"Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountainsThey crowned him long agoOn a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds,With a diadem of snow."
"Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains
They crowned him long ago
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds,
With a diadem of snow."
Once in the valley, we can hardly turn aside our eyes from that overpowering object. We keep looking up at that mighty dome, which seems to touch the sky. Fortunately for us, there was no cloud about the throne. Like other monarchs, he is somewhat fitful and capricious, often hiding his royal head from the sight of his worshippers. Many persons come to Chamouni, and do not see Mont Blanc at all. Sometimes they wait for days for an audience of his majesty, without success. But he favored us at once with the sight of his imperial countenance. Glorious was it to behold him as he shone in the last rays of the setting sun. And when evening drew on, the moon hung above that lofty summit, as if unwilling to leave. As she declined towards the west, she did not disappear at once; but as the mountains themselves sank away from the height of Mont Blanc, the moon seemed to glide slowly down the descending slope, setting and reappearing, and touching the whole with her silver radiance.
But sunset and moonlight were both less impressive than sunrise. Remembering Coleridge's "Hymn to Mont Blanc," which is supposed to be written "before sunrise in the Vale of Chamouni," we were up in the morning to catch the earliest dawn. It was long in coming. At first a few faint streaks of light shot up the eastern sky; then a rosy tinge flushed the head of Mont Blanc; then other snowy summits caught the golden glow; till a hundred splintered peaks, that formed a part of the mighty range, reflected the light of coming day, and at last the full orb himself rose above the tops of the mountains, and shone down into the valley.
Of course all visitors to Chamouni have to climb some of the lower mountains to see the glaciers, and get a general view of the chain of Mont Blanc. My companion was ambitiousto do something more than this. She is a very good walker and climber, and had taken many long tramps among our Berkshire Hills, and to her Mont Blanc did not seem much more than Monument Mountain. In truth, the eye is deceived in judging of these tremendous heights, and cannot take in at first the real elevation. But when they are accurately measured, Mont Blanc is found to be about twenty times as high as the cliff which overlooks our Housatonic Valley! But a young enthusiast feels equal to anything, and she seemed really quite disappointed that she could not at least go as far as the Grands Mulets (where, with a telescope, we can just see a little cabin on the rocks), which is the limit of the first day's journey for adventurous tourists, most of whom do not get any further. A party that went up yesterday, intending to reach the top of Mont Blanc, had to turn back. A recent fall of snow had buried the mountain, so that they sank deep at every step; and finding it dangerous to proceed, they prudently abandoned the attempt.
The ascent of Mont Blanc, at all times difficult, is often a dangerous undertaking. Many adventurous travellers have lost their lives in the attempt. An avalanche may bury a whole party in a moment; or if lashed to the guides by a rope, one slipping may drag the whole down into one of the enormous crevasses, where now many bodies lie unburied, yet preserved from decay in the eternal ice. Only five years ago, in September, 1870, a party of eleven—three tourists (of whom two were Americans), with eight guides and porters—were all lost. They had succeeded in reaching the summit of the mountain, when a snow-storm came on, and it was impossible for them to descend. The body of one of them, Dr. Bean, of Baltimore, was recovered, and is buried in the little graveyard here. With such warnings, a sober old uncle might be excused for restraining a young lady's impetuosity. If we could be here a month, and "go into training," by long walks and climbs every day, I do believe we should graduallywork our courage up to the sticking-point, and at last climb to the top, and plant a very modest American flag on the hoary head of Mont Blanc.
But for the present we must be content with a less ambitious performance, and make only the customary ascent of the Montanvert, and cross the Mer de Glace. We left at eight o'clock yesterday morning. Our friends in New York would hardly have recognized me in my travelling dress of Scotch gray, with a slouched straw hat on my head, and an alpenstock in my hand. The hat was very useful, if not ornamental. I bought it for one franc, and it answered as well as if it had cost a guinea. To be sure, as it had a broad brim, it had a slight tendency to take wings and fly away, and light in some mountain torrent, from which it was speared out with the alpenstock, and restored to its place of honor; but it did excellent service in protecting my eyes from the blinding reflection of the snow. C—— was mounted on a mule, which she had at first refused, preferring her own agile feet; but I insisted on it, as a very useful beast to fall back upon in case the fatigue was too great. Thus accoutred, our little cavalcade, with our guide leading the way, filed out of Chamouni. If any of my readers laugh at our droll appearance, they are quite welcome—for we laughed at ourselves. Comfort is worth more than dignity in such a case; and if anybody is abashed at the ludicrous figure he cuts, he may console himself by reflecting that he is in good company. I saw in Paris the famous picture by David of Napoleon crossing the Alps, which represents him mounted on a gallant charger, his military cloak flying in the air, while he points his soldiers upward to the heights they are to scale. This is very fine to look at; but the historical fact is said to be that Napoleon rode over the Alps on a mule, and if he encountered rains and storms, he was no doubt as bedraggled as any Alpine tourist. But that did not prevent his gaining the battle of Marengo.
But all thoughts of our appearance vanish when once we begin to climb the mountain side. For two hours we kept winding in a zigzag path through the perpetual pine forest. At every turn in the road, or opening in the trees, we stopped to look at the valley below, where the objects grew smaller, as we receded further from them. Is it not so in life? As some one has said, "Everything will look small enough if we only get high enough." All rude noises died away in the distance, till there rose into the upper air only the sound of the streams that were rushing through the valley below.
At a chalet half way up the mountain a living chamois was kept for show. It was very young, and was suckled by a goat. It was touching to see how the little creature pined for freedom, and leaped against the sides of his pen. Child of the mountain, he seemed entitled to liberty, and I longed to break open his cage and set the little prisoner free, and see him bound away upon the mountain side.
