The sun is low;
Yon peak of snow
Is purpling 'neath the sunset glow;
The rosy light
Makes richly bright
The Jungfrau's veil of snowy white.
From vales that sleep
Night's shadows creep
To take possession of the steep;
While, as they rise,
The western skies
Seem loth to leave so fair a prize.
The light of Day
Still loves to stay
And round that pearly summit play;
How fair a sight,
That plain of light
Contended for by Day and Night!
Now fainter shines.
As Day declines,
The lustrous height which he resigns;
The shadows gain
Th' illumined plain;
The Jungfrau pales, as if in pain.
When daylight dies,
The azure skies
Seem sparkling with a thousand eyes,
Which watch with grace
From depths of space
The sleeping Jungfrau's lovely face.
And when is born
The ruddy Dawn,
Forerunner of the coming Morn,
Along the skies
It quickly flies
To kiss the Maiden's opening eyes.
The timid flush,
The rosy blush,
Which then o'er brow and face do rush.
Are pure and fair
Beyond compare,
Resplendent in the illumined air.
And thus alway,
By night or day,
Her varying suitors homage pay;
And tinged with rose,
Or white with snows,
The same fair radiant form she shows.
[Illustration: ON LAKE THUN.]
I have said that Interlaken was an admirable place from which to make
excursions. Shall we not put this to the proof by entering now the
charming and romantic vale of Lauterbrunnen, dainty and lovely as a
dimple in the cheek of Nature? It is only half a mile in width, and is
bounded on both sides by lofty mountains, over which the winter's sun
can hardly climb till midday. And yet luxuriant vegetation covers it,
as with an emerald carpet. The bases of these mountains seem to rest
on flowers. The awful scenery which surrounds it makes it seem doubly
sweet and fair; and one can hardly imagine a more striking picture than
that of this peaceful valley, looking smilingly up into the stern and
savage faces of the monsters which environ it, as if unconscious of its
helplessness, or trusting confidently in their mercy.
[Illustration: THE STAUBBACH.]
A little distance up the valley, we note its most remarkable feature,
the Fall of the Staubbach, or "Dust-brook," which here leaps boldly
over the brow of the mountain, nine hundred and eighty feet above
us. Long before it reaches the ground, it is converted into a vast,
diaphanous cloud of spray, which the breeze scatters into thousands
of fantastic wreaths. Whenever the sunlight streams directly through
this, the effect is marvelous. It then resembles a transparent veil
of silvery lace, woven with all the colors of the rainbow, fluttering
from the fir-clad rocks. Byron compared it to the tail of a white
horse, streaming in the wind; but Goethe's description is best, when he
exclaims:
"In clouds of spray,
Like silver dust,
It veils the rock
In rainbow hues;
And dancing down
With music soft,
Is lost in air."
[Illustration: VALLEY OF LAUTERBRUNNEN]
But the ambitious traveler will ascend far higher than the summit of
this waterfall to stand upon the mighty cliffs which line the valley
like gigantic walls.
[Illustration: GOING TO MÜRREN]
[Illustration: ZÜRICH.]
[Illustration: COMFORT IN SWITZERLAND.]
The task is easily accomplished now. Ten years ago it was an arduous
climb, on horseback or on foot; but now an electric railroad winds for
miles along the edge of frightful precipices, and (where a vertical
ascent is absolutely necessary) another kind of car lifts one a
thousand feet or so toward heaven, as smoothly and as swiftly as a
hotel elevator.
[Illustration: MODERN ALPINE CLIMBING.]
Truly the visitor of a dozen years ago perceives amazing changes
to-day among the Alps. Where, formerly, a man would hardly dare to go
on foot, trains now ascend with myriads of travelers! Hotels and even
railroad stations up among the clouds have driven from the lofty crags
the eagle and the chamois. This to the genuine Alpine climber seems
like sacrilege; but, after all, what contributors to the happiness of
mankind these mountain railroads are! Without them, few would venture
here; and all the pageantry of Nature in these upper regions would
unfold itself through the revolving years with scarce an eye to note
its beauty or voice to tell its glories to the world.
[Illustration: MÜRREN.]
In startling contrast to my first ascent to the place, now many years
ago, it was by this luxurious mode of travel that I recently approached
the little village known as Mürren. It is the loftiest hamlet in all
Switzerland, consisting of a cluster of Swiss cottages, whose roofs,
heavily freighted with protecting stones, project beyond the walls like
broad-brimmed hats. So singular is the appearance of a village at this
dizzy height, that one is tempted to believe that the houses had been
blown up from the valley by some reckless blast, and dropped at random
on the lonely tableland.
Yet here, to our astonishment, we find hotels, which somehow year by
year outlive the horrors of the Alpine winter, and in the summer season
welcome their hundreds of adventurous guests. But, after all, where in
Switzerland is there not a hotel? Fast as the arteries of travel are
extended, on every prominent point commanding a fine view is planted
a hotel, a forerunner of the world of travel. This is, in fact, one of
the charms of Switzerland. The Andes and Himalayas may possess higher
peaks and grander glaciers; but there one cannot (as among the Alps)
ride all day long on perfect roads, and in the evening sit down to a
well-cooked dinner, hear music on a broad veranda, consult the latest
newspapers, and sleep in a comfortable bed.
Even before the advent of the railroad, I was a thousandfold repaid for
climbing up to Mürren; for here so closely do the Alpine Titans press
on every side, that if Mohammed had ever found his way hither, he might
well have believed that the mountains were coming to him, and not he to
the mountains.
[Illustration: A HOTEL AT MÜRREN.]
The surrounding summits reveal to the astonished sight heights,
lengths, and depths which overwhelm one with sublimity. What seemed an
hour ago mere glistening mounds are now transformed by the grandeur of
this Olympian elevation into vast snowfields, miles in length, or into
seas of ice, which pour down through the valleys in slow-moving floods.
In early summer, too, one hears at frequent intervals the roar of some
tremendous avalanche on the great mountains opposite, from which the
tourist is separated only by a yawning gulf.
Never shall I forget the morning when I stood here waiting for the
sunrise view. There was none of that crowd of jabbering tourists who
often profane the summit of the Rigi, and seem to measure the extent
of their pleasure by the noise they make. I was well-nigh alone. When
I emerged from the hotel, a purple line was visible in the east, but
clouds and mists half veiled the mountains from my sight. At length,
however, noiselessly but steadily, a hidden hand seemed to draw
back the misty curtain of the night. Slowly the giant forms molded
themselves from darkness into light, until their foreheads first,
and then each fold and outline of their dazzling shapes, stood forth
in bold relief against the sky. The glaciers sparkled with the first
bright beams like jeweled highways of the gods,—till, finally, as the
sun's disk came fairly into view, the whole vast range glowed like
a wall of tinted porcelain. It seemed as if a thousand sacred fires
had been kindled on these mountain altars, in glad response to the
triumphant greeting of the god of day.
On descending from Mürren, the tourist is attracted to another famous
object, only a few miles from Interlaken,—the glacier of Grindelwald.
[Illustration: A VIEW FROM MÜRREN.]
