PONTIUS PILATE.
There has to be a legend for every point of sufficient interest to attract a traveler, and so Pilatus has its legend. You are told gravely that after Pontius Pilate washed his hands of the blood of our Savior, and saw him go to his death, instead of saving him as he might have done, he was struck with remorse, returned to Rome, and pursued by a feeling which he could not get rid of, made his way to this mountain in Switzerland, and lived in a cave therein, a recluse, expiating by a lifeof solitude the crime he had been guilty of in shedding innocent blood.
And they show you gravely and without a blush, a pond in the top of the mountain, where, after he became an old man, he ended the life that was a burden to him, by drowning himself therein, and they tell you of the earthquakes and things of unpleasant nature that followed his demise. The Arch Enemy of mankind was on hand in person to seize him, and when he had struck the water he was taken bodily by His Satanic Majesty and whisked away to the lower regions.
THE END OF PONTIUS PILATE.
THE END OF PONTIUS PILATE.
THE END OF PONTIUS PILATE.
Did all this happen? Possibly. I was not there, and therefore cannot say positively that it did not. I wish to be truthful and reasonable. But I will venture my opinion thatPilate never came to Switzerland; that after his term expired as Governor of Judea he stole all he could lay his hands upon and went back to Rome, and went over to the new Emperor or Consul, or whatever they called the official who had the giving out of patronage, and got a new appointment somewhere else. That is what became of Pontius Pilate.
However, Mt. Pilatus is well worth seeing, and the legend is a very effective one, and the guide who tells it to you always gets several francs in addition to his original swindle.
You must have legends, and as people believe them it is the same as though they were true.
An imaginative friend of mine was once standing upon the railroad platform at Forest, Ohio, in the war years, probably the most lonesome and desolate station in the world. There were twenty passengers with him for a train that was so far behind that no one could guess as to when it would arrive.
He had cut a little switch from a tree near the platform, and as he flourished it ostentatiously, some one asked him where he got it.
With a quickness of invention—a fertility of lying that was simply admirable—he said it was the tip of the flag-staff of Fort Donelson!
Now this was nothing but a little switch cut within twenty feet of where they were standing, but immediately all the passengers came up and took it in their hands and examined it critically, and commented on it, as though it were something of actual importance. It was, to them. The battle was discussed, the merits of Grant as a soldier were discussed, and the whole war was with its causes and consequences, reviewed. And all this because a prompt liar, in an impulsive way, located a Forest switch as the tip of the flag-staff of Donelson.
We believed it, and handled the switch reverently. The tourist to Pilatus swallows the legend of Pilate, and it does him just as much good as though it were true.
The moral to all this is, the wise man swallows what is set before him and asks no questions for his stomach’s sake.
Never go into the kitchen in which your hash is made. Be ignorant and happy.
UP THE RIGI.
By this time we were ready for another mountaineering
LUCERNE-RIGI-RAIL—VITZNAU AS SEEN FROM THE EICHBERG.
LUCERNE-RIGI-RAIL—VITZNAU AS SEEN FROM THE EICHBERG.
LUCERNE-RIGI-RAIL—VITZNAU AS SEEN FROM THE EICHBERG.
expedition, especially as in this instance the ascent could be made in a comfortable railway car. To reach Vitznau, where the railway station is, we took a sail of about an hour and a half, through beautiful scenery. As we steam out from Lucerne, the city is seen to its best advantage, its long walnut-shadedquay, its massive hotels, churches, walls and towers, standing up from the water and thrown into relief by the dark green forests on the mountains behind it.
LUCERNE-RIGI-RAIL—VIEW FROM THE KANZELI.
LUCERNE-RIGI-RAIL—VIEW FROM THE KANZELI.
LUCERNE-RIGI-RAIL—VIEW FROM THE KANZELI.
PILATE IN THE GUIDE BOOK.
Soon after Lucerne fades away we see the cross-like formation of the lake, one arm, known as Lake Küssnach, stretchingway to the north, while on the other side is Lake Alpnach. Far ahead of us is the Bay of Buosch and Lake of Uri, forming the foot of the cross. At the head of Lake Küssnach can be seen the town of that name. Here, in the central part of the cross, the view is particularly impressive; the Rigi, on the left, with its wooded slopes shining in the sunlight, contrasting strangely with the mist and clouds that envelope Pilatus, on the other side of the lake. As we see the clouds lowering around the high peak of Mt. Pilate, the legend told by Antonio, the guide in Sir Walter Scott’s “Anne of Gierestein,” comes vividly to mind. I have given my readers my notion of the legend of Pilatus—now they have it exactly as the guide books give it. You pay your money and you take your choice. Here it is in guide book talk:
‘The wicked Pontius Pilate, Proconsul of Judea, here found the termination of his impious life; having, after spending years in the recesses of the mountain which bears his name, at length, in remorse and despair rather than in penitence, plunged into the dismal lake that occupies the summit. Whether water refused to do the executioner’s duty upon such a wretch, or whether, his body being drowned, his vexed spirit continued to haunt the place where he committed suicide, no one pretended to say. But a form was often seen to emerge from the gloomy waters, and go through the action of washing his hands, and when he did so dark clouds of mist gathered, first round the bosom of the Infernal Lake (such it had been styled of old), and then wrapping the whole upper part of the mountain in darkness, presaged a tempest or hurricane, which was sure to follow in a short space. The evil spirit was peculiarly exasperated at the audacity of such strangers as ascended the mountain to gaze at his place of punishment, and, in consequence, the magistrates of Lucerne had prohibited any one from approaching Mt. Pilate, under severe penalties.’
