her worldly life of vanity, and became one of the principal supporters of the English church.
The assembly in the pine wood had, by degrees, gathered closely around Berthollet. Women sat in a half circle at his feet, their gentle countenances raised to him in a kind of astonishment, or bowed down in silent tears. The men stood around, with heads advanced, among the trees; as far as the eye could penetrate the woods, you could see listening, grave countenances, over whose powerful features passed again and again the expression of deep emotion. When the preacher ceased, they sang with life and ardor,—
“How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him who announced to sinners thy grace, O Lord!” etc.
Berthollet seated himself, bowing his forehead to his hands. Twice after this he arose, and again addressed the assembly. After the beautiful hymn of praise,—
“When time shall be no longer; when the finite shall have given place to the infinite,”
he drew a picture from these words of the time when all created beings, united in the kingdom of God's glory, should unite in singing praises to the Redeemer of the world.
During the pauses between the singing and the speaking, you could hear the low whisper of the wood, and the murmuring of thousands of small insects, which also, in their way, joined in the solemn worship. The clear, mild sky, gleamed through the waving branches of the pine trees; it was a moment of perfect, peaceful beauty and harmony, and a moment of unspeakable inward emotion,—a foretaste of the condition of the completed being! But, turned from the assembly, and with his powerful brow pressed against the trunk of a pine tree which he had embraced, stood the preacher, himself almost overpowered by the words with which he had shaken his audience; the veins swollen on the temples, and the beating of the pulsation visible!
Still one more hymn, still one more prayer of thanksgiving, and the pastors dismissed the assembly. The people took a quiet and cordial leave, one of another, and all hastened, each his own way, whilst the sun was yet high, that there might be time, before dark, to reach their distant valleys and homes.
Accompanied by a young peasant, who was appointed to me as my guide, I continued my way through “La Vallée des Mosses” to Comballez, where an enterprising man has opened a small hotel, and where I intended to pass the night.
The road conducted us over soft, and, at times, swampy, meadow-ground, and I had good opportunity for conversing with my guide, a handsome, friendly youth, from Ormondes Valley, by name Emanuel Isabel. He was a member of the Free Church, and talked cheerfully and sensibly of its spirit and importance. During the preceding winter, Ormondes Valley had been for several months without a pastor—from what cause I do not remember; but the congregation had, nevertheless, kept up divine service with undeviating exactness, and attended to all the affairs of the church by means of the elders, and those who were chosen as their assistants. One of the elders read a portion of Scripture every Sunday, and spoke from it to the congregation, instead of the pastor. Occasionally, even some one of the younger members was deputed to read something from the word, as well as to speak upon it. He, Emanuel Isabel, had more than once been called to this office.
“It is evident,” continued he, with a beaming glance, “that the church is really a church, when she can thus, through God's word and Spirit be left to herself!”
He acknowledged, in the mean time, the necessity of study and knowledge in the highest leaders of the congregation, in order that they might be preserved from false doctrine, and be led forward into light and activity, and so on.
“La dent du Midi,” and several of the Savoy Alps, reared their snowy and glittering peaks along the horizon before us, as we reached Comballez, and the sun was near his setting. Here I took leave of my friendly guide, who would not on any account receive payment for his services.
I obtained, in the pretty wooden hotel, a little room with a splendid view of the Alps, and an hour afterwards I was seated at a large table, with an elegant company, enjoying a good cup of tea, and that deliciously prepared cream, which is one of the greatest of the world's delicacies, and one of the most wholesome at the same time.
I had intended to have continued my ramble on the following day to Les Ormondes. But the view of “Dent du Midi,” which shone forth in the early morning with all its dentated splendor into a cloudless sky, and the peculiar beauty of La Comballez valley, kept me there through the day. There I wandered early, and there I wandered late; visited the cottages; rested on the fragrant beds of thyme and mint at the feet of the mountains; contemplated the magnificent views, drank in the air, the freshness and beauty of life and thought, as I had done many a time before:
| Oh wunderschön ist Gottes Erde, |
| Und schön auf ihr ein Mensch zu seyn; |
The day was glorious. La Comballez valley consists of two verdant mountain feet, between which roars the mountain torrent, La Ruvaletta, deeply embedded between wild, riven rocks. The valley itself is embedded between lofty mountain walls, but the view opens both to the north and the south, and that to the south is of the most grand description. During the walk round a wood-crowned hill, at the end of the valley, you see, all at once, the glaciers, “Les Diablerets,” which elevate themselves above Les Ormondes valley, the Savoy Alps to the south, in a magnificent amphitheatre, and below, in the distance, the Rhone valley, of which the dwellings and villages can be distinguished. La Comballez is said to be the highest of the inhabited valleys of this region. And even in this glorious July weather, the air was so cold, both morning and evening, that one was actually frozen.
