Chambers's Edinburgh Journal, No. 456
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It is not known, with any degree of certainty, whether the ancient inhabitants of the East had any knowledge of the art of diamond-cutting; but it is at the same time very clear, that the nations of the West knew nothing of it till a very late period. Even to the latter part of the fifteenth century, the diamond was appreciated principally for its supposed talismanic properties and its hardness; and as that hardness prevented its hidden beauties from being brought to light by cutting and polishing, it was regarded more as a rare cabalistic curiosity than a precious ornament. Some diamonds, however, whose natural form and polish were more favourable to the development of their clouded brilliancy, foretold the splendour they would display were it possible to cut and polish them as other gems. Numerous attempts were made to attain this desired end, but all in vain, until, about 1460, Louis de Berghen, a young jeweller of Bruges, succeeded in cutting the first diamond.
The invention of the art of diamond-cutting has, like many others, whether mythically or not, been mixed up with a love-story. Berghen, it is said, was a poor working-jeweller, who had the audacity to fall in love with his wealthy master's daughter. The young lady was favourable to his suit; but on proposing to her father, the old man reproached him for poverty, and sneeringly said, in allusion to the supposed utter impossibility of the feat: 'When you can cut a diamond, you may marry my daughter, but not before.' These discouraging words induced a train of reflection in the mind of the young man. He considered how other hard substances were cut; iron, he mentally cogitated, is cut by steel. 'What is steel,' he exclaimed, a light breaking upon him, 'but iron?—the diamond, then, may be cut by a diamond.' Laying out all his available means in the purchase of two small diamonds, he contrived, by cementing them to two pieces of wood, to rub them against each other till they were reduced to dust. With this dust, and a machine which he invented, he cut two facets on another diamond, which he triumphantly exhibited to the old jeweller. But a diamond had never previously been cut: men, wise in their generation, had said that a diamond never could be cut; and consequently, according to the general mode of treating inventors in those days, a charge of sorcery was brought against the first diamond-cutter. Berghen, thrown into prison, had abundant leisure for deliberation. Two courses were open to him: one was to keep his secret, and be burned as a sorcerer; the other, to clear himself of that charge by shewing how he cut the diamond by natural means, and thus lose the exclusive benefit of his invention, to which he considered he was so justly entitled. He adopted neither. Fortunately, Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, the ruler of Flanders, came to hold his court in the city of Bruges, and was soon informed of the diabolical art of the young jeweller. Charles was passionately fond of jewels, and possessed a very large diamond. Like the Spaniard, who, if the miracle were performed, did not care if Mohammed himself did it, the Bold duke sent for Berghen, and commanded him to cut and polish the large diamond, as he best could, either by aid of the Prince of Darkness, or his own unassisted efforts. In due time the work was completed; and Charles was so delighted with the brilliant beauty of the previously dull stone, that he remunerated the young jeweller with three thousand ducats. We need not inform the reader how Berghen soon married his lady-love; but we may state that, retaining the secret of diamond-cutting in his own family, he and his descendants acquired immense wealth. After the death of his patron Charles, he removed to Paris, where, for two centuries afterwards, the Berquins, as the name was Gallicised, were the most famous jewellers of their time.