Climbing, still climbing, another hour brings us to the top of the Montanvert, where we look down upon the Mer de Glace. Here all the party quit their mules, which are sent to another point, to meet us as we come down from the mountain—and taking our alpenstocks in hand (which are long staffs, with a spike at the end to stick in the ice, to keep ourselves from slipping), we descend to the Mer de Glace, an enormous glacier formed by the masses of snow and ice which collect during the long winters, filling up the whole space between two mountains. It was in studying the glaciers of Switzerland for a course of years, that Agassiz formed his glacial theory; and in seeing here how the steady pressure of such enormous masses of ice, weighing millions of tons, have carried down huge boulders of granite, which lie strewn all along its track, one can judge how the same causes, operating at a remote period, and on a vast scale, may have changed the whole surface of the globe.
But we must not stop to philosophize, for we are now just at the edge of the glacier, and need our wits about us, and eyes too, to keep a sharp lookout for dangerous places, and steady feet, and hands keeping a tight hold of our trusty alpenstocks. The Mer de Glace is just what its name implies—a Sea of Ice—and looks as if, when some wild torrent came tumbling through the awful pass, it had been suddenly stopped by the hand of the Almighty, and frozen as it stood. And so it stands, its waves dashed up on high, and its chasms yawning below. It is said to reach up into the mountains for miles. We can see how it goes up to the top of the gorge and disappears on the other side; but those who wish to explore its whole extent, may walk over it or beside it all day. Though dangerous in some places, yet where tourists cross, they can pick their way with a little care. The more timid ones cling closely to the guide, holding him fast by the hand. One lady of our party, who had four bearers to carry her in a Sedan chair, found her head swim as she crossed. But C——, who had been gathering flowers all the way up the mountain, made them into a bouquet, which she fastened to one end of her alpenstock, and striking the other firmly in the ice, moved on with as free a step as if she were walking along some breezy path among our Berkshire Hills.
But the most difficult part of the course is not in crossing the Mer de Glace, but in coming down on the other side. It is not alwaysfacilis descensus; it is sometimesdifficilis descensus. There is one part of the course called theMauvais Pas, which winds along the edge of the cliff, and would hardly be passable but for an iron rod fastened in the side of the rock, to which one clings for support, and looking away from the precipice on the other side, makes the passage in safety.
And now we come to the Chapeau, a little chalet perched on a shelf of rock, from which one can look down thousands offeet into the Vale of Chamouni. As we pass along by the side of the glacier, we see nearer the end some frightful crevasses, which the boldest guide would not dare to cross. The ice is constantly wearing away; indeed so great is the discharge of water from the melting of the ice and the snow, that a rapid river is all the time rushing out of it. The Arveiron takes its rise in the Mer de Glace, while the Arve rises in another glacier higher up the valley. As Coleridge says, in his Hymn to Mont Blanc,
The Arve and Arveiron at thy baseRave ceaselessly;
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly;
the sound of the streams, mingling with the waterfalls on the sides of the mountains, filling the air with a perpetual sound like the roaring of the sea.
Coleridge speaks also of Mont Blanc as rising from a "silent sea of pines." Nothing can be more accurate than this picture of the universal forest, which overflows all the valleys, and reaches up the mountains, to the edge of eternal snows. At such heights the pines are the only trees that live, and there they stand through all the storms of winter. Looking around on this landscape, made up of forest and snow, alternately dark and bright, it seems as if Mont Blanc were the Great White Throne of the Almighty, and as if these mighty forests that stand quivering on the mountain side, were the myriads of mankind gathered into this Valley of Judgment, and here standing rank on rank, waiting to hear their doom.
But yet the impression is not one wholly of terror, or even of unmixed awe. There is beauty as well as wildness in the scene. Nothing can exceed the quiet and seclusion of these mountain paths, and there is something very sweet to the ear in
"The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,"
"The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,"
which fill "the forest primeval" with their gentle sound.And when at evening one hears the tinkling cow-bells, as the herds return from the mountain pastures, there is a pastoral simplicity in the scene which is very touching, and we could understand how the Swiss air of theRanz des Vaches(or the returning of the cows) should awaken such a feeling of homesickness in the soldier far from his native mountains, that bands have been prohibited from playing it in Swiss regiments enlisted in foreign armies.
When we came down from the Mer de Glace, it was not yet three o'clock, and before us on the opposite side of the valley rose another mountain, which we might ascend before night if we had strength left. We felt a little remorse at giving the guide another half-day's work; but he, foreseeing extra pay, said cheerfully thathecould stand it; the mule said nothing, but pricked up his long ears as if he was thinking very hard, and if the miracle of Balaam could have been repeated, I think the poor dumb beast would have had a pretty decided opinion. But it being left to us, we declared for a fresh ascent, and once more set our faces skyward, and went climbing upward for two hours more.
We were well paid for the fatigue. The Flégère, facing Mont Blanc, commands a full view of the whole range, and as the clouds drifted off, we saw distinctly every peak.
Thus elated and jubilant we set out to return. Until now, we had kept along with the mule, alternating a ride and walk, as boys are accustomed to "ride and tie"; but now our eagerness could not be restrained, and we gave the reins to the guide to lead the patient creature down into the valley, while we, with unfettered limbs, strode joyous down the mountain side. It was seven o'clock when we reached our hotel. We had been steadily in motion—except a short rest for lunch at the Chapeau on the mountain—for eleven hours.