[Illustration: MÜRREN—HOTEL DES ALPES.]
It was while visiting this sea of ice that my guide suddenly turned and
asked me with a smile, "Are you a clergyman?"
I answered that I could not claim that flattering distinction,
but begged to know the reason of his question. "Because," he said,
"clergymen seem to be unlucky in Grindelwald; all the accidents that
take place here somehow happen to them."
[Illustration: A GLACIER.]
As we were at that moment just about to venture on the ice, I naturally
recalled Charles Lamb's reply when he was requested to say grace at
dinner. "What," he exclaimed, "are there no clergymen present? Then I
will say, the Lord be thanked!"
A moment or two later we entered the well-known cavern in this
glacier—a strange and chilling passageway, two hundred feet in length,
cut in the solid ice, whose gleaming walls and roof seemed to be made
of polished silver.
[Illustration: A CHILLING PASSAGEWAY.]
[Illustration: GHOSTLY FINGERS.]
As I was picking my way safely, though shiveringly, through this huge
refrigerator, I asked my guide to tell me about one of the clerical
misfortunes which had made him suspicious of gentlemen of the cloth.
He turned and looked at me curiously. "You know, of course, the fate
of our pastor, M. Mouron?" he exclaimed. I confessed my ignorance.
"Then come with me," he said. Accordingly, emerging from the cavern,
we climbed for nearly an hour over great blocks of ice, until we
came to a profound abyss. Suspended from the frozen parapet a mass of
icicles pointed mysteriously down like ghostly fingers. Then all was
dark. "It was by falling down this," said the guide, "that the pastor
of Grindelwald lost his life. He was seeking one day to ascertain its
depth by casting stones into its cavernous maw and counting till he
heard the sound of their arrival at the bottom of the abyss. Once, in
his eagerness, he placed his staff against the opposite edge, leaned
over and listened. Suddenly the ice gave way, and he fell headlong into
the crevasse. His guide ran breathless to the village and informed the
people of their loss. But, to his horror, he found that he himself was
looked upon with suspicion. In fact, some went so far as to say that he
must have murdered their pastor, and robbed him of his watch and purse.
[Illustration: LAUSANNE.]
"The guides of Grindelwald, however, who felt themselves insulted at
this accusation, united and agreed that one of their number (chosen
by lot) should, at the peril of his life, descend into this crevasse
to establish the innocence of the accused. The lot was drawn by one
of the bravest of them all, a man named Bergenen. The whole village
assembled on the flood of ice to witness the result of the search.
After partaking of the sacrament, Bergenen fastened a rope around his
waist and a lantern to his neck. In one hand he took a bell. In the
other he grasped his iron-pointed staff to keep himself from the sharp
edges. Four men then carefully lowered him down. Twice, on the point
of suffocation, he rang the bell and was drawn up. Finally a heavier
weight was felt upon the rope, and Bergenen reappeared, bringing the
body of the pastor from a depth of seven hundred and fifty feet. A
mighty shout went up from the guides and populace as well. The man was
innocent. Both watch and purse were found upon the corpse!"
[Illustration: HAY-MAKING.]
[Illustration: UPON THE HEIGHTS.]
As we returned from Grindelwald to Interlaken, we often paused to
note the peasants toiling in the fields. So far as their appearance
was concerned, we might have supposed them laborers on a Vermont
farm; but their low carts were quite unlike our country hayracks;
and the appearance of a single ox, harnessed with ropes around his
horns, presented an amusing contrast to the sturdy beasts which, bound
together by the yoke, drag to our barns their loads of fragrant hay.
Women, of course, were working with the men; but female laborers in
Switzerland are not in the majority. In many instances the ratio is but
one to three.
[Illustration: A SWISS FARM-HOUSE.]
These peasants look up curiously as we drive along, and no doubt
think that we are favored beings, to whom our luxuries give perfect
happiness. And yet the very tourists whom they thus envy may, in
a single hour, endure more misery and heartache than they in their
simplicity and moderate poverty will ever know. Among these people
are not found the framers of those hopeless questions: "Is life worth
living?" and "Does death end all?" The real destroyers of life's
happiness are not a lowly home and manual labor. They are the constant
worriments and cares of artificial life,—satiety of pleasures, the
overwork of mental powers, and the disenchantment of satisfied desires.
Filled with such thoughts, as we beheld the humble but well-kept and
ever picturesque dwellings of the farmers of this valley, I called
to mind, as a consoling antidote to one's first natural sympathy with
poverty, the story of the sultan who, despite all his wealth and power,
was always melancholy. He had been told by his physician that, if he
would be cured of all his real or fancied ailments, he must exchange
shirts with the first perfectly happy man he could find. Out went his
officers in search of such a person.
[Illustration: THE GIESSBACH.]
The hunt was long and arduous, but finally the fortunate being was
found. When he was brought to the sultan, however, it was discovered,
alas! that this perfectly happy individual was not the possessor of a
shirt.
[Illustration: MOUNT PILATE FROM LUCERNE.]
From Interlaken, every tourist makes a short excursion to one of the
best known of Alpine waterfalls,—the Giessbach. Set in a glorious
framework of dark trees, it leaves the cliff, one thousand feet
above, and in a series of cascades leaps downward to the lake. If
this descending torrent were endowed with consciousness, I fancy it
would be as wretched in its present state as a captive lion in a cage,
continually stared at by a curious multitude. For never was a cascade
so completely robbed of liberty and privacy as this. A pathway crosses
it repeatedly by means of bridges, and seems to bind it to the mountain
as with a winding chain. Behind it are numerous galleries where
visitors may view it from the rear. Arbors and seats are also placed on
either side; and thus, through every hour of the day, people to right
of it, people to left of it, people in rear of it, people in front
of it, look on and wonder. Even at night it has but little rest; for
hardly have the shadows shrouded it, when it is torn from its obscurity
by torches, calcium lights, and fireworks, which all along its course
reveal it to the admiring crowd in a kaleidoscope of colors.
[Illustration: THE REICHENBACH.]
Far happier, therefore, seems another waterfall of Switzerland,—the
Reichenbach; for this is left comparatively undisturbed within its
mountain solitude. Far off, upon a mountain crest, a blue lake, set
like a sapphire amid surrounding glaciers, serves as a cradle for this
new-born river. Thence it emerges, timidly at first, to make its way
down to the outer world. With each descent, however, it gains fresh
impetus and courage. Return is now impossible. The die is cast. Its
fate is now decided. We almost wish that we could check its course
amid this beautiful environment. It will not find a sweeter or a safer
place. Too soon it will be forced to bear great burdens, turn countless
wheels, and minister to thousands. Then, at the last, will come old
Ocean's cold and passionless embrace, in which all its individuality
will disappear.
[Illustration: THE PROMENADE.]
Another portal to this land of mountains, rivaling Interlaken in
attractiveness, is Lucerne, reclining peacefully beside its noble lake.
I do not know a resting-place in Switzerland which is in all respects
so satisfying as this.
[Illustration: THE QUAY, LUCERNE.]