The after-history of that large diamond, the first ever cut in Europe at least, is perhaps worthy of narration. Charles constantly carried it with him on his own person, till at last a soldier found it beside the duke's dead body, on the fatal battle-field of Nancy. Unconscious of its value, the finder sold it for a crown to a priest; the priest, equally ignorant, sold it for three ducats to a pedler; the pedler sold it for a large sum to the Duke of Florence. From that prince it passed into the hands of Antonio king of Portugal, who, when a refugee in France, sold it for 70,000 francs to Nicholas de Harlay, Lord of Sancy; thus it has since been known, in the history of precious stones, as the Sancy Diamond. Sancy was a faithful adherent to Henry IV. of France, and, during the civil war, was sent by that monarch to solicit the assistance of the Swiss. Finding that nothing could be done without money, he sent a trusty servant to Paris for the diamond, enjoining him never to part with it in life to any one but himself. The servant arrived in Paris, and received the diamond, but never returned to his master. After waiting a considerable time, Sancy, feeling confident that the man had been robbed and murdered by one of the many hordes of robbers that then infested France, set out to endeavour to gain some traces of him. After many adventures, he discovered that a person answering the description of the servant had been found, robbed and murdered, in the Forest of Dole, and had been buried by the peasantry. Sancy immediately had the body disinterred, and found the diamond—the faithful fellow having, in obedience to his master's injunction, swallowed it. Sancy pawned the diamond with the Jews of Metz, and with the money raised troops for the service of his royal master. 'Put not your faith in princes,' is an adage as sound as it is ancient. Henry, seated on the throne that Sancy's exertions saved, took occasion of a petty court intrigue to ruin and disgrace his too faithful partisan. The pledged diamond never was redeemed; it remained in the hands of the Israelite money-lenders, till Louis XIV. purchased it for 600,000 francs. It then became one of the crown-jewels of France; but its vicissitudes were not over. In 1791, when the National Assembly appointed a commission of jewellers to examine the crown-jewels, the Sancy Diamond was valued at 1,000,000 livres. At the restoration of Louis XVIII., it was nowhere to be found, and nothing positive has been heard of it since. But as so well-known and large a diamond could not readily be secretly disposed of without attracting attention in some quarter, it is shrewdly suspected that a jewel sold in 1830, by the Prince of Peace, for 500,000 francs, to one of the wealthiest of the Russian nobility, was the missing Sancy Diamond.
The operation of diamond-cutting is exceedingly simple, and is without doubt performed by the cutters of the Koh-i-noor at the present time in almost precisely the same manner as invented by Berghen. The stone is held in the proper position by being embedded, all but the salient angle to be cut or polished, in a solder of tin and lead. It is then applied to a rapidly-revolving horizontal iron wheel, constantly supplied with diamond-dust, and moistened with olive-oil. The anxious care and caution required in this operation render it a very tedious one: the cutting of the Koh-i-noor will last many months, and be attended with an immense expense. A still more tedious operation, however, is sometimes performed by diamond-cutters, when it is found necessary to cut a stone into two parts; it is termed sawing, and is thus managed:—The stone to be sawn is scratched across in the desired direction by a very keen splinter of diamond, technically termed a sharp. An exceedingly fine iron wire, with a small portion of sweet-oil and diamond-dust, is then laid upon this guiding scratch; and the workman draws the wire backwards and forwards, as we may see blocks of stone sawn on a larger scale in the yard of the statuary. Still greater care and attention are required in this operation than in diamond-cutting: seven months have been occupied in sawing a good-sized stone. Sometimes the diamond is cut by two being cemented each upon a separate handle, and rubbed together over a box, which catches the precious dust as it falls; but the stones thus cut are disfigured by scratches, and must subsequently be polished upon the wheel.
For many years India supplied the rest of the world with diamonds; and it was long supposed that they were not to be found in any other part of the globe. The Portuguese settlers in Brazil, seeking for gold, found a number of small stones resembling pebbles, which, from their singularity, they kept as curiosities, using them as counters at their card-tables. An officer, who had been removed from the Portuguese settlements in India to serve in Brazil, suspected that these stones were diamonds, and sent a few to Portugal. The jewellers of Lisbon, having never seen a diamond in its unpolished state, laughed at the idea of such rude pebbles being of any value, and so the inquiry was for some time dropped. But the Dutch consul at Lisbon managed to procure one of the stones, and sent it to Holland, then almost the only country in Europe where diamond-cutting was pursued as a regular business. The stone, in due time, was returned to the consul in the form of a sparkling brilliant; and the Brazilian diamond-trade immediately commenced. The European dealers in diamonds, and many retired officers of the English and Dutch East India Companies, who, as was customary then, had, on their return to Europe, invested a large part of their wealth in those precious stones, fearing that a great reduction in price would follow, were alarmed when the Brazilian diamonds first came into the market. These interested parties published pamphlets, warning the public against purchasing the so-called Brazilian diamonds, stating that no diamonds were found in the Brazils, but that the inferior class of stones was purchased in India, sent to Brazil, and from thence imported as Brazilian diamonds. In consequence of these false statements being repeated by persons of rank and station, a strong prejudice existed against the Brazilian diamond, although it is now well known to be equal in every respect to its Indian brother. The Dutch, who then farmed the Brazilian diamond-mines from the crown of Portugal, met this trick of trade by another. They dug their diamonds in Brazil, brought them to Holland, and cut them, then sent them to India, from whence they returned to Europe as true Oriental jewels. We may add, that the anticipations of the dealers were not verified in defiance of the great influx from Brazil, and, later still, the discovery of the diamond in the Ural Mountains: the price of that stone is at present as high as ever it was.
