We strolled through the curious old streets with the sidewalks under the arcades of the buildings, saw the curious old clock-tower, where, a few minutes before the hour, an automaton cock crows, and then it is struck by a comical figure with a bell and a hammer, while a troop of automaton bears appear, and march around on a wooden platform. An old fellow with an hour-glass turns it over, and the cock concludes the performance by again flapping his wings and crowing.
One of the most delightful places of promenade in the city is the cathedral terrace, a broad, shady walk, three or four hundred feet long and two hundred or more wide. It is one hundred feet above the river, and about ninety above the city street at the base. This terrace commands a fine view of the whole range of distant mountains, and is a favorite resort on summer evenings, where one may enjoy an ice-cream, cigar, cup of coffee, or light wine, and long after the twilight has deepened in the valley, watch the rosy hue that varies its tints upon the shining mountain peaks in the distance.
At the old cathedral we heard a finer and larger organ than that at Lucerne, but an inferior performer, which made even the beautiful harmony that pealed beneath the Gothic arches seem tame in comparison. From Berne by rail, a ride of an hour and a half brought us to Freiburg, where we tarried a few hours to see its great suspension bridges, and hear its great organ. The hotel at which we stopped commanded a fine view of both the bridges, black threads spanning a deep ravine. Freiburg is upon a steep rocky hill-side, at the base of which winds the river, and extending over the chasm, to the opposite bank, are the graceful and wondrous bridges. The first we crossed was nine hundred and eighty-five feet long, and one hundred and seventy-five feet above the river beneath, and is suspended by four chains of about twelve hundred feet in length. The ends of this great bridge are secured by one hundred and twenty huge anchors, fastened to granite blocks sunk deep into the earth. After crossing, we took a pleasant walk upon the lofty bank opposite, from which we had a good view of the town, with the River Sarine winding close about it. We passed on to some distance above, where the other bridge, known as the Bridge of Gotteron, spanned a romantic rocky ravine; and from the centre of this structure we looked down two hundred and eighty-five feet, into the very streets of a little village directly under us, jammed in between the cliffs. This bridge is seven hundred feet long.
The great organ in Freiburg is said to be one of the finest in Europe, and a little guide-book says it has sixty-seven stops and seven thousand eight hundred pipes, some of them thirty-two feet in length. We heard almost the same programme performed as at Lucerne, and had, therefore, opportunity of comparison. The instrument was not managed with the consummate skill of that at Lucerne, and the vox humana stop was vastly inferior; but in the Storm piece the performer, in addition to the music of the convent organ, faintly heard amid the war of elements, also introduced the pealing of the convent bell, a wonderfully correct imitation; and in the Wedding March the blast of the trumpet was blown with a vigor and naturalness not exceeded even by human lips.
From Freiburg we sped on to Lausanne, and, without stopping in the town, rode down to the little port of the place, Ouchy, on the very bank of the very blue and beautiful Lake Leman, and stopped at the Hotel Beau Rivage. This hotel is another one of those handsome and well-kept hotels, which, from their comfort, elegant surroundings, and many conveniences, add so much to the tourist's enjoyment. This house is three hundred feet long and five stories high, fronts upon the lake, and has a beautifully laid out garden and park of nearly two acres in front and about it. My fine double room looks out upon the blue lake, with its plying steamboats and its superb background of distant mountains. At the little piers in front of the hotel grounds are row and sail boats for the use of visitors; and some of the former are plying hither and thither, with merry parties of ladies and gentlemen beneath their gay striped awnings. Flowers of every hue bloom in the gardens. A band of eight or ten pieces performs on the promenade balcony in front of the house every evening from six to ten o'clock. There are reading-rooms, parlors, and saloons. The table is excellent, and attention perfect. Prices—for one of the best rooms looking out on the lake, for two persons, eight francs; breakfast, three francs each; dinner, four francs each; service, one franc each; total, for two persons, twenty-one francs, or four dollars and twenty-five cents, gold, per day; and these are the high prices at the height of the season for the best rooms. Reasonable enough here, but which they are fast learning to charge at inferior inns, in other parts of the country, on account of the prodigality of "shoddy" Americans.
The view of Lake Geneva, or Lake Leman, as it is called, is beautiful from Ouchy. The panorama of mountains upon the opposite shore extends as far as the eye can reach, and in the sunset they assume a variety of beautiful hues—red, blue, violet, and rose-color. We have been particularly fortunate in arriving here while the moon is near its full; and the effect of the silver rays on the lake, mountains, and surrounding scenery is beautiful beyond description.
Up in Lausanne we have visited the old cathedral, which is built upon a high terrace, and reached by a dirty, irregular flight of plank steps, about one hundred and seventy-five in number; at any rate, enough to render the climber glad to reach the top of them. From the cathedral terrace we have a view of the tortuous streets of the town, with its picturesque, irregular piles of buildings, a beautiful view of the blue lake, and the battlements of the distant peaks of Savoy. The cathedral, which is now a Protestant church, is very fine, with its cluster columns supporting the graceful vaulted roof over sixty feet above. It is three hundred and thirty-three feet long and one hundred and forty-three feet in width; and at one end, near where the high altar once stood, we were shown deep marks worn into the stone floor, which the guide averred were worn by the mailed knees of thousands of crusaders, who knelt there, one after the other, as they received the priestly blessing as their army passed through here on its way to do battle with the Saracen, and recover the Holy Sepulchre.
From the Beau Rivage Hotel we took steamer, and sailed along the shore, passing Vevay, with its handsome hotels, the romantic village of Clarens, and finally landing at Villeneuve, rode up to the beautifully situated Hotel Byron. This hotel, although small compared with the others, was admirably kept, and is in one of the most romantic and lovely positions that can be imagined. It is placed upon a broad terrace, a little above the shore, and, being at the very end of the lake, commands an extensive view of both sides, with all lovely and romantic scenery.
There, as we sat beneath the trees, we looked upon the scene, which is just as Byron wrote about it, and as true to the description as if written yesterday. The "clear placid Leman" is as blue as if colored with indigo. There was Jura; there were "the mountains, with their thousand years of snow;" the wide, long lake below; there, at our left, went the swift Rhone, who
"cleaves his way betweenHeights which appear as lovers who have parted in hate."
"cleaves his way betweenHeights which appear as lovers who have parted in hate."
"cleaves his way between
Heights which appear as lovers who have parted in hate."
At a little distance we could see
"Clarens, sweet Clarens, birthplace of deep love;"
andthere, directly before us, was the "small green isle" that the prisoner of Chillon saw from his dungeon window; and only a quarter of a mile away is the Castle of Chillon itself. Down the dusty road we started to visit this celebrated place, which almost every visitor who has read the poem feels that he is acquainted with.
The castle, which is small, is on a point of land that juts out into the lake, and its whole appearance realizes an imagination of a gloomy old feudal castle, or prison. It was formerly surrounded by the waters of the lake, and is still connected on one side with the land by a drawbridge, and the lake washes up to its very base, seven hundred feet deep, on the other. Something of the romance of the place is taken away by the railway track, within a few rods of the drawbridge, and the shrieking locomotive rushes past the very point where once stood the castle outworks.
The massive, irregular walls of this old castle have five or six towers, with the loopholes and battlements of old times. We crossed the bridge, passed into the old rooms—the Hall of Knights, and the Chamber of Question, where the rack and other instruments of torture were used upon the victims of jealous tyrants. Here we grasped a now useless fragment of old shattered machinery, which had once been bathed with the sweat of agony, as the victim's limbs stretched and cracked beneath the terrible force of the executioner. Here was the huge stone that was fastened to the sufferer's feet when he was hoisted by the wrists to the iron staple above. This was the square chamber in the solid masonry, where the victim's groans were unheard by those without, now transformed into a peaceful storehouse for an old wagon or two, with the sun streaming in at a square opening in the thick wall. But a few steps from here, and we come to theoubliette, the staircase down which the victim made three or four steps, and then went plunging a hundred feet or more into the yawning chasm of blackness upon the jagged rocks, or into the deep waters of the lake below.