Its hotels are among the finest in the world; the town itself is pretty
and attractive; and in the foreground is a panorama too varied to
become monotonous, too beautiful ever to lose its charm. Mount Pilate
and the Rigi guard Lucerne like sentinels, the one on the east, the
other on the west, like halting-places for the morning and the evening
stars. Directly opposite, upon the southern boundary of the lake, miles
upon miles of snow-capped mountains rise against the sky, as if to
indicate the limit of the world.
[Illustration: LUCERNE AND MOUNT PILATE.]
One of the sentinels of Lucerne, as I have said, is Mount Pilate.
Toward this the faces of all tourists turn, as to a huge barometer; for
by its cap of clouds Pilate foretells the weather which excursionists
must look for. There is hardly need to recall the popular derivation
of the mountain's name. It was in olden times believed that Pontius
Pilate, in his wanderings through the world, impelled at last by horror
and remorse, committed suicide upon its summit. On this account the
mountain was considered haunted. At one time the town authorities even
forbade people to ascend it on a Friday! But now there is a hotel on
the top, and every day in the week, Friday included, a railway train
climbs resolutely to the summit, enabling thousands to enjoy every
summer a view scarcely to be surpassed in grandeur or extent at any
point among the Alps. No allusion to Lucerne would be complete without
reference to that noble product of Thorwaldsen's genius, which, in
more respects than one, is the lion of the place. It is difficult
to imagine a more appropriate memorial than this, of the fidelity
and valor exhibited one hundred years ago by the Swiss guard, who
in defense of Louis XVI laid down their lives at the opening of the
French Revolution. No view does justice to this famous statue. Within a
monstrous niche, which has been hollowed out of a perpendicular cliff,
reclines, as in some mountain cave, the prostrate figure of a lion,
thirty feet in length. It is evident that the animal has received a
mortal wound. The handle of a spear protrudes from his side. Yet even
in the agony of death he guards the Bourbon shield and lily, which
he has given his life to defend. One paw protects them; his drooping
head caresses them, and gives to them a mute farewell. Beneath the
figure, chiseled in the rock, are the names of the officers murdered
by the mob; while above is the brief but eloquent inscription: "To the
fidelity and bravery of the Swiss." In the whole world I do not know of
a monument more simple yet impressive.
[Illustration: THE ALPINE ELEVATOR ON MOUNT PILATE.]
[Illustration: THE LION OF LUCERNE.]
[Illustration: BRUNNEN, ON LAKE LUCERNE.]
One of the greatest pleasures of the tourist in Lucerne is to sail
out, as he may do at almost any hour of the day, upon its lovely
lake. This, in respect to scenery, surpasses all its Alpine rivals.
Twenty-three miles in length, it has the form of a gigantic cross, each
arm of which (when looked upon in the glow of sunset from a neighboring
height) seems like a plain of gold and lapis-lazuli set in a frame-work
of majestic mountains. No tour in Switzerland is complete without a
sail upon this fair expanse of water. Hence more than half a million
travelers cross it every year during the summer months alone, and tiny
steamers are continually visible, cutting their furrows on its smooth,
transparent surface, as sharply as a diamond marks a pane of glass.
[Illustration: MAKING A LANDING.]
[Illustration: TELL'S CHAPEL.]
[Illustration: MONTREUX.]
Moreover, when the boat glides inward toward the shore, one sees that
other elements of beauty are not wanting here. Pretty chalets with
overhanging roofs; rich pastures, orchards, and gardens,—all these,
with numerous villages, succeed each other here for miles, between the
lake and the bold cliffs that rise toward Heaven. Nor is this all. The
villages possess a history, since these romantic shores were formerly
the stage on which Swiss patriots performed those thrilling scenes
immortalized by Schiller in his drama of "William Tell."
[Illustration: ALTAR IN TELL'S CHAPEL.]
In fact, at one point half concealed among the trees is the well-known
structure, called Tell's Chapel. It stands upon the spot where, it is
said, the hero, springing from the tyrant's boat, escaped the clutches
of the Austrian governor. As is well known, doubts have been cast on
even the existence of this national chieftain; and yet it is beyond
peradventure that a chapel was erected here to his memory as early
as the fifteenth century, and only eleven years ago this structure
was restored at government expense. Moreover, once a year at least,
the people of the neighboring cantons gather here in great numbers
to celebrate a festival which has been held by their ancestors for
centuries.
The little building is certainly well calculated to awaken patriotism.
Appropriate frescoes, representing exploits ascribed to William
Tell, adorn the walls; while opposite the doorway is an altar at
which religious services are held. How solemn and impressive must the
ceremony be, when religious rites are performed in such a historic and
picturesque locality in the presence of a reverent multitude! At such a
time this tiny shrine may be considered part of the sublime cathedral
of the mountains, whose columns are majestic trees, whose stained
glass is autumnal foliage, whose anthems are the songs of birds, whose
requiems are the moaning of the pines, and whose grand roof is the
stupendous arch of the unmeasured sky, beneath which the snow-clad
mountains rise like jeweled altars, lighted at night, as if with lofty
tapers, by the glittering stars.
[Illustration: LAKE LUCERNE BY NIGHT.]
But to appreciate the beauty of this sheet of water, one should
behold it when its surface is unruffled by a breeze. Enamoured of
their own beauty, the mountains then look down into the lake as into
an incomparable mirror. It is an inverted world. The water is as
transparent as the sky. The very breezes hold their breath, lest they
should mar the exquisite reflection. The neighboring peaks display
their rugged features in this limpid flood, as if unconscious of the
wrinkles which betray their age. The pine trees stand so motionless
upon the shore that they appear like slender ferns. Instinctively we
call to mind those graceful lines, supposed to be addressed by such a
lake to an adjoining mountain:
"I lie forever at thy feet,
Dear hill with lofty crown;
My waters smile thy crags to greet,
As they look proudly down.
The odor of thy wind-tossed pines
Is message sweet to me;
It makes me dimple with delight,
Because it comes from thee.
Thou, lofty, grand, above the world;
Its lowly servant, I;
Yet see, within my sunny depths
Is smiling thy blue sky.
Thou art so far, and yet how near!
For though we are apart,
I make myself a mirror clear,
And hold thee in my heart."
[Illustration: FLUELEN, ON LAKE LUCERNE.]
[Illustration: THE AXENSTRASSE.]
[Illustration: IN THE ENGADINE.]
Above this lake itself extends for miles the famous Axenstrasse,—a
splendid specimen of engineering skill, cut in the solid rock,
hundreds of feet above the waves. Yet this is no exceptional thing in
Switzerland, and nothing stamps itself more forcibly upon the tourist's
mind within this region of the Alps than man's triumphant victory over
obstacles, in the formation of its roads. Despite their great cost
of construction these prove profitable investments; for the better
the roads, the more people will travel over them. Referring to them,
some one has prettily said, that by such means the Swiss transform the
silver of their mountain peaks into five franc pieces, and change the
golden glow of their sunrises and sunsets into napoleons.
[Illustration: MOUNTAIN GALLERIES.]