ASCENT TO THE BRÊCHE-DE-ROLAND
I do not think I shall be accused of exaggeration when I say, that the ascent to the Brêche-de-Roland is to the Pyrenean range what the passage of the Col de Géant is to the Alps. They are both tough undertakings, requiring sound legs and lungs, with a happy and powerful combination of patience, fortitude, and energy.
The difficulty of ascending to the Brêche-de-Roland does not consist so much in its height—though this is 9537 feet—as in the nature of the ground to be surmounted; and after I had accomplished the feat, I no longer wondered that several persons had given in, and retraced their steps without attaining the Brêche. Before detailing my ascent to this wonderful place, it may be proper to state what it is like. On the flanks of the formidable and gigantic Mont Perdu rises Mont Marboré, from the summit of which stretches to the west a wall of rock from 400 to 600 feet high, in most places absolutely vertical. This huge natural wall forms the crest of the Pyrenees, and divides France from Spain at this part of the chain. In the middle of the natural barrier is a gap, which, when viewed from the French valley of the Gave de Gavernie, appears like a notch made in a jaw by the loss of a single tooth, but which is in reality a magnificent and colossal portal, 134 feet wide and 330 feet high.
Of course, legendary lore is not at fault to account in its own poetical manner for this natural phenomenon. According to that oracle, the Brêche owes its origin to Roland, the brave Paladin, who, mounted on his war-horse, in his hot pursuit of the Moors, clove with one blow of his trusty sword Durandal a passage through this mighty wall; and it must be admitted that the sides of the gap are so smooth, that it requires no great stretch of the imagination to suppose that they were fashioned in some such artistical manner. Independently of the Brêche itself, which alone is highly deserving of a visit, the surrounding scenery is of the most imposing and magnificent character, and the whole, therefore, most justly ranks as one of the chief lions of the Pyrenees.
The most usual, and by far the most advantageous starting-place, is the village of Gavarnie, near the Cirque of that name. In my ignorance, however, of the toilsome nature of the excursion, I started from Luz, eighteen miles from Gavarnie, where I was sojourning. Reader, were you ever at Luz? Sweet Luz! with its babbling crystal brook, in which tribes of pigs undergo sanitary ablutions; and its inn, famous for good cookery and active fleas. If you have been there, you will not have forgotten Madame Cazean—a model of a hostess. To her I made my wishes known respecting the ascent to the Brêche, and begged that she would find me a guide.
In Switzerland, at such a place as Luz, surrounded by numerous excursion points of great interest, guides would be abundant; here, however, there are only a few, and these are obliged to pursue the callings of agriculture and hunting to eke out a subsistence. So, when I demanded a guide, Madame Cazean said she would send to the fields for Jaques St Laur, who was the best guide to the Brêche. And indeed if strength of limb and a huge sinewy frame were the chief qualifications for the affair, Jaques, I apprehend, would have stood unrivalled, for I never saw a more sturdy or Titanic mountaineer.
The arrangements were soon made. We were to start at four o'clock in the morning—not a moment later: true to his promise, my burly guide appeared before the hotel door at that hour with two ponies, and in a few minutes we were en route. The morning broke gloriously. Peak by peak, the snow-crested first, and successively those beneath, became tinted by the rising sun, while the valleys gave evidence of approaching day by casting off their misty mantles. It makes the old young again, and the young to feel the blood dance yet more briskly through their veins, to breathe such air as wraps the Pyrenees in its balmy folds. The beauties of the valley, or rather gorge, begin at once. Woods, alternating with precipitous rocks, mountain peaks of great altitude and most picturesque forms, tower aloft; while below, the eye rests upon the gave, now deliciously green and peaceful, and now worming its way with agonised fury through the gorge. Many cascades of rare beauty streamed down from the summit of the precipices, and we were continually crossing high and narrow bridges suspended over deep gulfs. The box luxuriates in this defile, springing in tree-like proportions from every ledge.