But what we all came to see were the dungeons beneath the castle, the scene of Byron's story. These dungeons are several cells, of different sizes, dug out of the rock upon which the massive arches of the castle seem to rest. The two largest of them are beneath the dining and justice halls. From the latter we were shown a narrow staircase, descending into a little narrow recess, where victims were brought down, and strangled with a rope thrown across an oak beam, which still remains, blackened with age. Near it was another narrow, gloomy cell, said to be that in which the prisoner passed the night previous to execution, and near by the place where thousands of Jews were beheaded in the thirteenth century, on accusation of poisoning the wells, and causing the plague. The gloomy place fairly reeked with horror; its stones seemed cemented with blood, and the very sighing of the summer breeze without was suggestive of the groans of the sufferers who had been tortured and murdered within this terrible prison.
Next we came to the dungeon where
"There are seven pillars of Gothic mould,"
and therearethe pillars to which the prisoners were chained, and there is the stone floor, worn by the pacing of the prisoner, as his footsteps, again and again as the weary years went by, described the circuit of his chain. Bonivard's pillar, to which he was chained for six weary years, hearing no sound but the plashing of the waters of the lake without, or the clanking of his own chain, is thickly covered with autographs, carved and cut into it. Conspicuous among them is that of Byron, which looks so fresh and new as to excite suspicion that it has been occasionally deepened, "Old Mortality" like, in order that the record may not be lost.
Here we were, then,
"In Chillon's dungeons, deep and old."
Now every word of Byron's poem, that we had read and heard recited at school, and which made such an impression on our mind when a boy, came back to us.
Which was the pillar the younger brotherwas chained to?
There was "the crevice in the wall," where the slanting sunbeam came in.
Here was the very iron ring at the base of the huge pillar; there were the barred windows—narrow slits, through which the setting sun streamed, and to which the prisoner climbed to look upon the scene without,—
"to bendOnce more upon the mountains highThe quiet of a loving eye."
"to bendOnce more upon the mountains highThe quiet of a loving eye."
"to bend
Once more upon the mountains high
The quiet of a loving eye."
I stood, and mused, and dreamed, as my companions passed on, and suddenly started to find myself alone in that terrible place, and, with a shudder, I hurried after the voices, leaving the gloomy dungeon behind me; after which the white-curtained, quiet room of the Hotel Byron seemed a very palace, and the beautiful view of lovely lake and lofty mountain a picture that lent additional charm to liberty and freedom.
Is it to be wondered at that so many people quote Byron at this place? For it is his poetry that has given such a peculiar and nameless charm to it, that if one has a spark of poetic fire in his composition, and sits out amid the flowers and trees, of a pleasant afternoon, looking at the blue lake, the distant, white-walled town, the little isle, with its three trees, that the prisoner saw from his dungeon, and even sees the eagle riding on the blast, up towards the great Jura range,—Jura, that answered,—
"through her misty shroud,Back to the joyous Alps, that call on her aloud,"—
"through her misty shroud,Back to the joyous Alps, that call on her aloud,"—
"through her misty shroud,
Back to the joyous Alps, that call on her aloud,"—
and follows up his thought by reading part of the third canto of Childe Harold, in which Lake Leman and a thunder storm in the Alps are described, he feels very much like repeating it aloud.
Not having Childe Harold to read, I found relief in quoting those passages that everybody knows, and doing the following bit of inspiration upon the spot:—
Dreams of my youth, my boyhood's castles fair,That seemed, in later years, but made of air,Are these the scenes that now my soul entrance,Scenes hallowed in dim history and romance?This dark old castle, with its wave-washed wall,Its ancient drawbridge, and its feudal hall,Its dreary dungeon, where the sweet sun's rayScarce tells the tenant that without 'tis day;These seven grim pillars of the Gothic mould,Where weary years the chainéd captive told,Waited, and wept, and prayed for freedom sweet,Paced round the dungeon pillar, till his feetWore in the floor of rock this time-enduring markOf cruelty of men, in ages past and dark.Glorious Childe Harold! How, in boyhood's age,Longing I traced that wondrous pilgrimage.Thine imperishable verse invests these mountains grandWith new glories. Can it be that here I standAnd gaze, as thou, upon the self-same things?The glassy lake, "the eagle on the blast," who slowly wingsHis flight to the gray peaks that lift their crests on high,In everlasting grandeur to the sky?There rise the mountain peaks, here shines the lake;Familiar scenes the beauteous picture make.The "white-walled, distant town," glassed in the tide,And on its breast the whiter sails still ride,As when thine eye swept o'er the lovely view;Thy glorious fancies and imagination grewT' immortal verse, and with a nameless charmEmbalmed the scene for ages yet to come.Others shall, deep in Chillon's dungeon drear,Muse round th' historic pillars, for 'twas here,If we accept th' entrancing fable of thy lay,The brothers pined, and wasted life away.The guide clanks here the rusted iron ring—We shudder; "iron is a cankering thing."Through the rent walls a silver sunbeam flashes;Faint is the sound of waves that 'gainst them dashes;There is the window where, with azure wing,The bright bird perched the prisoner heard sing;Here, 'neath our very feet, perhaps, the placeThe boy, "his mother's image in fair face,"Was laid. 'Tis but a fable; yet we love to traceThese pictures, hallowed in our youthful dreams,And think thy lay all truthful as it seems.
Dreams of my youth, my boyhood's castles fair,That seemed, in later years, but made of air,Are these the scenes that now my soul entrance,Scenes hallowed in dim history and romance?This dark old castle, with its wave-washed wall,Its ancient drawbridge, and its feudal hall,Its dreary dungeon, where the sweet sun's rayScarce tells the tenant that without 'tis day;These seven grim pillars of the Gothic mould,Where weary years the chainéd captive told,Waited, and wept, and prayed for freedom sweet,Paced round the dungeon pillar, till his feetWore in the floor of rock this time-enduring markOf cruelty of men, in ages past and dark.Glorious Childe Harold! How, in boyhood's age,Longing I traced that wondrous pilgrimage.Thine imperishable verse invests these mountains grandWith new glories. Can it be that here I standAnd gaze, as thou, upon the self-same things?The glassy lake, "the eagle on the blast," who slowly wingsHis flight to the gray peaks that lift their crests on high,In everlasting grandeur to the sky?There rise the mountain peaks, here shines the lake;Familiar scenes the beauteous picture make.The "white-walled, distant town," glassed in the tide,And on its breast the whiter sails still ride,As when thine eye swept o'er the lovely view;Thy glorious fancies and imagination grewT' immortal verse, and with a nameless charmEmbalmed the scene for ages yet to come.Others shall, deep in Chillon's dungeon drear,Muse round th' historic pillars, for 'twas here,If we accept th' entrancing fable of thy lay,The brothers pined, and wasted life away.The guide clanks here the rusted iron ring—We shudder; "iron is a cankering thing."Through the rent walls a silver sunbeam flashes;Faint is the sound of waves that 'gainst them dashes;There is the window where, with azure wing,The bright bird perched the prisoner heard sing;Here, 'neath our very feet, perhaps, the placeThe boy, "his mother's image in fair face,"Was laid. 'Tis but a fable; yet we love to traceThese pictures, hallowed in our youthful dreams,And think thy lay all truthful as it seems.
Dreams of my youth, my boyhood's castles fair,
That seemed, in later years, but made of air,
Are these the scenes that now my soul entrance,
Scenes hallowed in dim history and romance?
This dark old castle, with its wave-washed wall,
Its ancient drawbridge, and its feudal hall,
Its dreary dungeon, where the sweet sun's ray
Scarce tells the tenant that without 'tis day;
These seven grim pillars of the Gothic mould,
Where weary years the chainéd captive told,
Waited, and wept, and prayed for freedom sweet,
Paced round the dungeon pillar, till his feet
Wore in the floor of rock this time-enduring mark
Of cruelty of men, in ages past and dark.
