Oh, the mountains! How we climbed and climbed, the train winding, and roaring, and straining every iron nerve to bear us to the high places! At noon we were in the midst of them. They looked down upon us with kindly faces, yet their granite peaks were awful in their grandeur, uplifted thousands upon thousands of feet above us.
I wandered with a bright young girl in our party, Miss Bessie Percival, whom the boys call “Captain Bess,” down a steep path to the river’s brink. Beneath a sheltering fir which stretched its tiny crosses above our heads, we stopped, and with a tiny, crackling fire beside us, watched the snowy heights, and the hastening river. The harebells, frailest and gentlest of flowers, were there too, to remind us that the same Hand which which—
“Set on high the firmament,
Planets on their courses guided,
Alps from Alps asunder rent,”
was his who said to the storm, “Peace, be still!”—who “considered the lilies,” and who took little children in his arms and blessed them.
The waters of the large river which ran past us were turbid with soil from their far-off source; but a small stream entered the larger one near our little fir-shaded hearthstone, and this new-comer was fresh from the snowy hill-tops, “clear as crystal.” As far down as we could see, the rivulet never lost its brightness, but swept onward with the larger stream, sweetening and purifying it, yet “unspotted,” like a true and simple life in God’s world.
There, I won’t tire you any more to-night, dear mother. How it would add to our pleasure if you were here! Adelaide gains strength every day, the wholesome, hearty companionship of these young people doing her quite as much good, I think, as the novelty and grandeur of the scenes in which she finds herself. As for me, I ought to preach better sermons all my life, for this trip. This afternoon while I was sitting on the rounded piazza of the hotel, looking out upon the valley and snowy mountain-tops, a bit of blank verse came into my mind. I’m going to write it out for you. A fellow can send his mother poetry (?) which he wouldn’t show any one else, can’t he?
Within thy holy temple have I strayed,
E’en as a weary child, who from the heat
And noonday glare hath timid refuge sought
In some cathedral’s vast and shadowy nave,
And trembles, awestruck, crouching in his rags
Where high up reared a mighty pillar stands.
Mine eyes I lift unto the hills, from whence
Cometh my help. The murmuring firs stretch forth
Their myriad tiny crosses o’er my head;
Deep rolls an organ peal of thunder down
The echoing vale, while clouds of incense float
Before the great white altar set on high.
So lift my heart, O God! and purify
Its thought, that when I walk once more
Thy minister amid the hurrying throng,
One ray of sunlight from these golden days,
One jewel from the mountain’s regal brow,
One cup of water from these springs of life,
As tokens of thy beauty, I may bear
To little ones who toil and long for rest.
Affectionately, your son,
Rossiter.
P. S. I wish you knew that little “Captain Bess.”