1873
THE SOURCE OF THE RHINE--STRANGE VILLAGES THERE--A REPUBLIC
FOUR HUNDRED YEARS OLD--THE “GRAY LEAGUE”--“THE LEAGUE OF THE
HOUSE OF GOD”--LOUIS PHILIPPE’S HIDING PLACE--A TOUR IN THE
VALLEY OF THE INN--LETTER FROM GENERAL SHERMAN--REGRETS HIS
CAREER SEEMS OVER.
This summer we determined to see the source of the River Rhine. For all
that tourists seemed to know, it was only a mist among the clouds. It
was far away in the upper and unfrequented Alps. We went on foot, and
found all the upper Rhine scenery ten times as grand as anything below
Schaffhausen and the Falls. Except the classic scenery from Bingen to
Coblenz no scene there is to be at all compared with a hundred places
on the Rhine, among the Swiss Alps. What is called the German Rhine,
is far less striking. It is the Swiss Rhine, far above where it flows
through Lake Constance, that is truly picturesque. At Chur, we turned
to the right, into the mountains, and followed up the branch known as
the “Vorder Rhine.”
Every morning at the sunrise, we were trudging along the way with our
knapsacks and staffs, with the wildest mountain scenery all about
us. We passed many ruins of castles, and numerous picturesque little
villages--Reichenau, Ilianz, Trois, Disentis.
We always rested a few hours in the middle of the day, slept awhile,
and had simple dinners of trout and bread, with honey and wine.
[Illustration: Rich Peasant’s House.--_Page 89._]
Right and left the scenery is gorgeous, certainly, but this grand
nature is also man’s enemy in these higher Alps. Flood and avalanche
are forever threatening; the fields produce little, the villages are
poor and wretched, and we ask ourselves, why do people seek such places
to live in?
The answer is, they can’t get away; they are too poor. Besides, here
is where their ancestors lived always; why should they not live here,
too, they answer. Years later, a girl from one of these places came
and lived in our home as a domestic; but she was forever lamenting her
mountains and her wretched village, spite of the fact that it had been
three times overwhelmed by avalanches. That was the town of Selva.
Near to this Selva, is the hamlet of Gesten, and there eighty-four
souls were lost by an avalanche in a single night. The big grave
containing them all was shown to us, outside of the village.
Tourists who travel by coach and railway in Switzerland, have little
conception of what real, Swiss, Alpine scenery or Alpine life is like.
It is just judging the moon by looking through a telescope. Life in
these almost unknown valleys, differs from all the rest of Switzerland.
Here the commune is the government. Of national laws, or presidents and
parliaments, the people know nothing. The village mayor is the king.
Not many years ago, these mayors and their village advisers in the
Vorder Rhine countries, could hang men and women of their own accord.
The people are a species of Italian and speak an Italian dialect. Five
hundred years ago, they had petty republics up here. Here were the
“Gray League,” the “Ten Jurisdictions” and the “House of God.”
In 1396, the liberty-loving people of the high Rhine valleys fought
for liberty, and founded a little nation called Rhaetia, that lasted
four hundred years, when it became united to Switzerland. Ilanz, their
old capital, stands here still, a novel picture of past ages. The
snow-capped mountains, the fine forests, the picturesque river Rhine,
are there as they were then, and the sons and daughters of these old
liberty athletes have changed almost as little as the scene of their
fathers.
We walked on to Selva and spent the night. I could have thought myself
living among Roman peasants in the time of Julius Cæsar. Everything
was antique, simple, different from the nineteenth century. Corn grows
up there, but the people live mostly from their flocks. I noticed the
men wore earrings, and men and women, with their ruddy, brown faces
and black hair, look like a better class of Southern gipsies. They
have almost no books, few schools, and only a single newspaper in the
whole valley. No human being, outside of the Upper Rhine, would think
of calling that journal a newspaper. The houses are built of hewn logs,
turned brown as a Cincinnati ham, and the clapboard roofs are held on
by big stones.
Spite of their surroundings, these peasants and villagers are happy,
and sing and dance as did their ancestors on the plains of Tuscany.
They fear the avalanches every night. They call them “The White Death,”
and look on them as sent by spirits.
They know little, and care less, about what is going on in the world,
and would give more to wake up any morning, and find a new kid or lamb
born, than to hear of the discovery of a new continent. Their only
ambition is to get their cribs full for the winter, and at last to mix
their bones with the dust of their fathers, beyond the village church.
Near to one of these villages, and farther down the valley, is the tiny
lake of “Tama,” and there the river Rhine begins. The natives here
call it “_Running Water_.” The stream is dark and green, and the lake
is surrounded by dreary rocks and ice-clad mountains. It is 7,690 feet
above the sea. Tourists on the palace steamers of the Rhine, down by
the sands of Holland, should see the historic river at its cradle, if
they would have memories to last forever.
We followed another branch of the Rhine that joins this one at
Reichenau. It, too, is born among the grand mountain scenes, and sweeps
through deep gorges, among them the famous Via Mala. Here at Reichenau,
too, is the first bridge over the united Rhine. It is of wood, eighty
feet high and 238 feet long, in a single arch.
Near it, we were shown a little, old castle that has become historic.
There was a school kept there upon a time. One October evening of 1793,
a wandering pilgrim, with a pack on his back, knocked at the door and
begged the old schoolmaster to give him work. He could cipher and talk
French, and write a decent hand. For many months, the humble stranger
helped to teach the boys, and earned his daily bread. No one troubled
himself to find out who he was. He signed his name Chabourd Latour.
