THE BRUNIG PASS—LUCERNE.
IF it were required of me to name the pleasantest day’s ride thus far of
this summer’s tour in Switzerland, I should give the palm for beauty to
the day that took me with two friends from Interlaken to Lucerne by way
of Brienz and the Brunig Pass.
Interlaken, as its name implies, is between the lakes Thun and Brienz.
Thun is a beautiful gem of a sea; Brienz is a little smaller, but
fortified by formidable mountains and scarcely less lovely than her
sister Thun. Our carriage-road, after leading us out from
Interlaken,—that great English boarding establishment with a road
running through it, and interesting only as a flat valley in sight of
the Jungfrau, and so full of people all summer long that you can find no
sense of quiet or retirement, though the hotels are good, and the rides
pleasant, and the mountain scenery sublime,—our road led us along on the
western shore of Lake Brienz, and is cut into the hill-side so far up
that all the way along we were able to survey the whole lake. I looked
back to the _Abendberg_, a mountain which I once climbed to visit the
Institution for the Relief of Cretins, the idiots of Switzerland, which
Dr. Guggenbulre established there. That remarkable philanthropist and
physician, in whom and his labors I became intensely interested when
here before, has since that time been removed by death, and no one being
found to carry on his benevolent and self-denying work, it was
suspended, and the building is now a hotel.
On the east side of the lake some of the finest mountains in the country
are to be seen, and the flat summit of the Faulhorn is even more
inviting than the Rigi, which now is visited by scarcely more tourists.
Cascades are leaping frequently from lofty heights into the abyss below,
and we have scarcely exclaimed at the beauty of one before another
rushes into sight. By and by we come to one more imposing than all the
rest; at first we catch but a single fall; as we advance it takes
another plunge, and then another, and soon the whole reach and all the
leaps of the GIESBACK are roaring and tumbling down the lofty precipices
before us. I had been under it and around it, at its base, but had not
before stood, as now, where its successive falls are all blended into
one, and the white crystal flood pours more than a thousand feet,
through the green fir-tree borders, into the lake. If you have a night
to spare, when you come here, you may cross from Brienz and spend it at
the Falls, which are illuminated with Bengal lights, producing a
spectacle of enchanting and bewildering magnificence and beauty. But if
you have not time, get some one who has just been there, and who knows
that you have not been, to tell you about it, and you will get an idea
_from his description_ that will quite surpass the original!
After passing the little village of Brienz,—where the English-speaking
landlord of the Bear (Ours) will entertain you well if you give him a
call,—we soon began the ascent of the Brunig mountain. It gives you at
once some conception of the immense expenditure of money, time, and
science of engineering required to construct these Swiss roads. As
smooth as those of Central Park, and as solid, they are made to wind
around and about so as to render the ascent gradual. Sometimes we seem
to be returning on our track, but always singing _Excelsior_, and yet so
gradually that the strain is not severe on the horses, and you feel no
sense of danger as you are borne along without jolting or fatigue. And
what a lovely vale is every moment in view at the foot of the mountain!
A rapid river sweeps through it, and by its side a white, smooth road:
sweet Swiss homes in the midst of green farms dot the valley, that may
well be the pride of the whole land. Now we are looking down into the
Vale of Meyringen. For two or three hours we have seen in the distance a
splendid cascade, and now that we have approached it, we find it the
lower leap of the celebrated Reichenbach Falls, and into the valley so
many are pouring constantly, that you are not surprised to learn the
inhabitants have often suffered sadly from the swelling of these
mountain torrents, which come down so rapidly and fearfully as to bear
away every thing before them. A hundred years ago, almost the whole
village of Meyringen was buried twenty feet deep in the sand and rocks
and rubbish. A mark on one of the principal buildings shows the height
to which the waters rose in that memorable deluge. And as we are wound
along up the Brunig, we enter the clouds and find the rain descending,
so that we are obliged to shut the carriage up till we pass through the
cloud, and emerge as we come down into a sunnier region. At the foot,
the village of Lungern offers us dinner, and we rest. One of my friends
had been suffering all day with toothache, and had at last reached the
reckless determination to have it out, if a dentist, or even a
blacksmith, could be found in the place. I admired his courage more than
his discretion, but probably had only a feeble sense of his suffering.