Here ends the journey of the day, but not the moral of it. I hope it is not merely a professional habit that leads me towind up everything with an application; but I cannot look upon a grand scene of nature without gliding insensibly into religious reflections. Nature leads me directly to Nature's God. The late Prof. Albert Hopkins, of Williams College, of blessed memory, a man of science and yet of most devout spirit, who was as fond of the hills as a born mountaineer, and who loved nothing so much as to lead his Alpine Club over the mountains around Williamstown—was accustomed, when he had conducted them to some high, commanding prospect, to ask whether the sight of such great scenesmade them feel great or small? I can answer for myself that the impression is a mixed one; that it both lifts me up and casts me down. Certainly the sight of such sublimity elevates the soul with a sense of the power and majesty of the Creator. While climbing to-day, I have often repeated to myself that old, majestic hymn:
I sing the mighty power of God,That made the mountains rise;
I sing the mighty power of God,
That made the mountains rise;
and another:
'Tis by thy strength the mountains stand,God of eternal power,The sea grows calm at thy command,And tempests cease to roar.
'Tis by thy strength the mountains stand,
God of eternal power,
The sea grows calm at thy command,
And tempests cease to roar.
But in another view the sight of these great objects of nature is depressing. It makes one feel his own littleness and insignificance. I look up at Mont Blanc with a telescope, and can just see a party climbing near the Grands Mulets. How like creeping insects they look; and how like insects theyarein the duration of their existence, compared with the everlasting forms of nature. The flying clouds that cast their shadows on the head of Mont Blanc are not more fleeting. They pass like a bird and are gone, while the mountains stand fast forever, and with their eternity seem to mock the fugitive existence of man upon the earth.
I confess the impression is very depressing. These terrible mountains crush me with their awful weight. They make me feel that I am but an atom in the universe; a moth whose ceasing to exist would be no more than the blowing out of a candle. And I am not surprised that men who live among the mountains, are sometimes so overwhelmed with the greatness of nature, that they are ready to acquiesce in their own annihilation, or absorption in the universal being.
Talking with Father Hyacinthe the other evening (as we sat on the terrace of the Hotel Beau Rivage at Geneva, overlooking the lake), he spoke of the alarming spread of unbelief in Europe, and quoted a distinguished professor of Zurich, of whom he spoke with great respect, as a man of learning and of excellent character, who had frankly confessed to him that he did not believe in the immortality of the soul; and when Father Hyacinthe replied in amazement, "If I believed thus I would go and throw myself into the Lake of Zurich," the professor answered with the utmost seriousness, "That is not a just religious feeling; if you believe in God as an infinite Creator you ought to bewillingto cease to exist, feeling that God is the only Being who is worthy to live eternally."
Marvellous as this may seem, yet something of this feeling comes to thoughtful and serious minds from the long and steadfast contemplation of nature. One is so little in the presence of the works of God, that he feels that he is absolutelynothing; and it seems of small moment whether he should exist hereafter or not; and he couldalmostbe willing that his life should expire, like a lamp that has burned itself out; that he should indeed cease to exist, with all things that live; that God might be God alone. If shut up in these mountains, as in a prison from which I could not escape, I could easily sink into this gloom and despondency.
Pascal has tried to break the force of this overwhelming impression of the awfulness of nature in one of his most strikingthoughts, when, speaking of the greatness and the littleness of man, he says: "It is not necessary for the whole universe to arm itself to destroy him: a drop of water, a breath of air, is sufficient to kill him. And yet even in death man is greater than the universe, forhe knows that he is dying, while the universe knows not anything." This is finely expressed, but it does not lighten the depth of our despair. For that we must turn to one greater than Pascal, who has said, "Not a sparrow falleth to the ground without your Father; be of good cheer therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows." Nature is great, but God is greater.
In riding through the Alps—especially through deep passes, where walls of rock on either hand almost touch the sky—it seems as if the whole world were a realm of Death, and this the universal tomb. But even here I see erected on almost every hilltop a cross (for the Savoyards are a very religious people), and this sign of our salvation, standing on every high place, amid the lightning and storm, and amid the winter snows, seems to be a protest against that law of death which reigns on every side. Great indeed is the realm of Death, but greater still is the realm of Life; and though God only hath immortality, and is indeed "the only Being worthy to live forever," yet joined to Him, we shall have a part in His own eternity, and shall live when even the everlasting mountains, and the great globe itself, shall have passed away.
CHAPTER XI.
SWITZERLAND.
Lucerne, July 22d.
To know Switzerland well, one should spend weeks and months among its lakes and mountains. He should not merely pay a formal visit to Nature, but take up his abode with her. One can never "exhaust" such a country. Professor Tyndall has been for years in the habit of spending his summer vacation here, and always finds new mountains to climb, and new passes to explore. But this would hardly suit Americans, who are in the habit of "rushing things," and who wish in a first visit to Europe, to get at least a general impression of the Continent. But even a few days in Switzerland are not lost. In that time one may see sights that will be fixed in his brain while life lasts, and receive impressions that will never depart from him.
We left the Vale of Chamouni with the feeling of sadness with which one always comes down from the mount, where he has had an immortal vision. Slowly we rode up the valley, often turning to take a last lingering look at the white head of Mont Blanc, and then, like Pilgrim, we "went on our way and saw him no more."
