About the Edelweiss much fiction has been written. It is true that it often grows in rather inaccessible spots, but it is not at all necessary to peril one's life in order to pluck it; and we must regretfully abandon the pretty, old legend that the bold mountaineer, when he brings the flower to his sweetheart, gives her also the proof of his valor and devotion, and his willingness to risk all for her dear sake. It is interesting and exciting to find these flowers,—they do grow at a noble height,—and here in the Engadine, at this season, and in this vicinity, they are rare. But, sweethearts, of all ages, sexes, and conditions, who will shortly receive from me Edelweiss in letters, do not be disappointed to hear that, though my hands were full to overflowing, I plucked them in gay security, with my feet on firm ground; and there was only one single place where it wasn't pleasant to look down, or, to be more impressive, where a yawning abyss threatened to ingulf me.
The Edelweiss is certainly very good to find and send home in a letter, it is so suggestive of dangerous cliffs, horrible ravines, and immense daring, as well as telling very sweetly its little story of blooming in lonely beauty on the high Alps; but that any especial valor is required to obtain it, is, if the truth be told, a mere fable.
And the last grain of romance vanishes when we hear that shrewd guides bring the flowers down from their own heights, and set them in the path of enthusiastic but not high-climbing ladies, who in their delight are wildly lavish of fees. The Devil can quote Scripture for his purpose, and the pure, precious little flower can be used as a trap by mercenary man.
[pg!161]
RAGATZ.
Over the Albula Pass we came from St. Moritz to Chur, and when we went, it was by the Julia. How grand we feel going over these great mountain-passes, where Roman and German emperors, with all their vast armies, their high hopes and ambitions, have trod, it is quite impossible to express. The emperors are dead and gone, and we, an insignificant but merry little party, ride demurely over the selfsame route. Blessed thought that the mountains are meant for us as much as they were for the emperors; that the beauty and grandeur and loveliness of nature, everywhere, is our own to enjoy; that it has been waiting through the ages, even for us, to this day! It is our own. No king or conqueror has a larger claim.
This was one of the tranquil, joyous days that have so much in them,—a day of clear thoughts, unwearying feet, unspeakable appreciation of nature, and good-will towards humanity. There was a long, bright flood of sunshine, with beautiful flakes of clouds floating before a fresh mountain wind. The great mountains looked solemnly at us, and the happy laugh of a little child-friend echoed through the sombre ravines.
We passed queer old villages; small dun cattle with antelope eyes and fragrant breath; wise-looking goats; pastures that stretched out their vivid green carpets on the mountain-side; and, above all, the great snow-slopes.
We got some supper in a very grave little village. The woman who waited upon us looked as if she had never smiled. This made us want somebody to be funny. The other travellers were matter-of-fact Englishmen, some heavy Jews, and particularly eagle-looking Americans. The little woman gave us good coffee, sweet black-bread and sweeter butter, and eggs so rich and fresh we felt that they would instantly transform our famishing selves into Samsons. These eggs had chocolate-colored shells. The Englishmen, the Eagles, and the Jews ate solemnly, as if they had eaten brown eggs from their cradles. But we, with that curiosity which, whatever it may be to others, is in our opinion our most invaluable travelling companion,—of more profit and importance than all the guide-books and maps, often more really helpful than friends who have made what they call “the tour of Europe” three times,—inquired:—
“Why, do Swiss hens lay brown eggs?”