The village doctor was summoned, a fine-looking, self-reliant,
intelligent young man. The landlord stood with solemn face at the door
of the room where the dread operation was to be performed. The landlady
wrung her hands in sympathy. The head waiter held the sufferer’s head. I
held my peace. In a moment it was done! And then the charge, it was one
franc! twenty cents!! Think of that, ye man tormentors, who, with
forceps dire, tear a tooth by the roots from one’s bleeding jaw and
charge him two dollars, or five!
Lungern, where now lies the bone of one of my countrymen, stands by a
lake of the same name, which was once much larger than it is now. But
the people, more in need of land than water, at the cost of $25,000 dug
a tunnel under a hill that held the lake, put 1000 pounds of gunpowder
at the end of the hole and touched it off. Away it went, and away went
the lake, and the village itself was nearly whelmed too. Down went the
lake 120 feet, leaving several hundred acres of ground which is now
tilled. But not enough to pay for the work. God has given the seas and
the lakes their bounds, and man is a poor tinker when he tries to blow
the world up and make it over. I sympathize with the poet who rejoices
that the sun and moon are swung out of reach,
“Lest some reforming ass
Should take them down and light the world with gas.”
The whole region beyond is historic, and the quaint villages we pass
through have their several stories of battles, sieges, and victories.
Every step of the way presents a new picture of loveliness or sublimity.
At last we are brought into sight and now are riding along the base of
Mount Pilatus, his head as usual crowned with clouds and storm. The
tradition is,—and you must believe in all the traditions of this
country, or you lose half the interest of travel in it: even the life
and exploits of William Tell are traditional rather than historic, yet
who that lives here or travels here thinks William Tell a myth? If he
does, he had better not tell anybody he doesn’t believe in Tell,—the
tradition is that Pontius Pilate, after condemning the Saviour, wandered
over the world with a conscience goading him to death; that finally he
committed suicide on the top of this mountain, which is almost always,
in consequence of this awful event, begirt with tempests. And the
popular belief that these storms were of infernal origin was so
prevalent, that for a long time it was forbidden by law to make the
ascent. But the mountain is the first great barrier the clouds meet as
they are marching southerly into the Alpine regions. There they break,
and around the peak of Mount PILATE the thunder and lightning play with
vengeance, when elsewhere it is “clear shining after the rain.” The
carriage-path is now along the shore of Lake Lucerne and at the foot of
the mountains,—ahead of us it seems as though we were coming to the
sudden terminus of travel, but the narrow way opens as we advance, and
we sweep securely under a frowning precipice, and over a solid rock for
the bed of the road, and having made the circuit of the mountain we
emerge upon a plain which lies between us and Lucerne.
[Illustration: PILATUS, LAKE OF LUCERNE.]
The sun was just sinking to rest as we were bringing to a close our
journey of ten hours, memorable for the picturesque views that were
constantly before us, the four lakes that we had skirted in our ride,
the uncounted waterfalls, majestic mountains, alternate rain and
sunshine, and that pleasant friendly converse which an easy-going
carriage permits and encourages, when, with tastes to enjoy the
beautiful world that God has made, we sit all day under the open sky and
admire, wonder, and adore.
Lucerne is one of the most beautiful spots in Switzerland. We have often
laughed at the guide-books for calling each and every place, castle,
river, waterfall, temple, or tower, the most beautiful, the oldest,
largest, most romantic, or something quite as superlative. But we get
into the same habit, and readers must make allowances for the enthusiasm
of travellers. Take off as much as you please, and Lucerne is very
lovely.