‘The wicked Pontius Pilate, Proconsul of Judea, here found the termination of his impious life; having, after spending years in the recesses of the mountain which bears his name, at length, in remorse and despair rather than in penitence, plunged into the dismal lake that occupies the summit. Whether water refused to do the executioner’s duty upon such a wretch, or whether, his body being drowned, his vexed spirit continued to haunt the place where he committed suicide, no one pretended to say. But a form was often seen to emerge from the gloomy waters, and go through the action of washing his hands, and when he did so dark clouds of mist gathered, first round the bosom of the Infernal Lake (such it had been styled of old), and then wrapping the whole upper part of the mountain in darkness, presaged a tempest or hurricane, which was sure to follow in a short space. The evil spirit was peculiarly exasperated at the audacity of such strangers as ascended the mountain to gaze at his place of punishment, and, in consequence, the magistrates of Lucerne had prohibited any one from approaching Mt. Pilate, under severe penalties.’
It is perhaps needless to say that the prohibition has been long removed, and that every season a great many tourists ascend the grand old peak, to see the Infernal Lake on its summit. All do it who can afford to pay for it.
And speaking of these miracles and appearances, and all that sort of thing, they don’t take place any more. Pilate hasn’t appeared in person to any tourists for hundreds of years. His appearance is something that used to happen, but doesn’t any more.
Tibbitts remarked that when he got his hotel done, he would have Pilate appear, actually washing his hands, no matter what it cost him. He intended to have a lot of fresh miracles. Hewould treat his patrons decently, and not palm off upon them a lot of old legends. He could get a man to do the Pilate business for thirty dollars a month, and he wouldn’t be mean enough to stop at so small an expense as that.
Passing Weggis, a pretty village nestling at the foot of the Rigi, Vitznau is reached, and there we disembark for our ride up the mountain. The Rigi has long been a favorite resort for tourists, and as far back as 1868 an attempt was made to assist them in reaching the summit with less fatigue and greater comfort and security. In that year, one Riggenbach, of Olten, and an engineer of Aaron, named Olivier Zschokke, after having experimented for years on the subject, published a pamphlet, in which they declared that it was possible to construct a railway from Vitznau to the summit of the Rigi.
THE OLD WAY OF ASCENDING THE RIGI.
THE OLD WAY OF ASCENDING THE RIGI.
THE OLD WAY OF ASCENDING THE RIGI.
The treatise attracted a great deal of attention, and the following year the two engineers applied for aid from the Government of Lucerne to carry out the scheme they had devised. This aid was granted, and in two years the road was finished to Stoffel, over half the distance, and two years later to the very summit of the mountain.
A MOUNTAIN RAILWAY.
The new system consists of two rails of standard gauge, such as are used on ordinary railways, firmly fixed on sleepers, which are solidly secured to the rock by every device known, to insure their solidity. Then a third rail, supplied with cogs, is placed between the other two, and on this the cogged driving wheel of the engine of a new construction propels the
NIGHT ASCENT OF THE RIGI IN THE OLD TIMES.
NIGHT ASCENT OF THE RIGI IN THE OLD TIMES.
NIGHT ASCENT OF THE RIGI IN THE OLD TIMES.
engine up the hill. Engines of a special pattern were built, for as the ascent is often at an angle of twenty-five degrees, ordinary locomotives would not do. The boiler in the new engine is perpendicular and the rear is slightly elevated. The tread-wheels are connected with the cog wheel in the center ofthe engine in such a manner that each wheel bears its proportion of the weight. The road has been a complete success from the start, not a single accident having ever occurred.
The sensation after the car leaves level ground at the station in Vitznau and begins to climb steadily up the mountain is peculiar. The ground seems to melt away, and yet is always replaced. As we mount higher and higher, the view becomes more extensive. Now we can see the little town we have just left on the pretty little bay, at the foot of the mountains. Beyond it the lake stretches out to the mountains that seem to come to its very edge. Then the road passes through a tunnel, a marvel of engineering skill, for going through there the ascent is at a rise of twenty-five degrees.
Emerging from this tunnel, the train speeds across a bridge, over a yawning chasm, whose sides are lined with stunted trees and great bowlders, that are washed by a large stream which takes its rise higher up the mountain.