But we did not come out of Chamouni as we went into it, on the top of a diligence, with six horses, "rolling forward with impetuous speed" over a magnificent highway. We had now nothing before us but a common mountain-road, and our chariot was only a rude wagon, made with low wheels to go up and down steep ascents. It was only for ustwo, which suited us the better, as we had Nature all to ourselves, and could indulge our pleasure and our admiration, without restraint. Thus mounted, we went creeping up the pass of the Tête Noire. Nature is a wise economist, and, after showing the traveller Mont Blanc, lets him down gradually. If we had not come from those more awful heights and abysses, we should consider this day's ride unsurpassed in savage grandeur. Great mountains tower up on either hand, their lower sides dark with pines, and their crests capped with snow. Here by the roadside a cross marks the spot where an avalanche, falling from yonder peak, buried two travellers. At some seasons of the year the road is almost impassable. All along are heaps of stones to mark its track where the winter drifts are piled so high in these gorges that all trace of a path is lost. Even now in mid-summer the pass is wild enough to satisfy the most romantic tastes. The day was in harmony with the scene. Our fine weather was all gone. Clouds darkened the sky, and angry gusts of wind and rain swept in our faces. But what could check one's spirits let loose in such a scene? Often we got out and walked, to work off our excitement, stopping at every turn in the road that opened some new view, or sheltering ourselves under a rock from the rain, and listening with delight to hear the pines murmur and the torrents roar.
The ride over the Tête Noire takes a whole day. The road zigzags in every direction, winding here and there to get a foothold—now hugging the side of the mountain, creeping along the edge of a precipice, where it makes one dizzy to look down; now rounding a point which seems to hang over some awful depth, or seeking a safer path by a tunnel through the rocks. Up and down, hither and thither we go, but still everywhere encompassed with mountains, till at last one long climb—a hard pull for the horses—brings us to a height from which we descry in the distance the roofs and spires of a town, and begin to descend. But we are still more than anhour winding our way through the gentle slopes and among the Swiss chalets, till we rattle through the stony streets of Martigny, a place of some importance, from being at the foot of the Alps, and the point from which to make the ascent of the Great Saint Bernard. It was by this route that Napoleon in 1800 led his daring soldiers over the Alps; the long lines of infantry and artillery passed up this valley, and climbed yonder mountain side, a hundred men being harnessed to a single cannon, and dragging it upward by sheer strength of muscle. Of all the host that made that stupendous march, perhaps not one survives; but the mountains are still here, as the proof and the monument of their great achievement. And the same Hospice, where the monks gave bread and wine to the passing soldiers, is on the summit still, and the good monks with their faithful dogs, watch to rescue lost travellers. Attached to it is a monastery here in Martigny, to which the old monks, when worn out with years of exposure and hardship in living above the clouds, can retire to die in peace.
At Martigny we take our leave of mountain roads and mountain transport, as we here touch a railroad, and are once more within the limits of civilization. We step from our little wagon (which we do not despise, since it has carried us safely over an Alpine pass) into a luxurious railway carriage, and reclining at our ease, are whirled swiftly down the Valley of the Rhone to the Lake of Geneva.
Of course all romantic tourists stop at Villeneuve, to visit the Castle of Chillon, which Byron has made so famous. I had been under its arches and in its vaulted chambers years ago, and was surprised at the fresh interest which I had in revisiting the spot. It is at once "a palace and a prison." We went down into the dungeon in which Bonnivard was confined, and saw the pillar to which he was chained for so many years that his feet wore holes in the stone floor. The pillar is now covered with names of pilgrims that have visitedhis prison as "a holy place." We were shown, also, the Chamber of Question, (adjoining what was called, as if in mockery, the Hall of Justice!) where prisoners were put to the torture, with the post still standing to which they were bound, with the marks upon it of the hot irons which were applied to their writhing limbs. Under this is the dungeon where the condemned passed their last night before execution, chained to a sloping rock, above which, dimly seen in the gloom, is the cross-beam to which they were hung, and near the floor is an opening in the wall, through which their bodies were cast into the lake. In another part of the castle is shown theoubliette—a pit or well, into which the victim was thrown, and fell into some unknown depth, and was seen no more. Such are some of the remains of an age of "chivalry." One cannot look at these instruments of torture without a shudder at "man's inhumanity to man," and rejoicing that such things are past, since in no country of Europe—not even in Spain, the land of the Inquisition—could such barbarities be permitted now. Surely civilization has made some progress since those ages of cruelty and blood.
Leaving these gloomy dungeons, we come up into air and sunshine, and skim along the Lake of Geneva by the railway, which, lying "between sea and shore," presents a succession of charming views. On one side all the slopes are covered with vines, which are placed on this southern exposure to ripen in the sun; on the other is the lake, with the mountains beyond.
At Lausanne I had hoped to meet an old friend, Prof. J. F. Astié, once pastor of the French church in New York, and now Professor in the Theological Seminary here, but he was taking his vacation in the country. We drove, however, to his house, which is on high ground, in the rear of the town, and commands a lovely view of the lake, with the mountains in the distance as a background for the picture.
When I was in Switzerland twenty seven years ago, sucha thing as a railroad was unknown. Now they are everywhere, and though it may seem very prosaic to travel among the mountains by steam, still it is a great convenience, in getting from one point to another. Of course, when it comes to climbing the Alps, one must take to mules or to his feet.
