Up a Bridle-Path

— I do not remember whether Darwin, in his study of the forms of expression in the lower animals, mentions the suggestive play of a mule’s ears. But I was much impressed by the eloquence of the long appendage on each side of the head before me when, early one July morning, at Zermatt, I mounted a mule to go up to the Schwarz-See. They easily displayed every phase of feeling, as they cocked or drooped, twitched or flapped, — surprise, curiosity, disgust, rebellion, whim, obstinacy, placid contentment. My guide led the animal by the bridle with one hand, while in the other he carried my umbrella, with which, at any sign of refractoriness, he thumped the creature. But the hardest knock did not close the question. The beast had likings and dislikings of his own, and even when seemingly acquiescing in his master’s decrees, it was not that he surrendered his individual opinions ; only that, schooled by experience, he gave in to “ man dressed in a little brief authority.” The guide recognized the just claims of a mind of opposite conclusions and convictions, and conceded not a little, consulting the animal’s; wishes, even reasoning with him. His comprehensive word of direction, “ Gi,” ran through the entire gamut in key and intonation, and took on every possible phase of meaning. “ Gi ! ” “Gi?” “ Gi-i-i-i ? ” “ Gi.” A favorite expostulation when the mule halted was. “ Wer still steht kommt nicht vorwärts ” (Who stands still does not go on); thus formulating an experience world-wide and world-deep. But by the time the real ascent began, when we had left the village of Zermatt behind us, and the rush and roar of the Visp, swirling and eddying in rapids and leaping in cascades, were no longer at our left hand, the way grew steeper, and my mule, adjusting himself to the necessities of the situation, showed that he could climb bravely. Occasionally,it is true, he stopped to nibble at the herbage, and again, as if discerning some invisible danger ahead, he would balk, planting himself stubbornly ; but I reflected that what one wants in a mule is patience, and not enthusiasm, and that an attitude of reluctance on the ridge overhanging a precipice is preferable to one of slippery ease and indifference to results.

Of course the best way to go to any place, where scenery is the object, is to walk. But ascents exhaust me, although I can make descents on foot as well as most people. I have never heard of any one’s piquing himself on having made a descent. All the world ascends, and boasts of it. Yet, after all, one must have ascended in order to descend, and the important point is that one shall somehow have the chance to linger on a bridle-path ; for very much of the wonder and the charm of Switzerland consists in what one must miss in a swift transition from valley to mountain top, or from mountain top to valley. Already so many of the holy mounts where angels might almost fear to tread have been taken possession of by the funicular monster, which creeps up the perpendicular rock as the fly up the window pane, that one trembles to reflect what Switzerland is likely to have become twenty years from now. Modern inventions flatter the instincts of tiie practical man, who has a dislike of all that makes him feel his own feebleness ; the eternal, the infinite, — heights he cannot climb and abysses he cannot plumb, —are something to be defeated, if possible. Thus a railroad up the Rigi or the heights of Glion is a feat delightful to contemplate. I do not intend to affirm dogmatically that all such innovations are absolutely to be condemned ; only to beg that as long as possible we may loiter along the bridle-path.

The very zigzags of an Alpine ascent are an advantage, shifting the views, and never offering two precisely alike. At one time snow peaks are shining above frowning gorges sentineled by pines and larches ; next you see the sweep of the cascade, or come upon a little circle of soft green meadow, the grass nearly hidden in its embroidery of pansies, forget-me-nots, and campanulas. One would be almost dazzled and oppressed by the continuous sight of snowfields and glaciers alone. The mass of wild flowers, the mountain cattle, sheep, and goats, the glancing streams, help to complete the symphony. Two sounds are rarely lost in Switzerland : the voice of the innumerable waterfalls and the foaming torrents in their rocky beds, and the tinkle of the bells at the throats of the pretty, tame creatures, who raise their soft eyes to look at you from every turn of the path, then move on with a sweet clangor at every steps Once, after a rainy day at Les Planssur-Bex, I strolled up the road to see the fresh snow on the mountains glowing rosypure in the sunset, when I was startled by the sound of music. In another moment round the curve came a little goatherd,

on a long pewter horn almost as large as himself, which probably dated back to an early century, while he drove before him a flock of fifty or sixty goats, each with a bell at its throat, which chimed in harmoniously with the horn. The instrument had not an extended compass, but its few notes were very melodious heard in those solitudes. The boy played to keep his flock in the path, but it was easy to see that he also played from the love of it. I have liked since to think of him tending his goats in those green upper valleys through long solitary summer days, blowing the pewter horn and rousing echoes from the far heights above him, where the splendors of glacier, snow peak, and dashing torrent shone. Goats have evidently a rhythmical ear, and readily obey a musical call. In certain streets of Paris, one hears at a regular hour each morning the sound of a flute played by a dark-skinned peasant in a blouse, as he leads a flock of a half dozen from house to house of his customers who drink goat’s milk. They are sleek, black, pretty creatures, and walk along sedately, lending to the conventional streets that touch of picturesqueness rarely wholly wanting in any Continental city.