From this point the view is grand. Pilate, towering above the lake, is clearly seen on the right; just below is Weggis, and further on the bright buildings of Lucerne shine in the sunlight, while the lake, with its different arms, looks like “a painted sea.” All around and above are the huge red rocks of the Rigi. There are two or three stations along the route, but we push steadily on, the views becoming grander and grander with each successive step, until the summit is reached, and then the panorama is complete. You see the Alps in the eastern part of Switzerland, the massive pile of the Loudi, all the western mountains of Schwyz, and to the north the cantons of Zug, Zurich and Lucerne spread out like a map at our feet. Way down the valley can be seen eleven different lakes, with little clumps of houses, the villages on the shores of the “Vierwaldstätter See.”
Passing by the great hotels that flourish here so high above the world, we go to the great bluff which is so prominently seen from Lucerne, and there the view is magnificent. As far as the eye can reach on the south are the countless peaks of the Alps, covered with snow the year around. Near at hand are beautiful valleys with winding rivers and straight, thread-like roads.
RIGI KULM.
As we stand there, lost in wonder at the overpoweringmagnificence of the scene, the sun, which up to this time had been shining brightly, was obscured by clouds, and we were treated to a thunder storm which raged with terrific fury for half an hour or more. Then the sun broke forth again in all his splendor and we saw the clouds disappear beneath his powerful rays.
RAILWAY UP THE RIGI.
RAILWAY UP THE RIGI.
RAILWAY UP THE RIGI.
Sunrise as seen from the Rigi Kulm is said to be one of the most magnificent sights imaginable. One enthusiastic German writer gives a very glowing account of it, which has been literally translated and is sold in all the book-stores in Lucerne. The translation is so good (?) that it should be universally read. A portion of it is reproduced:
“The starlight night far expanded and aromatic with the herbs of the Alps and the meadow ground, now begins to assume a gray and hazy veil. Their mists arise from the top of the feathered pines, an airy crowd of ghost-like silent shapes approaching the light, that with a feebly pale glimmering dawns in the East. It is a strange beginning, a gentle breath of the morning air greets us from the rocky walls in the deep, and brings confused noises from below. That is a signal for all who did not like to ascend so high, without beholding the sunrise. Meanwhile the day breaks outbright and clear; a golden stripe, getting broader and broader, covers the mountains of St. Gall; the peaks of snow change their colors, indifferently white at first, then yellowish, and at last they turn a lovely pink. The new-born day illuminates them. Now, a general suspense! One bright flash—and the first ray of the sun shoots forth. A loud and general “oh” bursts out. The public feels grateful, be it a ray of the rising sun, or a rocket burnt off and dying away in the distance, with an illuminating tail of fire, and, after the refulgent globe, giving life to our little planet, has fully risen, the crowd of people drop off one by one to their various occupations.”
“The starlight night far expanded and aromatic with the herbs of the Alps and the meadow ground, now begins to assume a gray and hazy veil. Their mists arise from the top of the feathered pines, an airy crowd of ghost-like silent shapes approaching the light, that with a feebly pale glimmering dawns in the East. It is a strange beginning, a gentle breath of the morning air greets us from the rocky walls in the deep, and brings confused noises from below. That is a signal for all who did not like to ascend so high, without beholding the sunrise. Meanwhile the day breaks outbright and clear; a golden stripe, getting broader and broader, covers the mountains of St. Gall; the peaks of snow change their colors, indifferently white at first, then yellowish, and at last they turn a lovely pink. The new-born day illuminates them. Now, a general suspense! One bright flash—and the first ray of the sun shoots forth. A loud and general “oh” bursts out. The public feels grateful, be it a ray of the rising sun, or a rocket burnt off and dying away in the distance, with an illuminating tail of fire, and, after the refulgent globe, giving life to our little planet, has fully risen, the crowd of people drop off one by one to their various occupations.”
THE RIGI RAILWAY.
THE RIGI RAILWAY.
THE RIGI RAILWAY.
The ride down, while full of surprising views, is not so interesting as the ascent, for one is familiar with every turn, and has not that feeling of novelty that impresses him while going up.
Going back to Lucerne we are treated to a magnificent sunset, old Sol sinking behind the mountains with a grand blaze of glory that tinges the peaks all around the horizon with a brilliant golden outline.
TELL’S CHAPEL.
On the eastern border of this wondrously beautiful lake is
THE RAILWAY UP THE MOUNTAIN.
THE RAILWAY UP THE MOUNTAIN.
THE RAILWAY UP THE MOUNTAIN.
a chapel, built, it is said, upon the spot where Tell leaped from the boat of Gesler, the Austrian tyrant, while on his way to prison, and shot him. It is a pretty little structure, at thewater’s edge, and is every year visited by thousands of people who come to enthuse over the alleged Swiss patriot.
I should have enthused with the rest, only ever since I have been in Switzerland I have been investigating Tell, and to my profound grief I find that like Sairy Gamp’s Mrs. Harris, “There ain’t no sich a person,” and never was.
