I suppose there are two kinds of music--one kind which

one feels, just as an oyster might, and another sort

which requires a higher faculty, a faculty which must

be assisted and developed by teaching. Yet if base music

gives certain of us wings, why should we want any other?

But we do. We want it because the higher and better

like it. We want it without giving it the necessary

time and trouble; so we climb into that upper tier,

that dress-circle, by a lie; we PRETEND we like it.

I know several of that sort of people--and I propose

to be one of them myself when I get home with my fine

European education.

And then there is painting. What a red rag is to a bull,

Turner's "Slave Ship" was to me, before I studied art.

Mr. Ruskin is educated in art up to a point where that

picture throws him into as mad an ecstasy of pleasure

as it used to throw me into one of rage, last year,

when I was ignorant. His cultivation enables him--and me,

now--to see water in that glaring yellow mud, and natural

effects in those lurid explosions of mixed smoke and flame,

and crimson sunset glories; it reconciles him--and me,

now--to the floating of iron cable-chains and other

unfloatable things; it reconciles us to fishes swimming

around on top of the mud--I mean the water. The most of

the picture is a manifest impossibility--that is to say,

a lie; and only rigid cultivation can enable a man to find

truth in a lie. But it enabled Mr. Ruskin to do it,

and it has enabled me to do it, and I am thankful for it.

A Boston newspaper reporter went and took a look at the Slave

Ship floundering about in that fierce conflagration of reds

and yellows, and said it reminded him of a tortoise-shell

cat having a fit in a platter of tomatoes. In my then

uneducated state, that went home to my non-cultivation,

and I thought here is a man with an unobstructed eye.

Mr. Ruskin would have said: This person is an ass.

That is what I would say, now. [1]

1. Months after this was written, I happened into the National

Gallery in London, and soon became so fascinated with the

Turner pictures that I could hardly get away from the place.

I went there often, afterward, meaning to see the rest

of the gallery, but the Turner spell was too strong;

it could not be shaken off. However, the Turners

which attracted me most did not remind me of the Slave Ship.

However, our business in Baden-Baden this time,

was to join our courier. I had thought it best

to hire one, as we should be in Italy, by and by,

and we did not know the language. Neither did he.

We found him at the hotel, ready to take charge of us.

I asked him if he was "all fixed." He said he was.

That was very true. He had a trunk, two small satchels,

and an umbrella. I was to pay him fifty-five dollars

a month and railway fares. On the continent the railway

fare on a trunk is about the same it is on a man.

Couriers do not have to pay any board and lodging.

This seems a great saving to the tourist--at first.

It does not occur to the tourist that SOMEBODY pays that

man's board and lodging. It occurs to him by and by,

however, in one of his lucid moments.

CHAPTER XXV

[Hunted by the Little Chamois]

Next morning we left in the train for Switzerland,

and reached Lucerne about ten o'clock at night.

The first discovery I made was that the beauty of the lake

had not been exaggerated. Within a day or two I made

another discovery. This was, that the lauded chamois

is not a wild goat; that it is not a horned animal;

that it is not shy; that it does not avoid human society;

and that there is no peril in hunting it. The chamois is

a black or brown creature no bigger than a mustard seed;

you do not have to go after it, it comes after you;

it arrives in vast herds and skips and scampers all over

your body, inside your clothes; thus it is not shy,

but extremely sociable; it is not afraid of man, on the

contrary, it will attack him; its bite is not dangerous,

but neither is it pleasant; its activity has not been

overstated --if you try to put your finger on it,

it will skip a thousand times its own length at one jump,

and no eye is sharp enough to see where it lights.

A great deal of romantic nonsense has been written

about the Swiss chamois and the perils of hunting it,

whereas the truth is that even women and children

hunt it, and fearlessly; indeed, everybody hunts it;

the hunting is going on all the time, day and night,

in bed and out of it. It is poetic foolishness to hunt

it with a gun; very few people do that; there is not

one man in a million who can hit it with a gun.

It is much easier to catch it than it is to shoot it,

and only the experienced chamois-hunter can do either.

Another common piece of exaggeration is that about the

"scarcity" of the chamois. It is the reverse of scarce.

Droves of one hundred million chamois are not unusual

in the Swiss hotels. Indeed, they are so numerous

as to be a great pest. The romancers always dress up

the chamois-hunter in a fanciful and picturesque costume,

whereas the best way to hunt this game is to do it without

any costume at all. The article of commerce called

chamois-skin is another fraud; nobody could skin a chamois,

it is too small. The creature is a humbug in every way,

and everything which has been written about it is

sentimental exaggeration. It was no pleasure to me to find

the chamois out, for he had been one of my pet illusions;

all my life it had been my dream to see him in his native

wilds some day, and engage in the adventurous sport

of chasing him from cliff to cliff. It is no pleasure

to me to expose him, now, and destroy the reader's delight

in him and respect for him, but still it must be done,

for when an honest writer discovers an imposition it

is his simple duty to strip it bare and hurl it down

from its place of honor, no matter who suffers by it;

any other course would render him unworthy of the public

confidence.

Lucerne is a charming place. It begins at the water's edge,

with a fringe of hotels, and scrambles up and spreads

itself over two or three sharp hills in a crowded,

disorderly, but picturesque way, offering to the eye

a heaped-up confusion of red roofs, quaint gables,

dormer windows, toothpick steeples, with here and there

a bit of ancient embattled wall bending itself over

the ridges, worm-fashion, and here and there an old square

tower of heavy masonry. And also here and there a town

clock with only one hand--a hand which stretches across

the dial and has no joint in it; such a clock helps out

the picture, but you cannot tell the time of day by it.

Between the curving line of hotels and the lake is a broad

avenue with lamps and a double rank of low shade trees.

The lake-front is walled with masonry like a pier,

and has a railing, to keep people from walking overboard.

All day long the vehicles dash along the avenue, and nurses,

children, and tourists sit in the shade of the trees,

or lean on the railing and watch the schools of fishes

darting about in the clear water, or gaze out over the lake

at the stately border of snow-hooded mountains peaks.

Little pleasure steamers, black with people, are coming

and going all the time; and everywhere one sees young

girls and young men paddling about in fanciful rowboats,

or skimming along by the help of sails when there is any wind.

The front rooms of the hotels have little railed balconies,

where one may take his private luncheon in calm,

cool comfort and look down upon this busy and pretty

scene and enjoy it without having to do any of the work

connected with it.

Most of the people, both male and female, are in walking

costume, and carry alpenstocks. Evidently, it is not

considered safe to go about in Switzerland, even in town,

without an alpenstock. If the tourist forgets and

comes down to breakfast without his alpenstock he goes

back and gets it, and stands it up in the corner.

When his touring in Switzerland is finished, he does not

throw that broomstick away, but lugs it home with him,

to the far corners of the earth, although this costs him

more trouble and bother than a baby or a courier could.

You see, the alpenstock is his trophy; his name

is burned upon it; and if he has climbed a hill,

or jumped a brook, or traversed a brickyard with it,

he has the names of those places burned upon it, too.

Thus it is his regimental flag, so to speak, and bears

the record of his achievements. It is worth three francs

when he buys it, but a bonanza could not purchase it

after his great deeds have been inscribed upon it.

There are artisans all about Switzerland whose trade it is

to burn these things upon the alpenstock of the tourist.

And observe, a man is respected in Switzerland according

to his alpenstock. I found I could get no attention there,

while I carried an unbranded one. However, branding is

not expected, so I soon remedied that. The effect

upon the next detachment of tourists was very marked.

I felt repaid for my trouble.

Half of the summer horde in Switzerland is made up of

English people; the other half is made up of many nationalities,

the Germans leading and the Americans coming next.

The Americans were not as numerous as I had expected

they would be.

The seven-thirty table d'ho^te at the great Schweitzerhof

furnished a mighty array and variety of nationalities,

but it offered a better opportunity to observe costumes

than people, for the multitude sat at immensely long tables,

and therefore the faces were mainly seen in perspective;

but the breakfasts were served at small round tables,

and then if one had the fortune to get a table in the

midst of the assemblage he could have as many faces

to study as he could desire. We used to try to guess out

the nationalities, and generally succeeded tolerably well.

Sometimes we tried to guess people's names; but that was

a failure; that is a thing which probably requires a good

deal of practice. We presently dropped it and gave our

efforts to less difficult particulars. One morning I

said:

"There is an American party."

Harris said:

"Yes--but name the state."

I named one state, Harris named another. We agreed upon

one thing, however--that the young girl with the party

was very beautiful, and very tastefully dressed.

But we disagreed as to her age. I said she was eighteen,

Harris said she was twenty. The dispute between us

waxed warm, and I finally said, with a pretense of being

in earnest:

"Well, there is one way to settle the matter--I will go

and ask her."

Harris said, sarcastically, "Certainly, that is the thing

to do. All you need to do is to use the common formula

over here: go and say, 'I'm an American!' Of course she

will be glad to see you."

Then he hinted that perhaps there was no great danger

of my venturing to speak to her.

I said, "I was only talking--I didn't intend to approach her,

but I see that you do not know what an intrepid person

I am. I am not afraid of any woman that walks.

I will go and speak to this young girl."

The thing I had in my mind was not difficult.

I meant to address her in the most respectful way and ask

her to pardon me if her strong resemblance to a former

acquaintance of mine was deceiving me; and when she should

reply that the name I mentioned was not the name she bore,

I meant to beg pardon again, most respectfully, and retire.

There would be no harm done. I walked to her table,

bowed to the gentleman, then turned to her and was about

to begin my little speech when she exclaimed:

"I KNEW I wasn't mistaken--I told John it was you!

John said it probably wasn't, but I knew I was right.

I said you would recognize me presently and come over;

and I'm glad you did, for I shouldn't have felt much flattered

if you had gone out of this room without recognizing me.

Sit down, sit down--how odd it is--you are the last person I

was ever expecting to see again."

This was a stupefying surprise. It took my wits

clear away, for an instant. However, we shook hands

cordially all around, and I sat down. But truly this

was the tightest place I ever was in. I seemed to vaguely

remember the girl's face, now, but I had no idea where I

had seen it before, or what named belonged with it.

I immediately tried to get up a diversion about Swiss scenery,

to keep her from launching into topics that might

betray that I did not know her, but it was of no use,

she went right along upon matters which interested her more:

"Oh dear, what a night that was, when the sea washed

the forward boats away--do you remember it?"

"Oh, DON'T I!" said I--but I didn't. I wished the sea

had washed the rudder and the smoke-stack and the captain

away--then I could have located this questioner.

"And don't you remember how frightened poor Mary was,

and how she cried?"

"Indeed I do!" said I. "Dear me, how it all comes back!"

I fervently wished it WOULD come back--but my memory was

a blank. The wise way would have been to frankly own up;

but I could not bring myself to do that, after the young

girl had praised me so for recognizing her; so I went on,

deeper and deeper into the mire, hoping for a chance clue

but never getting one. The Unrecognizable continued,

with vivacity:

"Do you know, George married Mary, after all?"

"Why, no! Did he?"