Early the following morning, leaving my shawl and umbrella in the care of the host of the little hotel, I set out on an excursion, carrying with me merely my parasol and a little bag containing a couple of pears and a few light and indispensable articles of the toilet. Not a cloud was in the sky, and the air was so pure and invigorating, that it seemed, as it were, to support me. I did not feel my body. For a part of the way, I was accompanied by pastor L., with whom I had become acquainted the preceding evening. Conversation on the subject of the church had attracted us to each other, and it was now continued during our morning's walk. He was born in France, and had the Frenchman's ease and pleasure in talking; he belonged to the Swiss national church, and he contended for the individualism of the church; yet with moderation and judgment, and I listened to him with pleasure. I always listen to opinions which may differ from my own, if they be propounded by sensible persons, because I can say, with the Princess in Goethe's Tasso: “Ich freue mich, wenn kluge Manner reden, dass ich verstehen kann wie sie es meinen!” And I am also glad that sometimes I can by this means, come to a better understanding of things than they themselves.
The views of the Alps were magnificent beyond description this bright morning. When we came from the shady side of the mountain into the brilliant sunshine, just opposite Les Diablerets, my polite companion turned back to La Comballez, and with a light heart, I continued my solitary way, which now began to descend, the views ever expanding before me down to the green, shadowy valley of Les Ormondes.
Thirty years ago I traveled, in a close carriage, through Switzerland. How happy, I then thought, was the little ragged Savoyard, who, barefoot and free, went wandering at will among the mountains! How I then wished to be in his place! And now I wandered—not barefooted—but as lightly and as free as he!
It required two good hours of walking in the heat of the ascending sun, by which time I was considerably weary, before I reached the newly-built parsonage in Ormondes valley, and in the cool porch of which I rested, with the young pastor Lerèsche and his amiable young wife, who refreshed me with cool, sparkling water, wine, cherries, and other good things, and who made me most heartily welcome. Nor was the least refreshing part of the entertainment to me, the sight of this young, handsome couple, before whom the early “morning dew lay still upon life,” and to whom the reality of life was now the most beautiful idyl. They had only been married fourteen days, and had been living here ten. They were young, good, handsome, in easy circumstances; they loved each other; they would live and labor together in the bosom of this fresh, grand, and pleasant country. Oh, say not that life is only a valley of tears! Amongst its dark shadows, what bright, lovely pictures present themselves!
I wandered on for about an hour before I reached “Le Creux,” a hollow in the valley, where lies a little peasant farm, surrounded by trees and hilly crofts, in the very midst of an actual colosseum of primeval rocks, crowned by two ice-towers, Les Diablerets. From these icy walls, two hundred feet high, fall the torrents which form “La Grande Eau,” which roar through the valley and, lower down, swell the waters of the Rhone. The owner of the peasant farm, generally called Père Ansermey, is one of the most esteemed and valued elders of the Free Church. He has fitted up a few rooms in his chalet, for the reception of strangers, who wish to spend the hot summer months in the cool valleys, and here a room was also prepared for me. Several ladies were residing here for the summer from various countries—Switzerland, Germany, England, Scotland—but all of such amiable and well-trained characters that they lived together as an actual band of sisters. They received me as a sister. They gratified my wishes in the most kind manner, gave me the best room in the house, the best of every thing. I cannot describe how good and kind they were. And much excellent and earnest conversation had we together under the shadow of our cottage roof, or during our walks in the valley. I was much interested also, in becoming better acquainted with Père Ansermey, who is a splendid example of the Christian peasant. He was now confined at home, in consequence of an injury received, a couple of months since, during the repair of his house, when he fell from the roof. He had, therefore, given up to his wife and son the care of the cattle in the higher pasturages of the mountains, whilst he remained down in the valley with his daughter—a good, managing, and pretty girl, our hostess,—to look after the place and a cow which had broken its leg. Père Ansermey waited till his cow was better, in order to go with her up into the mountains. He is a tall and powerful man, between fifty and sixty, with a splendid countenance and the most beautiful and expressive eyes I ever saw in a man.
During a short time that I was left alone with him, he asked me, in a half-dubious way, but with a gentle and most heartfelt voice, “whether I loved Jesus?” and when I replied, “Yes,” how his countenance beamed, how his eyes brightened!