TELL’S CHAPEL, LAKE OF LUCERNE.
TELL’S CHAPEL, LAKE OF LUCERNE.
TELL’S CHAPEL, LAKE OF LUCERNE.
When I say to my profound grief, I mean it. In my boyhood—alas, that was many a year ago—I had several pet heroes among men and things. Tell shooting the arrow off his boy’s head and saving another arrow to shoot Gesler had he harmed his son, was one of them; Jackson and his cotton bales at New Orleans was another; the maelstrom, sucking down whales and ships, as depicted in the school geographies, was another; and then came Wellington with his “Up guards and at ’em,” at Waterloo, the quiet but heroic General Taylor at Monterey with his “A little more grape, Captain Bragg!” with others too tedious to mention. Among my especial hatreds was the cruel King Richard, of England, who slaughtered the infant princes in the tower.
HISTORICAL ROMANCE.
Alas for history and geography! One by one these idols were dismounted. Later geographical investigation provesthat there is no maelstrom on the coast of Norway; that the statement was founded upon a few rather ugly currents that swirl and eddy among some islands, but which are yet perfectly safe for vessels of light draft.
I had scarcely recovered from this before it came to light that Jackson’s riflemen did not rest their unerring pieces upon cotton bales. When one thinks of it, it would be rather risky to fire flint-lock rifles over such inflammable material as cotton, to say nothing of the confession of that Brobindignagian fraud, Vincent Nolte, who confessed that all there was of the cotton story was this: He was moving a few bales of cotton he had in New Orleans up the country for safety, when it was feared the British would burn the city, and one of his mule teams, with two bales upon the wagon, was passing where some Tennesseeans were throwing up an earthwork. The wild backwoodsmen, in sheer mischief, upset the wagon, cut the mules loose, and buried the two bales and the wagon under the earth. Then, as he sued the government, per custom, for the price of five hundred bales, it was said that the battle was fought behind cotton, and the pictures show it.
For Wellington to have said “Up guards and at them!” would be to presume that Wellington was in the extreme front with the guards, and Taylor, to have made his exclamation, must have been sitting on his horse beside Captain Bragg, something generals never do.
But I said, though all these are gone, I have my Tell left me. Alas! Swiss and German investigators have proved conclusively that there never was such a man as Tell; that Gesler is quite as much of a fiction, and that the whole business of the apple on the son’s head, the leap from the boat, and all the rest of it, is a poetic legend, the counterpart of which may be found in the literature of all old people. There is no mention either of Tell or Gesler in any authentic history.
But I thank heaven my objects of dislike are proved to be just as much fictions as the others. For up comes an English essayist who proves that Richard III. did not smother the infant princes, that he was not a cruel, humpbacked tyrant, but was the wisest and best king England had ever had, and that his untimely taking off was one of the greatest misfortunes that ever befell that country.
So these investigators have reduced humanity to a sort of average dead level, with no Mt. Blancs of goodness and no Jungfraus of badness.
Tibbitts was very indignant when I told him this about Tell. He remarked that he preferred not to believe the investigators; he preferred to believe in Tell. He didn’t care a straw for the investigators, he defied them. Suppose Tell didn’t shoot the apple? What then? Tell shooting the apple made a picturesque picture, and it pleased him. He protested against reducing all mankind to the drawing of molasses and the hewing of calico. He wanted heroes and heroines, and if they didn’t appear in real life the poet gave them to us, and it did just as well.
By this time Tibbitts got wound up. “How does any one know that there was no Tell? I demand proof. You can’t prove that there wasnotsuch a man, and that he didnotdo the feats ascribed to him. Very well! I assert therewassuch a man; that there was a Gesler; that Gesler put his hat on a pole in the market place, and required everybody to bow to it, and Tell refused; and then Gesler insisted that he should shoot an apple from his boy’s head, and he did it. You have no proof that this is not so. I have proof that it is. I can show you the market place, and an apple. That the feat is possible every schoolboy knows, for have we not all seen Buffalo Bill do the same thing in the theaters? And, then, if it were not precisely true, it should have been. We want such incidents to keep alive a love of country, a healthy spirit of patriotism, and a wholesome hatred of tyrants who go about putting caps upon poles and requiring people to bow to them. Admitting it to be a fable, we want more such fables. What difference does it make if it is a fable? Does it not inculcate a great principle just the same? And inculcating a great principle is the main thing. I hold to Tell with all the simple faith I had in childhood, and even more. For in childhood Tell was merely a romantic and highly colored sensation—now he has grown to the sublime dimensions of a moral necessity.”
And in spite of the bald facts staring him in the face, he went into ecstacies in the chapel, and spoke of it as a “shrine,” and remarked that it would be better for the world had it had more Tells, and said everything that everybody says.
SWISS REVERENCE FOR TELL.
The Young Man who Knows Everything ambled in at this point with the remark that worms were made for sparrows, and the sparrows know it. It is a beautiful provision of nature that the strong eat the weak. If intellect and strength won’t provide a living, what is the use of intellect and strength. A man might as well be a fool as anything else, if he can’t live on his mental endowments.