The railroad from Lausanne to Berne, after reaching the heights around the former city, lingers long, as if reluctant to quit the enchanting scenery around the lake, but at length plunging through a tunnel, it leaves all that glory behind, to turn to other landscapes in the heart of Switzerland. For a few leagues, the country, though not mountainous, is undulating, and richly cultivated. At Fribourg the two suspension bridges are the things tosee, and the great organ the thing tohear, which being done, one may pass on to Berne, the capital of Switzerland, a compact and prosperous town of some 35,000 inhabitants. The environs are very beautiful, comprising several parks and long avenues of trees. But what one may seeinBerne, is nothing to what one may seefromit, which is the whole chain of the Bernese Oberland. We were favored with only a momentary sight, but even that we shall never forget. As we were riding out of the town, the sun, which was setting, burst through the clouds, and lighted up a long range of snowy peaks. This was the Alpine afterglow. It was like a vision of the heavenly battlements, with all their pinnacles and towers shining resplendent in the light of setting day. We gazed in silent awe till the dazzling radiance crept to the last mountain top, and faded into night.
A few miles from Berne, we crossed the Lake of Thun, a sheet of water, which, like Loch Lomond and other Scotch lakes, derives its chief beauty from reflecting in its placid bosom the forms of giant mountains. Between Thun and Brienz lies the little village fitly called from its position Interlachen (between the lakes). This is the heart of theBernese Oberland. The weather on Saturday permitted no excursions. But we were content to remain indoors after so much climbing, and here we passed a quiet and most restful Sunday. There is but one building for religious services—an old Schloss, but it receives into its hospitable walls three companies of worshippers. In one part is a chapel fitted up for the Catholics; in another the Church of England gathers a large number of those travellers from Britain, who to their honor carry their religious observances with them. Besides these I found in the same building a smaller room, where the Scotch Presbyterians meet for worship, and where a minister of the Free Church was holding forth with all thatingenium perfervidum Scotorumfor which his countrymen are celebrated. It was a great pleasure and comfort to meet with this little congregation, and to listen to songs and prayers which brought back so many tender memories of home.
While enjoying this rest, we had mourned the absence of the sun. Interlachen lies in the very lap of the mountains. But though so near, our eyes were holden that we could not see them, and we thought we should have to leave without even a sight of the Jungfrau. But Monday morning, as we rose early to depart, the clouds were gone—and there it stood revealed to us in all its splendor, a pyramid of snow, only a little less lofty than Mont Blanc himself. Having this glorious vision vouchsafed to us, we departed in peace.
Sailing over the Lake of Brienz, as we had over that of Thun, we came again to a mountain pass, which had to be crossed by diligence; and here, as before, mounted in the front seat beside the postilion, we feasted our eyes on all the glory of Alpine scenery. For nearly two hours we were ascending at the side of the Vale of Meyringen, from which, as we climbed higher and higher, we looked down to a greater depth, and often at a turn of the road could see back to the Lake of Brienz, which lay far behind us, and thus in one view took in all the beauties of lake and valley and mountain.While slowly moving upward, boys ran along by the diligence, singing snatches from theRanz des Vaches, the wild airs of these mountain regions. If it was so exciting to go up, it was hardly less so to come down. The road is not like that over the Tête Noire, but is smooth and even like that from Geneva to Chamouni, and we were able to trot rapidly down the slope, and as the road turns here and there to get an easy grade, we had a hundred lovely views down the valley which was opening before us. Thus we came to the Lake of the Four Cantons, over which a steamer brought us to Lucerne.
My friend Dr. Holland has spoken of the place where I now write as "the spot on earth which seemed to him nearest to heaven," and surely there are few where one feels so much like saying, "This is my rest, and here will I dwell." The great mountains shut out the world with all its noises, and the lake, so peaceful itself, invites to repose.
There are two ways to enjoy a beautiful sheet of water—one from its shores, and the other from its surface. We have tried both. The first evening we took a boat and spent a couple of hours on the lake. How it recalled the moonlight evenings at Venice, when we floated in our gondola! Indeed the boatmen here are not unlike the gondoliers. They have the same way of standing, instead of sitting, in the boat and pushing, instead of pulling, the oars. They manage their little crafts with great skill, and cause them to glide very swiftly through the water. We took a row of several miles to call on a friend, who was at a villa on the lake. She had left for Zurich, but the villa was occupied. A day or two before it had been taken by a lady, who, though she came with a retinue large enough to fill all the rooms, wished to beincognita. She proved to be the Queen of Saxony, who, like all the rest of the world, was glad to have a little retirement, and to escape from the stiffness of court life in her palace at Dresden, to enjoy herself on these quiet shores. While wewere in the grounds, she came out, and walked under the trees, in most simple dress: a woman whom it was pleasant to look upon, a fair-haired daughter of the North, (she is a Swedish princess,) who won the hearts of the Saxon people by her care for the wounded in the Franco-German war. She shows her good sense and quiet tastes to seek seclusion and repose in such a spot as this, (instead of going off to fashionable watering-places,) where she can sit quietly by these tranquil waters, under the shadow of these great mountains.
All travellers who go to Lucerne must make an excursion to the Righi, a mountain a few miles from the town, which is exalted above other mountains of Switzerland, not because it is higher—for, in fact, it is much lower than many of them—but that it stands alone, apart from a chain, and so commands a view on all sides—a view of vast extent and of infinite variety. I had been on the Righi-Culm before, but the impression had somewhat faded, and I was glad to go again, when all my enthusiasm was renewed. The mountain is easier of access now. Then I walked up, as most tourists did; now there is a railroad to the very top, which of itself is worth a visit, as a remarkable piece of engineering, mounting a very steep grade—in many placesone foot in every four! This is a terrible climb, and is only overcome by peculiar machinery. The engine is behind, and pushes the car up the ascent. Of course if any accident were to happen by which the train were to break loose, it would descend with tremendous velocity. But this is guarded against by a central rail, into which a wheel fits with cogs; so that, in case of any accident to the engine, by shutting down the brakes, the whole could be held fast, as in a vice, and be immovable. The convenience of the road is certainly very great, but the sensation is peculiar—of being literally "boosted" up into the clouds.