"Indeed he did. He said he did not believe she was half

as much to blame as her father was, and I thought he

was right. Didn't you?"

"Of course he was. It was a perfectly plain case.

I always said so."

"Why, no you didn't!--at least that summer."

"Oh, no, not that summer. No, you are perfectly right

about that. It was the following winter that I said it."

"Well, as it turned out, Mary was not in the least

to blame --it was all her father's fault--at least

his and old Darley's."

It was necessary to say something--so I said:

"I always regarded Darley as a troublesome old thing."

"So he was, but then they always had a great affection

for him, although he had so many eccentricities.

You remember that when the weather was the least cold,

he would try to come into the house."

I was rather afraid to proceed. Evidently Darley was not

a man--he must be some other kind of animal--possibly

a dog, maybe an elephant. However, tails are common

to all animals, so I ventured to say:

"And what a tail he had!"

"ONE! He had a thousand!"

This was bewildering. I did not quite know what to say,

so I only said:

"Yes, he WAS rather well fixed in the matter of tails."

"For a negro, and a crazy one at that, I should say he was,"

said she.

It was getting pretty sultry for me. I said to myself,

"Is it possible she is going to stop there, and wait for

me to speak? If she does, the conversation is blocked.

A negro with a thousand tails is a topic which a person

cannot talk upon fluently and instructively without more

or less preparation. As to diving rashly into such a

vast subject--"

But here, to my gratitude, she interrupted my thoughts

by saying:

"Yes, when it came to tales of his crazy woes, there was

simply no end to them if anybody would listen. His own

quarters were comfortable enough, but when the weather

was cold, the family were sure to have his company--nothing

could keep him out of the house. But they always bore it

kindly because he had saved Tom's life, years before.

You remember Tom?

"Oh, perfectly. Fine fellow he was, too."

"Yes he was. And what a pretty little thing his child was!"

"You may well say that. I never saw a prettier child."

"I used to delight to pet it and dandle it and play

with it."

"So did I."

"You named it. What WAS that name? I can't call it

to mind."

It appeared to me that the ice was getting pretty

thin, here. I would have given something to know

what the child's was. However, I had the good luck

to think of a name that would fit either sex--so I brought it

out:

"I named it Frances."

"From a relative, I suppose? But you named the one that died,

too--one that I never saw. What did you call that one?"

I was out of neutral names, but as the child was dead

and she had never seen it, I thought I might risk a name

for it and trust to luck. Therefore I said:

"I called that one Thomas Henry."

She said, musingly:

"That is very singular ... very singular."

I sat still and let the cold sweat run down. I was

in a good deal of trouble, but I believed I could worry

through if she wouldn't ask me to name any more children.

I wondered where the lightning was going to strike next.

She was still ruminating over that last child's title,

but presently she said:

"I have always been sorry you were away at the time--I

would have had you name my child."

"YOUR child! Are you married?"

"I have been married thirteen years."

"Christened, you mean."

`"No, married. The youth by your side is my son."

"It seems incredible--even impossible. I do not mean

any harm by it, but would you mind telling me if you

are any over eighteen?--that is to say, will you tell

me how old you are?"

"I was just nineteen the day of the storm we were

talking about. That was my birthday."

That did not help matters, much, as I did not know

the date of the storm. I tried to think of some

non-committal thing to say, to keep up my end of the talk,

and render my poverty in the matter of reminiscences

as little noticeable as possible, but I seemed to be

about out of non-committal things. I was about to say,

"You haven't changed a bit since then"--but that was risky.

I thought of saying, "You have improved ever so much

since then"--but that wouldn't answer, of course.

I was about to try a shy at the weather, for a saving change,

when the girl slipped in ahead of me and said:

"How I have enjoyed this talk over those happy old times

--haven't you?"

"I never have spent such a half-hour in all my life before!"

said I, with emotion; and I could have added, with a

near approach to truth, "and I would rather be scalped

than spend another one like it." I was holily grateful

to be through with the ordeal, and was about to make

my good-bys and get out, when the girl said:

"But there is one thing that is ever so puzzling to me."

"Why, what is that?"

"That dead child's name. What did you say it was?"

Here was another balmy place to be in: I had forgotten the

child's name; I hadn't imagined it would be needed again.

However, I had to pretend to know, anyway, so I said:

"Joseph William."

The youth at my side corrected me, and said:

"No, Thomas Henry."

I thanked him--in words--and said, with trepidation:

"O yes--I was thinking of another child that I named--I

have named a great many, and I get them confused--this

one was named Henry Thompson--"

"Thomas Henry," calmly interposed the boy.

I thanked him again--strictly in words--and stammered

out:

"Thomas Henry--yes, Thomas Henry was the poor child's name.

I named him for Thomas--er--Thomas Carlyle, the great author,

you know--and Henry--er--er--Henry the Eight. The parents

were very grateful to have a child named Thomas Henry."

"That makes it more singular than ever," murmured my

beautiful friend.

"Does it? Why?"

"Because when the parents speak of that child now,

they always call it Susan Amelia."

That spiked my gun. I could not say anything. I was entirely

out of verbal obliquities; to go further would be to lie,

and that I would not do; so I simply sat still and suffered

--sat mutely and resignedly there, and sizzled--for I

was being slowly fried to death in my own blushes.

Presently the enemy laughed a happy laugh and said:

"I HAVE enjoyed this talk over old times, but you have not.

I saw very soon that you were only pretending to know me,

and so as I had wasted a compliment on you in the beginning,

I made up my mind to punish you. And I have succeeded

pretty well. I was glad to see that you knew George and Tom

and Darley, for I had never heard of them before and therefore

could not be sure that you had; and I was glad to learn

the names of those imaginary children, too. One can get

quite a fund of information out of you if one goes at

it cleverly. Mary and the storm, and the sweeping away

of the forward boats, were facts--all the rest was fiction.

Mary was my sister; her full name was Mary ------. NOW

do you remember me?"

"Yes," I said, "I do remember you now; and you are as

hard-headed as you were thirteen years ago in that ship,

else you wouldn't have punished me so. You haven't

change your nature nor your person, in any way at all;

you look as young as you did then, you are just as beautiful

as you were then, and you have transmitted a deal

of your comeliness to this fine boy. There--if that

speech moves you any, let's fly the flag of truce,

with the understanding that I am conquered and confess it."

All of which was agreed to and accomplished, on the spot.

When I went back to Harris, I said:

"Now you see what a person with talent and address can do."

"Excuse me, I see what a person of colossal ignorance and

simplicity can do. The idea of your going and intruding

on a party of strangers, that way, and talking for half

an hour; why I never heard of a man in his right mind

doing such a thing before. What did you say to them?"

I never said any harm. I merely asked the girl what her

name was."

"I don't doubt it. Upon my word I don't. I think you

were capable of it. It was stupid in me to let you go

over there and make such an exhibition of yourself.

But you know I couldn't really believe you would do such

an inexcusable thing. What will those people think

of us? But how did you say it?--I mean the manner of it.

I hope you were not abrupt."

"No, I was careful about that. I said, 'My friend and I

would like to know what your name is, if you don't mind.'"

"No, that was not abrupt. There is a polish about it that

does you infinite credit. And I am glad you put me in;

that was a delicate attention which I appreciate at its

full value. What did she do?"

"She didn't do anything in particular. She told me

her name."

"Simply told you her name. Do you mean to say she did

not show any surprise?"

"Well, now I come to think, she did show something;

maybe it was surprise; I hadn't thought of that--I took

it for gratification."

"Oh, undoubtedly you were right; it must have been gratification;

it could not be otherwise than gratifying to be assaulted

by a stranger with such a question as that. Then what did you

do?"

"I offered my hand and the party gave me a shake."

"I saw it! I did not believe my own eyes, at the time.

Did the gentleman say anything about cutting your throat?"

"No, they all seemed glad to see me, as far as I could judge."

"And do you know, I believe they were. I think they said

to themselves, 'Doubtless this curiosity has got away from

his keeper--let us amuse ourselves with him.' There is

no other way of accounting for their facile docility.

You sat down. Did they ASK you to sit down?"

"No, they did not ask me, but I suppose they did not think

of it."

"You have an unerring instinct. What else did you do?

What did you talk about?"

"Well, I asked the girl how old she was."

"UNdoubtedly. Your delicacy is beyond praise. Go on,

go on--don't mind my apparent misery--I always look

so when I am steeped in a profound and reverent joy.

Go on--she told you her age?"

"Yes, she told me her age, and all about her mother,

and her grandmother, and her other relations, and all

about herself."

"Did she volunteer these statistics?"

"No, not exactly that. I asked the questions and she

answered them."

"This is divine. Go on--it is not possible that you

forgot to inquire into her politics?"

"No, I thought of that. She is a democrat, her husband

is a republican, and both of them are Baptists."

"Her husband? Is that child married?"

"She is not a child. She is married, and that is her

husband who is there with her."

"Has she any children."

"Yes--seven and a half."

"That is impossible."

"No, she has them. She told me herself."

"Well, but seven and a HALF? How do you make out the half?

Where does the half come in?"

"There is a child which she had by another husband

--not this one but another one--so it is a stepchild,

and they do not count in full measure."

"Another husband? Has she another husband?"

"Yes, four. This one is number four."

"I don't believe a word of it. It is impossible,

upon its face. Is that boy there her brother?"

"No, that is her son. He is her youngest. He is not

as old as he looked; he is only eleven and a half."

"These things are all manifestly impossible. This is a

wretched business. It is a plain case: they simply took

your measure, and concluded to fill you up. They seem

to have succeeded. I am glad I am not in the mess;

they may at least be charitable enough to think there

ain't a pair of us. Are they going to stay here long?"

"No, they leave before noon."

"There is one man who is deeply grateful for that.

How did you find out? You asked, I suppose?"

"No, along at first I inquired into their plans, in a

general way, and they said they were going to be here

a week, and make trips round about; but toward the end

of the interview, when I said you and I would tour around

with them with pleasure, and offered to bring you over

and introduce you, they hesitated a little, and asked

if you were from the same establishment that I was.

I said you were, and then they said they had changed

their mind and considered it necessary to start at once

and visit a sick relative in Siberia."

"Ah, me, you struck the summit! You struck the loftiest

altitude of stupidity that human effort has ever reached.

You shall have a monument of jackasses' skulls as high

as the Strasburg spire if you die before I do.

They wanted to know I was from the same 'establishment'

that you hailed from, did they? What did they mean by

'establishment'?"

"I don't know; it never occurred to me to ask."

"Well _I_ know-- they meant an asylum-- an IDIOT asylum,

do you understand? So they DO think there's a pair of us,

after all. Now what do you think of yourself?"

"Well, I don't know. I didn't know I was doing any harm;

I didn't MEAN to do any harm. They were very nice people,

and they seemed to like me."

Harris made some rude remarks and left for his bedroom

--to break some furniture, he said. He was a singularly

irascible man; any little thing would disturb his temper.

I had been well scorched by the young woman, but no matter,

I took it out on Harris. One should always "get even"

in some way, else the sore place will go on hurting.