Glorious Childe Harold! How, in boyhood's age,
Longing I traced that wondrous pilgrimage.
Thine imperishable verse invests these mountains grand
With new glories. Can it be that here I stand
And gaze, as thou, upon the self-same things?
The glassy lake, "the eagle on the blast," who slowly wings
His flight to the gray peaks that lift their crests on high,
In everlasting grandeur to the sky?
There rise the mountain peaks, here shines the lake;
Familiar scenes the beauteous picture make.
The "white-walled, distant town," glassed in the tide,
And on its breast the whiter sails still ride,
As when thine eye swept o'er the lovely view;
Thy glorious fancies and imagination grew
T' immortal verse, and with a nameless charm
Embalmed the scene for ages yet to come.
Others shall, deep in Chillon's dungeon drear,
Muse round th' historic pillars, for 'twas here,
If we accept th' entrancing fable of thy lay,
The brothers pined, and wasted life away.
The guide clanks here the rusted iron ring—
We shudder; "iron is a cankering thing."
Through the rent walls a silver sunbeam flashes;
Faint is the sound of waves that 'gainst them dashes;
There is the window where, with azure wing,
The bright bird perched the prisoner heard sing;
Here, 'neath our very feet, perhaps, the place
The boy, "his mother's image in fair face,"
Was laid. 'Tis but a fable; yet we love to trace
These pictures, hallowed in our youthful dreams,
And think thy lay all truthful as it seems.
Weleave Villeneuve, and the pleasant Hotel Byron, with regret, and
"Once more on the deck I stand,Of my own swift-gliding craft;"
"Once more on the deck I stand,Of my own swift-gliding craft;"
"Once more on the deck I stand,
Of my own swift-gliding craft;"
or, in other words, we are again on board one of the pretty little lake steamers, paddling through the blue waters of Lake Geneva. Back we went, past Vevay and Ouchy, with their elegant hotels and gardens; past Clarens, and amid scenes of exquisite and picturesque beauty, for five or six hours, till we reach Geneva, at the other extreme of this lovely sheet of water, about fifty-five miles from Villeneuve. There is nothing very striking in this city to the tourist,—none of those curious old walls, towers, cathedrals, or quaint and antique-looking streets that he finds in so many of the other old European cities. There is a long and splendid row of fine buildings upon the quay on the river bank, elegant jewelry stores and hotels, a few other good streets, and the usual amount of narrow alleys and dirty lanes.
The pleasantest part of the city seen during our brief stay was the fine quays, and the town at that part of the lake where it began to narrow into a river, with the splendid bridge spanning it, and a little island at about the middle of the bridge, or rather just at one side of it, and connecting with it by a pretty suspension bridge. This little island is Rousseau's Island, has his bronze statue, and pleasant shade trees upon it, a charming little promenade and seats, and is an agreeable resort, besides being an admirable point to view the blue lake, the River Rhone emerging from it with arrowy swiftness, and the snowy Mont Blanc chain of mountains in the distance. From the windows of our room in Hotel Ecu de Genève, we look down upon the swiftly-flowing blue tide of the river, upon which, nearly all day, black and white swans float, breasting against the current, and apparently keeping just about in the same place, arching their necks gracefully, and now and then going over to their home on a little isle just above Rousseau's, or coming on shore here and there—popular pets, and well cared for.
The display of jewelry, particularly watches and chains, in the splendid shops along the grand quay, is very fine. Geneva is headquarters for watches and chains, and nearly all Americans who mean to buy those articles abroad do so at Geneva, for two reasons; first, because a very good article can be bought there much cheaper than at home; and next, because they are always assured of the quality of the gold. None is sold at any of the shops in Geneva under eighteen carats in fineness. Very handsome enamelled jewelry, of the best workmanship, is also sold in Geneva. Indeed, the quality of the material and the excellence of the workmanship of the Geneva jewelry are obvious even to the uninitiated. In Paris more elaborate designs and a greater variety can be found, but the prices are from fifteen to twenty per cent. higher.
I had always supposed, from a boy, that Geneva was overflowing with musical box manufacturers, from the fact that all I used to see in the stores at home were stamped with the name of that city. Judge of my surprise in finding scarcely any exhibited in the shop windows here. At the hotel a fine large one played in the lower hall, with drum accompaniment, and finding from the dealer's cards beside it that it was intended as a sample of his wares, we went to his factory across the river, where the riddle was explained in the fact that the retail shopkeepers demanded so large a commission for selling, that the music-box makers had refused to send any more to them for sale. This may be a good move for their jobbing trade, but death to the retail trade with foreigners. Berne is the place for music-boxes.
Returning across the long bridge to our hotel, we saw a specimen of Swiss clothes washing, and which in a measure may constitute some of the reasons why some of the inhabitants of this part of the world change their linen so seldom. Beneath a long wooden shed, with its side open to the swift-flowing stream, were a row of stout-armed, red-cheeked women bending over a long wash-board, which extended into the stream before them. Seizing a shirt, they first gave it a swash into the stream; next it was thoroughly daubed with soap, and received other vigorous swashes into the water, and wasthen drawn forth dripping, moulded into a moist mass, and beaten with a short wooden bludgeon with a will; then come two or three more swashes and a thrashing by the stalwart washerwoman of the garment down upon the hard board before her with a vigor that makes the buttons spatter out into the stream like a charge of bird shot. After witnessing this, I accounted for the recent transformation of a new linen garment by one washing into a mass of rags and button splinters. This style of washing may be avoided to some extent by particular direction, but the gloss or glazing which the American laundries put upon shirt fronts seems to be unknown on the continent.
The sun beat down fiercely as we started out of Geneva,—one of the hottest places in Switzerland I really believe,—and for fifteen miles or so its rays poured down pitilessly upon the unshaded road. Grateful indeed was a verdant little valley, bounded by lofty mountains, and the cliff road shaded with woods, that we next reached, and rattled through a place called Cluses; and going over a bridge spanning the River Arve, we entered a great rocky gorge, and again began to feel the cold breath of the mountains, and come in sight of grand Alpine ranges, snowy peaks, and rushing waterfalls. Finally we reach Sallanches. Here we have a fine view of the white and dazzling peaks of Mont Blanc towering into the blue sky, apparently within two or three miles from where we stand, but which our driver tells us are nearly fifteen miles away.
Again we are in the midst of the magnificent scenery of the great mountain passes, verdant and beautiful slopes, gray splintered peaks, huge mountain walls, wild picturesque crags, waterfalls dashing down the mountain sides far and near, the whole air musical with their rush; and the breath of the Alps was pure, fresh, and invigorating as cordial to the lungs.
We that a few hours ago were limp, wilted, and moist specimens of humanity, were now bright, cheery, and animated; we quoted poetry, laughed, sang, and exhausted ourterms of admiration at the great rocky peaks that seemed almost lost in the heavens, or the fir-clad mountain side that jutted its dark fringe sharply against the afternoon sky. Beyond, as ever, rose the pure frosted peaks, and as they glowed and sparkled, and finally grew rose-colored and pink in the sunset, it became almost like a dream of enchantment, that darkness gradually blotted out from view.
We had started from Geneva with coat and vest thrown aside for a linen duster; we descended into the valley of Chamouny with coat and vest replaced, and covered with a substantial surtout. As we came down to the village, the driver pointed out to us what looked like a great blue steel shield, thousands of feet up in the heavens, hanging sharply out from the dome of impenetrable blackness above, and shining in a mysterious light. It was the first beams of the rising moon, as yet invisible, striking upon the clear, blue ice of a great glacier far above us. It gradually came more distinctly into view, flashing out in cold, icy splendor, as the moon began to frost the opposite mountain, from behind which it seemed to climb into the heavens with a fringe of pale silver. We had expressed disappointment at not being able to enter Chamouny by daylight, but found some compensation in the novel scene of moonlight upon these vast fields of ice, with their sharp points rising up like the marshalled spears of an army of Titans, glittering in the moonlight, or stretching away in other directions in great sheets of blue ice, or ghostly snow shrouds in the dark distance. We reached the Hotel Royal at nine and a half P. M., thoroughly tired with our eleven hours' ride.