But once there, we are sensible that we are raised into a higher region; we breathe a purer air. The eye ranges overthe fairest portion of Switzerland. Seen from such a height, the country seems almost a plain; and yet viewed more closely, we see hills and valleys, diversified with meadows and forests. We can count a dozen lakes. On the horizon stretches the great chain of the Alps, covered with snow, and when the sun breaks through the clouds, it gleams with unearthly brightness. But it is impossible to describe all that is comprised in that one grand panorama. Surely, I thought, these must be the Delectable Mountains from which Bunyan's Pilgrim caught a sight of the Celestial City; and it seemed as if, in the natural order of things, when one is travelling over the earth, he ought to come herelast(as Moses went up into Mount Nebo to catch a glimpse of the Promised Land,and die), so that from this most elevated point of his pilgrimage he might step into heaven.
But at last we had to come down from the mount, and quieted our excited imaginations by a sail up the lake. Fluellen, at the end of the lake, was associated in my mind with a sad memory, and as soon as we reached it, I went to the principal hotel, and asked if an American gentleman had not died there two years since? They answered Yes, and took me at once to the very room where Judge Chapman, the Chief Justice of Massachusetts, breathed his last. He was a good man, and as true a friend as we ever had. The night before he sailed we spent with him at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. He came abroad for his health, but did not live to return; and a few months after our parting, it was our sad privilege to follow him to the grave in Springfield, where all the judges of the Supreme Court of Massachusetts, and great numbers of the Bar, stood around his bier.
If Lucerne presents such beautiful scenes in nature, it has also one work of art, which impresses me as much as anything of the kind in Europe. I refer to the lion of Thorwaldsen, intended to commemorate the courage and fidelity of the Swiss regiment who were the guards of the King Louis XVI.,and who, in attempting to defend him, were massacred in Paris on the fatal 10th of August, 1792. Never was a great act of courage more simply, yet more grandly illustrated. The size is colossal, the work being cut in the side of a rock. The lion is twenty-eight feet long. Nothing can be more majestic than his attitude. The noble beast is dying, he has exhausted his strength in battle, but even as he sinks in death, he stretches out one huge paw over the shield which bears on it the lilies of France, the emblem of that royal power which he has vainly endeavored to protect. There is something almost human in the face, in the deep-set eyes, and the drooping mouth. It is not only the death agony, but the greater agony of defeat, which is expressed in every line of that leonine countenance. Nothing in ancient sculpture, not even the Dying Gladiator, gives more of mournful dignity in death. I could hardly tear myself away from it, and when we turned to leave, kept looking back at it. It shows the wonderful genius of Thorwaldsen. When one compares it with the lions around the monument of Nelson in Trafalgar Square in London, one sees the difference between a work of genius, and that of mere imitation. Sir Edwin Landseer, though a great painter of animals, was not so eminent as a sculptor; and was at work for years on his model, and finally copied, it is said, as nearly as he could, an old lion in the Zoological Gardens; and then had the four cast from one mould, so that all are just alike. How differently would Thorwaldsen have executed such a work!
With such attractions of art and nature, Lucerne seems indeed one of the most beautiful spots on the face of the earth. Sometimes a peculiar state of the atmosphere, or sunset or moonlight, gives peculiar effects to scenes so wonderful. Last night, as we were sitting in front of the Hotel, our attention was attracted by what seemed a conflagration lighting up the horizon. Wider and wider it spread, and higher and higher it rose on the evening sky. All were eageras to the cause of this illumination, when the mystery was explained by the full moon rising above the horizon, and casting a flood of light over lake and mountain. Who could but feel that God was near at such an hour, in such a blending of the earth and sky?
CHAPTER XII.
ON THE RHINE.
Cologne, July 26th.
He that goeth up into a high mountain, must needs come down. We have been these many days among the Alps, passing from Chamouni to the Bernese Oberland, and now we must descend into the plains. The change is a pleasant one after so much excitement and fatigue. One cannot bear too much exaltation. After having dwelt awhile among the sublimities of Nature, it is a relief to come down to her more common and familiar aspects; the sunshine is doubly grateful after the gloom of Alpine passes; meadows and groves are more pleasant to the eye than snow-clad peaks; and more sweet to the ear than the roar of mountain torrents, is the murmur of softly-flowing streams. From Lucerne, our way lies over that undulating country which we had surveyed the day before from the summit of the Righi, winding around the Lake of Zug, and ending at the Lake of Zurich.
The position of Zurich is very much like that of Lucerne, at the end of a lake, and surrounded by hills. A ride around the town shows many beautiful points of view, on one of which stands the University, which has an European reputation. Zurich has long been a literary centre of some importance, not only for Switzerland, but for Germany, as it is on the border of both. The University gathers students from different countries, even from Russia. We ended the day with a sail on the water, which at evening is alive with boats, glancing here and there in the twilight. Then rows of lampsare lighted all along the shore, which are reflected in the water; the summer gardens are thronged, and bands fill the air with music. The gayety of such a scene I enjoy most from a little distance; but there are few more exquisite pleasures than to lie motionless, floating, and listening to music that comes stealing over the water. Then the boatman dipped his oar gently, as if fearing to break the charm, and rowed us back to our hotel; but the music continued to a late hour, and lulled us to sleep.