CHAPTER XXVI

[The Nest of the Cuckoo-clock]

The Hofkirche is celebrated for its organ concerts.

All summer long the tourists flock to that church about six

o'clock in the evening, and pay their franc, and listen

to the noise. They don't stay to hear all of it, but get up

and tramp out over the sounding stone floor, meeting late

comers who tramp in in a sounding and vigorous way.

This tramping back and forth is kept up nearly all the time,

and is accented by the continuous slamming of the door,

and the coughing and barking and sneezing of the crowd.

Meantime, the big organ is booming and crashing and

thundering away, doing its best to prove that it is

the biggest and best organ in Europe, and that a tight

little box of a church is the most favorable place

to average and appreciate its powers in. It is true,

there were some soft and merciful passages occasionally,

but the tramp-tramp of the tourists only allowed one to get

fitful glimpses of them, so to speak. Then right away

the organist would let go another avalanche.

The commerce of Lucerne consists mainly in gimcrackery of the

souvenir sort; the shops are packed with Alpine crystals,

photographs of scenery, and wooden and ivory carvings.

I will not conceal the fact that miniature figures of the

Lion of Lucerne are to be had in them. Millions of them.

But they are libels upon him, every one of them.

There is a subtle something about the majestic pathos

of the original which the copyist cannot get. Even the sun

fails to get it; both the photographer and the carver give

you a dying lion, and that is all. The shape is right,

the attitude is right, the proportions are right, but that

indescribable something which makes the Lion of Lucerne

the most mournful and moving piece of stone in the world,

is wanting.

The Lion lies in his lair in the perpendicular face of a low

cliff--for he is carved from the living rock of the cliff.

His size is colossal, his attitude is noble. How head

is bowed, the broken spear is sticking in his shoulder,

his protecting paw rests upon the lilies of France.

Vines hang down the cliff and wave in the wind, and a clear

stream trickles from above and empties into a pond at the base,

and in the smooth surface of the pond the lion is mirrored,

among the water-lilies.

Around about are green trees and grass. The place is

a sheltered, reposeful woodland nook, remote from noise

and stir and confusion--and all this is fitting, for lions

do die in such places, and not on granite pedestals

in public squares fenced with fancy iron railings.

The Lion of Lucerne would be impressive anywhere,

but nowhere so impressive as where he is.

Martyrdom is the luckiest fate that can befall some people.

Louis XVI did not die in his bed, consequently history is

very gentle with him; she is charitable toward his failings,

and she finds in him high virtues which are not usually

considered to be virtues when they are lodged in kings.

She makes him out to be a person with a meek and modest

spirit, the heart of a female saint, and a wrong head.

None of these qualities are kingly but the last.

Taken together they make a character which would have fared

harshly at the hands of history if its owner had had the ill

luck to miss martyrdom. With the best intentions to do

the right thing, he always managed to do the wrong one.

Moreover, nothing could get the female saint out of him.

He knew, well enough, that in national emergencies he must

not consider how he ought to act, as a man, but how he

ought to act as a king; so he honestly tried to sink

the man and be the king--but it was a failure, he only

succeeded in being the female saint. He was not instant

in season, but out of season. He could not be persuaded

to do a thing while it could do any good--he was iron,

he was adamant in his stubbornness then--but as soon as

the thing had reached a point where it would be positively

harmful to do it, do it he would, and nothing could

stop him. He did not do it because it would be harmful,

but because he hoped it was not yet too late to achieve

by it the good which it would have done if applied earlier.

His comprehension was always a train or two behindhand.

If a national toe required amputating, he could not see

that it needed anything more than poulticing; when others

saw that the mortification had reached the knee, he first

perceived that the toe needed cutting off--so he cut it off;

and he severed the leg at the knee when others saw that the

disease had reached the thigh. He was good, and honest,

and well meaning, in the matter of chasing national diseases,

but he never could overtake one. As a private man,

he would have been lovable; but viewed as a king, he was

strictly contemptible.

His was a most unroyal career, but the most pitiable

spectacle in it was his sentimental treachery to his

Swiss guard on that memorable 10th of August, when he

allowed those heroes to be massacred in his cause,

and forbade them to shed the "sacred French blood"

purporting to be flowing in the veins of the red-capped

mob of miscreants that was raging around the palace.

He meant to be kingly, but he was only the female saint

once more. Some of his biographers think that upon this

occasion the spirit of Saint Louis had descended upon him.

It must have found pretty cramped quarters. If Napoleon

the First had stood in the shoes of Louis XVI that day,

instead of being merely a casual and unknown looker-on,

there would be no Lion of Lucerne, now, but there would

be a well-stocked Communist graveyard in Paris which would

answer just as well to remember the 10th of August by.

Martyrdom made a saint of Mary Queen of Scots three

hundred years ago, and she has hardly lost all of her

saintship yet. Martyrdom made a saint of the trivial

and foolish Marie Antoinette, and her biographers still

keep her fragrant with the odor of sanctity to this day,

while unconsciously proving upon almost every page they write

that the only calamitous instinct which her husband lacked,

she supplied--the instinct to root out and get rid of

an honest, able, and loyal official, wherever she found him.

The hideous but beneficent French Revolution would have

been deferred, or would have fallen short of completeness,

or even might not have happened at all, if Marie

Antoinette had made the unwise mistake of not being born.

The world owes a great deal to the French Revolution,

and consequently to its two chief promoters, Louis the

Poor in Spirit and his queen.

We did not buy any wooden images of the Lion, nor any ivory

or ebony or marble or chalk or sugar or chocolate ones,

or even any photographic slanders of him. The truth is,

these copies were so common, so universal, in the shops

and everywhere, that they presently became as intolerable

to the wearied eye as the latest popular melody usually

becomes to the harassed ear. In Lucerne, too, the wood

carvings of other sorts, which had been so pleasant to look

upon when one saw them occasionally at home, soon began

to fatigue us. We grew very tired of seeing wooden quails

and chickens picking and strutting around clock-faces,

and still more tired of seeing wooden images of the alleged

chamois skipping about wooden rocks, or lying upon them

in family groups, or peering alertly up from behind them.

The first day, I would have bought a hundred and fifty

of these clocks if I had the money--and I did buy three

--but on the third day the disease had run its course,

I had convalesced, and was in the market once more--trying

to sell. However, I had no luck; which was just as well,

for the things will be pretty enough, no doubt, when I get

them home.

For years my pet aversion had been the cuckoo clock;

now here I was, at last, right in the creature's home;

so wherever I went that distressing "HOO'hoo! HOO'hoo!

HOO'hoo!" was always in my ears. For a nervous man,

this was a fine state of things. Some sounds are hatefuler

than others, but no sound is quite so inane, and silly,

and aggravating as the "HOO'hoo" of a cuckoo clock, I think.

I bought one, and am carrying it home to a certain person;

for I have always said that if the opportunity ever happened,

I would do that man an ill turn. What I meant, was, that I

would break one of his legs, or something of that sort;

but in Lucerne I instantly saw that I could impair his mind.

That would be more lasting, and more satisfactory every way.

So I bought the cuckoo clock; and if I ever get home

with it, he is "my meat," as they say in the mines.

I thought of another candidate--a book-reviewer whom

I could name if I wanted to--but after thinking

it over, I didn't buy him a clock. I couldn't injure

his mind.

We visited the two long, covered wooden bridges which span

the green and brilliant Reuss just below where it goes

plunging and hurrahing out of the lake. These rambling,

sway-backed tunnels are very attractive things, with their

alcoved outlooks upon the lovely and inspiriting water.

They contain two or three hundred queer old pictures,

by old Swiss masters--old boss sign-painters, who flourished

before the decadence of art.

The lake is alive with fishes, plainly visible to the eye,

for the water is very clear. The parapets in front of the

hotels were usually fringed with fishers of all ages.

One day I thought I would stop and see a fish caught.

The result brought back to my mind, very forcibly,

a circumstance which I had not thought of before for

twelve years. This one:

THE MAN WHO PUT UP AT GADSBY'S

When my odd friend Riley and I were newspaper correspondents

in Washington, in the winter of '67, we were coming down

Pennsylvania Avenue one night, near midnight, in a driving

storm of snow, when the flash of a street-lamp fell upon a man

who was eagerly tearing along in the opposite direction.

"This is lucky! You are Mr. Riley, ain't you?"

Riley was the most self-possessed and solemnly deliberate

person in the republic. He stopped, looked his man

over from head to foot, and finally said:

"I am Mr. Riley. Did you happen to be looking for me?"

"That's just what I was doing," said the man, joyously,

"and it's the biggest luck in the world that I've found you.

My name is Lykins. I'm one of the teachers of the high

school--San Francisco. As soon as I heard the San Francisco

postmastership was vacant, I made up my mind to get it--and here

I am."

"Yes," said Riley, slowly, "as you have remarked ...

Mr. Lykins ... here you are. And have you got it?"

"Well, not exactly GOT it, but the next thing to it.

I've brought a petition, signed by the Superintendent

of Public Instruction, and all the teachers, and by more

than two hundred other people. Now I want you, if you'll

be so good, to go around with me to the Pacific delegation,

for I want to rush this thing through and get along home."

"If the matter is so pressing, you will prefer that we

visit the delegation tonight," said Riley, in a voice

which had nothing mocking in it--to an unaccustomed ear.

"Oh, tonight, by all means! I haven't got any time to

fool around. I want their promise before I go to bed

--I ain't the talking kind, I'm the DOING kind!"

"Yes ... you've come to the right place for that.

When did you arrive?"

"Just an hour ago."

"When are you intending to leave?"

"For New York tomorrow evening--for San Francisco

next morning."

"Just so.... What are you going to do tomorrow?"

"DO! Why, I've got to go to the President with the petition

and the delegation, and get the appointment, haven't I?"

"Yes ... very true ... that is correct. And then what?"

"Executive session of the Senate at 2 P.M.--got to get

the appointment confirmed--I reckon you'll grant that?"

"Yes ... yes," said Riley, meditatively, "you are

right again. Then you take the train for New York in

the evening, and the steamer for San Francisco next morning?"

"That's it--that's the way I map it out!"

Riley considered a while, and then said:

"You couldn't stay ... a day ... well, say two

days longer?"

"Bless your soul, no! It's not my style. I ain't a man

to go fooling around--I'm a man that DOES things,

I tell you."

The storm was raging, the thick snow blowing in gusts.

Riley stood silent, apparently deep in a reverie,

during a minute or more, then he looked up and said:

"Have you ever heard about that man who put up at Gadsby's,

once? ... But I see you haven't."

He backed Mr. Lykins against an iron fence, buttonholed him,

fastened him with his eye, like the Ancient Mariner,

and proceeded to unfold his narrative as placidly

and peacefully as if we were all stretched comfortably

in a blossomy summer meadow instead of being persecuted

by a wintry midnight tempest:

"I will tell you about that man. It was in Jackson's time.

