Page:The Literary Magnet 1824 vol 2.djvu/121

THE BROOK COTTAGE.

An Alpine Tale.

The mountains of Savoy, stupendously gifted as they are by the lavish hand of Nature, do not always appear in their majestical beauty, the sublime being often lost in the contemplation of the awful. The terrifying aspect of barren rocks, hiding their heads in clouds, like spectres of a long-vanished race of giants; the eternal snow which the eye discovers every moment on the lofty, and, to all appearance, endless, rising mountains; the echoes, reverberating like thunder, of innumerable water-falls, rushing down to unseen abysses, and spreading, over the path and the surrounding scenery, its angry foam. Such a scene as this, where only the voice of destruction is heard, fills the soul with a sentiment of terror and melancholy.

In the midst of this awe-inspiring picture, the wanderer discovers, to his unspeakable satisfaction, about two leagues northward of the great road leading from Geneva to Chambery, a lonely green valley. Environed by the surrounding snow-clad eminences, its bosom appears, to the charmed eye, like the friendly cradle where the spring of infancy slumbers during the storms of winter.

Three large brooks glide softly down into a small round lake, which reflects, in its clear crystal, the neighbouring hills. The giant tops of the glaciers look down from a greater distance, as if desirous of casting a glance into this beautiful sanctuary of solitude and peace: and they increase by the contrast the charm of the landscape, causing a deeper enjoyment of its shelter and comfort.

A little hamlet raises its humble habitations on the edge of the lake. Each cottage is surrounded by a small garden, which appears, under the shade of wide-spreading fruit-trees, a friendly and inviting bower of simplicity and content. At a short distance from this peaceful village is seen a residence, rather larger than those in the hamlet. It is delightfully seated on a fresh lawn, nearest the largest of the brooks, and commanding an undisturbed prospect of the whole valley; and, from its situation, was called The Brook Cottage. A large garden extends behind it, and two lind-trees, overshading a rural bench before the door, are its only, but charming ornaments. Long before your steps reach it, your eye rests on it with pleasure. But, alas! on a nearer approach, the happy image vanishes. No friendly form is ready to welcome you at the gate, no smiling children play at the door, no sweet voice sounds in soft love strains all is noiseless, like the footsteps of Time. The door is closed, be if it was never again to be opened, the panes of the windows are broken, the flowers of the garden are, withered and destroyed. Here