From Zurich, a morning ride brought us to Schaffhausen, where we stopped a few hours to see the Falls of the Rhine, which are set down in the guide-books as "the most considerable waterfall in Europe." Of course it is a very small affair compared with Niagara. And yet I do not like to hear Americans speak of it, as they are apt to do, with contempt. A little good sense would teach us to enjoy whatever is set before us in nature, without boastful comparisons with something in our own country. It is certainly very beautiful.
From Schaffhausen a new railway has recently been opened through the Black Forest—a region which may well attract the readers of romance, since it has been the scene of many of the legends which abound in German literature, and may be said to be haunted with the heroes of fiction, as Scott has peopled the glens of Scotland. In the Forest itself there is nothing imposing. It is spread over a large tract of country, like the woods of Northern New York. The most remarkable thing in it now is the railroad itself, which is indeed a wonderful piece of engineering. It was constructed by the same engineer who pierced the Alps by a tunnel under the Mont Cenis, nearly eight miles long, through which now pours the great volume of travel from France to Italy. Here he had a different, but perhaps not less difficult, task. The formation of the country offers great obstacles to the passage of a railroad. If it were only one high mountain, it could be tunnelled, but instead of a single chain which has to becrossed, the Forest is broken up into innumerable hills, detached from each other, and offering few points of contact as a natural bridge for a road to pass over. The object, of course, is to make the ascents and descents without too abrupt a grade, but for this it is necessary to wind about in the most extraordinary manner. The road turns and twists in endless convolutions. Often we could see it at three different points at the same time, above us and below us, winding hither and thither in a perfect labyrinth; so that it was impossible to tell which way we were going. We counted thirty-seven tunnels within a very short distance. It required little imagination to consider our engine, that went whirling about at such a rate, puffing and screaming with excitement, as a wild beast caught in the mountains, and rushing in every direction, and even thrusting his head into the earth, to escape his pursuers. At length the haunted fugitive plunges through the side of a mountain, and escapes down the valley.
And now we are in a land of streams, where mighty rivers begin their courses. See you that little brook by the roadside, which any barefooted boy would wade across, and an athletic leaper would almost clear at a single bound? That is the beginning of the longest river in Europe, which, rising here among the hills of the Black Forest, takes its way south and east till it sweeps with majestic flow past the Austrian capital, as "the dark-rolling Danube," and bears the commerce of an empire to the Black Sea.
Our fellow-travellers now begin to diverge to the watering places along the Rhine—to Baden and Homburg and Ems—where so much of the fashion of the Continent gathers every summer. But we had another place in view which had more interest to me, though a sad and mournful one—Strasburg, the capital of ill-fated Alsace—which, since I saw it before, had sustained one of the most terrible sieges in history. We crossed the Rhine from Kehl, where the Germans planted their batteries, and were soon passing through the walls andmoats which girdle the ancient town, and made it one of the most strongly fortified places in Europe, and were supposed to render it a Gibraltar, that could not be taken. But no walls can stand before modern artillery. The Germans planted their guns at two and three miles distance, and threw their shells into the heart of the city. One cannot enter the gates without perceiving on every side the traces of that terrible bombardment. For weeks, day and night, a rain of fire poured on the devoted town. Shells were continually bursting in the streets; the darkness of midnight was lighted up with the flames of burning dwellings. The people fled to their cellars, and to every underground place, for safety. But it was like fleeing at the last judgment to dens and caves, and calling on rocks to cover them from the inevitable destruction. At length, after a prolonged and heroic resistance, when all means of defence were gone, and the city must have been utterly destroyed, it surrendered.
And now what do we see? Of course, the traces of the siege have been removed, so far as possible. But still, after five years, there are large public buildings of which only blackened walls remain. Others show huge gaps and rents made by the shot of the besiegers, and, worst of all, everywhere are the hated German soldiers in the streets.Strasburg is a conquered city.It has been torn from France and transferred to Germany, without the consent of its own people; and though the conquerors try to make things pleasant, and to soften as much as may be the bitterness of subjugation, they cannot succeed in doing the impossible. The people feel that they have been conquered, and the iron has entered into their souls. One can see it in a silent, sullen look, which is not natural to Frenchmen. This is the more strange, because a large part of the population of Alsace are Germans by race and language. In the markets, among the men and women who bring their produce for sale, I heard little else than the guttural sounds so familiar on theother side of the Rhine. But no matter for this; for two hundred years the country has belonged to France, and the people are French in their traditions—they are proud of the French glory; and if it were left to them, they would vote to-morrow, by an overwhelming majority, to be re-annexed to France.
Meanwhile the German Government is using every effort to "make over" the people from Frenchmen into Germans. It has introduced the German language into the schools.It has even renamed the streets.It looked strange indeed to see on all the corners German names in place of the old familiar French ones. This is oppression carried to absurdity. If the new rulers had chosen to translate the French names into German, for the convenience of the new military occupants, that might have been well, and the two might have stood side by side. But no; the old names aretaken down, andRueis turned intoStrasseon every street corner in Strasburg. Was ever anything more ridiculous? They might as well compel the people to changetheirnames. The consequence of all this petty and constant oppression is that great numbers emigrate. And even those who remain do not take to their new masters. The elements do not mix. The French do not become Germans. A country is not so easily denationalized. The conquerors occupy the town, but in their social relations they are alone. We were told that if a German officer entered a public café or restaurant, the French instantly arose and left. It is the same thing which I saw at Venice and at Milan in the days of the old Austrian occupation. That was a most unnatural possession by an alien race, which had to be driven out with battle and slaughter before things could come into their natural and rightful relations. And so I fear it will have to be here. This annexation of Alsace to Germany may seem to some a wonderful stroke of political sagacity, or a military necessity, the gaining of a great strategic point, but to our poor Americanjudgment it seems both a blunder and a crime, that will yet have to be atoned for with blood. It is a perpetual humiliation and irritation to France; a constant defiance to another and far more terrible war.