Which, as it had no earthly application to the subject under discussion, was characteristic, very. But it satisfied him.
But you had better not express any doubt as to Tell to any of the Swiss, especially in this region. They believe in him as firmly as Americans do in Washington, and in the apple as steadily as we do in the hatchet. There was a book published in Berne, proving Tell to be a myth, and it was suppressed by the government, and all the copies in circulation siezed and burned.
Tell is a national pride, and besides, the legend brings tourists into the country, and keeps them longer after they come, which is a matter of national profit. And so, between pride and profit, they keep up the fiction, and will, to the end of time.
However, I still believe in Washington’s hatchet, and in Franklin’s eating bread in the streets of Philadelphia. I am going to cling to something of my youth. But I suppose somebody will disembowel these legends in the course of time, and life thereafter will be as monotonous as a mill-pond—all on a dead level.
LEAVINGLucerne, Mont Pilatus and the Rigi behind us, we speed rapidly on through pleasant valleys and fragrant meadows. The country loses its high, mountainous nature, and becomes a level, well-farmed district, extremely pleasant after three weeks of nothing but huge mountains, steep passes and rugged hills. Mountain scenery is all very well in its way, but one can have too much of it. A little is quite sufficient.
Zurich is a beautiful city, lying around the head of the lake of the same name. The old portion dates back to the twelfth century, and contains many interesting relics of that period. But around the old part there has grown up a fine modern city, whose solid substantial buildings, of fine architecture, contrast strangely with the old houses and churches that were built centuries ago.
Its location could not be more beautiful. In front is the clear pale-green lake, from which the limpid Limmat emerges and divides the city into two parts. Its shores are lined with picturesque villas, peeping out from among the orchards and vineyards that clothe the banks, clear to the foot of the snow clad Alps which form a strong background, being so far away that they are soft and subdued in the hazy air that partly obscures them from view.
The pride of Zurich is her schools, indeed all of German Switzerland is proud to recognize this place as its educational center. For centuries it has enjoyed this distinction, and its University, founded in 1832, is maintaining in these years the reputation of the city.
BEER AND MUSIC.
Where German is spoken three things are always found, music, wine and beer. Bacchus, Gambrinus and Orpheus gohand in hand, and they engross the German mind about equally. Zurich has more music to the square foot than any of the Swiss cities, and the other two members of the trinity are by no means neglected.
TIBBITTS IN A CONCERT HALL, ZURICH.
TIBBITTS IN A CONCERT HALL, ZURICH.
TIBBITTS IN A CONCERT HALL, ZURICH.
The Tonhalle is a spacious building finely decorated with rare plants and flowers, and brilliantly lighted with gas jets springing from artificial palm trees. Here the good citizens of Zurich spend an evening of perfect enjoyment. An orchestra of seventy pieces, each performer a trained musician, renders a programme of classical and popular music, in the most perfect manner. The vast audience, composed of ladies and gentlemen of the best standing, sit around the little round tables sipping their light wine or beer, listening to themusic and, during the intervals, chatting and laughing and thoroughly enjoying themselves. There is a something about such an evening that is irresistable. The perfect order that prevails, the exquisite music, the brilliancy of the room, all combined to make it a perfect delight. Night after night—the programme is never twice alike—the Tonhalle is crowded with the wealth and fashion of Zurich, people of refinement and culture, who can fully appreciate and enjoy the delightful music.
There is one custom which obtains all over Germany, and especially in Zurich, which is a German city in reality, which custom I would could be transplanted in all its native vigor to America; and that is the carrying of the family relation into amusement as well as business.
A Zuricher doesn’t eat his supper in silence, his mind full of his business, and after, without a word, put on his hat and overcoat, and with some indistinct reference to a lodge or a council meeting, or “the office,” walk off to a club or beer place, and spend the evening convivially, only to return in the middle of the night, and roll into his bed without knowing or caring whether his wife and children have had a pleasant evening or no.
Not he! On the contrary, he consults his wife at lunch as to whether she prefers a dinner at home or at the gardens. The programmes of the various places are consulted, and it is decided, we will say, that the Tonhalle affords the most ponderous inducement; and so the whole family—father, mother, children, and grandchildren and grandparents, if such there be—go together and dine to the soft pleasings of the lute, or, rather, to the music of a magnificent orchestra.
For, be it known, at all these musical resorts there are superb restaurants, where splendid repasts are served at a very low price, so that in the matter of expense it makes no difference whether a family dines at home or at the public gardens.
THE SWISS WAY.
The whole family sit and chat over their dinner in the jolliest way, listening to, enjoying and discussing the music, and after the dinner there is the long evening over the delightful light wines for the ladies and children, and the heavier beer for the adults; there are cigars for the males, and confectionsfor the women and children, and so on, until the hour comes for home.