Fatigued with travel, I certainly felt no inclination to rise early the next morning; and so, when a sonorous cow-bell passed, slowly sounding beneath our window at about four and a half A. M., I mentally anathematized the wearer, and composed myself for a renewal of sleep. Scarce comfortably settled ere another cow-bell, with a more spiteful clang, was heard approaching; clank, clink, clank, clink, like the chain about a walking ghost, it neared the window at thefoot of my couch, passed, and faded off into the distance. That's gone; but what is this distant tinkle? Can it be there is sleighing here, and this is a party returning home? Tinkle, jinkle, tinkle, tinkle—there they come!
"Away to the window I flew like a flash,Tore open"—the curtain, looked out through the sash,—"When what to my wondering eyes should appearBut"
"Away to the window I flew like a flash,Tore open"—the curtain, looked out through the sash,—"When what to my wondering eyes should appearBut"
"Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open"—the curtain, looked out through the sash,—
"When what to my wondering eyes should appear
But"
a procession of goats being driven to pasture by a girl in the gray light of the morning! With an ejaculation more fervid than elegant, the couch was sought again; but it was of no avail; a new campanologian company was heard approaching with differently toned instruments of torture; this was in turn succeeded by another, till it seemed as if every note in the bell-ringing gamut had been sounded, and every contrivance, from a church to a tea bell, had been rung.
After half an hour of this torture, flesh and blood could endure it no longer, and I went once more to the window, to find that beneath it ran the path by which the goats and cattle of the whole district were driven to pasture, and, casting my eyes upwards, saw the gorgeous spectacle of sunrise on Mont Blanc, whose glistening peaks were in full view. Half an hour's admiration of this spectacle was enough for one not clad for the occasion, and having made the discovery that the cows and goats were all driven to pasture before half past six A. M., we took our revenge in two hours of tired nature's sweet restorer after that time, before discussing breakfast and topographically examining Chamouny.
Chamouny appears to be a village of eight or ten hotels, a church or two, and a collection of peasants' huts and poor Swiss houses, surrounded on all sides by the grandest and most sublime scenery ever looked upon. It seems to be a grand central point in Switzerland for the tourists of all nations. The great hotels are full, theirtable d'hotesare noisy with the clatter of tongues of half a dozen nationalities, and gay with the fashions of Paris. The principal portion of theinhabitants are either employés of the hotels; or guides, and these Chamouny guides are the best, most honest, and most reliable of their craft in Europe. They are formed into a regular association, and bound by very strict rules, such as not being permitted to guide until of a certain age, not to take the lead till after a certain amount of experience; and absolute honesty and temperance being requisite for the service. Indeed, I find that some consider honesty a characteristic of the Swiss in this region; for upon my remonstrating with a fellow-tourist, an old traveller, for leaving his watch and chain exposed upon his dressing-table during his absence from his room at the hotel, he replied there was no danger, as the attendants in the wing of the house he occupied were all Swiss, and no English, French, or Americans ever came there. To be a guide upon the excursions from Chamouny requires a man of very steady habits, and of unquestionable skill and endurance; and all of these men that we saw appeared so. They are very jealous also of their reputation, and never allow it to be injured by incompetency, dishonesty, or any species of imposition upon travellers.
Here we are in the midst of Alps, a whole panorama of them in full view on every side. The River Arve, a dark-colored stream fresh from the glaciers, roars and rushes through the valley into which Chamouny seems sunk. Above us are great mountains with snowy peaks; great mountains with dark-green pines at their base, and splintered, gray, needle-like points; glittering glaciers, like frozen rivers, can be seen coming down through great ravines; waterfalls are on the mountain-sides; and towering up like a gigantic dome, the vastness and awful sublimity of which is indescribable, is Mont Blanc, which the lover of grand mountain scenery will pause and gaze at, again and again, in silent awe and admiration. But whither shall we go? There are dozens of excursions that may be made. Looking across a level pasture of the valley from our window, we see a waterfall leaping down the mountain. An easy path to it is visible, and we make a little excursion, in the forenoon, to the Falls of Blatière, just to get used to climbing; for at two P. M. mules were at the door, with trusty guides at their heads, and away we started for the ascent of the Flegère, a height on the spur of one of the mountains, commanding a fine view of the Mer de Glace and Glacier des Bois, which are directly opposite. The ascent of this occupied some three hours, and the path reminds one very much of the ascent of Mount Washington, New Hampshire, although the distant scenery is of course incomparably more grand. We went through woods, and over rocks, across stony slopes, and up zigzags, until finally we reached the Cross of Flegère, the point of view.
From this perch we looked right over across on to the Mer de Glace, where it gushed out like a great frozen torrent around the Montanvert, and the Glacier des Bois, another silent ice torrent, that flowed out of it. At our right, far down, five thousand feet below, rested Chamouny, with the cloudy Arve running beside it. Away off to the left were a number of needle-like peaks, with vast snow-fields between them; and nearly in front of us, a little to the left, rose the sharp, jagged points about the Aiguille Verte, and a right lofty needle it was, its point piercing the air to the height of twelve thousand five hundred feet; and then there were the Red Needles, and the Middle Needles, and, in fact, a whole chain of peaks of the range—the best view we have had yet, including, of course, the grand old snowy sovereign, Mont Blanc, at the right, overtopping all the rest.
An hour was spent gazing upon this magnificent scene; after which we began the descent, which was made in about an hour and a quarter, bringing us to the hotel door at seven P. M. Our leading guide we discovered to be an experienced one, of many years' service, who had guided Louis Napoleon, on his visit here in 1861, soon after Savoy was annexed to France—a service of which he was quite proud, as the emperor held his hand during his excursion to the centre of the Mer de Glace (always necessary for safety); he was also interested in the American war of the rebellion, and, like all the Swiss who know enough to read, was strong on the Union side of the question. Being an old soldier, the song of "Tramp, tramp, the boys are marching," had especial charms for him, and he called for a repetition of the "Glory, glory, hallelujah" chorus, till he had mastered the words himself, from a young Union officer of our party. Of course we were glad to engage our cheerfulvieux moustachefor our excursion on the morrow to the Montanvert and Mer de Glace. In the evening we were called out to see the lights of a party at the Grand Mulets, where they had halted for the night, preparatory to completing the ascent of Mont Blanc. The sight of the little twinkling flame, away up in the darkness, I confess, awakened no desire in my mind to make the ascent; and I fully agree with one of the guide-books, which says it cannot conceive why people will undergo the trial and fatigue of the ascent, when they can risk their lives in a balloon for one half of the expense.
Next morning we started with guides, and on muleback, for the Montanvert, directly opposite the Flegère, the scene of our ascent the day before, twenty minutes' ride across the meadow, and by the river side; and then we began to ascend the mountain, through romantic pine woods, and by a zigzag pathway upon the brow of the mountain, crossing, occasionally, the deep channel of an avalanche, or an earth-slide, and getting occasional glimpses of the valley below or the mountain opposite, till, after a three hours' climb, we stand upon a rugged crag, overlooking the tremendous and awful sea of ice, and the huge mountains that enclose it.
This great petrified or frozen stream, between its precipitous banks, seemed more like a mass of dirty snow or dingy plaster than ice. Looking far up into the gorge between the mountains, we could see where the ice and snow looked purer and more glistening than that directly beneath us. Indeed, we began to imagine that the terrors of the passage, told by travellers and letter-writers, were pure fables; and, to some extent, they are; and a marked instance of magnifying the dangers is shown in the account of Miss FrederikaBremer's experience, quoted in Harper's Guide-Book, which, to any one of ordinary nerves, who has recently made the passage, appears to be a most ridiculous piece of affectation.