Another incident on the bridle-path is the greeting of peasants, ascending or descending, with hottes on their backs ; some seamed and wrinkled old men and women, and others of every age down to mere children. A child hardly runs alone in Switzerland before a tiny hotte is strapped to its back as a plaything. It probably helps to form the straight, steady gait of the mountaineers. The children all have the footing of chamois. The prettiest picture I ever saw in my life was at Mürren, where, on a narrow rocky path of the utmost steepness and difficulty, where I had to pick my way slowly and warily, I met a little girl of three or four, or rather stood aside to let her pass, as she ran down at full speed, laughing as she went, while her yellow hair floated in the wind.

He is a wise guide who can predict infallibly about Alpine weather. The weather was charming when we set out, and, although the Matterhorn was hidden in mists, the chain below floated pure and clear in dazzling sunshine. The guide was certain the day would be fine, but now, halfway up, he begins to shake his head. Still, among the mountains, one learns to expect only the miraculous. Vapors have so often obscured peaks I saw shining, or dissolved and let the glory of heaven through mist, I have felt sure the Matterhorn would presently emerge grand and serene in its unclouded splendor, as I saw it yesterday at Zermatt, which it faces in the attitude of the Sphinx rearing its indomitable head, disdaining even the snow. It may very well be compared to the Sphinx : it fascinates and it kills. Almost every year adds to its death-roll ; a recent victim being an English clergyman, who made the ascent safely, then was blown from the summit.

The Matterhorn is individual, unique ; it dominates the whole chain. Other peaks need to be pointed out. “ That is Mont Blanc ! ” “ That is the Jungfrau ! ” No danger of confounding the Matterhorn with the Breithorn, Dent Blanche, or Monte Rosa, or any of the needles, teeth, pyramids, obelisks, horns, which, sharpened and cleft into a thousand different forms, are limned against the azure of the sky. It rears its crest almost threateningly above the great sunny amphitheatre, and it offers a fit and magnificent climax to the weird scenery of the Rhone valley. For after one leaves the Rhone, which seems to have sullied the strange, eerie landscape with its olive-gray tints, and follows up the Visp through its deep gorges, one feels like quoting : —

But to-day, although we feel the presence of the Matterhorn, so far we see only the veil it wears. Everywhere else the mists part, rise, wreathe upwards, and the sun breaks through with almost intolerable radiance. But round the Matterhorn they cling, they cling like imperishable regrets, and ever and anon they surge down and threaten to engulf the whole landscape : the valley vanishes ; one hears the cowbells ringing, and the forms of goats and cattle loom up like giants on the alp where they arc feeding. Then, with ghostly suddenness, the mists roll away, and the picture emerges from the curtain which concealed it like the slide of a magic lantern. Yet cloud and mist bring their own beauty, and one has but half seen the mountains who has seen them only in sunshine, for they bear the half veil like other lovely things. A magical transformation scene goes on in cloud and rain which is worth studying. Every gorge, every ravine, becomes a veritable witch’s caldron, from which swirl up vapors that twist, and curl, and stalk on like gray phantoms. Now, as we rise higher and higher, although the vast circle of snow peaks above, save the Matterhorn, are flooded with sunshine, we ourselves are alternately in foul and clear weather. Mists envelop us ; a light rain falls ; then the vapors part, disperse, and we are once more under a dome of gold and azure, while the vistas down the valley open with fresh iridescence of hue. When everything is shut out except the dripping rocks on either side, we have time to study the beauty of the flowers which issue from every crack and cranny of every ledge, and fill all the interstices with delicate color. The edelweiss is the accepted Alpine flower, but I love the little campanula better, which blossoms from base to snow limit of the mountain, nods over the brink of appalling cataracts and along the bed of rivulets, disdains no waste, and carries a bit of heaven’s blue into the dreariest places. I admit, however, that my favorite little campanula has so large a family of near relations that it loses distinction. One easily loves the forget-menot, wherever found, but it is never so blue as near the glaciers, while the pansies which grow in profusion near the Schwarz-See have an air of being found at home in sober purple attire. There are few of our favorite garden flowers which in some shape or tint do not make a part of the delicate splendor of Swiss mountains and valleys. They are, perhaps, too well beloved ; and when one beholds the sheaves of them with which women and children come back laden from an afternoon ramble, one trembles lest, after a few years, no summer flowers will be left except in inaccessible places. Already in places most overrun by tourists, like Chamonix and Glion, there is a noticeable scarcity of wayside blossoms. Round the Schwarz-See there is a marvelous profusion of the loveliest flowers. The Hörnli is a perfect carpet of pink and blue. For here we are at the end of the bridle-path. All about us is the giant assemblage of snow peaks and glaciers, and far above, to a sublime height, looms the Matterhorn ; to-day, alas, like a gray apparition.