Springfield globe-republic. (Springfield, Ohio) 1884-1887, 1885-04-19
THE ALPINE HORN.

Breakfast was over at the little au-
berge of the Realp. 1t was an hour or
more until time for the arrival of the
diligence Tor the st. Gotbard. Mine
host, who had Just finished his atten-
ton to the breakfast of the lazy herd
of goats that shared with his guests
the privileges of the inn. asked us il
we would not Ike to hear the echoes OF
the Alpine horn, a privilege to be had
by taking quarter-mile walk and pay
ing half-franc apiece. A little party
was soon made up. The morning was
splendid. The air was crisp and brac-
ing. The scenery was transcendently
beautiful. Almost before we were
aware we came to the appointed place
"a sheer precipice in front. the wall of
the mountain on each side breaking
away in rough irregular masses, faced
with perpendicular cliffs, while beyond,
through one of the openings between
the cliffs, is revealed the most quiet
landscape of the Piedmont. In that
far distance. like gleam from some
fairy land, lie crystal lakes, fed by the
SHOWS that are dissolving above our
heads. Here and there a cataract,
with the same unfailing source of sup
ply. leaps dowS. sometimes with the
thunderous roar, only the distant muir
muir of which reaches our ear; some
times in q soft spray that falls as light
as down upon the sward beneath.
Toward the entrance of the mountain
pass stands an old castle-grim re-
minder in days of piping peace" of
those sterner times when border chief
tains, at war with one another and
with all the world, rested securely only
behind massive walls, deep moats. and
bridges securely drawn.
But while we are enjoying the land
scape, in answer to a signal from our
host the hero of the horn has appeared.
What an iconoclasm all our images of
the Alpine horn undergo as we look
upon the veritable specimen which this
venerable sage of the mountains pro-
duces! Our fancy had painted it of
delicate proportions and elegant form.
gracefully returning upon itself in &C.
centric coils with symmetrical and
flowing curve. Instead, we have only
a plain. prosy tin horn, some eight
feet in length, and perhaps ten inches
in diameter at the larger end, without
a curve of any kind. except that, just
at the larger end, it turns suddenly at
right angles for a few inches of its
length, SO as to display great yawn-
ing mouth.
As the old man seats himself upon
the three-legged stool, takes the uncouth
instrument in his hands. places the
rough mouthpiece to his lips and puffs
out his cheeks for blast. nothing could
possibly be more unpoetic, or more ut
terly defiant of all aesthetic form. And
when the blast comes, it is so harsh and
dissonant that we instinctively put our
hands to our ears. But wait moment!
The rough note is taken up by the near
est cliff and thrown back to us, percep-
tibly softened. though not yet very
musical. Then comes another echo, and
another and another, each softer and
mellower than the one preceding.
Then comes echoes of echoes, inter-
mingling, blending, fainter. sweeter.
more attenuated, until at length we
hold our breath to listen, as every cliff
and crag seems to have caught note,
and hundred fairy voices are whis-
pering back to one another. 1t is beau
tiful! 1t is wonderful, and needs to be
heard to be appreciated, for words fail
to describe it.
When this experiment has been tried
several times, and always with increas-
ing pleasure, our artist sounds in quick
succession the three notes which make
a vocal chord. And now what a won-
derous series of transformation! First,
the notes come back to us in order
originally given, only mellowed and
etheralized by their flights through the
air. Then. as the echoes multiply and
begin to mingle, the relative order of
the notes become changed; and as their
relation to each other preserve always
the harmony. they give the impression
of successive snatches of some far-away
song, the strains of which grow softer
and softer, while the points from which
they come seem TO be further and
further above us. until at length they
become to us like apgel-voices, chant
ing some celestial chorus in the far
empyrean above.
AS we turn from the faint sweet
echoes to look upon the enchanting
landscape again, we say to ourselves;
This, of all others, must have been the
place where the poet-laureate caught
the inspiration of his inimitabie "Bugle
Song" The lakes, the cataracts, the
castle, the mountain submits, all are
here. We can readily picture the lover
looking upon the scene before us and
saying with admiration:
The sPlendor falls on castle walls,
And snowy submits old in story;
The long light shakes along the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
We enter into the full spirit of the
scene as he turns, saying:
Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying;
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying,
dying.
He seems to speak of the echoes we
have just heard, as he cries to his lady
love:
Oh, hark, oh, hear! how thin and clear
And thinner, clearer. farther going!
Oh. sweet and far. from cliff and scar,
The horns Of Elfand family blowing!
BLOW, buge; answer. echoes, dying, dying.
dying!
We enter with profounder sympathy
than would have been possible before
into the exquisite beauty and pathos of
The closing verse:
oh. love, they die In yon rich sky;
They faint on hill, or field, or river;
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and forever.
Frank Leslie's Sunday Magazine.