We descended the rocky sides of the cliff, seamed and creased by the ice-flood, and stood upon the great glacier. At first, near the shore, it seemed like a mixture of dirty snow and ice, such as is frozen in a country road after a thaw, and its surface but slightly irregular, and but little trouble to be anticipated in crossing; but as we advanced far into its centre, we began to realize more forcibly the appropriateness of the title given to this great ice-field. On every side of us were frozen billows, sharp, upheaved points, great spires of ice, congealed waves, as if a mighty torrent were tumbling down this great ravine, and had been suddenly arrested by the wand of the ice-king in mid career. We came to crevasses,—broad splits,—revealing the clear, clean, blue ice, as we looked hundreds of feet down into them. We crossed and passed some of them on narrow ice-bridges, not more than two or three feet wide, where notched steps were cut for us by the forward guide's hatchet, and we held the firm grasp of one before and one behind, to guard against a slip, which might have been fatal.
We passed little pools, which were melted into the bosom of this silent field, and now and then a huge piece of rock in the midst of a pellucid pool, which had been borne along upon the surface of this slow-moving stream since it fell from the mountain-side, and gradually sank by its weight, and the action of the sun. Midway, we were bidden to halt and look away up the ravine, and see the frozen stream that was coming tumbling down towards us. There was genuine ice enough now—waves, mounds, peaks, hillocks, great blue sheets, and foaming masses. It sparkled like silver beneath the sunbeams between the dark framework of the two mountains on either side. We stopped talking. Not a sound was heard. The stillness was as profound as the hush preceding a thunder storm; and, as we listened, the crash of a great boulder that had become loosed by the slow-movingtorrent, falling into a crevasse from its brink, echoed for a moment in the solitude, and all was still again.
The sure-footed guides, with their iron-spiked shoes, led us on. The ladies were a trifle nervous as we passed one or two of the narrower ice-bridges; but on the route we crossed there were not above three or four such, and the whole passage was made in less than an hour. Arrived at the other side, we clambered up the cliff, and began our descent. I should have remarked, that we sent back the mules from Montanvert, to meet us upon our descent on the other side of the Mer de Glace, on foot, by the way of the Mauvais Pas, a tiresome, but most interesting tramp of three or four miles, over rugged rocks and rough pathways, but such a one as gives real zest to Alpine journeys, from its exciting scenes.
We now entered upon the celebrated Mauvais Pas. I had read so much, from youth upwards, about the dangers of this pass, that I began to wonder if we had done right in bringing ladies, and how we should get around that sharp projection of the cliff; where a traveller is said to be obliged to hold on to the face of the rock, and stretch his leg around the projecting cliff, and feel for a foothold, the guides guarding him from a slip out into empty space, by standing, one on each side of the projection, and forming an outside hand-rail, by holding each end of an alpenstock. Was not this the pass where the Swiss hunter met the chamois, and, finding that neither could turn backward, had lain down and let the herd jump over him?
But how these travellers' tales and sublime exaggerations vanish as one approaches them! The Mauvais Pas may have beentrès mauvaismany years ago; but either its dangers have been greatly exaggerated, or the hand of improvement has rendered itpas mauvaisat present. It is a series of steps, hewn for some distance along the rocky side of the mountain. These steps are about three feet in width from the face of the cliff, into which a strong iron rail is fastened, by which the traveller may hold on, the whole distance.The outer edge is unprotected, and, at some points, it must be confessed, it is an ugly look to glance down the tremendous heights to the jagged rocks below, that form the shores of the icy sea; but in some of the more dangerous places, modern improvement has provided an additional safeguard in an outer rail, so that the danger is but trifling to persons of ordinary nerve.
Finally, we reach the end of this narrow pathway, and find ourselves at a small house on a jutting precipice, called theChapeau; and here we pause and breathe a while, buy beer, Swiss bread and honey, curious Alpine crystals, &c., and enjoy another one of those wondrous Alpine views which, once seen, live in memory forever as a scene of sublime beauty and grandeur.
They call all the mountain peaks needles here. There were the Aiguilles de Charmoz, ten thousand two hundred feet high, and ever so many other "aiguilles," whose names I have not noted. As we looked down here upon the glacier, it seemed to be more broken and upheaved; it rose into huge, sharp, icicle-pointed waves, rent in every direction by large cracks and fissures; the great pointed pinnacles and upheavals assumed as curious appearances as the frost-work upon a window; there were a procession of monks, the pinnacles of a Gothic cathedral, and the ruins of a temple. It is here that the Mer de Glace begins to debouche into the Glacier des Bois, which, in turn, runs down into the Chamouny valley, and from which runs the Arveiron; in fact, the end of this glacier is the river's source.
Down we go through the woods, and finally strike upon a rocky, rugged path, on through a mass of miles of pulverized rock, fragments of boulders, stone chips, and the rocky debris of ages, which has been brought down by the tremendous grinding of the slow-moving glaciers, till we reach a valley covered with the moraine in front of the great ice arches of the Glacier des Bois, out of which rushes the river. Of course here was a wooden hut, with Swiss crystals, carved work, and a fee of a franc, if we would like to go under the glacier. There had been a winding cavern hewed into this great ice wall, and planks laid along into it for two hundred feet or more, and, with umbrellas to protect us, the author and two other gentlemen started for this ice grotto, about a hundred rods distant.
Arrived near its mouth, we beheld, on one side, the river, rushing out from under a great natural ice arch, fifty feet in height, the glacier here appearing to be about one hundred feet in height; the stream came out with a force and vigor, gained, doubtless, from running a long distance beneath the ice before it came out into the daylight. The ice grotto, which has been hollowed out for visitors, is eight or ten feet high, and the guide, who goes on before, lights it up with numerous candles, placed at intervals, causing the clear, deep-blue ice to resemble walls of polished steel; but the thought suggested by one visitor when we had reached the farthermost extremity, "What if the arches overhead should give way beneath the pressure?" did not incline us to protract our stay in its chilly recesses; so, returning to the chalet, where our mules were waiting, that had been sent round and down from the Montanvert, we completed the day's laborious excursion by an hour's ride back to the hotel at Chamouny.
Now good by to Chamouny, and away to the Tête Noir Pass, on our way to Martigny. Starting at eight o'clock A. M., a vehicle carried us to Argentière, about two hours' ride, where mules were found in waiting, by the aid of which the rest of the journey, occupying the remainder of the day, was made, though why the road of this pass is not laid out like others, as a carriage road, I am at a loss to comprehend, unless it be that the fees for mules and guides are too profitable a source of income to be easily relinquished. Indeed, a large portion of the pass, in its present condition, could be traversed safely by a one-horse vehicle—some improvement over the tedious muleback ride of a whole day's duration.
The roadis romantic, pleasant, and picturesque, with deep gorges, dark pine-clad mountains, crags, and waterfalls. Invigorated by the fresh mountain air, we left our mules to follow in the train with the guides and ladies, and, alpenstock in hand, trudged forward on foot, keeping in advance by short cuts, and having an infinitely better opportunity, under the guidance of a tourist who had been over the route, of enjoying the scenery. We passed two or three waterfalls, walked over a spot noted as being swept by avalanches in the early spring, where was a cross in memory of a young count and two guides who fell beneath one: the guides say, when the avalanche is heard approaching, it is already too late to think of escaping, so swift is its career, and nothing but the hand of Providence will save the traveller from destruction.
Our path carried us through a wild, stony ravine, with great mountains on either side, and the inevitable river in the centre, rushing and foaming over the rocks. Then we went up and over a beautiful mountain path, commanding fine views of the distant mountains, with deep gorges below, then wound round the base of the Tête Noir Mountain and through the woods, and a tunnel, pierced through a rocky spur of the mountain, that jutted out upon the pass. We saw away across, from one point on our journey, the wild-looking road that was the route to the Pass of the Great St. Bernard, and at another, looked far down into the valley, where we could see the River Trient rushing and tumbling on its course. We soon came to a point, before commencing our descent, which commanded a view of the Rhone valley as far as Sion, spread out, seemingly, as flat as a carpet, with the river meandering through its entire length, the white chalets and brown roads looking rather hot in the blaze of the afternoon sunlight. The view of this valley—what little we saw of it—is far better at this distance than when one reaches its tumble-down towns and poor inhabitants.