Gadsby's was the principal hotel, then. Well, this man

arrived from Tennessee about nine o'clock, one morning,

with a black coachman and a splendid four-horse carriage and

an elegant dog, which he was evidently fond of and proud of;

he drove up before Gadsby's, and the clerk and the landlord

and everybody rushed out to take charge of him, but he said,

'Never mind,' and jumped out and told the coachman

to wait--said he hadn't time to take anything to eat,

he only had a little claim against the government to collect,

would run across the way, to the Treasury, and fetch

the money, and then get right along back to Tennessee,

for he was in considerable of a hurry.

"Well, about eleven o'clock that night he came back

and ordered a bed and told them to put the horses

up--said he would collect the claim in the morning.

This was in January, you understand--January, 1834

--the 3d of January--Wednesday.

"Well, on the 5th of February, he sold the fine carriage,

and bought a cheap second-hand one--said it would answer

just as well to take the money home in, and he didn't care

for style.

"On the 11th of August he sold a pair of the fine horses

--said he'd often thought a pair was better than four,

to go over the rough mountain roads with where a body

had to be careful about his driving--and there wasn't

so much of his claim but he could lug the money home

with a pair easy enough.

"On the 13th of December he sold another horse--said

two warn't necessary to drag that old light vehicle

with--in fact, one could snatch it along faster than

was absolutely necessary, now that it was good solid

winter weather and the roads in splendid condition.

"On the 17th of February, 1835, he sold the old carriage

and bought a cheap second-hand buggy--said a buggy

was just the trick to skim along mushy, slushy early

spring roads with, and he had always wanted to try

a buggy on those mountain roads, anyway.

"On the 1st August he sold the buggy and bought the

remains of an old sulky--said he just wanted to see

those green Tennesseans stare and gawk when they saw

him come a-ripping along in a sulky--didn't believe

they'd ever heard of a sulky in their lives.

"Well, on the 29th of August he sold his colored

coachman--said he didn't need a coachman for a sulky

--wouldn't be room enough for two in it anyway--and,

besides, it wasn't every day that Providence sent a man

a fool who was willing to pay nine hundred dollars for

such a third-rate negro as that--been wanting to get

rid of the creature for years, but didn't like to THROW him away.

"Eighteen months later--that is to say, on the 15th

of February, 1837--he sold the sulky and bought

a saddle--said horseback-riding was what the doctor

had always recommended HIM to take, and dog'd if he

wanted to risk HIS neck going over those mountain roads

on wheels in the dead of winter, not if he knew himself.

"On the 9th of April he sold the saddle--said he wasn't

going to risk HIS life with any perishable saddle-girth

that ever was made, over a rainy, miry April road,

while he could ride bareback and know and feel he was

safe--always HAD despised to ride on a saddle, anyway.

"On the 24th of April he sold his horse--said 'I'm just

fifty-seven today, hale and hearty--it would be a PRETTY

howdy-do for me to be wasting such a trip as that and such

weather as this, on a horse, when there ain't anything

in the world so splendid as a tramp on foot through

the fresh spring woods and over the cheery mountains,

to a man that IS a man--and I can make my dog carry my

claim in a little bundle, anyway, when it's collected.

So tomorrow I'll be up bright and early, make my little

old collection, and mosey off to Tennessee, on my own

hind legs, with a rousing good-by to Gadsby's.'

"On the 22d of June he sold his dog--said 'Dern a dog,

anyway, where you're just starting off on a rattling bully

pleasure tramp through the summer woods and hills--perfect

nuisance--chases the squirrels, barks at everything,

goes a-capering and splattering around in the fords

--man can't get any chance to reflect and enjoy nature

--and I'd a blamed sight ruther carry the claim myself,

it's a mighty sight safer; a dog's mighty uncertain

in a financial way--always noticed it--well, GOOD-by,

boys--last call--I'm off for Tennessee with a good

leg and a gay heart, early in the morning.'"

There was a pause and a silence--except the noise

of the wind and the pelting snow. Mr. Lykins said,

impatiently:

"Well?"

Riley said:

"Well,--that was thirty years ago."

"Very well, very well--what of it?"

"I'm great friends with that old patriarch. He comes

every evening to tell me good-by. I saw him an hour ago

--he's off for Tennessee early tomorrow morning--as usual;

said he calculated to get his claim through and be off

before night-owls like me have turned out of bed.

The tears were in his eyes, he was so glad he was going

to see his old Tennessee and his friends once more."

Another silent pause. The stranger broke it:

"Is that all?"

"That is all."

"Well, for the TIME of night, and the KIND of night,

it seems to me the story was full long enough. But what's

it all FOR?"

"Oh, nothing in particular."

"Well, where's the point of it?"

"Oh, there isn't any particular point to it. Only, if you

are not in TOO much of a hurry to rush off to San Francisco

with that post-office appointment, Mr. Lykins, I'd advise

you to 'PUT UP AT GADSBY'S' for a spell, and take it easy.

Good-by. GOD bless you!"

So saying, Riley blandly turned on his heel and left

the astonished school-teacher standing there, a musing

and motionless snow image shining in the broad glow

of the street-lamp.

He never got that post-office.

To go back to Lucerne and its fishers, I concluded,

after about nine hours' waiting, that the man who proposes

to tarry till he sees something hook one of those well-fed

and experienced fishes will find it wisdom to "put up

at Gadsby's" and take it easy. It is likely that a fish

has not been caught on that lake pier for forty years;

but no matter, the patient fisher watches his cork there

all the day long, just the same, and seems to enjoy it.

One may see the fisher-loafers just as thick and contented

and happy and patient all along the Seine at Paris,

but tradition says that the only thing ever caught there

in modern times is a thing they don't fish for at all--the

recent dog and the translated cat.

CHAPTER XXVII

[I Spare an Awful Bore]

Close by the Lion of Lucerne is what they call the

"Glacier Garden"--and it is the only one in the world.

It is on high ground. Four or five years ago,

some workmen who were digging foundations for a house

came upon this interesting relic of a long-departed age.

Scientific men perceived in it a confirmation of their

theories concerning the glacial period; so through

their persuasions the little tract of ground was bought

and permanently protected against being built upon.

The soil was removed, and there lay the rasped and guttered

track which the ancient glacier had made as it moved

along upon its slow and tedious journey. This track

was perforated by huge pot-shaped holes in the bed-rock,

formed by the furious washing-around in them of boulders

by the turbulent torrent which flows beneath all glaciers.

These huge round boulders still remain in the holes;

they and the walls of the holes are worn smooth by

the long-continued chafing which they gave each other

in those old days. It took a mighty force to churn

these big lumps of stone around in that vigorous way.

The neighboring country had a very different shape,

at that time--the valleys have risen up and become hills,

since, and the hills have become valleys. The boulders

discovered in the pots had traveled a great distance,

for there is no rock like them nearer than the distant

Rhone Glacier.

For some days we were content to enjoy looking at the blue

lake Lucerne and at the piled-up masses of snow-mountains

that border it all around--an enticing spectacle,

this last, for there is a strange and fascinating beauty

and charm about a majestic snow-peak with the sun blazing

upon it or the moonlight softly enriching it--but finally

we concluded to try a bit of excursioning around on

a steamboat, and a dash on foot at the Rigi. Very well,

we had a delightful trip to Fluelen, on a breezy, sunny day.

Everybody sat on the upper deck, on benches, under an awning;

everybody talked, laughed, and exclaimed at the wonder scenery;

in truth, a trip on that lake is almost the perfection

of pleasuring. The mountains were a never-ceasing marvel.

Sometimes they rose straight up out of the lake,

and towered aloft and overshadowed our pygmy steamer

with their prodigious bulk in the most impressive way.

Not snow-clad mountains, these, yet they climbed high

enough toward the sky to meet the clouds and veil their

foreheads in them. They were not barren and repulsive,

but clothed in green, and restful and pleasant to the eye.

And they were so almost straight-up-and-down, sometimes,

that one could not imagine a man being able to keep

his footing upon such a surface, yet there are paths,

and the Swiss people go up and down them every day.

Sometimes one of these monster precipices had the slight

inclination of the huge ship-houses in dockyards

--then high aloft, toward the sky, it took a little

stronger inclination, like that of a mansard roof--and

perched on this dizzy mansard one's eye detected little

things like martin boxes, and presently perceived that

these were the dwellings of peasants--an airy place

for a home, truly. And suppose a peasant should walk

in his sleep, or his child should fall out of the front

yard?--the friends would have a tedious long journey down

out of those cloud-heights before they found the remains.

And yet those far-away homes looked ever so seductive,

they were so remote from the troubled world, they dozed

in such an atmosphere of peace and dreams--surely no one

who has learned to live up there would ever want

to live on a meaner level.

We swept through the prettiest little curving arms

of the lake, among these colossal green walls,

enjoying new delights, always, as the stately panorama

unfolded itself before us and rerolled and hid itself

behind us; and now and then we had the thrilling surprise

of bursting suddenly upon a tremendous white mass like the

distant and dominating Jungfrau, or some kindred giant,

looming head and shoulders above a tumbled waste of lesser Alps.

Once, while I was hungrily taking in one of these surprises,

and doing my best to get all I possibly could of it while it

should last, I was interrupted by a young and care-free voice:

"You're an American, I think--so'm I."

He was about eighteen, or possibly nineteen; slender and

of medium height; open, frank, happy face; a restless

but independent eye; a snub nose, which had the air

of drawing back with a decent reserve from the silky

new-born mustache below it until it should be introduced;

a loosely hung jaw, calculated to work easily in the sockets.

He wore a low-crowned, narrow-brimmed straw hat,

with a broad blue ribbon around it which had a white

anchor embroidered on it in front; nobby short-tailed

coat, pantaloons, vest, all trim and neat and up with

the fashion; red-striped stockings, very low-quarter

patent-leather shoes, tied with black ribbon; blue ribbon

around his neck, wide-open collar; tiny diamond studs;

wrinkleless kids; projecting cuffs, fastened with large

oxidized silver sleeve-buttons, bearing the device

of a dog's face--English pug. He carries a slim cane,

surmounted with an English pug's head with red glass eyes.

Under his arm he carried a German grammar--Otto's. His hair

was short, straight, and smooth, and presently when he turned

his head a moment, I saw that it was nicely parted behind.

He took a cigarette out of a dainty box, stuck it into

a meerschaum holder which he carried in a morocco case,

and reached for my cigar. While he was lighting, I said:

"Yes--I am an American."

"I knew it--I can always tell them. What ship did you

come over in?"

"HOLSATIA."

"We came in the BATAVIA--Cunard, you know. What kind

of passage did you have?"

"Tolerably rough."

"So did we. Captain said he'd hardly ever seen it rougher.

Where are you from?"

"New England."

"So'm I. I'm from New Bloomfield. Anybody with you?"

"Yes--a friend."

"Our whole family's along. It's awful slow, going around

alone--don't you think so?"

"Rather slow."

"Ever been over here before?"

"Yes."

"I haven't. My first trip. But we've been all around--Paris

and everywhere. I'm to enter Harvard next year.

Studying German all the time, now. Can't enter till I

know German. I know considerable French--I get along

pretty well in Paris, or anywhere where they speak French.

What hotel are you stopping at?"

"Schweitzerhof."