One evening, the boys saw the undermaster in tears. He was reading a
newspaper, wherein was the account of his father’s being beheaded on a
Paris scaffold. The secret of the poor teacher was soon out. It was not
Latour, but Louis Philippe, a coming king of France. He had wandered
everywhere in disguise, for after his escape from banishment, no nation
had dared give him a resting place.
This little Rhine valley had no more romantic story.
* * * * *
One evening after we were back at Zurich a kindly faced gentleman
called at the consulate. The fatal card hung on the door, “Office
closed till 9 to-morrow.” I was in the court below, with just ten
minutes between me and train time. I was to hurry out home to a party
by the lake. I saw the look of disappointment on the man’s face, and
something told me I ought to stop. The gentleman was a traveling
American. Some papers of importance had to be signed by him immediately
before a consul. Of course I missed the party, but I made a friend. It
was Mr. A. D. Jessup, a Philadelphia millionaire. He lingered about
Zurich a few days, and we met and talked together often. Sometimes
we had our lunch and beer together at the famous little café Orsini.
Then Mr. Jessup said good-by and left on his travels. A month from
then a telegram came from him at Paris. It was an invitation to be his
guest on a ten days’ drive in the Austrian Tyrol, with a wind-up at
the World’s Fair in Vienna. He was a friend of President Grant’s, the
message continued, and he could arrange for my leave of absence.
A few mornings later a four-horse carriage halted by the consulate
and we started for the Engadine, that lofty Alpine valley that is
coursed for a hundred miles by the river Inn. This is not a valley of
desolation. It is broad and productive, and once had many people and
a little government of its own. To-day there are pretty villages at
long distances and Insbruck is a picturesque and historic town. But
the Inn valley is sky high compared with other rich valleys of Europe.
We had bright sunshine and a delicious mountain air all the way. The
Inn is rapid and beautiful, and right and left, for twenty miles at a
stretch, rise high green hills, or else abrupt and lofty mountains,
with sometimes bold and almost perpendicular crags. If we saw a rock
that looked extraordinarily picturesque, away up toward the blue sky,
there were sure to be also there the romantic ruins of some old castle.
It seemed that we passed a hundred of these lofty ruins, with broken
towers and fallen walls, through whose tall arches we sometimes saw
patches of blue sky. Eagles soared around many of these lofty and
deserted ruins. As we two drove for miles and miles along the white
winding road by the river we constantly looked up at the romantic
heights, and in our minds re-peopled the gray old castles and thought
of the time, a thousand years ago, when all the peasantry of the rich
valley were the serfs of masters who reveled in these castles built
with the toil of the poor. A time came when the enslaved rose and all
these castles were overthrown or burned and left as they are to-day.
There are ruins high up above this Inn valley that, doubtless, have not
been visited by a human footstep in a hundred years. Most of them are
inaccessible. The former roads cut up the rocky mountain sides to them,
are gone and forgotten, and the heights with their awful ridges against
the sky look as desolate as the desert.
We closed our delightful journey with a visit to the World’s Fair
at Vienna. Barring the Swiss National Exhibition, I have never seen
anything so fine.
On my return I found this letter from General Sherman waiting me. In
it, he expresses regret that his active career seems over:
“WASHINGTON, D. C., July 14, 1873.
“DEAR BYERS: I received your letter some days ago and sent it
from my office to the house, for the perusal of Mrs. Sherman,
therefore it is not before me now. I take it for granted that
Minnie is, or must be, at Zurich or near there. Since she has
been traveling from Italy her letters have been less frequent,
and I fear some of our letters to her have miscarried, or been
delayed. It is now pretty well determined that she will remain
over the winter, so that she will have plenty of time to see
all things that can be of interest. I hope that she will give
Switzerland a good long visit, and that from there she will
make the excursions that are so convenient. We all write to her
often, so she must feel perfectly easy on our behalf. Instead of
going to Carlisle, as Mrs. S. first intended, the family have
remained here in Washington, and I see no cause to regret it,
for we have had but little oppressive weather, and our house is
so large and airy that I doubt if any change would be for the
better. Of course, all the fashionable people, including most of
the officers, have gone to the seashore or mountains, so that
Washington is comparatively dull, but the many changes here in
the streets, and abundance of flowing water have added much to
the comfort of those who remain and can’t get away.
“Elly and Rachel, the two smaller girls, who were at school
when you were here, are now at home, and are busy all day with
their companions, playing croquet in our yard. Tom is putting
in his vacation by riding horseback with two of his companions
up through Pennsylvania. At last date he was near Altoona, and
will be gone all of July and part of August. I suppose the
return of Minister Rublee to his post has disappointed you, but
you must have patience and do well that which is appointed for
you, leaving for time that advancement which all ambitious men
should aim for. I sometimes regret that I am at the end of my
rope, for it is an old saying that there is more real pleasure
in the pursuit than in reaching the goal. Although you may hear
of cholera in this country, I assure you that it is not serious.
I suppose the same is true of Europe, though it is reported the
Shah of Persia declined to visit Vienna on account of cholera. I
think Minnie ought to visit Vienna, if only for a week, to see
that really beautiful city, and to visit Mr. Jay’s family. My
best love to Mrs. Byers. Truly your friend,
W. T. SHERMAN.”