“Wave, eagle, thy pinion
Supreme in the air!”
But leave, ah leave, me alone on the mountain top amidst the frozen wilderness. I love to roam among the mountains. I love their pure air, their jagged heights, their snowy peaks, and their foaming cataracts tumbling down. Yea,
“For the lifting up of mountains,
In brightness and in dread;
For the peaks where snow and sunshine
Alone have dared to tread;
For the dark of silent gorges,
Whence mighty cedars nod:
For the majesty of mountains,
I thank thee, O my God.”
This little country of Switzerland, locked in by the Alps, and surrounded by Germany, France, Italy, and Austria, boasts the oldest republic in the world, its present form of government having existed half a thousand years. It is inhabited by 2,700,000 people, speaking three different languages. One million and a half speak German, one million French, and the remainder Italian. Unlike the people of other European nations, four-fifths of these Switzers are land owners. They love to sing
“Home, sweet home,
Be it ever so humble, there is no place like home!”
And, verily, their homes are humble, especially in the wilder parts of the country. Their rude, structures are, for the most part, built of fir poles and rough stones, and are often perched on the steep mountain side, thousands of feet above the valley. Sometimes nearly the whole house is hidden away in a blasted rock, only the end facing the valley being visible. These mountaineers live high—I can not say well. They have elevated thoughts, that is if they have any thoughts at all; they look down upon kings and ordinary mortals, and only look up to eagles and to God. Despite the extraordinary precaution taken to have their houses shielded by the rock, many of them are annually swept away by avalanches. It is difficult to trace out the dim and winding paths by which these people reach their mountain huts.
I said most Switzers are land-owners, and so they are, on a small scale. It is only a little here and less there; an acre in one place, a half acre in another, and so on. They have few or no horses, but nearly every family has two or three cows and a half dozen goats. They milk both goats and cows; both are as gentle as cats, and each one appears to know its name. Switzerland is a great country for honey, cheese, vegetables and fruit. Pears and grapes of the finest quality everywhere abound. Wine is plentiful and almost as cheap as water, though I do not take advantage of the “reduced rates.”
There is something about the plain, simple, and unpretentious ways of these Alpine folk that challenges admiration. They are earnest, honest, pious, truthful, and industrious. Indeed, they can not be otherwise than industrious. Necessity is their stern master. He treads upon their heels, and cracks his whip over their heads. They have no machinery—they want none. They know nothing, and care less, about what progress the world is making. To them, “the world” means Switzerland, and that is about the same from age to age. “Contentment is the price of happiness;” they have paid the price, and enjoy the prize. The iron-belted and thunder-riven mountains have lent strength of character and force of will to the men. They are hardy mountaineers. They love their country next to their God.
“True as yon Alp to its own native flowers
True as the torrent to its rocky bed,
Or clouds and winds to their appointed track;
The Switzer cleaves to his accustom’d freedom,
Holds fast the rights and laws his fathers left him,
And spurns the tyrant’s innovating sway.”