The ancient cathedral suffered greatly during the bombardment. It is said the Germans tried to spare it, and aimed their guns away from it; but as it was the most prominent object in the town, towering up far above everything else, it could not but be hit many times. Cannon balls struck its majestic spire, the loftiest in the world; arches and pinnacles were broken; numbers of shells crashed through the roof, and burst on the marble floor. Many of the windows, with their old stained glass, which no modern art can equal, were fatally shattered. It is a wonder that the whole edifice was not destroyed. But its foundations were very solid, and it stood the shock. Since the siege, of course, everything has been done to cover up the rents and gaps, and to restore it to its former beauty. And what a beauty it has, with outlines so simple and majestic. How enormous are the columns along the nave, which support the roof, and yet how they seem tospringtowards heaven, soaring upwards like overarching elms, till the eye aches to look up to the vaulted roof, that seems only like a lower sky. Except one other cathedral—that of Cologne (under the very shadow of which I am now writing)—it is the grandest specimen of Gothic architecture which the Middle Ages have left to us.
There is one other feature of Strasburg that has been unaffected by political changes. One set of inhabitants have not emigrated, but remain in spite of the German occupation—the storks. Was anything ever so queer as to see these long-legged, long-necked birds, sitting so tranquilly on the roofs of the houses, flapping their lazy wings over the dwellings of a populous city, and actually building their nests on the tops of the chimneys? Anything so different from the ordinary habits of birds, I had never seen before, and wouldhardly have believed it now if I had not seen it. It makes one feel as if everything was turned upside down, and the very course of nature reversed, in this strange country.
Another sign that we are getting out of our latitude, and coming farther North, is the change of language. We found that even in Switzerland. Around the Lake of Geneva, French is universally spoken; but at Berne everybody addressed us in German. In the Swiss Parliament speeches are made in three languages—German, French, and Italian—since all are spoken in some of the Cantons. As we did not understand German, though familiar with French, we had many ludicrous adventures with coachmen and railway employés, which, though sometimes vexatious, gave us a good deal of merriment. Of course there was nothing to do but to take it good-naturedly. Generally when the adventure was over, we had a hearty laugh at our own expense, though inwardly thinking this was a heathen country, since they did not know the language of Canaan, which, of course, is French or English. In short, we have become fully satisfied that English was the language spoken by Adam and Eve in Paradise, and which ought to be spoken by all their descendants.
But no harsh and guttural sounds, and no gloomy political events, can destroy the pleasure of a journey along the Rhine. The next day we resumed our course through the grand duchy of Baden. At one of the stations a gentleman looking out of a carriage window called me by name, and introduced himself as Dr. Evans, of Paris—a countryman of ours, well known to all who have visited the French capital, where he has lived for a quarter of a century, and made for himself a most honorable position in his profession, in both the American and foreign community. I had known him when he first came to Paris, just after the revolution of 1848. He was then a young man, in the beginning of his successful career. He has been yet more honorably distinguished asthe gallant American who saved the Empress in 1870. The story is too well known to be repeated at length. The substance may be given in a few sentences. When the news of the surrender at Sedan of the Emperor and his whole army reached Paris, it caused a sudden revolution—the Empire was declared to have fallen, and the excited populace were ready to burst into the palace, and the Empress might have been sacrificed to their fury. She fled through the Louvre, and calling a cab in the street, drove to the house of Dr. Evans, whom she had long known. Here she was concealed for the night, and the next day he took her in his own carriage, hiding her from observation, and travelling rapidly, but in a way to attract no attention, to the sea-coast, and did not leave her till he had seen her safe in England. Connected with this escape were many thrilling details, which cannot be repeated here. I am very proud that she owed her safety to one of my countrymen. It was pleasant to be remembered by him after so many years. We got into the same carriage, and talked of the past, till we separated at Carlsruhe, from which he was going to Kissingen, while we went to Stuttgart, to visit an American family who came to Europe under my care in the Great Eastern in 1867, and have continued to reside abroad ever since for the education of their children. For such a purpose, Stuttgart is admirably fitted. Though the capital of the Kingdom of Würtemberg, it is a very quiet city. Young people in search of gayety might think it dull, but that is its recommendation for those who seek profit rather than amusement. The schools are said to be excellent; and for persons who wish to spend a few years abroad, pursuing their studies, it would be hard to find a better place.
To make this visit we were obliged to travel by night to get back to the Rhine. We left Stuttgart at midnight. Night riding on European railways, where there are no sleeping-cars, is not very agreeable. However, in the first classcarriages one can make a sort of half couch by pulling out the cushioned seats, and thus bestowed we managed to pass the night, which was not very long, as daybreak comes early in this latitude, and at this season of the year.
But fatigues vanish when at Mayence we go on board the steamer, and are at last afloat on the Rhine—"the exulting and abounding river." We forget the discomforts of the way as we drop down this enchanted stream, past all the ruined castles, "famed in story," which hang on the crests of the hills. Every picturesque ruin has its legend, which clings to it like vines to the mouldering wall. All day long we are floating in the past, and in a romantic past. Tourists sit on deck, with their guide-books in hand, marking every old wall covered with ivy, and every crumbling tower, connected with some tradition of the Middle Ages. Even prosaic individuals go about repeating poetry. The best of guide-books is Childe Harold. Byron has seized the spirit of the scene in a few picturesque and animated stanzas, which bring the whole panorama before us. How musical are the lines beginning,