These concerts are made up of all kinds of music, from the weightiest classical to the most simple and popular, but the simple and popular is rendered with as much painstaking conscientiousness as the highest. They do “Way down upon the Swanee River” as conscientiously as a selection from Wagner, and as the performance lasts four hours or more there is variety enough to suit every taste.
And then, after it is over, the whole family go home, pleased with their simple enjoyment, and they go home together. The husband does not stop on the way; his enjoyment is with his family, and in his family.
There is no more pleasant sight in Europe than a Swiss or German family around one of these tables, enjoying drinking, music, smoking, and conversation, all at once. Happy people! They have the rare art of gratifying all the senses at once, at less cost than an American can any one singly. The whole cost of an evening in the Tonhalle for a man and his entire family is less than many an American of very moderate means spends upon himself alone, and they get ten times as much out of it as we do.
Tibbitts insisted the first night he was with a German family at one of these places, that he should certainly marry a German girl and settle in Switzerland. When you can dine a large family for a dollar, wine, music and cigars included, was his remark, there is some inducement for having a family. He could afford, if the price of land kept up in Wisconsin, to have an indefinite number of children.
And the Young Man who Knows Everything, who felt the influence of the heady wine he had drank, added, with great gravity: “Better a dinner of herbs on a house-top with a brawling woman, than to dwell with a stalled ox in the tents of wickedness.” It was his time for a quotation.
From Zurich through Basle, or Bale, we come to Strasburg, one of the most interesting cities in Europe.
In this old city of Strasburg, founded by the Romans hundreds of years ago, we get a better idea of old architecture than in any city yet visited. Its narrow, crooked streets, with high, many-storied roofs, tell the story of its age in unmistakablelanguage. The unique wood carving that embellishes the façades of so many of the old wooden buildings look strange and out of place in this matter-of-fact age, but in years gone by they gave to Strasburg the name of “the most beautiful city.”
Approaching the city we pass a number of strong fortifications, which were in active use during the Franco-Prussian war. Strasburg, two miles from the Rhine, has always been a strategical point, and played a very important part in the struggle of 1870-71, the siege, which lasted from the thirteenth of August till the twenty-seventh of September, being one of the marked episodes of the war.
Once in the city the tourist turns first to the cathedral, which stands nearly in the center of the city. Unfortunately for the general effect, it is located in a neighborhood of narrow streets and ugly high-roofed houses that entirely surround the massive pile, and the first impression is rather disappointing. But this feeling soon wears off. There is a certain majesty about the noble building that compels admiration, while the cloud-cleaving spire, wondrously graceful, is a marvel of strength and grace. It is a fascinating structure. The more one studies its beautiful proportions, and the wonderful decorations which so profusely embellish it, the more he is struck with wonder at the genius of the architect and the skill of the patient builders.
The present cathedral was begun some time during the twelfth century, on the site of one destroyed by fire, said to have been built during the sixth century. Tradition says that the site of the present cathedral has been devoted to worship from the remotest times; that there was a sacred wood in the midst of which the Celts built their Druidical Dolmen. After the Romans conquered Gaul, they founded a fortified town, where Strasburg now stands, and in place of the Dolmen they dedicated a temple to Hercules and Mars. Old chronicles record that in the fourth century St. Armand built a church on the ruins of an old Roman temple, the previous existence of which is authenticated by the finding of several brass statues of Hercules and Mars, during the excavations for the foundations of the first cathedral.
THE CATHEDRAL.
From the beginning of the work on the present cathedral
PRINCIPAL ENTRANCE TO STRASBURG CATHEDRAL.
PRINCIPAL ENTRANCE TO STRASBURG CATHEDRAL.
PRINCIPAL ENTRANCE TO STRASBURG CATHEDRAL.
down to 1870 it has been terribly unfortunate, having been burned, struck by lightning, shaken by earthquakes, and in 1870 it suffered terribly by the cannon balls of the German besiegers. In the first part of the siege of Strasburg, the Germans tried to force the surrender by the bombardment and partial destruction of the inner town. In the night of the 23d of August began for the frightened inhabitants the real time of terror; however, that night the rising conflagrations, for instance in St. Thomas’ Church, were quickly put out. But inthe following night the new church, the library of the town, the museum of painting, and many of the finest houses, became a heap of ruins, and under the hail of shells all efforts to extinguish the fire were useless. For the cathedral the night from the 25th to the 26th of August was the worst. Towards midnight the flames broke out from the roof perforated by shells, and increased by the melting copper they rose to a fearful height beside the pyramid of the spire. The sight of this grand volume of flames, rising above the town, was indescribable and tinged the whole sky with its glowing reflection. And the guns went on thundering, and shattering parts of the stone ornaments which adorned the front and sides of the cathedral. The whole roof came down and the fire died out for want of fuel.
The following morning the interior was covered with ruins, and through the holes in the vault of the nave one could see the blue sky. The beautiful organ built by Silbermann was pierced by a shell, and the magnificent painted windows were in great part spoiled. On the 4th of September two shells hit the crown of the cathedral and hurled the stone masses to incredible distance; on the 15th a shot came even into the point below the cross, which was bent on one side, and had its threatened fall only prevented by the iron bars of the lightning conductor which held it.
