The Water-Castle of Europe [pp. 328-329]

328 APPLIJTONS' JO UJ?NAL OF POPULAR [JUNE 12,
ing visible but a broad ghastly expanse of naked earth and stone
stretching up to the mountain's brow.
But, though the dear abode where he had passed his childhood
was thus suddenly and fearfully destroyed before his face, poor
Arnaud thought only of the old man's life, which was dearer
to him a thousand times, and he thought of it collectedly, too, which
at such a moment many a brave man of mature years could not have
done.
The level space where the house had stood seemed for a few moments to stay the cataract of rubbish; but in a few moments more the
fall continued, and, even after reaching the bottom of the valley, many
b)locks of stone and fragments of tall pines rolled on almost to the
spot where Alexander and Arnaud stood.
The former had already abandoned all hope of saving the life of
any one who had either been in the house or who had gone to the relief of its inmates. Not so the boy, for, knowing the minutiae of the
locality, he observed that the land-slip had not crossed the mule-path
that led down to the village, so that it could not have increased the
danger of any one who was descending by it. All depended, therefore, on the path being practicable. They pressed on, straining their
ears to catch the sound of a human voice, often thinking they heard
one, often finding themselves deceived.
"We shall be in the path ourselves in a few moments," cried Arnaud. "It begins to ascend just above here. There ought to be two
poplars."
"I see no trees at all," said Alexander.
"They have been rooted up," said the boy; "but never mind; I
hear voices," and he clapped his hands with delight.
Alexander gave a piercing whistle. It was answered instantly.
Arnaud again clapped his hands, and danced with joy. The voices
grew more distinct every instant. A moment more a group of people
were visible at a distance of hardly fifty yards, but unhappily they
saw at the same time that they were separated from them by an obstacle which Arnaud had not foreseen, with all his experience of the
valley. The unprecedented flood of that day and night, seeking vents
in all directions, had found one here in what was for the moment a
torrent of the wickedest aspect, and five or six yards wide, rushing as
i- it ran a muck to join the main waters lower down. In an hour it
had scooped out the bed in which it foamed; for the peasants, who
were now stopped by its breadth and fury, had hardly noticed it as
they went up the hill it was so small a thread. The old minister,
however, had been carried down so far in perfect safety, except for his
exposure to the night and storm-perils enough for a man in his advanced years. The point now was how to get him across the water.
The peasants had already tried to ford it, and, narrow as it was, pronounced it impracticable. It was not merely the depth-for that was
not more than between four or five feet-but the slipperiness of the
stones and the rage of the water daunted them; it was as much as
any man could do to cross himself; and, as to carrying another on his
back, it was pronounced a sheer impossibility.
"But it must be done," cried Alexander, "or you might as well
have left him to perish with his house."
The word "impossible" was heard from the other side again.
"We shall see," said Alexander, coolly. "Have any of you a
rope? If you have, throw me one end of it, and keep a tight hold of
the other."
"He's an Englishman," shouted Arnaud, "and a friend of Mr.
Evelyn's."
Alexander could hardly help laughing at the proclamation of his
country and position at such a critical moment. There was a rope, it
was flung across, Alexander caught it, again desired them to hold fast,
and, instantly plunging into the water, steadying himself as much as
he could with his red umbrella, in a few strides was safe on the other
side.
"Now," he said to the men, " two of you must get over to hold the
rope again, and I undertake to carry the old man."
The example decided the wavering courage of the peasants, and
two of them obeyed, though there was only a boy on the other side to
do what they had done to assist Alexander; but they knew what a
brave boy ho was. One of them, however, stumbled and almost lost
his legs for a moment; but they both crossed.
Now came the tug, one for life or death, for one at least, perhaps
for two. The poor old minister, almost speechless with cold and ter ror, was lifted on Alexander's shoulders, like the aged Trojan in the
epic. The young Englishman then replaced his umbrella with a stout
pole which he took from a peasant, seized the end of the rope once
more, and, confident in his youth and strength, which he well might be
while devoting them to such a noble use, he committed himself and
his venerable burden with redoubled caution and more intense steadiness to the dark and raging waters. For one instant his step faltered,
and the swaying of the rope made the men on the other side perspire
with fear; but he kept his footing firm, and in little more than a minute the aged uncle was safe in his nephew's arms.
It was dawn when the hoary minister was carried to the village,
where they had given up all hope of his deliverance, and, as it was, it
seemed impossible that he could survive many hours, for he was in his
seventieth year. Had anybody then predicted that his life was to be
protracted for more than ten years, after what he went through that
night, the prophecy would have seemed ridiculous.
At break of day the flood had already begun to abate; the storm
had ceased, the sun shone upon the desolation of the night, and Alexander, feeling that the only safety for himself was in continued exercise, drenched as he was, and being also desirous to escape the ovation
which his services were likely to bring upon him, stole away, and,
broken up as the road was, made his way back to Torre. There he
only stopped to change his clothes, and returned to Turin, leaving his
fame to follow him, which it probably did all the faster and louder for
his carelessness about it.
[To BE coNTINUED.]
THE WATER-CASTLE OF EUROPE.
BY JULES MICHELET.
HERE is nothing comparable with the Alps. No system
of mountains seems to approach them, either by the radiation of its groups, so happily ordered and articulated, or for
the superb disposition'of its reservoirs, which, from glaciers to
torrents, lakes, and rivers, shed life over Europe.
Neither the Pyrenees nor the Cordilleras, in their prolonged
lines, are so coordinated in one system. The Himalaya chain,
enormous in its spread between the Indus and the Ganges, does
not so well unite by mutual benefits the regions watered by it.
Great volumes of water are lost in its long marshes, in the vast
and dangerous jungles at its feet, which cherish a life still defiant to man.
In the Alps all is concordant. The noble amphitheatres
that send to the four seas the Po, the Rhone, the Rhine, and
the Inn (that true Danube), are not so separated as that the
mind may not embrace them in a bird's-eye view.
These sisters, almost touching at their origin, part from one
massive tower-the heart of the system, the heart of the European world.
The sublime impression which we receive from this mountain-group is not merely fanciful. It is the natural and rational
intuition of a true grandeur. This is the reservoir of Europe,
the principle of its fertility. It is the theatre of the exchanges
of atmospheric currents and discharge of vapors. Water is
life commenced. Its circulation under aerial or liquid forms is
accomplished on these mountains. They are the mediators, the
arbiters of dispersed or opposed elements which they combine
in peace.
They store away the clouds in glaciers, and then equitably
distribute them to the nations.
A tourist, standing on the sea of ice at the centre of this
imposing circus, was smitten, and exclaimed, "I have found the
Place de la Concorde of the world! "
The west and southwest winds, laden with the vapors of the
Atlantic and even of the Pacific, yield their deposits, which are
soon fixed by the breath of the north-wind. Solid and stratified by alternating thaws and freezes, they lie, fated, as it would
seem, to eternal captivity. Fresh snows cover the azure beds,
and defend them from the sun. But little water appears to
trickle away below, compared with the masses that form
above; yet equilibrium exists. Mont Blanc, for sixty years,
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