How great the difference between the Switzerland of to-day and that
of fifty years ago! Where formerly the solitary peasant and his mule
picked their precarious way through mud or snow, luxurious landaus
now roll easily along, on thoroughfares of rock, without a stone or
obstruction of any kind to mar their surfaces. Nor is there danger
of disaster. Walled in by massive parapets, an accident is here
impossible; and in these mighty galleries, hewn from the mountain side
itself, the traveler is perfectly secure, although an avalanche may
fall or cyclones rage above him.
[Illustration: ENGINEERING SKILL.]
The Axenstrasse may be said to form a part of that magnificent route
from Switzerland to Italy, known as the St. Gotthard. It is, in truth,
the king of Alpine roads; resembling a mighty chain which man, the
victor, has imposed upon the vanquished Alps,—one end sunk deep in the
Italian Lakes, the other guarded by the Lion of Lucerne,—and all the
intervening links kept burnished brightly by the hands of trade. True,
within the last few years, the carriage-road across the St. Gotthard
has been comparatively neglected, since the longest tunnel in the
world has to a great extent replaced it. Tranquil enough this tunnel
frequently appears, but I have seen it when great clouds of smoke were
pouring out of its huge throat, as from the crater of a great volcano.
A strong wind blowing from the south was then, no doubt, clearing
this subterranean flue; and I was glad that I had not to breathe
its stifling atmosphere, but, on the contrary, seated in a carriage,
could lose no portion of the glorious scenery, while drinking in great
draughts of the pure mountain air.
[Illustration: ST. GOTTHARD TUNNEL.]
[Illustration: VITZNAU ON LAKE LUCERNE.]
Still, whether we travel by the railroad of the St. Gotthard or not, we
must not underrate its usefulness, nor belittle the great engineering
triumphs here displayed. Its length, too, amazes one, for not only
is the principal tunnel nine and a half miles long, but there are
fifty-five others on the line, the total length of which, cut inch by
inch out of the solid granite, is more than twenty-five miles. When
one drives over the mountain by the carriage-road, hour after hour,
bewildered by its cliffs and gorges, it seems impossible that the
engineer's calculations could have been made so perfectly as to enable
labor on the tunnel to be carried on from both ends of it at the same
time. Yet all was planned so well that, on the 28th of February, 1880,
the Italian workmen and the Swiss both met at the designated spot, six
thousand feet below the summit, and there pierced the last thin barrier
that remained between the north and south.
[Illustration: A PORTION OF THE ST. GOTTHARD.]
[Illustration: THE ST. GOTTHARD RAILWAY.]
[Illustration: AMSTEG.]
The number of railroad bridges on the St. Gotthard astonished me. Their
name is legion. Across them long trains make their way among the clouds
like monster centipedes, creeping along the mountain-sides, or over
lofty viaducts.
Here man's triumph over nature is complete. How puny seems at first his
strength when measured with the wind and avalanche! But mind has proved
superior to matter. The ax was made, and at its sturdy stroke the
forest yielded up its tribute for the construction of this pathway. The
caverns of the earth were also forced to surrender the iron treasured
there for ages, and rails were made, along whose glittering lines a
crowded train now glides as smoothly as a boat upon the waves. And yet
these awful cliffs still scowl so savagely on either side, that the
steel rail, which rests upon their shelves of rock, seems often like a
thread of fate, by which a thousand lives are held suspended over the
abyss.
[Illustration: THE DEVIL'S BRIDGE.]
[Illustration: GÖSCHENEN, ON THE ST. GOTTHARD.]
The volume of freight transported along this route must be enormous.
But why should tourists (unless compelled by lack of time) consent
to be carried through this scenery like a bale of goods, in darkness
rather than in daylight? The best way still to cross the Alps is to
cross them, not to burrow through them. I should certainly advise the
traveler to drive from Lake Lucerne over the St. Gotthard Pass, and
then to take the train, if he desires to do so, on the Italian side,
as it emerges from the tunnel. Thence, in a few brief hours one can
embark upon Lake Como, or see the sunset gild the statue-laden spires
of Milan's cathedral.
The finest scenery on the carriage-road of the St. Gotthard is in a
wild ravine, through which the river Reuss rushes madly. Spanning the
torrent in a single arch, is what is popularly called "The Devil's
Bridge." Perhaps I should say bridges, for there are surely two of
them, and though only the smaller one is attributed to his Satanic
Majesty, it is probably by the newer, safer, and more orthodox one that
Satan nowadays, like a prudent devil, prefers to cross. The legend of
this celebrated bridge is extraordinary.
[Illustration: DRIVING OVER THE ALPS.]
Some centuries ago, the mayor of the canton was one day in despair
because the mountain torrent had swept off every bridge he had
constructed here. In his vexation he was rash enough to use the name of
the Devil, as some people will. Hardly had he uttered the word, when
his door-bell rang, and his servant brought him a card, on which he
read the words, "Monsieur Satan."
[Illustration: PEASANT GIRL.]
[Illustration: ONE OF THE MANY.]
"Show him in," said the mayor. A gentleman in black made his
appearance, and seated himself in an armchair. The mayor placed his
boots upon the fender; the Devil rested his upon the burning coals.
The subject of the bridge was broached, and the mayor finally offered
the Devil any sum that the canton could raise, if he would build them
a bridge which would last one hundred years. "Bah!" said Satan, "What
need have I of money?" And taking with his fingers a red-hot coal from
the fire, he offered it to his companion. The mayor drew back aghast.
"Don't be afraid," said Satan; and putting the coal in the mayor's
hand, it instantly became a lump of gold. "Take it back," said the
mayor sadly; "we are not talking now of politics!" "You see," said the
Devil, with a smile, "my price must be something else than money. If
I build this bridge, I demand that the first living being that passes
over it shall be mine." "Agreed!" said the mayor. The contract was soon
signed. "Au revoir!" said the Devil. "Au plaisir!" said the mayor; and
Satan went his way.
[Illustration: HOSPICE ST. BERNARD AND LAKE.]
Early next morning the mayor himself hurried to the spot, eager to
see if Satan had fulfilled his contract. The bridge was completed, and
there sat Satan, swinging his legs over the stream and waiting for his
promised soul. "What," he exclaimed, as he espied the mayor, "do you
unselfishly resign _your_ soul to me?" "Not much," replied the mayor,
proceeding to untie a bag which he had brought. "What's that?" cried
Satan. There was a wild yell, and instantly a big black cat, with a tin
pan tied to its tail, rushed over the bridge as if ten thousand dogs
were after it. "There is your 'first living being,'" cried the mayor.
"Catch him!" Satan was furious, but acknowledged that he had been
outwitted and retired,—contenting himself with making the air of the
ravine quite sulphurous with his remarks about home!
[Illustration: A SWISS VILLAGE.]
[Illustration: WHERE AVALANCHES FALL.]