After the entrance of the Germans into the reconquered town, the difficult and dangerous work of restoration of the point of the spire was begun at once and happily ended a few months after. They have now obliterated all traces of the ruin and devastation of that dreadful time.
ROYALTY.
This is war, and what was this war all about? Why, Louis Napoleon, who stole France and kept the French enslaved by amusing one-half of them that he might rob the other half, had to appeal to French patriotism and plunge France into a war to cover his Imperial thefts. On the other hand, the Kaiser William, and the iron-handed Bismarck, who had been grinding the people of Germany for years to prepare for war, were not slow to accept the challenge. What they wanted was to have more territory to plunder. There was no bad blood between the French and German people; it was the self-constitutedrulers of the two peoples, who, for their own glory, set them to butchering each other. And so at it they went.
These kings and emperors respect neither God nor man, and so they sent their bombs hurtling through this wonderful temple dedicated to God.
Nothing to the gunners inspired by royalty was the delicate tracery, the genius-inspired proportions, the almost breathing statues, the wonderfully beautiful spire, that crystallized dream; nothing to them the magnificent organ, attuned to the sweetest worship of the Most High, nothing the recollections of the centuries that clustered about it, nothing the art treasures it held. It was Strasburg, and Strasburg must fall.
And they counted God’s images in the doomed city even less than they did God’s temple. And so they sent shells crashing through the homes of Strasburg, and men were killed in its streets, women in the houses, and children in their cradles. It made no difference to the white-bearded William, the iron-handed Bismarck, or the sensual Napoleon. It was their fight, but they bore none of the suffering. The Kaiser actually had the impudence to order a thanksgiving for the slaughter of ten thousand Frenchmen, and Louis Napoleon would have done the same had he been in condition.
I have expressed my opinion of kings before. The more one sees of them and their work the less love he has for them. Soldiers and thin soup for the people in Germany, soldiers and starvation in Ireland. That’s what royalty and nobility mean everywhere—brute force and suffering.
The façade of the great cathedral is by Erwin, of Steinbach, the most famous architect of the middle ages, and is a marvel of beauty, its massive proportions being toned down and improved by the innumerable figures, statues, and a fine rose window, forty-two feet in diameter, that adorn it.
Entering the cathedral, one is greatly impressed with the harmonious effect produced by the massive yet graceful columns from which spring the light arches that form the ceiling. The proportions are admirable, the height being ninety-nine feet, the width forty-five yards, and the length one hundred and twenty-one yards.
The pulpit, a fine specimen of stone carving, dates back to1485, and affords a good idea of the style of art that flourished in Germany at that time.
PIG MARKET, STRASBURG.
PIG MARKET, STRASBURG.
PIG MARKET, STRASBURG.
THE WONDERFUL CLOCK.
Next to the cathedral itself, which demands a great deal of study, the great astronomical clock attracts the most attention. It was constructed during the years 1838-42, by a Strasburg clockmaker named Schwilgue, and is a wonderful piece of mechanism. The exterior, handsomely decorated with exquisitecarvings and paintings, shows a perpetual calendar, with the feasts that vary, according to their connection with Easter or Advent Sunday. The dial, which is thirty feet in circumference, is subject to a revolution in three hundred and sixty-five or three hundred and sixty-six days, and indicates the suppression of the circular bi-sextile days. There is also a complete planetarium, representing the mean tropical revolutions of each of the planets visible to the naked eye, the phases of the moon, and the eclipses of the sun and moon calculated forever.
Then with the same mechanism a number of figures are made to go through certain motions at stated intervals. At noon the twelve apostles appear before the Savior, who raises his hands to bless them, during which time a cock flaps his wings, and crows three times. A figure of Death stands in the midst of figures representing the four ages, childhood striking the first quarter of the hour, youth the second, manhood the third, and old age the last. Just before each quarter is struck, one of the two genii seated above this perpetual calendar strikes a note of warning. When the hour is struck by Death, the second of these genii turns over the hour glass he holds in his hand. It is a wonderful piece of mechanism.
As with everything else of public interest around this section, where in olden times imagination ran riot, this clock has its legend. It is said that, long ages ago, a mechanic of Strasburg labored and studied for years for the accomplishment of some purpose that he kept secret from all his neighbors. Even his only child, a lovely girl who was sought in marriage by a prospective mayor of the city, and by a handsome young clockmaker, was not allowed to enter the room where this mysterious work was being carried on.
In the course of time the elder suitor was made mayor, and then proposed for the hand of the beautiful girl, who, loving the young man, refused him. Soon after this, the old mechanic showed to the astonished citizens of Strasburg, who up to this time had ridiculed him as an insane person, the wonderful clock he had constructed. He at once became very popular, much to the disgust of the mayor who had been rejected by his daughter.