After this he related to me the history of his own conversion, which was that of a silent, inward struggle between an outer, not particularly edifying life, and an ideal of perfection, which became ever stronger and stronger in his soul. This inward combat attained to its height, when one evening at a dancing party, a bloody quarrel having arisen, Père Ansermey felt himself all at once compelled to say, “Think if the Lord Jesus were to come in just now!”
That thought and that moment became decisive to Ansermey. He hung upon a hook the violin on which he used to play for the dancing, and never touched it again for such a purpose. He was not averse, however, to innocent pleasures—which I now took upon me to defend—but thought that young people, after all, could employ their precious time in something better.
In the evening Père Ansermey performed family worship in our little circle. So doing, he read a chapter in the Scriptures and prayed, after which, he led, accompanied by his daughter, in the singing of such a hymn or hymns, as any of those present might desire. They were sung in quartette by the little assembly, and, frequently, extremely well. The music and words of one hymn, especially pleased me, which also A. Vinet is said to have loved before any other; it began
“Great God of Truth, thou whom only I worship.”
One day when I expressed my admiration of Père Ansermey's voice, which is of unusual strength and purity, he joyfully exclaimed,
“Yes, that is true; I have a beautiful voice!”
In the evening when he has closed his reading, he will repeat one or two verses of what he has read, adding; “These are lovely (or important) words; may God give us grace rightly to comprehend them!” Sometimes he will remain for a little while perfectly silent after the reading, as if in quiet devotion.
What a living answer is a man of this kind, to the assertion of the Romish church, that people of the uneducated class cannot understand the Scriptures, nor guide themselves by their light.
The valleys of Les Ormondes, the upper and lower, are said to be the most beautiful of the high valleys of the Vaud, and they are so from the number of grassy hills and fresh mountain streams; from the numerous verdant terraces and extent of pasturage. The people are handsome and more cheerful than in any other of the valleys. They are celebrated for their lively wit, and their disposition to look at life, and every thing, from its most amusing side. But here more than in any other valley, you find the want of many of the conveniences of life, not to say its necessaries. Bread (if not of the very coarsest kind) and meat, etc., must be fetched from a distance of two hours. Under these circumstances one could not but be astonished at the manner in which our table was furnished, as well as at our living here, which cost only three francs a day.
I spent three days here, one evening of which I passed with the ideally happy, and amiable young couple in the new parsonage. Interesting traits from the innermost of human life, furnished topics of conversation, with the sun, the Alps and the careering clouds before our gaze, one of those glorious spectacles which man sometimes will purchase at almost any price, and which nature exhibits here gratis every evening.
On the morning of the fourth day, Père Ansermey set off before dawn with his cow up into the mountains, and before the sun had illumined the spires of Les Diablerets, I took my pilgrim-staff, otherwise, my little parasol, in hand, and, accompanied by my new lady friends, took my way to La Comballez. There we parted; but the grateful remembrance of two of those amiable ladies will never leave me.
In company of a pretty, but impish, ten-year-old, countrified Sylvie, I continued my way to Chateau-d'Œx, the whole way being on the soft grass of the high plain “Des Mosses;” and nowhere have I seen so beautiful and fine a species of grass, playing and waving in the wind like a thin gauze of smoke. The plain looked both rich and gay.
I still could see, behind me, the Savoyard Alps, and their cool shadows stretching refreshingly across the sun-lit plain.
After walking over the plain for more than two hours, I was both hungry and weary, and I imagined that my little Sylvie was the same. And see, just here, close to the road, stands a cottage, from which some men, who have been carrying hay, are coming, whilst a woman, with a good housewifely countenance, stands at the door. I ask her if she can give me something for dinner. She does not know, she replies, whether she has any thing that I can eat. “Have you eggs?” “No.” “Potatoes?” “Yes, but not cooked.” “Milk?” “Yes.” “Bread and butter?” “Yes.” Excellent! Then we have all that we need.
We go into the neat, cool cottage, where a fat little lad is asleep in his cradle, watched over by a pretty little Julie. The young mother spreads a snow-white cloth upon the table, and brings forth good bread, remarkably good milk, and other things, excellent pastoral fare, which Sylvie and I devour with right good appetites. In the mean time, the young mother takes up her fat little boy, to whom she talks in motherly fashion. He was her fifth child. The kind and handsome woman seemed pious and happy, and did not desire any thing for the meal which she had given me, but received gratefully, the small payment which I insisted upon.