Before reaching Gèdres, which is about half-way to Gavarnie, a fine, though tantalising view of the Brêche is obtained. I gazed at the object of my expedition with anxious eyes, wondering how I was to get to its cloud land amidst the eternal snow-crowned Tours de Marboré; and I longed for the wings of one of the many eagles which sailed majestically overhead, to transport myself thither at once.
At Gèdres the view of the Marboré is lost; but there is an almost overabundance of grand scenery in the mountains that tower to the right and left, and the gorges are filled with foaming cascades and flowers of wondrous beauty. Close to the cascades—so close, that they seem on the point of being swept away—are mills, not much larger than goodly-sized boxes, one above the other, like rows of black beads strung upon the white torrent. These mills are primitive in their construction, closely resembling the old hand-mill; but they grind the corn, and what more could the best mill in Europe do?
Beyond Gèdres, a singularly grand and savage scene presents itself, called the Peyrada or Chaos. It is an éboulement, or slip of masses of gneiss which have fallen from great heights; and the ruins are so extensive, that it seems as if an entire mountain had been shivered to fragments. The path winds in zig-zags through a labyrinth of blocks, among which horse and rider appear like pigmies. The mountains increase in majesty as Gavarnie is approached—the Vignemale with its glaciers to the west; and the Pimène to the east, ranging among the highest. Gavarnie is a poor village, boasting one inn, in humble keeping with the place; poor, however, as it was, I was glad to draw bridle before the door, for we had ridden fast and furious, as my blood-stained spurs evidenced. I was about to dismount and recruit myself with a flask of the best wine, when Jaques peremptorily forbade such a proceeding. There was no time to be lost; a stirrup-cup and on. He, however, dismounted, and went into the house for ice-staffs and crampons, which were kept at the inn. Provided with these, and partially refreshed by a glass of very good wine, we hastened on our way. The morning continued most favourable; not a cloud obscured the outline of the mountains, and the snow-crested Marboré towered aloft, strongly pencilled against the deep-blue sky. Wonderful animals are the Pyrenean ponies. Small in stature, and with diminutive limbs, on they go, over ways rough enough to puzzle a goat, rarely pausing to pick their steps, and as rarely stumbling. The path, about half-way between Gavarnie and the Cirque, is carried over the torrent by two terribly narrow planks, without any manner of railing. Over this frail bridge, not three feet wide, my guide, much to my astonishment, rode his pony; and as my monture evinced no asinine disinclination to follow, but, on the contrary, evidently regarded the proceeding as nothing extraordinary, I slackened my bridle, pressed my knees a little closer to the saddle, and committed myself to my fate. The torrent rushed at a fearfully giddy rate some twenty feet beneath, and the roar of waters was terrific; but my steed was proof against these things, which would have tried the nerves of a pedestrian tourist, and passed steadily over the narrow causeway as unswervingly as if it had been the broadest highway in France. This was the last feat of our horses; for, after a brisk canter, we dismounted in the arena of the Cirque, and turned the animals to graze, a girl who had accompanied us from Gavarnie engaging to look after them. We had ridden eighteen miles, and I doubt whether the distance was ever accomplished in less time.
To render the first impression of the Cirque or oule more impressive, a small projecting wall of rock marks the entry to the gigantic amphitheatre. This passed, the end of the world seems gained: a vast semicircle of rocks rises precipitously to the height of between 1000 and 2000 feet. These gigantic walls are divided into three or four steps or ledges, on each of which rests a glacier, from which stream cascades. That to the left is 1266 feet high, and bears the reputation of being the highest waterfall in Europe. The summit of this wondrous amphitheatre is crowned by everlasting ice and snow, resting on the crests of the Cylindre, so called from its shape, and 10,500 feet high. The base of this fine mountain is embedded in a huge glacier, which gives birth to the high fall. Fit companion to the Cylindre rises the Tours de Marboré, forming a part of Mont Perdu. Not a scrap of vegetation breaks the ruggedness of the vast semicircle of rocks. The floor of the Cirque is an irregular heap of rocks, with the exception of a large heap of snow at the base of the precipices, under which the waters of the cascades run, like the torrents beneath the Swiss glaciers.