The clockmaker’s fame spread all over the country, and the citizens of Basel, a neighboring city, attempted to buy the wonderful piece of mechanism. But the corporation of Strasburg would not part with it, and caused a chapel to be built in the cathedral for its reception. Then the citizens of Basel offered a large sum of money if the master would construct them a similar clock, and he accepted their offer.
This would never do. The wonderful clock was the principal glory of Strasburg, and people were coming from all parts of the then civilized world to see it. If Basel should have a clock like it or superior to it, it would divide the trade as well as the glory, and Strasburg, instead of standing alone as the possessor of such a piece of mechanism, would have a rival. Should Basel get a clock, the citizen thereof would cock his hat upon one side of his head and say, to a Strasburger, “You needn’t put on airs about your old clock, with its twelve apostles, and all that. We see your twelve apostles and go you a Judas Iscariot better. You have a rooster it is true, we admit that, but we have one with all the latest improvements. He flaps his wings better than yours, and his crow is three times as loud. Come over to Basel and see a really good clock.”
To prevent this the City Council of Strasburg, at the suggestion of the mayor who had never got over being rejected by the clock-maker’s daughter, determined to put out the old gentleman’s eyes, which they rightly judged would prevent him from making any more clocks, and Strasburg would still have the glory of owning the most wonderful one in the world. This was assented to and the poor man was asked if there was anything he wanted before the sentence was executed. He asked to have the terrible operation performed in front of his noble work. When taken before it, he gazed at it fondly, and secretly slipped out of place two or three important springs. Just as the torture was completed the works in the clock began to whirr, it struck thirteen times and then ceased to work. The glory of Strasburg was destroyed. The artisan lost his sight, the city its clock, the mayor his love—in short, it was a dead loss all around, as it always is when fair dealing is departed from.
ST. THOMAS.
Years after the young clockmaker married his old blindfriend’s daughter, and after many years of hard, steady work, succeeded in repairing and improving the clock, which was the predecessor of the one now in the cathedral.
This is the legend of the clock.
In the Protestant church of St. Thomas is one of the finest monuments in Europe. It was erected by Louis XV. in honor of Marshal Saxe.
In front of a high tablet, upon which there is a long inscription, is a figure of the Marshal, heroic size, dressed in military uniform. He is descending a short flight of steps leading to a coffin, the lid of which Death holds open for his reception. A female figure, representing France, attempts to detain the Marshal and ward off Death. On the left, Hercules in a mournful attitude leans upon his club. Commemorating the Marshal’s victories in the Flemish war are the Austrian eagle, the Dutch lion and the English lion.
The whole work is exquisitely done, the figures of France and Death being wonderful specimens of carving in marble. The artist, Pigalle, was occupied twenty years in the execution of this masterpiece.
There are several other things of interest in the old church of St. Thomas, besides the memorial of the great marshal, though they are of the ghastly order, and more curious than pleasing.
A great many years ago there lived in Strasburg a lunatic whose very soul was bound up in this old church. His soul being devoted to it, he determined to throw in his body, and so he starved himself to death that he might leave the corporation more money. He left all his fortune to the church, and the least it could do was to give him a tomb, which it did, and then carved upon it his emaciated form, taking him after death, that nothing should be lacking in ghastliness. When religion or vanity, or a compound of both, is freakish, it is very freakish.
The most repulsive sight in all Europe is within these venerable walls. The Duke of Nassau wanted immortality, and so his remains—he was killed in battle—are carefully preserved in a glass case, hermetically sealed, clad in the very garments he wore when death struck him. And after he waskilled his little daughter, aged thirteen, died, and the family had her poor remains, clad in the silks and tinsel of the period, disposed of in the same way.
And there they are to this day, as beautiful a commentary on human hopes and human ambitions as one would wish to see.
The Duke of Nassau was a mighty man in his day, and he hoped to be remembered of men for all time. What is he now? The flesh has melted from his bones, the very bones are crumbling into dust, the garments in which he was clad are disappearing, and all there is of him is a grinning, ghastly skeleton, and the daughter is the same in the same way; the flesh has disappeared from her bones, the little finger, once so plump and taper, is now a bone which time has eaten away to almost nothing; the ring of gold which she wore in life is still there, but it hangs on a time-wasted bone, the flesh having melted from under it.
It is a ghastly commentary. The duke undertook a fight with Time with a certainty of Time’s winning. The philosopher draws a moral from his poor remains, the loose-minded make jokes over them. Could he hear the comments on his once august body he would get up and walk out of that church, and go and bury himself somewhere in some cemetery, that he might, as he should, be forgotten once for all. The duke should have realized the fact before he had himself put in this glass case, that so far as earth goes, everything ends with death, and that efforts that men have made to perpetuate their memory have been invariably failures. The kings who built the pyramids, solid as they are, are scarcely remembered.
It was in a famous beer house in Strasburg that we met an American who was not of the regulation kind, and who, consequently, was a sweet boon.