We went down a pleasant descent, past orchards and farm-houses, till we reached Martigny, where we had supper, and were nearly devoured by mosquitos, so that at nine P. M. we were glad to take the railway train. How odd it seemed to be rattling over a railroad, in a comfortable railwaycarriage, after our mountain experiences! The train, at quarter past ten o'clock, landed us at Sion, where we took up our quarters at the Hotel de la Poste, an Italian inn, with an obsequious little French landlord, who was continually bowing, and rubbing his hands, as if washing them with invisible soap, and saying, "Oui, monsieur," to every question that was asked him, and withal looking so like the old French teacher of my boyhood's days, that it seemed as though it must be the old fellow, who had stopped growing old, and been transported here by some mysterious means.
The fifteen-mile mountain tramp I had made, and the day's journey, as a whole, caused the not very comfortable beds of the hotel to seem luxurious couches soon after arrival, and we therefore deferred interviews with Italian drivers, a crowd of whom were in attendance from Stressa, via the Simplon Road, and who were anxious to open negotiations, till the next morning, notwithstanding their assertions that they might be engaged and gone when we should come down to breakfast, and that we should, therefore, lose the magnificent opportunities they were offering.
We were fortunate in having the company of a gentleman who had frequently been over this route, and fully understood themodus operandiof making contracts with Italian post drivers, as will be seen. It seems that there are often drivers here at Sion who have driven parties from Stressa (via the Simplon) who desire to get a freight back, and with whom the tourist, if he understands matters, can make a very reasonable contract, as they prefer to take a party back at a low rate, rather than to wait long at an expense, or return with empty vehicles. If there be more than one (as in our case) of these waiting post drivers, there is likely to be a competition among them, which of course results to the tourist's advantage.
Therefore, after breakfast, instead of "having been engaged and gone," we found two or three anxious drivers, who jabbered with all their might about the merits of their respective vehicles and themselves, and were anxious to be engaged. The price mentioned asbon marchéat first was four hundred francs for our whole party of seven for the three days' journey over the Simplon Pass to Lake Maggiore; and really, I thought it was, and had I been the negotiator for the party, should have closed; but not so he who acted for us—acted in more senses than one; for when this price was named, he gave the true French deprecatory shrug of the shoulders, filled his pipe, and sat down on the hotel portico to smoke. Ere long he was waited upon by driver number two, who represented that three hundred and fifty francs would inducehimto take the party, "if monsieur would startto-day." Smoker only elevated his eyebrows, and thought if he "waited a few days there would be more carriages here."
In fifteen minutes the price was down to three hundred francs—no anxiety on the part of monsieur to close.
A smart young driver, whose team had been "eating their heads off" for three days, proposed two hundred and twenty francs, and to pay all expenses, except our own hotel bills; and monsieur concluded to accept him, putting the agreement, to prevent mistakes, in writing, which is necessary with the Italian drivers. The contract was duly signed.
"When would monsieur's party be ready?"
"In fifteen minutes;" and the calm, indifferent smoker, to the driver's surprise, became a lithe, elastic American, driving half a dozen servants nearly crazy by hurrying them down with the luggage, mustering the whole party with explanations of the necessity of starting at once, and helping the landlord's major-domo make out the bills, without giving any opportunity of getting in extras that we didn't have.
He shouted in Italian at the driver, who, with the stable-helpers, was putting in the horses, jabbered in French with the hotel servants, and in half an hour we were seated in the vehicle, with the luggage strapped on behind, and the old landlord and the waiters and porters bowing at the door, as we started, amid a volley of whip smacks, sounding like the firing of a bunch of Chinese crackers.
These post drivers are marvellously skilful at whip-snapping. They can almost crack out a tune with their whips, and they make a noise consistent with their ideas of the importance of their freight, or perhaps as a signal to the landlords that especial attention is required, as distinguished foreigners are coming; for, as they approached hotels, or drove into their court-yards, it was always with eight or a dozen pistol-like cracks in succession that brought out a bowing landlord and string of servants, who formed a double line from the carriage to the door, welcoming the tourist in with great deference and politeness. On the road the whip-cracks admonish all peasants, donkey-carts, and market-wagons to sheer off, and allow monsieur's carriage to pass; and, as he enters a little village, the fusillade from his lash brings half the population to the doors and windows.
Our first day's journey, after leaving Sion, was through the Rhone Valley—rather a hot ride, and tame and uninteresting after the grand views we had been enjoying. We passed Sierre on a hill-side, rattled over a bridge across the Rhone, having a view of pleasantly-wooded hills near at hand, and the great mountains in the background; then passed two or three other villages, and finally halted at a place called Tourtemagne for dinner. After this we pushed on, went past Visp, and in the afternoon trotted into Brieg, where, with a view to a good night's rest before the morrow's journey, we stopped for the night. After tea we had a magnificent view of sunset upon the lofty snow-clads above us, which fairly glowed in a halo of rose-pink—a beautiful and indescribable effect. Far away up on one of the mountain sides we were pointed to the road over which we were to journey on the morrow. After an early breakfast we started off with the usual fusillade of whip-cracks, and were soon upon the famous Simplon Road.
This magnificent road is one of the wonders of the old world. Its cost must have been enormous, and the cost of keeping it in such splendid condition very large, owing to the injury it must inevitably sustain from storms and avalanches during the winter season. The cost of the road is said to have averaged over three thousand pounds sterling per mile.The splendid engineering excites admiration from even the inexperienced in those matters. You go sometimes right up the very face of a steep mountain, that would seem to have originally been almost inaccessible, by means of a series of zigzags. Then again the road winds round a huge mountain wall, thousands of feet high on one side, with a yawning ravine thousands of feet deep on the other. Long tunnels pierce through the very heart of mountains. Bridges span dizzy heights and mad torrents. Great galleries, or shelters, protect some parts of the road, which are suspended midway up the mountain, from the avalanches which ever and anon thunder down from above. At one place, where a great a roaring cataract comes down, the road is conducted safely under the sheet, which scatters but a few drops of spray upon it, except the covered portion, as it leaps clear over the passage, and plunges into the deep abyss below, a mass of thundering foam.
This part of the road, we were told, although it was a section not six hundred feet long, was one of the most difficult to construct, and required the labor of a hundred men for over a year and a half before it could be completed, it being necessary in some places to suspend the workmen by ropes from above, until a platform and a footing could be built. And, indeed, standing there with the torrent roaring above, and leaping clear over our heads away down into that rocky gorge, the clean, broad road the only foothold about there, we could only wonder at human skill, perseverance, and ingenuity in overcoming natural obstacles. From the great glaciers far above the Kaltwasser come several other rushing cascades, one of which, as you approach, seems as if it would drop directly upon the road itself, but hits just short of it, and plunges directly under, so that you can stand on the arched bridge, and look right at it, as it comes leaping fiercely to wards you.
Murray gives the bridges, great and small, on this wonderful road between Brieg and Sesto as "six hundred and eleven, in addition to the far more vast and costly constructions, such as terraces of massive masonry, miles in length, ten galleries, either cut out of the living rock or built of solid stone, twenty houses of refuge to shelter travellers, and lodge the laborers constantly employed in taking care of the road. Its breadth is throughout at least twenty-five feet, in some places thirty feet, and the average slope nowhere exceeds six inches in six feet and a half."
After emerging from the Kaltwasser Glacier Gallery, we had a superb view of the Rhone Valley, with Brieg, which we had left in the morning, directly beneath us, while away across the valley, distinctly visible in the clear atmosphere, rose the Bernese Alps, with the Breithorn, and Aletshorn, and the great Aletsch Glacier distinctly visible. At the highest point of the pass is the Hospice, over six thousand two hundred feet above the level of the sea; and here we halted for a lunch, and then trudged on in advance, leaving the carriage and ladies to overtake us—enjoying the wild scenery of distant snow-capped mountains, great glaciers, with cascades pouring from their ruffled edges to the green valleys that were far below.