Although the St. Gotthard may be the grandest of all Alpine passes, the
most historic of them is that of Mount St. Bernard. Some years ago, on
the last day of October, I left the village of Martigny, which is the
starting-point for the ascent, and, several hours later, as night came
creeping up the Alps, found myself upon the famous pass, at a place
already higher than our own Mt. Washington, but still two thousand feet
below my destination,—the monastery. Through various causes our party
had been delayed, and now with the approach of night a snow-storm swept
our path with fearful violence. Those who have never seen a genuine
Alpine storm can hardly comprehend its reckless fury. The light snow
was whirled and scattered, like an ocean of spray, over all things. A
thousand needles of ice seemed to pierce our skin. Drifts sprang up
in our path, as if by magic. The winds howled like unchained demons
through the jagged gorges, and a horrible feeling of isolation made our
hearts falter with a sickening sense of helplessness. As mine was an
October experience, I shudder to think of what a genuine winter's storm
must be. For, as it was, we were all speedily numb with cold, blinded
by the whirling snow, and deafened by the roaring wind, which sometimes
drowned our loudest shouts to one another.
Up and still up we rode, our poor mules plunging through the snow,
our fingers mechanically holding the reins, which felt like icicles
within our grasp, our guides rubbing their well-nigh frozen hands, but,
fortunately—most fortunately—never becoming confused as to the way.
[Illustration: A SWISS OSSUARY.]
At length I saw, or thought I saw, through the blinding snow, one
of a group of buildings. I chanced to be the foremost in our file of
snow-bound travelers, and shouting, "Here it is at last," I hastened
toward the structure. No light was visible. No voice responded to my
call for help. I pounded on the door and called again. No answer came;
but at that moment I felt my arm grasped roughly by my guide. "In
Heaven's name," he said, "do not jest on such a night as this."
"Jest!" I rejoined, with chattering teeth, "I have no wish to jest—I
am freezing. Where is the boasted hospitality of your lazy monks?
Shout! Wake them up!"
"They will not wake," replied the guide. "Why not?" I cried; and
beating the door again, I called at the top of my voice: "Au secours!
Réveillez-vous! Are you all dead in here?"
"Yes," replied the guide.
[Illustration: A CORRIDOR IN THE HOSPICE.]
It was now my turn to stare at him. "What do you mean?" I faltered.
"What—what does this house contain?" "Corpses," was the reply.
It was clear to me in a moment. I had mistaken the dead-house for the
house of shelter! In fancy I could see the ghastly spectacle within,
where bones of travelers whiten on through centuries in an atmosphere
whose purity defies decay.
But, almost simultaneously with his other words, I heard my guide
exclaim: "If you too would not join their number, _en avant, en avant,
vite, vite_!" Then, seizing the bridle of my mule, he urged me toward
the monastery. A few moments more and we arrived within its sheltering
walls. One of the brothers helped me to dismount, and led me up the
stone steps of the Hospice. And then, how blessed was our reception!
How warm the fire blazing on the ample hearth! How good the hot soup
and wine instantly brought us by the kind friars! How comforting the
thought of our surroundings, as the baffled storm beat against the
frost-covered windows, and seemed to shriek with rage at being cheated
of its victims!
[Illustration: DOGS OF ST. BERNARD.]
Never, while memory lasts, shall I cease to remember with love and
gratitude those noble-hearted brothers of the St. Bernard.
[Illustration: BROTHERS OF ST. BERNARD.]
Next morning the storm had cleared away; yet even in pleasant weather
it is difficult to imagine anything more dreary than the situation of
this monastery, locked thus in snow and ice, and sentineled by savage
peaks, eight thousand feet above the sea. Even the pond adjoining it
is gloomy from its contrast to all other lakes. Its waters are too cold
for any kind of fish, and therefore fail to attract hither any kind of
bird. Animal life has fallen off in making the ascent. Man and the dog
alone have reached the summit.
[Illustration: OLD CITY GATE, BASLE.]
It was with admiration that I looked upon the self-sacrificing heroes
who reside here. What praise can be too high for these devoted men,
who say farewell to parents and to friends, and leave the smiling
vales of Switzerland and Italy to live upon this glacial height? Few
of them can endure the hardship and exposure of the situation longer
than eight years, and then, with broken health, they return (perhaps
to die) to the milder climate of the valleys. During the long winter
which binds them here with icy chains for nine months of the year, they
give themselves to the noble work of rescuing, often amid terrible
exposure, those who are then obliged to cross the pass. In this they
are aided by their famous dogs, which, like themselves, shrink from no
danger, and in their courage and intelligence rival the masters they so
bravely serve. The travelers whom they receive in winter are not the
rich, whose heavy purses might recompense them for their toil. They
are mostly humble peasants, unable to give more compensation than the
outpouring of a grateful heart. But there will come a day when these
brave men will have their full reward; when He, who with unerring
wisdom weighs all motives and all deeds, will say to them: "Inasmuch
as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have
done it unto Me."
[Illustration: CHAMONIX AND MOUNT BLANC.]
[Illustration: MER DE GLACE FROM HOTEL MONTAVERDE.]
One of the most attractive of all the pleasure resorts in Switzerland
is the lovely Vale of Chamonix. The first view one obtains of it, in
coming over the mountains from Martigny, is superb. Three monstrous
glaciers, creeping out from their icy lairs, lie beneath ice-fringed
buttresses of snow, like glittering serpents watching for a favorable
chance to seize and swallow their prey. Looking across the valley
at them, it is true, they seem quite harmless; but in reality, such
glaciers are the mighty wedges which have for ages carved these
mountains into shape, and are still keeping them apart in solitary
grandeur. What from a distance seems a little bank of snow is probably
a wall of ice, one hundred feet in height. What look like wrinkles are
crevasses of an unknown depth; and the seeming puff of smoke which one
at times discerns upon them, is really a tremendous avalanche of snow
and ice. Of the three glaciers which descend into the Vale of Chamonix,
the one most frequently visited by tourists is the Mer de Glace. It is
well called the "Sea of Ice," for its irregular surface looks precisely
like a mass of tossing waves which have been crystallized when in
their wildest agitation. To right and left, the ice is partially
concealed by rocks and earth, which have been ground off from the
adjacent mountain-sides, or which have fallen there, as the result of
avalanches. Sometimes huge boulders are discernible, tossed here and
there like nut-shells, the rocky _débris_ of ages.
[Illustration: APPALLING PRECIPICES.]
[Illustration: ZÜRICH, WITH DISTANT ALPS.]
What is there more suggestive of mysterious power than a frozen
cataract like this? Apparently as cold and motionless as death, it
nevertheless is moving downward with a slow, resistless march, whose
progress can be accurately traced from day to day; so accurately,
indeed, that objects lost to-day in one of these crevasses may be
confidently looked for at the glacier's terminus after a certain number
of years. Forever nourished on the heights, forever wasting in the
valleys, these glaciers are the moving mysteries of the upper world;
vast, irresistible, congealed processions,—the frozen reservoirs of
rivers that glide at last from their reluctant arms in a mad haste to
reach the sea.
[Illustration: FROZEN CATARACTS.]
"Perennial snow, perennial stream,
Perennial motion, all things seem;
Nor time, nor space will ever show
The world that was an hour ago."