It was my first Sabbath, on this journey, in a place almost wholly given
up to Romanism. The population is about 13,000, and less than a thousand
are Protestants. At nine o’clock in the morning, with two American
friends, I went to the cathedral or church of St. Leger, and found it
already crowded and a sermon in progress. The preacher was arrayed with
so much magnificence that I supposed he must be some very distinguished
personage in the church of Rome. The Papal Nuncio, or representative of
the Pope of Rome, has his official residence in Lucerne, but I presume
he does not officiate as a preacher. The audience filling the seats and
thronging the aisles were giving devout attention, each one on entering
bending his knee and crossing himself. The women occupied one half, and
the men the other, of the house. I could find no seat, but a young man
in a pew rose, gave me his seat, and stood up himself, a politeness not
common in any Protestant church in any part of the world to which my
weary steps have been directed. The preaching was in German, and more
unintelligible to me than if it had been in Greek or Latin, so that I
was at liberty to study the surroundings. Over the altar was a statue of
Christ crucified: the body made of wood painted to the life, and
life-size, suspended so low that the face, with all its expression of
intense agony, was perfectly visible. The blood had settled all below
the knees and the lower part of the chest, and was trickling from the
spikes through the hands and feet. The altar was richly adorned with
gold, and candles were burning on it. On either side of it were minor
altars; over one of them was an inscription in Latin recording the
sacred relics there treasured. These are to be found in all the great
churches on the continent, but have lost none of their hold on the
reverence of these superstitious people. The toe-nail of the prophet
Jeremiah would be the fortune of any relic-hunter who should light upon
it. Over another altar, called _Privileged_, but why I did not learn,
was a representation, in full life-size, of the descent from the cross.
The weeping women had very sorrowful faces, and the wound in the
Saviour’s side was gaping fearfully, and the blood still oozing out. As
I was looking at it, a lady elegantly dressed, leading two children,
four or five years old, entered a side door, and approaching this altar
knelt before it, and turning her face upward to these images of the
Saviour’s death, gazed long, and I suppose was praying. The sermon was
still in progress, but she gave no heed to it. Perhaps, like myself, she
was not able to understand it, and had come to worship, not to hear.
When she had closed her protracted devotions, she took the little boy
and girl and made them both kneel, where she had been kneeling, and look
up as she had done, and when they had thus performed the service which
she evidently prescribed, she led them out. Others cast themselves down
before this and other altars, and with no attention to the service in
progress, went on with their own prayers, and then left, or joined with
the rest according to their pleasure. When the sermon was ended, long,
and well delivered, in a persuasive, conversational tone, without notes,
and with an evident air of earnest feeling, another priest, in gorgeous
apparel, came to the high altar, and, attended by two or three boys to
hold up his robes and move his missal-book from place to place, as he
had to change his position, he proceeded to celebrate the mass. The
officiating priest was an elderly man whose face indicated great
intellectual force, and his appearance was that of a student and man of
learning. As he took a golden chalice and laid his hands over it, and
prayed, and then lifted it up while all the people bowed themselves with
profound reverence, it filled me with amazement that such a man as he
seemed to be could suppose that the wine in that cup had been
miraculously and instantly converted into the blood of the Son of God!!!
And when he held up in the same way a bit of bread in the shape of a
wafer or thin cracker, two inches or so in diameter, and again all the
people bent themselves in adoration, he himself, with uplifted hands and
downcast eyes and moving lips, appeared to regard the ceremony as an
immediate exhibition of a present and new-born God. Then he took the cup
again and drank it, and drank once more, turning it bottom upward over
his face; and when this was done he took a white napkin and dried the
inside thoroughly, as if no drop of the sacred blood must remain within,
and the door of a golden casket or closet on the altar being opened, he
placed it within, with the bread he had converted, and locked it safely
there. While this ceremony was going on, a priest had emerged from
behind the altar, and with a brush in hand went up and down among the
people, sprinkling them with holy water. A splendid organ and a choir of
singers took part in the service, which was in all its parts imposing to
the senses, fitted to make a deep impression on the ignorant masses.