"No! is that so? I never see you in the reception-room.

I go to the reception-room a good deal of the time,

because there's so many Americans there. I make lots

of acquaintances. I know an American as soon as I see

him--and so I speak to him and make his acquaintance.

I like to be always making acquaintances--don't you?"

"Lord, yes!"

"You see it breaks up a trip like this, first rate.

I never got bored on a trip like this, if I can

make acquaintances and have somebody to talk to.

But I think a trip like this would be an awful bore,

if a body couldn't find anybody to get acquainted with

and talk to on a trip like this. I'm fond of talking,

ain't you?

"Passionately."

"Have you felt bored, on this trip?"

"Not all the time, part of it."

"That's it!--you see you ought to go around and get acquainted,

and talk. That's my way. That's the way I always do--I

just go 'round, 'round, 'round and talk, talk, talk--I

never get bored. You been up the Rigi yet?"

"No."

"Going?"

"I think so."

"What hotel you going to stop at?"

"I don't know. Is there more than one?"

"Three. You stop at the Schreiber--you'll find it full

of Americans. What ship did you say you came over in?"

"CITY OF ANTWERP."

"German, I guess. You going to Geneva?"

"Yes."

"What hotel you going to stop at?"

"Hotel de l''Ecu de G'en`eve."

"Don't you do it! No Americans there! You stop at one

of those big hotels over the bridge--they're packed

full of Americans."

"But I want to practice my Arabic."

"Good gracious, do you speak Arabic?"

"Yes--well enough to get along."

"Why, hang it, you won't get along in Geneva--THEY don't

speak Arabic, they speak French. What hotel are you

stopping at here?"

"Hotel Pension-Beaurivage."

"Sho, you ought to stop at the Schweitzerhof. Didn't you

know the Schweitzerhof was the best hotel in Switzerland?

--look at your Baedeker."

"Yes, I know--but I had an idea there warn't any

Americans there."

"No Americans! Why, bless your soul, it's just alive with

them! I'm in the great reception-room most all the time.

I make lots of acquaintances there. Not as many as I did

at first, because now only the new ones stop in there

--the others go right along through. Where are you from?"

"Arkansaw."

"Is that so? I'm from New England--New Bloomfield's my town

when I'm at home. I'm having a mighty good time today,

ain't you?"

"Divine."

"That's what I call it. I like this knocking around,

loose and easy, and making acquaintances and talking.

I know an American, soon as I see him; so I go and speak

to him and make his acquaintance. I ain't ever bored,

on a trip like this, if I can make new acquaintances and talk.

I'm awful fond of talking when I can get hold of the right

kind of a person, ain't you?"

"I prefer it to any other dissipation."

"That's my notion, too. Now some people like to take

a book and sit down and read, and read, and read, or moon

around yawping at the lake or these mountains and things,

but that ain't my way; no, sir, if they like it, let 'em do it,

I don't object; but as for me, talking's what _I_ like.

You been up the Rigi?"

"Yes."

"What hotel did you stop at?"

"Schreiber."

"That's the place!--I stopped there too. FULL of Americans,

WASN'T it? It always is--always is. That's what they say.

Everybody says that. What ship did you come over in?"

"VILLE DE PARIS."

"French, I reckon. What kind of a passage did ... excuse me

a minute, there's some Americans I haven't seen before."

And away he went. He went uninjured, too--I had the murderous

impulse to harpoon him in the back with my alpenstock,

but as I raised the weapon the disposition left me;

I found I hadn't the heart to kill him, he was such

a joyous, innocent, good-natured numbskull.

Half an hour later I was sitting on a bench inspecting,

with strong interest, a noble monolith which we were

skimming by--a monolith not shaped by man, but by Nature's

free great hand--a massy pyramidal rock eighty feet high,

devised by Nature ten million years ago against the day

when a man worthy of it should need it for his monument.

The time came at last, and now this grand remembrancer

bears Schiller's name in huge letters upon its face.

Curiously enough, this rock was not degraded or defiled

in any way. It is said that two years ago a stranger let

himself down from the top of it with ropes and pulleys,

and painted all over it, in blue letters bigger than those in

Schiller's name, these words:

"Try Sozodont;" "Buy Sun Stove Polish;" "Helmbold's Buchu;"

"Try Benzaline for the Blood."

He was captured and it turned out that he was an American.

Upon his trial the judge said to him:

"You are from a land where any insolent that wants to is

privileged to profane and insult Nature, and, through her,

Nature's God, if by so doing he can put a sordid penny

in his pocket. But here the case is different. Because you

are a foreigner and ignorant, I will make your sentence light;

if you were a native I would deal strenuously with you.

Hear and obey: --You will immediately remove every trace

of your offensive work from the Schiller monument; you pay

a fine of ten thousand francs; you will suffer two years'

imprisonment at hard labor; you will then be horsewhipped,

tarred and feathered, deprived of your ears, ridden on a

rail to the confines of the canton, and banished forever.

The severest penalties are omitted in your case--not as

a grace to you, but to that great republic which had the

misfortune to give you birth."

The steamer's benches were ranged back to back across

the deck. My back hair was mingling innocently with

the back hair of a couple of ladies. Presently they

were addressed by some one and I overheard this conversation:

"You are Americans, I think? So'm I."

"Yes--we are Americans."

"I knew it--I can always tell them. What ship did you

come over in?"

"CITY OF CHESTER."

"Oh, yes--Inman line. We came in the BATAVIA--Cunard

you know. What kind of a passage did you have?"

"Pretty fair."

"That was luck. We had it awful rough. Captain said

he'd hardly seen it rougher. Where are you from?"

"New Jersey."

"So'm I. No--I didn't mean that; I'm from New England.

New Bloomfield's my place. These your children?--belong

to both of you?"

"Only to one of us; they are mine; my friend is not married."

"Single, I reckon? So'm I. Are you two ladies traveling alone?"

"No--my husband is with us."

"Our whole family's along. It's awful slow, going around

alone--don't you think so?"

"I suppose it must be."

"Hi, there's Mount Pilatus coming in sight again.

Named after Pontius Pilate, you know, that shot the apple

off of William Tell's head. Guide-book tells all about it,

they say. I didn't read it--an American told me. I don't

read when I'm knocking around like this, having a good time.

Did you ever see the chapel where William Tell used

to preach?"

"I did not know he ever preached there."

"Oh, yes, he did. That American told me so. He don't

ever shut up his guide-book. He knows more about this lake

than the fishes in it. Besides, they CALL it 'Tell's

Chapel'--you know that yourself. You ever been over here

before?"

"Yes."

"I haven't. It's my first trip. But we've been all around

--Paris and everywhere. I'm to enter Harvard next year.

Studying German all the time now. Can't enter till I

know German. This book's Otto's grammar. It's a mighty

good book to get the ICH HABE GEHABT HABEN's out of.

But I don't really study when I'm knocking around this way.

If the notion takes me, I just run over my little

old ICH HABE GEHABT, DU HAST GEHABT, ER HAT GEHABT,

WIR HABEN GEHABT, IHR HABEN GEHABT, SIE HABEN GEHABT

--kind of 'Now-I-lay-me-down-to-sleep' fashion, you know,

and after that, maybe I don't buckle to it for three days.

It's awful undermining to the intellect, German is;

you want to take it in small doses, or first you know

your brains all run together, and you feel them sloshing

around in your head same as so much drawn butter.

But French is different; FRENCH ain't anything. I ain't

any more afraid of French than a tramp's afraid of pie; I can

rattle off my little J'AI, TU AS, IL A, and the rest of it,

just as easy as a-b-c. I get along pretty well in Paris,

or anywhere where they speak French. What hotel are you

stopping at?"

"The Schweitzerhof."

"No! is that so? I never see you in the big reception-room.

I go in there a good deal of the time, because there's

so many Americans there. I make lots of acquaintances.

You been up the Rigi yet?"

"No."

"Going?"

"We think of it."

"What hotel you going to stop at?"

"I don't know."

"Well, then you stop at the Schreiber--it's full of Americans.

What ship did you come over in?"

"CITY OF CHESTER."

"Oh, yes, I remember I asked you that before. But I

always ask everybody what ship they came over in, and so

sometimes I forget and ask again. You going to Geneva?"

"Yes."

"What hotel you going to stop at?"

"We expect to stop in a pension."

"I don't hardly believe you'll like that; there's very few

Americans in the pensions. What hotel are you stopping

at here?"

"The Schweitzerhof."

"Oh, yes. I asked you that before, too. But I always

ask everybody what hotel they're stopping at, and so I've

got my head all mixed up with hotels. But it makes talk,

and I love to talk. It refreshes me up so--don't it

you--on a trip like this?"

"Yes--sometimes."

"Well, it does me, too. As long as I'm talking I never

feel bored--ain't that the way with you?"

"Yes--generally. But there are exception to the rule."

"Oh, of course. _I_ don't care to talk to everybody, MYSELF.

If a person starts in to jabber-jabber-jabber about scenery,

and history, and pictures, and all sorts of tiresome things,

I get the fan-tods mighty soon. I say 'Well, I must be going

now--hope I'll see you again'--and then I take a walk. Where you

from?"

"New Jersey."

"Why, bother it all, I asked you THAT before, too.

Have you seen the Lion of Lucerne?"

"Not yet."

"Nor I, either. But the man who told me about

Mount Pilatus says it's one of the things to see.

It's twenty-eight feet long. It don't seem reasonable,

but he said so, anyway. He saw it yesterday; said it

was dying, then, so I reckon it's dead by this time.

But that ain't any matter, of course they'll stuff it.

Did you say the children are yours--or HERS?"

"Mine."

"Oh, so you did. Are you going up the ... no, I asked

you that. What ship ... no, I asked you that, too.

What hotel are you ... no, you told me that.

Let me see ... um .... Oh, what kind of voy ... no,

we've been over that ground, too. Um ... um ... well,

I believe that is all. BONJOUR--I am very glad to have

made your acquaintance, ladies. GUTEN TAG."

CHAPTER XXVIII

[The Jodel and Its Native Wilds]

The Rigi-Kulm is an imposing Alpine mass, six thousand

feet high, which stands by itself, and commands a mighty

prospect of blue lakes, green valleys, and snowy mountains

--a compact and magnificent picture three hundred miles

in circumference. The ascent is made by rail, or horseback,

or on foot, as one may prefer. I and my agent panoplied

ourselves in walking-costume, one bright morning,

and started down the lake on the steamboat; we got ashore

at the village of Waeggis; three-quarters of an hour distant

from Lucerne. This village is at the foot of the mountain.

We were soon tramping leisurely up the leafy mule-path,

and then the talk began to flow, as usual. It was

twelve o'clock noon, and a breezy, cloudless day;

the ascent was gradual, and the glimpses, from under

the curtaining boughs, of blue water, and tiny sailboats,

and beetling cliffs, were as charming as glimpses of dreamland.

All the circumstances were perfect--and the anticipations,

too, for we should soon be enjoying, for the first time,

that wonderful spectacle, an Alpine sunrise--the object

of our journey. There was (apparently) no real need

for hurry, for the guide-book made the walking-distance

from Waeggis to the summit only three hours and a quarter.