When we examine any portion of a glacier's surface, we find abundant
evidence of its motion. It has been forced into a million strange,
distorted shapes, many of which are larger than the grandest cathedrals
man has ever framed. Between them are vast chasms of unknown depth. As
it descends thus, inch by inch, obedient to the pressure from above, it
flings its frigid waves to the right and left, close to the orchards
and the homes of man. It is the ghastly synonym of death in life; for
here a man may swing the scythe or gather flowers, while a hundred
yards away his brother may be perishing in a crevasse!
[Illustration: CROSSING A GLACIER.]
[Illustration: A PERILOUS SEAT.]
To really understand a glacier one must venture out upon its icy flood.
One day while on the Mer de Glace, I was (as usual in such expeditions)
preceded and followed by a guide, to both of whom I was attached by a
stout rope. On that occasion one thing impressed me greatly. It was a
strange sound, called by the guides "brullen," or growling, which is
in reality the mysterious moaning of the glacier, caused by the rending
asunder of huge blocks of ice in its slow, grinding descent.
[Illustration: IRRESISTIBLE CONGEALED PROCESSIONS.]
At times it seemed to me impossible to proceed, but the experienced
guide who led the way laughed at my fears; and finally, to increase
my confidence, actually entered one of the appalling caverns of the
glacier, which like the jaws of some huge polar bear, seemed capable
of closing with dire consequences. For a few minutes he remained
seated beneath a mass of overhanging ice, apparently as calm as I was
apprehensive for his safety. No accident occurred, and yet my fears
were not unfounded. For though there is a fascination in thus venturing
beneath the frozen billows of a glacier, there may be treachery in
its siren loveliness. Huge blocks of ice frequently fall without the
slightest warning, and many a reckless tourist has thus been killed, or
perhaps maimed for life.
[Illustration: CHAMONIX AND MONT BLANC.]
[Illustration: MONT BLANC FROM CHAMONIX.]
On entering the little town of Chamonix, the tourist sees in front
of one of the hotels a group in bronze that rivets his attention and
awakens thought. It represents the famous guide, Balmat, who first
ascended Mont Blanc in 1786, enthusiastically pointing out the path of
victory to the Swiss scientist, De Saussure, who had for years been
offering a reward to any one who should discover a way to reach the
summit. The face of the brave conqueror of Mont Blanc and that of the
distinguished scholar are both turned toward the monarch of the Alps.
Instinctively the traveler also looks in that direction.
It is a memorable moment when one gazes for the first time upon
Mont Blanc. We understand at once the reason for its being called
preëminently the "White Mountain." The title was bestowed upon it
because of the magnificent snow-white mantle which it wears, at a
height of almost sixteen thousand feet. Probably no other mountain in
the world has so towered up on the horizon of our imaginations. Long
before we have actually seen it, we have repeated Byron's words:
"Mount Blanc is the monarch of mountains;
They crowned him long ago,
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds,
With a diadem of snow."
At once a strong desire seizes us to explore those boundless fields of
crystal clearness, and yet we shrink from all the toil and danger thus
involved. But, suddenly, as our gaze returns to earth, we find a means
of making the ascent without fatigue—the telescope!
[Illustration: A MOUNTAIN MAUSOLEUM.]
The placard suspended from it tells us that some tourists are actually
struggling toward the summit. The chances are that they will return
in safety; for the ascent of Mont Blanc, which Balmat made with so
much difficulty, has now been reduced to a system. Yet after all, this
Alpine climbing is a dangerous business. It is pathetic, for example,
to recall the fate of poor Balmat himself. Despite his long experience,
even _he_ lost his life at last by falling over a precipice. Only his
statue is in Chamonix; his body lies in an immense abyss, four hundred
feet in depth, where falling masses of rock and ice are constantly
increasing his vast mausoleum, and the continual thunder of the
avalanche seems like the mountain's exultation at its conqueror's
destruction.
[Illustration: CLIMBERS IN SIGHT.]
Availing ourselves of the telescope, we watch with ease and comfort
the actual climbers on Mont Blanc. By this time they have bound
themselves together with a rope, which in positions of peril is the
first requisite of safety. For one must always think of safety on these
mountains. With all their beauty and grandeur, they have sufficient
capability for cruelty to make the blood run cold. They have no
mercy in them; no sympathy for the warm hearts beating so near their
surfaces. They submit passively to conquest, so long as man preserves
a cool head and sure footing. But let him make one false step; let his
brain swim, his heart fail, his hand falter, and they will hurl him
from their icy slopes, or tear him to pieces on their jagged tusks,
while in the roar of the avalanche is heard their demoniac laughter.
But following the tourists still farther up the mountain, we look
with dismay at one of the icy crests along which they must presently
advance. Not a charming place for a promenade, truly! Here it would
seem that one should use an alpen-stock rather as a balancing-pole than
as a staff. It is enough to make even a Blondin falter and retire.
For, coated with a glare of ice, and bordered on either side by an
abyss, the slightest misstep would inevitably send one shooting down
this glittering slope to certain death in one of the vast folds of Mont
Blanc's royal mantle.
[Illustration: ALPINE PERILS.]
[Illustration: THE WEISSBACH.]
Lifting now the telescope a little higher, we note another difficulty
which mountain-climbers frequently encounter. For here they have come
face to face with a perpendicular wall of ice which they must climb, or
else acknowledge a defeat. The bravest, therefore, or the strongest,
cuts with his ax a sort of stairway in this crystal barrier, and,
making his way upward by this perilous route, lowers a rope and is
rejoined by his companions. Imagine doing this in the teeth of such
wind and cold as must often be met with on these crests! Think of it,
when a gale is tearing off the upper snow, and driving it straight into
the face in freezing spray like a shower of needles; when the gloves
are coated with ice, and alpen-stocks slide through them, slippery
as eels; and when the ice-bound rocks tear off the skin from the
half-frozen fingers of the man who clings to them for life!
[Illustration: AN ICE WALL.]
I know it is customary now to laugh at any dangers on Mont Blanc; and
yet a terrible disaster took place there no longer ago than 1870.
In the month of September of that year, a party of eleven (including
two Americans) started to climb the mountain. Near the summit a
frightful tempest burst upon them. The guides no longer recognized the
way, and, unable to return or find shelter, the entire party perished.
The bodies of five were recovered. In the pocket of one of them (an
American from Baltimore) were found these words, written to his wife:
"7th of September, evening. We have been for two days on Mont Blanc in
a terrific hurricane. We have lost our way, and are now at an altitude
of fifteen thousand feet. I have no longer any hope. We have nothing
to eat. My feet are already frozen, and I have strength enough only
to write these words. Perhaps they will be found and given to you.
Farewell; I trust that we shall meet in heaven!"
[Illustration: HUTS OF SHELTER ON MONT BLANC.]
[Illustration: WHERE SEVERAL ALPINE CLIMBERS REST.]