The cloisters that surround the church are filled with tombs and
memorial paintings and inscriptions, and the windows on the south
command charming views of the lake and mountains.
From this service, which was rather to be called _interesting_ than
edifying, we went to the English church service. The Protestant Germans
have a new and very pretty edifice, which they permit the
English-speaking residents and travellers to enjoy for two services on
the Sabbath. The sermon we heard was on the nature and blessed effects
of prayer. It was evangelical and useful, some passages very touching
and impressive. The prayers were read by a young American clergyman, and
the audience, which was quite large, filling the church, was probably
one-half American.
I have never found a more romantic, more sublime, more classic and
beautiful lake in the little part of the world I have seen, than the
Vier-Wald-Statter See, the Four Forrest Cantons, or, as it is more often
called, Lake Lucerne.
You will come to Lucerne, to the Schweitzer Hof, the best hotel in
Switzerland. From the wharf in front of it steamers go five times a day
the whole length of the lake and return, making the excursion in five
hours.
It is the lake of William Tell. Unbelieving sceptics intimate a doubt
that such a man as Tell ever lived; but the apothecary in whose house I
am lodging now has his scales in the form of a cross-bow, with a gilt
apple on the top, to represent the great exploit of the hero’s life, and
every house has its memento of the man without whom there is no Swiss
history. You might as well tell me that George Washington is a myth, and
that he never hacked his father’s cherry-tree with a hatchet. I have a
piece of the tree, and know it to be true. And every Swiss patriot knows
that William Tell shot the apple off his son’s head, and the monster
cruelty of the order that made him do it roused the fires of indignant
resistance to tyranny, and resulted in the independence of the country.
It is necessary to believe this, to enjoy the scenes made sacred by the
story.
[Illustration: MONUMENT TO THE SWISS GUARD. (_By Thorvaldsen._)]
You will leave the city of Lucerne, having seen the lion cut in a solid
rock as a monument to some Swiss soldiers who were killed in Paris
fighting for pay in 1792, and having also walked through the covered
bridge that is distinguished, but not adorned, with a series of
paintings by Holbein, representing the Dance of Death; and after the
boat has gone from the landing about fifteen minutes, you must look back
on the crescent city rising from the water’s edge, flanked by the
ancient wall on which the useless towers still stand; and on the spires
of the cathedral whose organ claims equal honor with that of Freyburg;
and the old tower in the centre of the river which was once a
light-house, Lucerna, whence the name of the town; and on the green
hills, behind and on either side of the city, elegant residences of
opulent citizens, and of some who from Paris and more distant parts come
here to enjoy the summer in a delicious and healthful clime. Naples is
grander, but hardly more beautiful, as she lies around her lovely bay,
with Vesuvius, like the Rigi, keeping watch over her Italian charms.
For an hour or two out we are in the midst of the same bold and striking
scenery which is common to all the Swiss lakes, with nothing of special
interest except the historic associations that cluster about the little
villages at the foot of the hills on the shores. We would be slow to
believe that a population even of a few hundreds could hold on upon the
sides of the mountains, or find the means of support among those green
meadows, where lies the little village of Gersau, and there are only
about 1,500 people in it. Yet so tenacious are these Swiss of
independence, that this little, secluded, poor, portionless community,
not more than two miles square, maintained its existence as a separate
state for more than four centuries, and was then swallowed up by the
French in the devouring fires of 1789. It is now part of one of the
Swiss cantons. We cross the lake again and come to Brunnen, where the
figures of the three historic patriots of Switzerland stand with each a
hand held up to heaven, on the outside of the Sustenhaus, on the bank of
the water. But when we leave Brunnen, and through a narrow pass enter
the Bay of Uri, the grandeur of the view breaks instantly upon us with
such a power as to set at defiance the attempt at description unless one
has a bolder pen than mine. Philosophers have tried it. Poets have done
what they could to illustrate and repeat it. So prudent, and yet so
capable a writer as Sir James Mackintosh says it makes “an impression
which it would be foolish to attempt to convey by words.” I will
therefore not be foolish. Yet you may look with my eyes upon precipitous
mountains starting from the bosom of the lake and pointing with silent
and solemn majesty into the sky: here and there as we pass are verdant
meadows, few and far between, but beautiful as they nestle at the feet
or on the breasts of these gigantic cliffs, not a human habitation,
sometimes for miles, to be seen, but all still, serene, and impressive
in its solitude, and awful in its manifestation of the stupendous works
of God.