I say "apparently," because the guide-book had already

fooled us once--about the distance from Allerheiligen

to Oppenau--and for aught I knew it might be getting ready

to fool us again. We were only certain as to the altitudes

--we calculated to find out for ourselves how many hours

it is from the bottom to the top. The summit is six

thousand feet above the sea, but only forty-five hundred

feet above the lake. When we had walked half an hour,

we were fairly into the swing and humor of the undertaking,

so we cleared for action; that is to say, we got a boy whom

we met to carry our alpenstocks and satchels and overcoats

and things for us; that left us free for business.

I suppose we must have stopped oftener to stretch out

on the grass in the shade and take a bit of a smoke

than this boy was used to, for presently he asked if it

had been our idea to hire him by the job, or by the year?

We told him he could move along if he was in a hurry.

He said he wasn't in such a very particular hurry,

but he wanted to get to the top while he was young.

We told him to clear out, then, and leave the things at

the uppermost hotel and say we should be along presently.

He said he would secure us a hotel if he could, but if they

were all full he would ask them to build another one

and hurry up and get the paint and plaster dry against

we arrived. Still gently chaffing us, he pushed ahead,

up the trail, and soon disappeared. By six o'clock we

were pretty high up in the air, and the view of lake

and mountains had greatly grown in breadth and interest.

We halted awhile at a little public house, where we

had bread and cheese and a quart or two of fresh milk,

out on the porch, with the big panorama all before us--and

then moved on again.

Ten minutes afterward we met a hot, red-faced man plunging

down the mountain, making mighty strides, swinging his

alpenstock ahead of him, and taking a grip on the ground

with its iron point to support these big strides.

He stopped, fanned himself with his hat, swabbed the

perspiration from his face and neck with a red handkerchief,

panted a moment or two, and asked how far to Waeggis.

I said three hours. He looked surprised, and said:

"Why, it seems as if I could toss a biscuit into the lake

from here, it's so close by. Is that an inn, there?"

I said it was.

"Well," said he, "I can't stand another three hours,

I've had enough today; I'll take a bed there."

I asked:

"Are we nearly to the top?"

"Nearly to the TOP? Why, bless your soul, you haven't

really started, yet."

I said we would put up at the inn, too. So we turned

back and ordered a hot supper, and had quite a jolly

evening of it with this Englishman.

The German landlady gave us neat rooms and nice beds,

and when I and my agent turned in, it was with the resolution

to be up early and make the utmost of our first Alpine sunrise.

But of course we were dead tired, and slept like policemen;

so when we awoke in the morning and ran to the window it

was already too late, because it was half past eleven.

It was a sharp disappointment. However, we ordered

breakfast and told the landlady to call the Englishman,

but she said he was already up and off at daybreak--and

swearing like mad about something or other. We could not

find out what the matter was. He had asked the landlady

the altitude of her place above the level of the lake,

and she told him fourteen hundred and ninety-five feet.

That was all that was said; then he lost his temper.

He said that between ------fools and guide-books, a man

could acquire ignorance enough in twenty-four hours in a

country like this to last him a year. Harris believed

our boy had been loading him up with misinformation;

and this was probably the case, for his epithet described

that boy to a dot.

We got under way about the turn of noon, and pulled out

for the summit again, with a fresh and vigorous step.

When we had gone about two hundred yards, and stopped

to rest, I glanced to the left while I was lighting my pipe,

and in the distance detected a long worm of black smoke

crawling lazily up the steep mountain. Of course that was

the locomotive. We propped ourselves on our elbows at once,

to gaze, for we had never seen a mountain railway yet.

Presently we could make out the train. It seemed incredible

that that thing should creep straight up a sharp slant

like the roof of a house--but there it was, and it was doing

that very miracle.

In the course of a couple hours we reached a fine breezy

altitude where the little shepherd huts had big stones

all over their roofs to hold them down to the earth when

the great storms rage. The country was wild and rocky

about here, but there were plenty of trees, plenty of moss,

and grass.

Away off on the opposite shore of the lake we could

see some villages, and now for the first time we could

observe the real difference between their proportions

and those of the giant mountains at whose feet they slept.

When one is in one of those villages it seems spacious,

and its houses seem high and not out of proportion to the

mountain that overhands them--but from our altitude,

what a change! The mountains were bigger and grander

than ever, as they stood there thinking their solemn

thoughts with their heads in the drifting clouds,

but the villages at their feet--when the painstaking

eye could trace them up and find them--were so reduced,

almost invisible, and lay so flat against the ground,

that the exactest simile I can devise is to compare

them to ant-deposits of granulated dirt overshadowed

by the huge bulk of a cathedral. The steamboats skimming

along under the stupendous precipices were diminished

by distance to the daintiest little toys, the sailboats

and rowboats to shallops proper for fairies that keep

house in the cups of lilies and ride to court on the backs

of bumblebees.

Presently we came upon half a dozen sheep nibbling grass

in the spray of a stream of clear water that sprang

from a rock wall a hundred feet high, and all at once

our ears were startled with a melodious "Lul ...

l ... l l l llul-lul-LAhee-o-o-o!" pealing joyously

from a near but invisible source, and recognized that we

were hearing for the first time the famous Alpine JODEL

in its own native wilds. And we recognized, also,

that it was that sort of quaint commingling of baritone

and falsetto which at home we call "Tyrolese warbling."

The jodeling (pronounced yOdling--emphasis on the O)

continued, and was very pleasant and inspiriting to hear.

Now the jodeler appeared--a shepherd boy of sixteen

--and in our gladness and gratitude we gave him a franc

to jodel some more. So he jodeled and we listened.

We moved on, presently, and he generously jodeled us

out of sight. After about fifteen minutes we came across

another shepherd boy who was jodeling, and gave him half

a franc to keep it up. He also jodeled us out of sight.

After that, we found a jodeler every ten minutes;

we gave the first one eight cents, the second one

six cents, the third one four, the fourth one a penny,

contributed nothing to Nos. 5, 6, and 7, and during

the remainder of the day hired the rest of the jodelers,

at a franc apiece, not to jodel any more. There is somewhat

too much of the jodeling in the Alps.

About the middle of the afternoon we passed through

a prodigious natural gateway called the Felsenthor,

formed by two enormous upright rocks, with a third lying

across the top. There was a very attractive little

hotel close by, but our energies were not conquered yet,

so we went on.

Three hours afterward we came to the railway-track. It

was planted straight up the mountain with the slant

of a ladder that leans against a house, and it seemed

to us that man would need good nerves who proposed

to travel up it or down it either.

During the latter part of the afternoon we cooled our

roasting interiors with ice-cold water from clear streams,

the only really satisfying water we had tasted since we

left home, for at the hotels on the continent they

merely give you a tumbler of ice to soak your water in,

and that only modifies its hotness, doesn't make it cold.

Water can only be made cold enough for summer comfort by

being prepared in a refrigerator or a closed ice-pitcher.

Europeans say ice-water impairs digestion. How do they

know?--they never drink any.

At ten minutes past six we reached the Kaltbad station,

where there is a spacious hotel with great verandas which

command a majestic expanse of lake and mountain scenery.

We were pretty well fagged out, now, but as we did

not wish to miss the Alpine sunrise, we got through our

dinner as quickly as possible and hurried off to bed.

It was unspeakably comfortable to stretch our weary limbs

between the cool, damp sheets. And how we did sleep!--for

there is no opiate like Alpine pedestrianism.

In the morning we both awoke and leaped out of bed at the

same instant and ran and stripped aside the window-curtains;

but we suffered a bitter disappointment again: it

was already half past three in the afternoon.

We dressed sullenly and in ill spirits, each accusing

the other of oversleeping. Harris said if we had brought

the courier along, as we ought to have done, we should

not have missed these sunrises. I said he knew very well

that one of us would have to sit up and wake the courier;

and I added that we were having trouble enough to take

care of ourselves, on this climb, without having to take

care of a courier besides.

During breakfast our spirits came up a little, since we

found by this guide-book that in the hotels on the summit

the tourist is not left to trust to luck for his sunrise,

but is roused betimes by a man who goes through the halls

with a great Alpine horn, blowing blasts that would

raise the dead. And there was another consoling thing:

the guide-book said that up there on the summit the guests

did not wait to dress much, but seized a red bed blanket

and sailed out arrayed like an Indian. This was good;

this would be romantic; two hundred and fifty people

grouped on the windy summit, with their hair flying and

their red blankets flapping, in the solemn presence of the

coming sun, would be a striking and memorable spectacle.

So it was good luck, not ill luck, that we had missed

those other sunrises.

We were informed by the guide-book that we were now

3,228 feet above the level of the lake--therefore

full two-thirds of our journey had been accomplished.

We got away at a quarter past four, P.M.; a hundred yards

above the hotel the railway divided; one track went

straight up the steep hill, the other one turned square

off to the right, with a very slight grade. We took

the latter, and followed it more than a mile, turned a

rocky corner, and came in sight of a handsome new hotel.

If we had gone on, we should have arrived at the summit,

but Harris preferred to ask a lot of questions--as usual,

of a man who didn't know anything--and he told us to go

back and follow the other route. We did so. We could ill

afford this loss of time.

We climbed and climbed; and we kept on climbing; we reached about

forty summits, but there was always another one just ahead.

It came on to rain, and it rained in dead earnest.

We were soaked through and it was bitter cold. Next a

smoky fog of clouds covered the whole region densely,

and we took to the railway-ties to keep from getting lost.

Sometimes we slopped along in a narrow path on the left-hand

side of the track, but by and by when the fog blew as aside

a little and we saw that we were treading the rampart

of a precipice and that our left elbows were projecting

over a perfectly boundless and bottomless vacancy,

we gasped, and jumped for the ties again.

The night shut down, dark and drizzly and cold.

About eight in the evening the fog lifted and showed us

a well-worn path which led up a very steep rise to the left.

We took it, and as soon as we had got far enough from the

railway to render the finding it again an impossibility,

the fog shut down on us once more.

We were in a bleak, unsheltered place, now, and had

to trudge right along, in order to keep warm, though we

rather expected to go over a precipice, sooner or later.

About nine o'clock we made an important discovery

--that we were not in any path. We groped around a while

on our hands and knees, but we could not find it;

so we sat down in the mud and the wet scant grass to wait.

We were terrified into this by being suddenly confronted

with a vast body which showed itself vaguely for an instant

and in the next instant was smothered in the fog again.

It was really the hotel we were after, monstrously magnified

by the fog, but we took it for the face of a precipice,

and decided not to try to claw up it.

We sat there an hour, with chattering teeth and quivering bodies,

and quarreled over all sorts of trifles, but gave most

of our attention to abusing each other for the stupidity

of deserting the railway-track. We sat with our backs

to the precipice, because what little wind there was

came from that quarter. At some time or other the fog

thinned a little; we did not know when, for we were facing

the empty universe and the thinness could not show;

but at last Harris happened to look around, and there stood

a huge, dim, spectral hotel where the precipice had been.