The descent during the hot day, was fatiguing. Coal-black clouds were gathering in dense masses over the mountains behind us, and rumbling thunder began. Terrified at this prospect, my little Sylvie deserted me when only half way. The remainder was made under the most threatening sky, nor was it till about five o'clock, that I reached my valley and my home, having walked that day upwards of six leagues, and that without any excessive weariness.
My kind hostess provided for me in the best manner, gave me tea and a foot-bath; and now how good it is to be here in my comfortable dwelling, whilst the thunder-storm bursts over the mountains and valley, and the rain pours down. The thunder-claps are terrific, but the lightning very rarely does any damage in the valley.
11th.—It has struck, however, this time. The lightning has burned down house and home, barns and barnyard, of a young couple and their aged parents. This misfortune has awakened general sympathy, and one of the elders of the Church made an excellent discourse to the congregation last evening on the subject. One of the most beautiful institutions of the Free Church is certainly that of the office of its elders, and the active part which it gives them in its affairs. They are real supporters and helpers of the pastor in his labors for the congregation. In my conversation with them, I have derived both pleasure and edification. These peasants have a freshness of thought and expression, frequently an originality, which carries with it an unction, and seems to go to the very fountain-head of the subject under discussion. Their wives and daughters also, are active in looking after the needy and sick of the congregation. They have besides, separate assemblies for prayer and work.
13th.—After somewhat more than two weeks' residence in this quiet valley, I am about to take my leave of it, in order to make a journey in company with M. Penchaud, to the Bernese Oberland, and to the Waldstetter Cantons, where the people are said still to retain their primitive manners and character. It is Schwytz, the cradle of the Sworn-Confederacy, to which my journey has especial reference. I will there visit Grutli, and revive in my mind the memory of the heroic deeds of the Swiss. In Hasli-valley, will I also inquire after the traces of the Swedish race, who, according to tradition, emigrated there, and gave to the Swiss people their temperament and their name.
Three weeks have passed like a calm summer day. I have enjoyed freedom and peace, made long excursions in the neighborhood, contemplated the people in their quiet life, and have even taken part in its occupations. The women are admirable for their industry, order, and domesticity, to which must be added, their gentle and kind demeanor. Each one of these high valleys has its separate branch of female industry. In that of Rossinières they plat straw, in Chateau-d'Œx, make lace, embroider, and make dresses. The principal occupation of the valleys, in the mean time, is the care of cattle and cheese-making. At this season, you meet horses continually laden with immense cheeses, coming down from the mountain pastures. So they travel on to the towns, where under the name of “frommages de Gruyères,” they are purchased, and thence go forth into the world.
I have so far, spoken only of the bright side, of the life of these valleys. I must now also say something of its shadow sides. To these belong the moody quarrels and grudges, which when they once have begun between individuals or families, live on like gnats in stagnant water, and continue sometimes till death. To these belong, also, that depression of mind which not unfrequently overpowers the soul, and which usually takes the form of religious melancholy, terrors of the judgment, etc., and which sometimes even leads to suicide. More frequently, however, this unhappy condition of mind yields to the consolatory conversation of the pastor and the brethren, and the assurance of free grace in Christ. The necessity of labor is here, also, a continual friend at hand, which draws the depressed mind away from its moody thoughts, for none are here sufficiently wealthy not to be compelled to labor. The earliest cultivator of these valleys, the pious Monk Columbau, and his brethren seem to have given the stamp and example to a life of prayer and labor.
I have seen and heard here sufficient of the Free Church, to make me value it highly as a platform for the formation of congregations, “for a universal priesthood,” in which every individual becomes a self-conscious and self-responsible organ of the vitality of the church. And this is good, very good. But it has also become clear to me at the same time, that its stand-point is higher and more correct, merely in so far as the established church is concerned, and that it has not as yet comprehended, in its deeper sense, the fundamental principle of Protestantism and the future, nay, that it even rejects all questions of a higher knowledge and excludes from the church, much and many things which an actual Universal Church, could not exclude, but would accept and sanctify.