Soon after passing the little village of Simplon, we came to the never-to-be-forgotten ravine of Gondo, one of the wildest, grandest, and most magnificent gorges in the whole Alps. The ravine, as you proceed, grows narrower and narrower, with its huge, lofty walls of rock rising on either side. The furious River Diveria rushes through it like a regiment of white-plumed cavalry at full gallop, and its thundering roar is not unlike the tremendous rush of their thousand hoof-beats, as it goes up between these massy barriers. The gorge narrows till there is nought but road and river, with the black crags jutting out over the pathway, and we come to a huge black mass that seems a barrier directly across it; but through this the determined engineers have bored a great gallery, and we ride through a tunnel of six hundred and eighty-three feet in length, to emerge upon a new surprise, and a scene which called forth a shout of admiration from every one of us.
As we emerged from this dark, rocky grotto, we beheld the towering masses of rock on either side, like great walls of granite upholding, the blue masonry of heaven, that seemed bent like a vaulted arch above; and from one side, right at our very path, coming from far above with a roar like thunder, leaped a mass of foam, like a huge cascade of snowy ostrich plumes—the Fressinone Waterfall, which tossed its fine, scintillating spray upon the slender bridge that spanned the gorge, while the roaring cataract itself passed beneath, striking sixty or eighty feet below upon the black rocks. It is a magnificent cascade, and prepared us for the grandeur of the great gorge of Gondo, with its huge walls of rock rising two thousand feet high, which seemed, when we were hemmed in to their prison walls of black granite, as though there was no possible way out, except upwards to the strip of sky that roofed the narrow ravine.
Other cascades and waterfalls we saw, but none like the magnificent Fressinone, with the graceful and apparently slender-arched bridge, that almost trembled beneath its rush as we stood upon it—the huge rocky walls towering to heaven, the black entrance to the tunnel just beyond, looking, in the midst of this wild scene of terrific grandeur, like the cavern of some powerful enchanter—the wild, deep gorge, with the foaming waters swiftly gliding away in masses of tumbling foam far below, and all the surroundings so grand and picturesque as to make it no wonder that it is a favorite study for artists, as one of the most spirited of Alpine pictures.
We passed the granite pillar that marked the boundary line, and were in Italy; and soon after at the mountain custom-house and inn, where we were to dine. The officials are very polite, make scarce any examination whatever of the luggage of tourists; and our trunks remained undisturbed on the travelling carriage while we dined.
Now we begin to ride towards the valley, and soon begin to have Italian views of sunny landscape and trellised vines. We reach the town of Domo d' Ossola, and our driver proclaims his coming by afeu de joiewith the whip. The town looks like a collection of worn-out scenery thrown together promiscuously from an old theatre. Old shattered arches cross the street; half-ruined houses of solid masonry have the graceful pillars of their lower stories broken and cracked, and ornamented with strings of onions and bunches of garlic, sold in the shops within; old churches, with a Gothic arch here and there, are turned into a warehouse or a stable; tough old mahogany-colored women are seen squatting before baskets of peaches, grapes, and figs in the streets; dark-skinned, black-eyed girls, with the flat Italian head-dresses seen in pictures; men, dirty and lazy-looking, with huge black whiskers, dark, greasy complexions, in red and blue flannel shirts, and their coats thrown over their shoulders without putting their arms in the sleeves, the coats looking as though they had done many years duty in cleaning oiled machinery; curious houses with overhanging upper stories; striped awnings project outside of upper windows; a garlicky, greasy, Italian smell pervades the narrower streets, from which we were glad to emerge into the more open square, upon which our hotel—quite a spacious affair—was located.
Our carriage rattled beneath the arched entrance, and into the paved court-yard, where were three or four other similar equipages, and two great lumbering diligences, while the rattling peal of whip-crack detonations must have made the landlord think that a grand duke and suite, at least, were arriving; for he tumbled out, with half a dozen waiters, porters, and helpers, in a twinkling, and we were soon bestowed in cool and lofty rooms, with many bows and flourishes. This old hotel was a curiosity, many of its rooms opening upon the wooden gallery that ran all around and above the large paved court-yard, into which diligences arrived, stopped for the night, or took up their loads and departed, and post carriages came with their freights to and from the Simplon. It always had a group or two of drivers harnessing up, or wrangling over something or other, or travellers, stowing themselves away in the diligence; horses stamping, and jingling their bells and harnesses; tourists, hunting up luggage; or couriers, arranging matters for the travelling parties they were cheating.
The fatigue of a day's mountain ride, and continued sight-seeing, however, made us sleep soundly, despite any of these noises. Of all fatigues, the tourist ere long discovers the fatigue of a constant succession of sight-seeing to be the most exhausting; so that he soon comes to regard a tolerably good bed and clean room as among the most agreeable experiences of his journey. In the morning we were escorted to the carriage with many bows by the young Italian landlord, and his wife, who, with one of those splendid oval faces, beautiful hair descending in graceful curve to and away from her rich, pure brunette complexion, her wonderful great lustrous eyes, a head such as one seldom sees, except in a painting or upon a cameo, made every Englishman or American, when he first saw her, start with surprise, utter something to his neighbor, and always look at her a second time, evidently to the landlord's gratification, for he did not seem to have a particle of the traditional Italian jealousy about him—perhaps he had been married too long.
The landlord and his wife said something very pretty by way of a farewell, no doubt, for there were "grazias," "buonos," "addios," and some other words, which I remember having heard sung by singers at the opera, in his speech, to which our driver responded with a royal salute of whip-cracks, and we dashed out of the court-yard once more on our journey.
Our road now lay through the Italian valley, and we pass Vogogna, Ornavasso, and other towns, and things begin to wear a decidedly Italian aspect—the grape trellises, with their clustering fruit; half-ruined dwellings, with stucco work peeling off them; the general greasy, lazy, half-brigandish look of the men; and the partiality for high colors in dress on the part of the peasant women. Fresh from the invigorating air of the Alpine passes, we felt the full force of the Italian sun. Although late in August, the weather is not hotter, apparently, than in Boston; but when the sun gets fairly at you in Italy, it seems to shine clear through,and come out on the other side. Fifteen minutes in its blaze, without the protection of one of the yellow, green-lined umbrellas, will almost wilt the vigor out of anybody but a native. It goes through the frame like a Boston east wind.
With this sun shining from a blue, cloudless, Italian sky, it may well be imagined how grateful was a beautiful portion of the country, where there were shady olive groves, chestnut and fig trees, and how luscious were our first grapes and fruit purchased of the peasant women at the roadside. We passed, as we approached Lake Maggiore, a fine granite quarry, which seemed to have been laid under contribution to furnish posts for the telegraphic line. Think of that luxury, granite telegraph posts, fifteen feet high, of clear, handsome stone. We rode past them for miles and miles, and soon came in sight of the far-famed Maggiore. It was beautiful as a picture; and as our carriage drove along its shore, the cool afternoon breeze came fresh and grateful to us, after our heated experiences. Across one corner of the lake in a ferry-boat, a short drive farther by the lake shore, and we whirled up to the splendid Hotel des Iles Borromées directly fronting the lake, with its beautiful flower-garden, with walks and fountains. We found the interior of this hotel delightfully cool and clean, the staircases and floors of stone, and the bedsteads of iron—advantages of construction in Italy the utility of which the traveller soon learns to appreciate.