But such a mountain as Mont Blanc can rarely be ascended in a single
day. Two days are generally given to the task. On the evening of
the first day its would-be conquerors reach, at a height of ten
thousand feet, a desolate region called the Grands Mulets. Here on
some savage-looking rocks are two small cabins. One is intended for a
kitchen, the other for a sleeping-room; that is, if one can sleep in
such a place; for what an excitement there must be in passing a night
at this great altitude! The distant stars gleam in the frosty air
with an unwonted brilliancy and splendor. The wind surges against the
cliffs with the full, deep boom of the sea; while the silence in the
unmeasurable space above is awe-inspiring.
[Illustration: A SEA OF CLOUDS.]
[Illustration: CAVERNOUS JAWS.]
But, on the morrow, the glorious view repays one for a night of
sleeplessness. At first one looks apparently upon a shoreless ocean,
whose rolling billows seem now white, now opalescent, in the light of
dawn. Then, one by one, the various mountain peaks appear like islands
rising from the sea. At last, these waves of vapor sink slowly downward
through the valleys, and disappear in full retreat before the god of
day. But till they vanish, the traveler could suppose that he had here
survived the deluge of the world, and was watching its huge shrouded
corpse at his feet.
[Illustration: BASLE: THE BRIDGE AND CATHEDRAL.]
Between the Grands Mulets and the summit, Mont Blanc makes three
tremendous steps, from eight hundred to one thousand feet in height,
and between these are several frightful chasms, so perilous that on
beholding them we catch our breath. There is something peculiarly
horrible in these crevasses, yawning gloomily, day and night, as if
with a never-satisfied hunger. A thousand—nay ten thousand—men in
their cavernous jaws would not constitute a mouthful. They are even
more to be dreaded than the avalanche; for the path of the avalanche
is usually known; but these crevasses frequently hide their black
abysses under deceitful coverlets of snow, luring unwary travelers
to destruction. Nevertheless the avalanche is in certain places an
ever-present danger. Mountains of snow stand toppling on the edge of
some stupendous cliff, apparently waiting merely for the provocation of
a human voice, intruding on their solitude, to start upon their awful
plunge. The world well knows the fate of those who have been caught in
such a torrent of destruction.
[Illustration: A BRIDGE OF ICE.]
"No breath for words! no time for thought! no play
For eager muscle! guides, companions, all
O'ermastered in the unconquerable drift,
In Nature's grasp held powerless, atoms
Of her insensate frame, they fared as leaves
In the dark rapid of November gales,
Or sands sucked whirling into fell simooms;
One gasp for breath, one strangled, bitter cry,
And the cold, wild snow closed smothering in,
And cast their forms about with icy shrouds,
And crushed the life out, and entombed them there,—
Nobler than kings Egyptian in their pyramids,
Embalmèd in the mountain mausoleum,
And part of all its grand unconsciousness
Forever.
Its still dream resumed the Mount;
The sun his brightness kept; for unto them
The living men are naught, and naught the dead,
No more than snows that slide or stones that roll."
[Illustration: ENGLISH CHURCH, CHAMONIX.]
Finally, these and all other dangers being past, the wearied but
exultant climbers reach the summit of Mont Blanc,—that strangely
silent, white, majestic dome, so pure and spotless in its lofty
elevation beneath the stars. To watch this scene from the Vale of
Chamonix, when the great sovereign of our solar system sinks from
sight, leaving upon Mont Blanc his crown of gold, is an experience that
will leave one only with one's life. The concentrated refulgence on
that solitary dome is so intense that one is tempted to believe that
the glory of a million sunsets, fading from all other summits of the
Alps, has been caught and imprisoned here. We know that sun will rise
again; but who, in such a place, can contemplate unmoved the death of
Day?
"The night has a thousand eyes,
And the day but one;
Yet the light of the bright world dies,
With the dying sun!
The mind has a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one;
Yet the light of a whole life dies,
When love is done."
[Illustration: MOUNTAIN CLIMBERS.]
[Illustration: THE BIRTH-PLACE OF AVALANCHES.]
[Illustration: MOUNTAIN MULES.]
One singular experience of Alpine travel is indelibly impressed upon my
memory. It occurred on my passage of the Gemmi into the valley of the
Rhone. The Gemmi Pass is no magnificent highway like the St. Gotthard,
macadamized and smooth and carefully walled in by parapets of stone.
It is for miles a rough and dangerous bridle-path, the edge of which
is sometimes decorated with a flimsy rail, but often has not even that
apology for safety. One can thus readily believe that, like the Jordan,
the Gemmi is emphatically "a hard road to travel." At all events I
found it so, especially as I crossed it early in the season, before the
winter's ravages had been repaired. Since I was at the time suffering
from a temporary lameness, I could walk but little. With this road
dates my first acquaintance with a mule,—an intimacy that will never
be forgotten! All day long that memorable beast would never for one
instant change his gait, nor was the monotony of his dreadful walk once
broken by a trot. My only consolation was in the thought that if the
beast did change it, my neck, as well as the monotony, would probably
be broken. Thus, hour after hour, I kept moving on and up, my knees
forced wide apart by this great, lumbering wedge, until I felt like a
colossal wish-bone, and as though I should be bow-legged for the rest
of my life.
[Illustration: A FRAIL PARAPET.]
Nor was this all; for, as the day wore on, the mule took special pains
to make my blood run cold by a variety of acrobatic feats, which might
have made a chamois faint with vertigo. For example, wherever a rail
was lacking in the crazy fence, he would deliberately fill the space
with his own body and mine, walking so dangerously near the brink, that
half my form would be suspended over the abyss! Of course, the moment
it was passed, I laughed or scolded, as most travelers do; yet, after
all, in such cases we never know how great the peril may have been. A
little stone, a clod of earth, a movement in the nick of time—these
are sometimes the only things which lie between one and the great
Unknown, and hinder one from prematurely solving the mysterious problem
of existence.
[Illustration: UP AMONG THE CLOUDS.]
[Illustration: ON THE GEMMI.]
Nevertheless, on the fearful precipices for which the Gemmi is noted,
one may be pardoned for being a trifle nervous. At certain points the
bridle-path so skirts the chasm that one false step would land the
fragments of your body on the rocks a thousand feet below; while, on
the other side, the mountain towers up abrupt and bare, with scarce
a shrub or tree to cling to or console the dizzy traveler. My flesh
creeps now to think of some of these places; and in the same space of
time I think I never repented of so many sins, as during that passage
of the Gemmi. At length, however, the climax seemed reached; for at the
brink of one abyss the path appeared to end. I cautiously advanced to
the edge and looked over. It was a fearful sight, for here the mountain
falls away to a sheer depth of sixteen hundred feet, and the plumb-line
might drop to that full length without encountering any obstacle.
[Illustration: LEUK.]
When Alexander Dumas came to this place, and (unprepared for what he
was to see) looked down from the brink of the stupendous precipice,
he fell back unconscious; and afterward, while making the descent,
his teeth so chattered with nervousness, that he placed his folded
handkerchief between them. Yet when, on reaching the valley, he removed
it, he found it had been cut through and through as with a razor. I
cannot, certainly, lay claim to nervousness like that; but I could
sympathize with one of our fellow-countrymen, against whose name on the
hotel register I next day saw these words: "Thank God, we don't raise
such hills as these in the State of New York!"