It was impossible to take in this sublime spectacle at once, so overpowering were its features; and as we gazed tremblingly at the huge Cirque, I felt as if on the eve of being crushed by its impending walls.
Within a few yards of the most western cascade, the ascent to the Brêche is made. Without a guide, however, the precise spot would be exceedingly difficult to find; and from its forbidding nature, few would be bold enough to make the essay. It is literally a rock-ladder, and is the only locality in the wide sweep of the Cirque affording the means of ascent. The rugged strata, which are here vertical, serve as steps in which one can insert the toes and fingers; but as the guidebook truly says: 'It is as abrupt as the ascent of a ladder; and wide spaces of smooth rock often intervene without any notch or projection offering a foothold. To those who cannot look down a sheer precipice many hundred feet deep without a tendency to giddiness, there is danger in this escalade, as well as in passing over some smooth projecting shoulders of rocks.' The climb is, in truth, most arduous—'bien pénible,' as my guide said. My chaussure was sadly against me—thin-soled boots, which doubled under me. Let no one undertake this ascent without being strongly shod.
As we ascended, new wonders were revealed—more precipices, cascades, and glaciers: it was literally alps on alps. The top of the great waterfall was still far above us; and it gave me a very good idea of its altitude, when, after more than an hour's ascent, I found that we were still beneath the level of the glacier from whence it is supplied. About two hours were occupied in ascending the first series of precipices, above which patches of snow are met with. Our course now lay through a kind of vertical gully nearly filled with snow. Up this we scrambled, taking advantage of the hardness of the snow to make it our path. Above us rose tremendous precipices, terminating in jagged peaks, on which my guide with his practised eye discerned a herd of izzards. I saw them remarkably well through my telescope, balanced, like aërial creatures, on the giddy heights, one amongst them evidently acting as sentinel. It was beautiful to witness their wild attitudes, ready, at a moment's warning from their watchful leader, to bound from crag to crag, or descend the awful precipices, where man's foot has never been.
My guide, whose heart was evidently more in the hunting than in his present business, became half wild with excitement at the sight of these izzards. It was the largest herd he had seen that year, and, with many a sacré, he bemoaned his fate that he should be without his rifle; though I endeavoured to convince him that there was nothing to regret, as he could not at the same time hunt izzards and conduct me to the Brêche.
We now fairly lost sight of the Cirque, and were in the midst of snow and glaciers which covered a steep, inclined about forty-five degrees. The surmounting of this slope was a most fatiguing affair for me, as the snow was very slippery, and it happened that I retrograded nearly as often as I advanced. This part of the ascent occupied about an hour. My guide now turned to the left, for the purpose of crossing a glacier, the inclination of which is so great that it is the next thing to impossible to ascend it. The passage over this glacier, beyond which lies the Brêche, is by far the most dangerous part of the undertaking. At the place where we encountered it, its breadth may be about four hundred yards; but throughout, its inclination is such that the slightest false step would prove fatal, for beneath are precipices of fearful depth. Here crampons are used. I was fairly exhausted when I came to the edge of this glacier, and despite the protestations of my guide, who declared that there was no time to lose, I threw myself on the snow, and would, had I been left alone, have been asleep in a few moments.
It is customary for the few tourists who visit the Brêche to take two guides, for the purpose of crossing this glacier in safety; and I had cause to regret my ignorance of the practice, for although I trod most cautiously in the notches cut by my guide, yet my limbs were so weak, that when about half-way across, I stumbled, and for a moment gave myself up for lost. Happily, my guide was sufficiently near to grasp my extended arms, and shouting: 'Prenez garde! prenez garde! Courage! courage!' he sustained me until I recovered my balance. Then it was that I became fully aware of the mistake I had committed in making this excursion without previous training; and I admonished Jaques in future, to give those who desired to scale the Brêche fair warning of the dangers and difficulties attendant upon the undertaking.