The lake is as charming as poets have sung and travellers told, with its beautiful island and lovely blue waters. The Isola Bella, directly opposite my windows, with its splendid terraces, one above the other, rising a hundred feet above the lake, and rich with its graceful cypresses, lemon trees, magnolias, orange trees, with golden fruit, and sparkling fountains, statues, and pillars, peeping through the luxurious foliage, is charming to look upon. But when—mysiestaover, and as the sun was low in the west, with a cool air coming from the water, and the little pleasure-boats, with their striped awnings, were gliding hither and thither—Isaw come down the road for his evening walk a brown-robed, barefooted, rope-girdled, shaven friar, and, from the opposite direction, a little dark-skinned Italian lad, with pointed hat, decorated with gay ribbons, rough leggings bound to his knee, and a mandolin in his hand, it seemed, in the soft, dreamy, hazy atmosphere, that I was looking upon an old oil painting. The effect was heightened when the boy struck his instrument, and began to sing—and beautifully he did sing, too. I have heard worse singing by some whose names were in large letters on the opera bills. The friar halted, and leaned on a gray rock at the road-side to listen, while he toyed absently with his rosary. Two or three peasant girls, in their bright costumes, and one with an earthen jar on her head, paused in a group, and a barelegged boatman, in a red cap, rested two tall oars upon the ground, the whole forming so picturesque a group as to look as if posed for a picture.
How pleasant is an evening sail on this lovely lake! how romantic are Isola Bella and its sister islands! how like a soft, dreamy picture is the whole scene! and how all the surroundings seemed exactly fitted to harmonize with it!—a purely Italian scene, the picturesque beauty of which will long linger in the memory.
We had a delightful sail from Stressa, along the shores of Maggiore to Sesto Calende, heard the sweet sound of convent bells come musically across its glassy tide, passed Arona, behind which we could see the colossal bronze statue of San Carlo Borromeo, sixty-six feet high, placed upon a pedestal forty feet in height, looking like an immense giant, with its hand stretched out towards the lake from the hill on which it stands. From Sesto Calende the railway train conveyed us to Milan, where we were landed in a magnificent railway station, the waiting rooms large and lofty, the ceilings elegantly frescoed, and the walls painted with beautifully executed allegorical pictures and Italian landscapes, giving one the idea that he had arrived in a country where artistic painting was a drug in the market, so lavishly was it used in this manner in the railway stations.
Our rooms at the Hotel Cavour look out on a handsome square and the public gardens. In the square stands a statue of Cavour, upon a pedestal placed at the top of a set of granite steps. Upon these steps, seated in the most natural position, is a bronze figure of the genius of fame or history (a female figure) represented in the act of inscribing Cavour's name with her pen upon the bronze pedestal. And so natural is this representation, that strangers who see the group in the evening for the first time, often fancy that some unauthorized person has got into the enclosure, and is defacing the statue.
The first sight to be seen in Milan is the cathedral; and before this magnificent architectural wonder, all cathedrals I have yet looked upon seem to sink into insignificance.
A forest of white marble pinnacles, a wilderness of elegant statues, an interminable maze, and never-ending mass of bewildering tracery, greets the beholder, who finds himself gaping at it in astonishment, and wondering where he will begin to look it over, or if it will be possible for him to see it all. The innumerable graceful pinnacles, surmounted by statues, the immense amount of luxurious carving prodigally displayed on every part of the exterior, strike the visitor with amazement. Its architecture is Gothic, and the form that of a Latin cross; and to give an idea of its size, I copy the following authentic figures of its dimensions: "The extreme length is four hundred and eighty-six feet, and the breadth two hundred and fifty-two feet; the length of the transept two hundred and eighty-eight feet, and the height inside, from pavement to roof, one hundred and fifty-three feet; height from pavement to top of the spire, three hundred and fifty-five feet."
After taking a walk around the exterior of this wonderful structure, and gazing upon the architectural beauties of the great white marble mountain, we prepared to ascend to the roof before visiting the interior.
This ascent is made by a broad white marble staircase of one hundred and fifty-eight steps, the end of which being reached, the visitor finds himself amid an endless variety of beautiful pinnacles, flying buttresses, statues, carvings, and tracery. Here are regular walks laid out, terminating in or passing handsome squares, in the centre of which are life-size statues by Canova, Michael Angelo, and other great sculptors. You come to points commanding extensive views of the elegant flying buttresses, which are beautifully wrought, and present a vista of hundreds of feet of white marble tracery as elegant, elaborate, and bewildering as the tree frost-work of a New England winter.
Here is a place called the "Garden," where you are surrounded by pinnacles, richly ornamented Gothic arches, flying buttresses, with representations of leaves, flowers, pomegranate heads, tracery, statuary, and ornaments in such prodigality as to fairly excite exclamation at the profuseness displayed. In every angle of the building the eye meets new and surprising beauties, magnificent galleries, graceful arcs, and carved parapets, pointed, needle-like pinnacles, Gothic arches, and clustered pillars.
We come to where the carvers and stone-cutters are at work. They have a regular stone-cutters' yard up here on the roof, with sheds for the workmen and stone-carvers, and their progress is marked on the building by the fresher hue of the work. These old cathedrals are never finished; their original plans are lost, and there always seems to be some great portion of the work that is yet to be carried out. We should have got lost in the maze of streets, squares, and passages upon the roof, without a guide.
A total ascent of five hundred and twelve steps carries the visitor to the platform of the great cupola, from which a fine view of the city is obtained, the plains surrounding it bounded by the girdle of distant, snow-capped mountains. Directly beneath can be seen the cruciform shape of the great cathedral; and looking down, we find that one hundred and thirty-six spires and pinnacles rise from the roof, and that clustered on and about them is a population of overthirty-five hundredstatues. Nearly a hundred are said to be added each yearby the workmen. Amid this bewildering scene of architectural wonders, it is not surprising that two hours passed ere we thought of descending; and even then we left no small portion of this aerial garden, this marble forest of enchantment, with but the briefest glance.
But if the roof was so beautiful, what must be the appearance of the interior of this great temple?
It was grand beyond description; the great nave over four hundred feet in length, the four aisles with their vistas of nearly the same length of clustered pillars—four complete ranges of them, fifty-two in all—supporting the magnificent vaulted arch one hundred and fifty feet above our heads. The vastness of the space as you stand in it beside one of the great Gothic pillars, the base of which, even, towers up nearly as high as your head—the very vastness of the interior causes you to feel like a fly under the dome of St. Paul's. An idea of the size of this cathedral may be had from the fact, that while workmen with ladder, hammer, and tools were putting up a painting upon the walls at one end of the church, the priests were conducting a service with sixty or seventy worshippers at the other, undisturbed by the noise of hammer or metal tool, the blows of which, even if listened for, could scarce be heard beyond a faint click.
A good opera-glass is a necessity in these great cathedrals, a good guide-book is another; and I find the glass swung by its strap beneath one arm, and the tourist's satchel beneath the other, positive conveniences abroad, however snobbish they may appear at home.
There are five great doorways to the church, and the visitor's attention is always called by the guide to the two gigantic pillars near the largest door. These are single columns of polished red granite, thirty-five feet high and four feet in diameter at the base; they support a sort of balcony, upon which stand the colossal figures of two saints. All along the sides of the cathedral are chapels, elegant marble altars and altar tombs, interspersed with statues and pictures. The capitals of many of the great columns have finelycarved statues grouped about them; some have eight, and others more. The ceiling of the vaulted roof, which, from the pavement, appears to be sculptured stone-work, is only a clever imitation in painting; but the floor of the cathedral is laid out in mosaic of different colored marbles.
With what delight we wandered about this glorious interior! There was the great window, with its colored glass, representing the Virgin Mary's assumption, executed by Bertini. Here were the monument raised by Pius IV. to his brothers, cut from fine Carrara marble, except the statues, after Michael Angelo's designs; the pulpits, that are partly of bronze work, and elegantly ornamented with bass-reliefs which encircle two of the great pillars, and are themselves held up by huge caryatides; numerous monuments, among them the bright-red marble tomb of Ottone Visconti, who left his property to the Knights of St. John, who erected this monument; the beautiful carved stalls of the choir, the high altar and magnificent Gothic windows behind it.