One could faintly discern the windows and chimneys,

and a dull blur of lights. Our first emotion was deep,

unutterable gratitude, our next was a foolish rage,

born of the suspicion that possibly the hotel had been

visible three-quarters of an hour while we sat there

in those cold puddles quarreling.

Yes, it was the Rigi-Kulm hotel--the one that occupies

the extreme summit, and whose remote little sparkle

of lights we had often seen glinting high aloft among

the stars from our balcony away down yonder in Lucerne.

The crusty portier and the crusty clerks gave us the surly

reception which their kind deal out in prosperous times,

but by mollifying them with an extra display of obsequiousness

and servility we finally got them to show us to the room

which our boy had engaged for us.

We got into some dry clothing, and while our supper was

preparing we loafed forsakenly through a couple of vast

cavernous drawing-rooms, one of which had a stove in it.

This stove was in a corner, and densely walled around

with people. We could not get near the fire, so we moved

at large in the artic spaces, among a multitude of people

who sat silent, smileless, forlorn, and shivering--thinking

what fools they were to come, perhaps. There were some

Americans and some Germans, but one could see that the

great majority were English.

We lounged into an apartment where there was a great crowd,

to see what was going on. It was a memento-magazine.

The tourists were eagerly buying all sorts and styles of

paper-cutters, marked "Souvenir of the Rigi," with handles

made of the little curved horn of the ostensible chamois;

there were all manner of wooden goblets and such things,

similarly marked. I was going to buy a paper-cutter, but I

believed I could remember the cold comfort of the Rigi-Kulm

without it, so I smothered the impulse.

Supper warmed us, and we went immediately to bed--but first,

as Mr. Baedeker requests all tourists to call his attention

to any errors which they may find in his guide-books, I

dropped him a line to inform him he missed it by just

about three days. I had previously informed him of his

mistake about the distance from Allerheiligen to Oppenau,

and had also informed the Ordnance Depart of the German

government of the same error in the imperial maps.

I will add, here, that I never got any answer to those letters,

or any thanks from either of those sources; and, what is still

more discourteous, these corrections have not been made,

either in the maps or the guide-books. But I will write

again when I get time, for my letters may have miscarried.

We curled up in the clammy beds, and went to sleep without

rocking.

We were so sodden with fatigue that we never stirred nor

turned over till the blooming blasts of the Alpine horn

aroused us. It may well be imagined that we did not lose

any time. We snatched on a few odds and ends of clothing,

cocooned ourselves in the proper red blankets, and plunged

along the halls and out into the whistling wind bareheaded.

We saw a tall wooden scaffolding on the very peak

of the summit, a hundred yards away, and made for it.

We rushed up the stairs to the top of this scaffolding,

and stood there, above the vast outlying world, with hair

flying and ruddy blankets waving and cracking in the fierce

breeze.

"Fifteen minutes too late, at last!" said Harris,

in a vexed voice. "The sun is clear above the horizon."

"No matter," I said, "it is a most magnificent spectacle,

and we will see it do the rest of its rising anyway."

In a moment we were deeply absorbed in the marvel before us,

and dead to everything else. The great cloud-barred disk

of the sun stood just above a limitless expanse of tossing

white-caps--so to speak--a billowy chaos of massy mountain

domes and peaks draped in imperishable snow, and flooded

with an opaline glory of changing and dissolving splendors,

while through rifts in a black cloud-bank above the sun,

radiating lances of diamond dust shot to the zenith.

The cloven valleys of the lower world swam in a tinted

mist which veiled the ruggedness of their crags and ribs

and ragged forests, and turned all the forbidding region

into a soft and rich and sensuous paradise.

We could not speak. We could hardly breathe.

We could only gaze in drunken ecstasy and drink in it.

Presently Harris exclaimed:

"Why--nation, it's going DOWN!"

Perfectly true. We had missed the MORNING hornblow,

and slept all day. This was stupefying.

Harris said:

"Look here, the sun isn't the spectacle--it's US--stacked

up here on top of this gallows, in these idiotic blankets,

and two hundred and fifty well-dressed men and women down

here gawking up at us and not caring a straw whether the sun

rises or sets, as long as they've got such a ridiculous

spectacle as this to set down in their memorandum-books.

They seem to be laughing their ribs loose, and there's

one girl there at appears to be going all to pieces.

I never saw such a man as you before. I think you are

the very last possibility in the way of an ass."

"What have _I_ done?" I answered, with heat.

"What have you done? You've got up at half past seven

o'clock in the evening to see the sun rise, that's what

you've done."

"And have you done any better, I'd like to know? I've

always used to get up with the lark, till I came under

the petrifying influence of your turgid intellect."

"YOU used to get up with the lark--Oh, no doubt

--you'll get up with the hangman one of these days.

But you ought to be ashamed to be jawing here like this,

in a red blanket, on a forty-foot scaffold on top

of the Alps. And no end of people down here to boot;

this isn't any place for an exhibition of temper."

And so the customary quarrel went on. When the sun

was fairly down, we slipped back to the hotel in the

charitable gloaming, and went to bed again. We had

encountered the horn-blower on the way, and he had tried

to collect compensation, not only for announcing the sunset,

which we did see, but for the sunrise, which we had

totally missed; but we said no, we only took our solar

rations on the "European plan"--pay for what you get.

He promised to make us hear his horn in the morning,

if we were alive.

CHAPTER XXIX

[Looking West for Sunrise]

He kept his word. We heard his horn and instantly got up.

It was dark and cold and wretched. As I fumbled around

for the matches, knocking things down with my quaking hands,

I wished the sun would rise in the middle of the day,

when it was warm and bright and cheerful, and one

wasn't sleepy. We proceeded to dress by the gloom of a

couple sickly candles, but we could hardly button anything,

our hands shook so. I thought of how many happy people

there were in Europe, Asia, and America, and everywhere,

who were sleeping peacefully in their beds, and did not

have to get up and see the Rigi sunrise--people who did

not appreciate their advantage, as like as not, but would

get up in the morning wanting more boons of Providence.

While thinking these thoughts I yawned, in a rather ample way,

and my upper teeth got hitched on a nail over the door,

and while I was mounting a chair to free myself, Harris drew

the window-curtain, and said:

"Oh, this is luck! We shan't have to go out at all

--yonder are the mountains, in full view."

That was glad news, indeed. It made us cheerful right away.

One could see the grand Alpine masses dimly outlined

against the black firmament, and one or two faint stars

blinking through rifts in the night. Fully clothed,

and wrapped in blankets, and huddled ourselves up,

by the window, with lighted pipes, and fell into chat,

while we waited in exceeding comfort to see how an Alpine

sunrise was going to look by candlelight. By and by

a delicate, spiritual sort of effulgence spread itself

by imperceptible degrees over the loftiest altitudes of

the snowy wastes--but there the effort seemed to stop.

I said, presently:

"There is a hitch about this sunrise somewhere.

It doesn't seem to go. What do you reckon is the matter

with it?"

"I don't know. It appears to hang fire somewhere.

I never saw a sunrise act like that before. Can it be

that the hotel is playing anything on us?"

"Of course not. The hotel merely has a property interest

in the sun, it has nothing to do with the management of it.

It is a precarious kind of property, too; a succession

of total eclipses would probably ruin this tavern.

Now what can be the matter with this sunrise?"

Harris jumped up and said:

"I've got it! I know what's the matter with it! We've

been looking at the place where the sun SET last night!"

"It is perfectly true! Why couldn't you have thought of

that sooner? Now we've lost another one! And all through

your blundering. It was exactly like you to light a pipe

and sit down to wait for the sun to rise in the west."

"It was exactly like me to find out the mistake, too.

You never would have found it out. I find out all the mistakes."

"You make them all, too, else your most valuable faculty

would be wasted on you. But don't stop to quarrel,

now--maybe we are not too late yet."

But we were. The sun was well up when we got to the

exhibition-ground.

On our way up we met the crowd returning--men and women

dressed in all sorts of queer costumes, and exhibiting

all degrees of cold and wretchedness in their gaits

and countenances. A dozen still remained on the ground

when we reached there, huddled together about the scaffold

with their backs to the bitter wind. They had their red

guide-books open at the diagram of the view, and were

painfully picking out the several mountains and trying

to impress their names and positions on their memories.

It was one of the saddest sights I ever saw.

Two sides of this place were guarded by railings,

to keep people from being blown over the precipices.

The view, looking sheer down into the broad valley,

eastward, from this great elevation--almost a perpendicular

mile--was very quaint and curious. Counties, towns,

hilly ribs and ridges, wide stretches of green meadow,

great forest tracts, winding streams, a dozen blue lakes,

a block of busy steamboats--we saw all this little

world in unique circumstantiality of detail--saw it

just as the birds see it--and all reduced to the smallest

of scales and as sharply worked out and finished as a

steel engraving. The numerous toy villages, with tiny

spires projecting out of them, were just as the children

might have left them when done with play the day before;

the forest tracts were diminished to cushions of moss;

one or two big lakes were dwarfed to ponds, the smaller

ones to puddles--though they did not look like puddles,

but like blue teardrops which had fallen and lodged

in slight depressions, conformable to their shapes,

among the moss-beds and the smooth levels of dainty

green farm-land; the microscopic steamboats glided along,

as in a city reservoir, taking a mighty time to cover

the distance between ports which seemed only a yard apart;

and the isthmus which separated two lakes looked as if

one might stretch out on it and lie with both elbows

in the water, yet we knew invisible wagons were toiling

across it and finding the distance a tedious one.

This beautiful miniature world had exactly the appearance

of those "relief maps" which reproduce nature precisely,

with the heights and depressions and other details graduated

to a reduced scale, and with the rocks, trees, lakes,

etc., colored after nature.

I believed we could walk down to Waeggis or Vitznau

in a day, but I knew we could go down by rail in about

an hour, so I chose the latter method. I wanted to see

what it was like, anyway. The train came along about

the middle of the afternoon, and an odd thing it was.

The locomotive-boiler stood on end, and it and the whole

locomotive were tilted sharply backward. There were

two passenger-cars, roofed, but wide open all around.

These cars were not tilted back, but the seats were;

this enables the passenger to sit level while going down a

steep incline.

There are three railway-tracks; the central one is cogged;

the "lantern wheel" of the engine grips its way along

these cogs, and pulls the train up the hill or retards its

motion on the down trip. About the same speed--three miles

an hour--is maintained both ways. Whether going up or down,

the locomotive is always at the lower end of the train.

It pushes in the one case, braces back in the other.

The passenger rides backward going up, and faces forward

going down.

We got front seats, and while the train moved along

about fifty yards on level ground, I was not the

least frightened; but now it started abruptly downstairs,

and I caught my breath. And I, like my neighbors,

unconsciously held back all I could, and threw my weight

to the rear, but, of course, that did no particular good.

I had slidden down the balusters when I was a boy,

and thought nothing of it, but to slide down the balusters

in a railway-train is a thing to make one's flesh creep.