A sharp rock rises perpendicularly from the water on the western shore,
and some foolish people have put a gilt letter inscription on it: as if
the words were of use to perpetuate the histories of these shores. We
come to a low pasture, a narrow ledge, the most hallowed spot in
Switzerland, for here the three great patriots whose portraits we saw at
Brunnen,—Furst, Stauffacher, and Melchthal,—were wont to meet to concert
their plans. And here at midnight, Nov. 7, 1307, they, with thirty
trusty men whom they had chosen, took the oath that bound them in a
solemn league to break the hated yoke of Austria, or die. They fought
and conquered, and they perished too, but their names and deeds live, in
revolving centuries, and pilgrims from lands that were then unknown now
come and look with reverence upon the spot thus consecrated, for the
lands of Tell and of Washington are lands of liberty, and the sons of
each are brothers.
And across the See, a few miles on, is the chapel of William Tell. It
marks the spot where the hero jumped from the boat to the rock and
bounded away into the woods, when the tyrant Gessler was carrying him to
prison. A storm had overtaken them: the tyrant, a coward of course, was
afraid, and, as Tell was an expert in the boat, he ordered him to be
unbound, that he might manage the little bark. Tell steered her close to
the rock, and leaped ashore, and was gone. A little chapel, open on the
lake front, is erected here, preserved with pious care, adorned with art
and taste, and once a year a long procession of Swiss, in boats,
approach the sacred place and listen to a discourse in honor of their
sainted hero.
[Illustration: TELL’S CHAPEL, LAKE OF LUCERNE.]
Adown the sides of these majestic mountains frequent cascades leap and
hang and play, and not far from the chapel two fountains spring directly
out of the mountain side and pour two copious streams into the lake
below. They are said to flow from a lake in the valley on the other side
of the mountain; but whether this is true or not, it is an illustration
of the way in which the veins of water run along beneath the earth,
rising even on the sides and summits of the hills, and springing to the
surface when reached by art, or, as in this case, discharging by a
natural outlet. The earth has its mysteries yet unsolved. Some of these
bare mountain rocks are laid in convoluted strata, a few feet only in
thickness, but wrapped over and over, as if they were a heap of great
sheets once, easily thrown into these forms. It is easy to say that they
are of volcanic origin, and that these hills were once flowing down in
presence of the Lord. But this explains nothing. The philosopher is no
wiser than the poet. And neither sees any farther into the bowels of
these mountains than the Christian pilgrim who sits with me on the boat,
and, as he sees the water gushing out of the rock as if smitten by the
rod of Moses, he says: “Who hath divided a watercourse for the
overflowing of the waters? Out of whose bosom came the ice? There is a
path which no fowl knoweth, and which the vulture’s eye hath not seen.”
And this is the way the waters go, through chambers cut in the rocks by
Infinite skill, that they may flow just where they are wanted to bless
or beautify the world.
Reaching the end of the lake at Fluellen, we enter at once upon the
highway over the St. Gothard into Italy. Two miles on is Altorf, where
William Tell shot the apple on the head of his son. And still farther on
is the place where he finally lost his life, drowned while seeking to
save the life of a child. The road beyond is one of the grandest and
most historic of the Swiss passes, but I am not going that way now, as
Capt. Lott said. What did _he_ say? Why, this,—a passenger asked him why
the ship was going so slow: the captain told him the fog was too thick
to make much headway. “But,” said the passenger looking up, “it’s clear
enough overhead.” “Yes,” replied the Captain, “but we’re not going that
way just now.”