It is not my Free Church, my church of the future. It is too exclusive for that, too stagnant, adheres too much still to the letter. My church, that in which I believe, that which I seek for, that in which I already, in the depth of my soul, live and worship, is one in which certain dogmas and forms would not separate those who are united in the same highest love. My church is that in whose lofty choir Fenelon and Channing, François de Salis and Herman Franke, Hildebrand and Luther, Washington and Vinet, St. Brigitta and Elizabeth Fry, may offer prayer and sing praises together; nay, from the broad temple-courts of which none are excluded who earnestly seek and love the supreme good, be its name Lao-tscu, Zoroaster, Buddha, Socrates, or Spinosa!—Have separate compartments or chapels in the church, if you like; nay, there ought to be dissimilar limbs, as it were, more remote and nearer organs in one great organism, but let it have a Holy of holies, where all united in love to God and His Kingdom may assemble around “an Eternal Gospel which is proclaimed to all who dwell on the face of the earth.” All other churches are too narrow for me, and do not answer the idea of Protestantism. The idea of Protestantism, the fundamental thought of Protestantism!—has the Protestant Church fully comprehended and embraced this? And that which is its highest and simplest expression? This has long been a question to myself and others. I have received for reply, when people have replied at all, the fundamental tenets of Protestantism are, “Righteousness, through faith alone on the free grace of Christ,” and “the soul's immediate communion with God through the Holy Scriptures, the fountain of all truth, of which God is the source.”
By these two principal tenets of Protestantism, are combated the doctrines of the Roman Catholic Church, of righteousness through outward works, and of the church as an outward ordination and authority between God and man, with the divine right of binding and releasing, and at the same time, powerful to lead souls to God.
But has Protestantism even in these tenets expressed its innermost fundamental tenet, its primeval Word!
What is it that gave Protestantism the right to protest? It is answered: “God's word in the Holy Scriptures.” But what was it that gave to the Protestant Church the right to explain this word differently to the mother church?
It is to the eternal honor of Protestantism, to have combated the false and injurious doctrines of the Romish Church; it is to its immortal honor, that it plucked the Holy Scriptures from out of the heap of human inventions, under which they had been buried; to have made them available to every man, and so doing, to have anew opened to Christianity the fountain from which the first congregation derived its life and its inspiration. Christianity beheld now here again, the living, historical Saviour. She could now inquire, hear, learn, from Him Himself, and His Apostles. Human intervention, Popes, Priests, Councils, no longer thrust themselves between Him and them, all human beings could become immediately, his disciples, all could receive immediately from Him, the word of Eternal Life! Thus, rejoiced the young, protesting congregation, over the Romish Church, and with reason. This benefit was unspeakable! To have placed the Holy Scriptures in the hands of the people to have learned from them, that not on outward works, but by the faith of the heart alone, depended the highest weal or woe of man;—that it seems to me, is the greatest work of Luther and the Reformation. This was also its pure principle, and the source of an infinite development. But just at the commencement of this development, when the newly-born church should have formed itself into being, difficulties and contradictions arose, which split it up within itself. They knew very well, that God's word in the Holy Scriptures, must alone be the basis and canon of the church. And now, the new disciples start forward, each with the Holy Scriptures in his hand, but none understood and explained them as the others. The architects of the church could not agree about the building. Each one would build it in his own way. Thus, a variety of churches and sects arose, which, even when they were agreed on the chief topic, yet acknowledged differences sufficiently great, to make them then and still at this day, quarrel one with another, like enemies. The Romish Church exclaimed triumphantly, “Where is now your Church? Where is your unity, where your cementing central point?” And it exclaims so to this day. Protestantism replies, as we have already said; but has an internal conviction that the answer is not satisfactory, and seeks for one of greater completeness, looking around for it, certain that it will be found, but, am I wrong, when I say that as yet, it has neither found it nor comprehended it?
Alas! I have made many inquiries and investigations; I have traveled over land and sea; I have searched in books and amongst men, to come to some light on this subject, to find an answer at once true, full and sufficing: an answer with which scoffers could be silenced, skeptics enlightened, and which should carry with it conviction and satisfaction to the soul. For the question does not alone concern the basis of Protestanism, but is first and foremost, the basis of all human wisdom; it concerns the right of humanity, that is to say, the ability of humanity to comprehend the truth even to decide and determine upon any of the highest questions; upon those which bear reference in the profoundest manner to the soul, to eternal happiness or misery. And—I still am seeking and still inquiring. But no longer altogether as I did formerly. I have seen for some time, in the depth of my soul's innermost, a light becoming clear, and have perceived a word—I perceived them even from my earliest youth, powerful but indistinct, and although the fogs of life and the anguishes of the heart may have dimmed them, yet have I seen them again and again, like heavenly stars gleaming through earthly clouds, and now I have come to Switzerland to endeavor to attain to a clearer comprehension.
In the morning I shall set out on my long journey to the primeval home of Swiss liberty, and to the source of the Rhone. Perhaps they will aid me in finding the primal word of Protestanism!
Farewell, peaceful valleys! Good, simple, cordial human beings, farewell!
- ↑ Nor is this expression too strong. In the large herds of cattle the bells furnish a perfect choir, with base notes, soprano, and so on.