Sometimes we had as much as ten yards of almost level

ground, and this gave us a few full breaths in comfort;

but straightway we would turn a corner and see a long steep

line of rails stretching down below us, and the comfort

was at an end. One expected to see the locomotive pause,

or slack up a little, and approach this plunge cautiously,

but it did nothing of the kind; it went calmly on, and went

it reached the jumping-off place it made a sudden bow,

and went gliding smoothly downstairs, untroubled by

the circumstances.

It was wildly exhilarating to slide along the edge of

the precipices, after this grisly fashion, and look straight

down upon that far-off valley which I was describing a while ago.

There was no level ground at the Kaltbad station;

the railbed was as steep as a roof; I was curious

to see how the stop was going to be managed.

But it was very simple; the train came sliding down,

and when it reached the right spot it just stopped--that

was all there was "to it"--stopped on the steep incline,

and when the exchange of passengers and baggage had

been made, it moved off and went sliding down again.

The train can be stopped anywhere, at a moment's notice.

There was one curious effect, which I need not take the

trouble to describe--because I can scissor a description

of it out of the railway company's advertising pamphlet,

and save my ink:

"On the whole tour, particularly at the Descent, we undergo

an optical illusion which often seems to be incredible.

All the shrubs, fir trees, stables, houses, etc., seem to be bent

in a slanting direction, as by an immense pressure of air.

They are all standing awry, so much awry that the chalets

and cottages of the peasants seem to be tumbling down.

It is the consequence of the steep inclination of the line.

Those who are seated in the carriage do not observe that they

are doing down a declivity of twenty to twenty-five degrees

(their seats being adapted to this course of proceeding

and being bent down at their backs). They mistake their

carriage and its horizontal lines for a proper measure

of the normal plain, and therefore all the objects outside

which really are in a horizontal position must show a

disproportion of twenty to twenty-five degrees declivity,

in regard to the mountain."

By the time one reaches Kaltbad, he has acquired confidence

in the railway, and he now ceases to try to ease the

locomotive by holding back. Thenceforth he smokes his

pipe in serenity, and gazes out upon the magnificent

picture below and about him with unfettered enjoyment.

There is nothing to interrupt the view or the breeze;

it is like inspecting the world on the wing. However--to be

exact--there is one place where the serenity lapses for a while;

this is while one is crossing the Schnurrtobel Bridge,

a frail structure which swings its gossamer frame down

through the dizzy air, over a gorge, like a vagrant

spider-strand.

One has no difficulty in remembering his sins while

the train is creeping down this bridge; and he repents

of them, too; though he sees, when he gets to Vitznau,

that he need not have done it, the bridge was perfectly safe.

So ends the eventual trip which we made to the Rigi-Kulm

to see an Alpine sunrise.

CHAPTER XXX

[Harris Climbs Mountains for Me]

An hour's sail brought us to Lucerne again. I judged

it best to go to bed and rest several days, for I knew

that the man who undertakes to make the tour of Europe

on foot must take care of himself.

Thinking over my plans, as mapped out, I perceived that

they did not take in the Furka Pass, the Rhone Glacier,

the Finsteraarhorn, the Wetterhorn, etc. I immediately

examined the guide-book to see if these were important,

and found they were; in fact, a pedestrian tour of Europe

could not be complete without them. Of course that decided

me at once to see them, for I never allow myself to do

things by halves, or in a slurring, slipshod way.

I called in my agent and instructed him to go without delay

and make a careful examination of these noted places,

on foot, and bring me back a written report of the result,

for insertion in my book. I instructed him to go to Hospenthal

as quickly as possible, and make his grand start from there;

to extend his foot expedition as far as the Giesbach fall,

and return to me from thence by diligence or mule.

I told him to take the courier with him.

He objected to the courier, and with some show of reason,

since he was about to venture upon new and untried ground;

but I thought he might as well learn how to take care of

the courier now as later, therefore I enforced my point.

I said that the trouble, delay, and inconvenience

of traveling with a courier were balanced by the deep

respect which a courier's presence commands, and I must

insist that as much style be thrown into my journeys

as possible.

So the two assumed complete mountaineering costumes

and departed. A week later they returned, pretty well

used up, and my agent handed me the following

Official Report

OF A VISIT TO THE FURKA REGION. BY H. HARRIS, AGENT

About seven o'clock in the morning, with perfectly

fine weather, we started from Hospenthal, and arrived at

the MAISON on the Furka in a little under QUATRE hours.

The want of variety in the scenery from Hospenthal made

the KAHKAHPONEEKA wearisome; but let none be discouraged;

no one can fail to be completely R'ECOMPENS'EE for

his fatigue, when he sees, for the first time, the monarch

of the Oberland, the tremendous Finsteraarhorn. A moment

before all was dullness, but a PAS further has placed us

on the summit of the Furka; and exactly in front of us,

at a HOPOW of only fifteen miles, this magnificent mountain

lifts its snow-wreathed precipices into the deep blue sky.

The inferior mountains on each side of the pass form

a sort of frame for the picture of their dread lord,

and close in the view so completely that no other prominent

feature in the Oberland is visible from this BONG-A-BONG;

nothing withdraws the attention from the solitary grandeur

of the Finsteraarhorn and the dependent spurs which form

the abutments of the central peak.

With the addition of some others, who were also bound

for the Grimsel, we formed a large XHVLOJ as we descended

the STEG which winds round the shoulder of a mountain

toward the Rhone Glacier. We soon left the path and took

to the ice; and after wandering amongst the crevices UN PEU,

to admire the wonders of these deep blue caverns, and hear

the rushing of waters through their subglacial channels,

we struck out a course toward L'AUTRE CO^T'E and crossed

the glacier successfully, a little above the cave from

which the infant Rhone takes its first bound from under

the grand precipice of ice. Half a mile below this

we began to climb the flowery side of the Meienwand.

One of our party started before the rest, but the HITZE

was so great, that we found IHM quite exhausted,

and lying at full length in the shade of a large GESTEIN.

We sat down with him for a time, for all felt the heat

exceedingly in the climb up this very steep BOLWOGGOLY,

and then we set out again together, and arrived at last

near the Dead Man's Lake, at the foot of the Sidelhorn.

This lonely spot, once used for an extempore burying-place,

after a sanguinary BATTUE between the French and Austrians,

is the perfection of desolation; there is nothing in sight

to mark the hand of man, except the line of weather-beaten

whitened posts, set up to indicate the direction of the pass

in the OWDAWAKK of winter. Near this point the footpath joins

the wider track, which connects the Grimsel with the head

of the Rhone SCHNAWP; this has been carefully constructed,

and leads with a tortuous course among and over LES PIERRES,

down to the bank of the gloomy little SWOSH-SWOSH, which

almost washes against the walls of the Grimsel Hospice.

We arrived a little before four o'clock at the end

of our day's journey, hot enough to justify the step,

taking by most of the PARTIE, of plunging into the crystal

water of the snow-fed lake.

The next afternoon we started for a walk up the Unteraar glacier,

with the intention of, at all events, getting as far

as the HUETTE which is used as a sleeping-place by most

of those who cross the Strahleck Pass to Grindelwald.

We got over the tedious collection of stones and DE'BRIS

which covers the PIED of the GLETCHER, and had walked

nearly three hours from the Grimsel, when, just as

we were thinking of crossing over to the right,

to climb the cliffs at the foot of the hut, the clouds,

which had for some time assumed a threatening appearance,

suddenly dropped, and a huge mass of them, driving toward

us from the Finsteraarhorn, poured down a deluge of

HABOOLONG and hail. Fortunately, we were not far from

a very large glacier-table; it was a huge rock balanced

on a pedestal of ice high enough to admit of our all

creeping under it for GOWKARAK. A stream of PUCKITTYPUKK

had furrowed a course for itself in the ice at its base,

and we were obliged to stand with one FUSS on each side

of this, and endeavor to keep ourselves CHAUD by cutting

steps in the steep bank of the pedestal, so as to get

a higher place for standing on, as the WASSER rose rapidly

in its trench. A very cold BZZZZZZZZEEE accompanied

the storm, and made our position far from pleasant;

and presently came a flash of BLITZEN, apparently in the

middle of our little party, with an instantaneous clap

of YOKKY, sounding like a large gun fired close to our ears;

the effect was startling; but in a few seconds our attention

was fixed by the roaring echoes of the thunder against

the tremendous mountains which completely surrounded us.

This was followed by many more bursts, none of WELCHE,

however, was so dangerously near; and after waiting a long

DEMI-hour in our icy prison, we sallied out to talk through

a HABOOLONG which, though not so heavy as before, was quite

enough to give us a thorough soaking before our arrival at the

Hospice.

The Grimsel is CERTAINEMENT a wonderful place; situated at

the bottom of a sort of huge crater, the sides of which

are utterly savage GEBIRGE, composed of barren rocks

which cannot even support a single pine ARBRE, and afford

only scanty food for a herd of GMWKWLLOLP, it looks as

if it must be completely BEGRABEN in the winter snows.

Enormous avalanches fall against it every spring,

sometimes covering everything to the depth of thirty

or forty feet; and, in spite of walls four feet thick,

and furnished with outside shutters, the two men who stay here

when the VOYAGEURS are snugly quartered in their distant homes

can tell you that the snow sometimes shakes the house to its

foundations.

Next morning the HOGGLEBUMGULLUP still continued bad,

but we made up our minds to go on, and make the best of it.

Half an hour after we started, the REGEN thickened unpleasantly,

and we attempted to get shelter under a projecting rock,

but being far to NASS already to make standing at all

AGRE'ABLE, we pushed on for the Handeck, consoling ourselves

with the reflection that from the furious rushing

of the river Aar at our side, we should at all events

see the celebrated WASSERFALL in GRANDE PERFECTION.

Nor were we NAPPERSOCKET in our expectation; the water

was roaring down its leap of two hundred and fifty feet

in a most magnificent frenzy, while the trees which cling

to its rocky sides swayed to and fro in the violence of the

hurricane which it brought down with it; even the stream,

which falls into the main cascade at right angles,

and TOUTEFOIS forms a beautiful feature in the scene,

was now swollen into a raging torrent; and the violence

of this "meeting of the waters," about fifty feet below

the frail bridge where we stood, was fearfully grand.

While we were looking at it, GLUECKLICHEWEISE a gleam

of sunshine came out, and instantly a beautiful rainbow

was formed by the spray, and hung in mid-air suspended over

the awful gorge.

On going into the CHALET above the fall, we were

informed that a BRUECKE had broken down near Guttanen,

and that it would be impossible to proceed for some time;

accordingly we were kept in our drenched condition for

EIN STUNDE, when some VOYAGEURS arrived from Meiringen,

and told us that there had been a trifling accident,

ABER that we could now cross. On arriving at the spot,

I was much inclined to suspect that the whole story was a ruse

to make us SLOWWK and drink the more at the Handeck Inn,

for only a few planks had been carried away, and though

there might perhaps have been some difficulty with mules,

the gap was certainly not larger than a MMBGLX might cross

with a very slight leap. Near Guttanen the HABOOLONG

happily ceased, and we had time to walk ourselves tolerably

dry before arriving at Reichenback, WO we enjoyed a good DINE'

at the Hotel des Alps.