At the other side of the Gemmi, and almost at the base of these
gigantic cliffs, there lies a little village. When I stood on the
precipice above it, I thought that a pebble hurled thence from my hand
would fall directly on its roofs; but in reality their distance from
the cliffs was greater than it seemed. This village is the celebrated
Leuk, whose baths have now acquired a world-wide reputation. Leuk has,
however, this misfortune: so many strangers come here now to bathe,
that many of the inhabitants themselves think that they can dispense
with the luxury.
[Illustration: PARBOILED PATIENTS.]
[Illustration: A LOW BRIDGE.]
I never shall forget the baths of Leuk. Shades of the Mermaids! what
a sight they presented. In a somewhat shabby hall, containing great
compartments of hot water, I saw a multitude of heads—long-haired
and short-haired, light and dark, male and female—bobbing about like
buoys adorned with sea-weed. A fine chance this to study physiognomy,
pure and simple. In front of these amphibious creatures were floating
tables, upon which they could eat, drink, knit, read, and even play
cards to pass away the time. As these waters are chiefly used for skin
diseases, one might suppose that each bather would prefer a separate
room; but no, in this case "misery loves company." The length of
time which one must remain soaking in these tanks of hot water makes
solitary bathing unendurable.
I asked one of these heads how long it had to float here daily. The
mouth opened just above the water's edge and answered: "Eight hours,
Monsieur; four before luncheon, and four before dinner; and, as after
each bath we have to spend an hour in bed, ten hours a day are thus
consumed."
It may seem incredible, but I assure the reader that some of these
parboiled bathers actually sleep while in these tanks. I, myself, saw
a head drooped backward as though severed from the body. Its eyes were
closed; its mouth was slightly open; and from the nose a mournful sound
came forth at intervals, which told me that the man was snoring. Before
him, half-supported by the little table, half-bedraggled in the flood,
was a newspaper. Bending over the rail, I read the title. Poor man!
I no longer wondered that he slept. Those who have read the ponderous
sheet will understand its soporific effect. It was a copy of the London
_Times_.
[Illustration: A WAITRESS AT LEUK.]
[Illustration: NATIONAL MONUMENT—GENEVA.]
After the baths of Leuk and the stupendous precipices of the Gemmi,
it is a pleasure to approach a less imposing but more beautiful
part of Switzerland,—Geneva and its lake. The bright, cream-colored
buildings of the one present a beautiful contrast to the other's deep
blue waves. Next to Stockholm and Naples, Geneva has, I think, the
loveliest situation of any city in Europe. Curved, crescent-like,
around the southwest corner of the lake, the river Rhone with arrowy
swiftness cleaves it into two parts, thus furnishing the site for all
the handsome quays and bridges which unite the various sections of the
town.
[Illustration: THE RHONE AT GENEVA.]
[Illustration: GENEVA—THE BRUNSWICK MONUMENT.]
What a surprising change has taken place in the appearance of the
river Rhone since it first poured its waters into Lake Geneva at its
other extremity, forty-five miles away! There it is muddy, dark, and
travel-stained from its long journey down the valley. But here it has
become once more as pure as when it left its cradle in the glaciers.
Its sojourn in the lake has given it both beauty and increased
vitality; and as it starts again upon its course and darts out from
Geneva with renewed strength and speed, its waters are superbly blue
and clear as crystal.
[Illustration: ROUSSEAU'S ISLAND.]
As it emerges from the lake, a sharp-pointed island confronts the rapid
stream, as if awaiting its advance. Its station here before the city
resembles that of some fair maid of honor who precedes a queen. It is
called Rousseau's Island, in honor of the famous man whose birth the
city claims. Geneva certainly should be grateful to him, for it was
he who first made this fair lake renowned in literature, and called
to it the attention of the world. In fact, he did almost as much to
render famous this enchanting spot, as Scott did for the region of the
Trosachs. Appropriately, therefore, a fine bronze statue of Rousseau
has been erected on the island, the figure looking up the lake, like
the presiding genius of the place.
[Illustration: GENEVA—RUE DE MONT BLANC.]
One can with both pleasure and profit spend a fortnight in Geneva. Its
well-kept and luxurious hotels all front upon the quays, and from your
windows there (as from the Grand Hotel in Stockholm) you look upon
an ever-varying panorama—a charming combination of metropolitan and
aquatic life. Boats come and go at frequent intervals, accompanied by
the sound of music. The long perspectives of the different bridges,
full of animated life, afford perpetual entertainment; while, in
dull weather, the attractive shops, in some respects unrivaled in the
whole of Europe, tempt you, beyond your power to resist, to purchase
music-boxes or enameled jewelry. After all, one's greatest pleasure
here is to embark upon the lake itself. This famous body of water forms
a beautiful blue crescent, forty-five miles in length and eight in
breadth. Tyndall declared that it had the purest natural water ever
analyzed; Voltaire called it the "First of Lakes;" Alexander Dumas
compared it to the Bay of Naples; while Victor Hugo, Lamartine, and
Byron have given it boundless praise in their glowing verse. It has
been estimated that should the lake henceforth receive no further
increase, while having still the river Rhone for its outlet, it
would require ten years to exhaust its volume. It might be likened,
therefore, to a little inland sea. In fact, a pretty legend says
that the ocean-deity, Neptune, came one day to see Lake Leman, and,
enraptured with its fresh young beauty, gave to it, on departing,
his likeness in miniature. Moreover, it has another charm—that of
historical association. Its shores have been the residence of men of
genius. Both history and poetry have adorned its banks with fadeless
wreaths of love and fame. Each hill that rises softly from its waves is
crowned with some distinguished memory. Byron has often floated on its
surface; and here he wrote some portions of "Childe Harold," which will
be treasured to the end of time.
[Illustration: DOGS AT WORK—GENEVA.]
[Illustration: LAKE GENEVA.]
[Illustration: CASTLE OF CHILLON.]
[Illustration: LAUSANNE, ON LAKE GENEVA.]
The poet Shelley narrowly escaped drowning in its waters. At one
point Madame de Staël lived in exile; another saw Voltaire for years
maintaining here his intellectual court; while at Lausanne, upon
the memorable night which he has well described, Gibbon concluded
his immortal work, "The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire." But
of all portions of Lake Leman, that which charms one most is the
neighborhood of Montreux and Vevey, and the historic Castle of Chillon.
A poet's inspiration has made this place familiar to the world. No
English-speaking traveler, at least, can look upon these towers, rising
from the waves, without recalling Byron's "Prisoner of Chillon," and
reciting its well-known lines:
"Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls:
A thousand feet in depth below
Its massy waters meet and flow;
Thus much the fathom-line was sent
From Chillon's snow-white battlement."
[Illustration: WHILE THE STEAMER WAITS.]
[Illustration: CASTLE AND CATHEDRAL, LAUSANNE.]
This time-worn structure boasts a thousand years of story and romance.
In fact, more than a thousand years ago, Louis le Débonnaire imprisoned
here a traitor to his king. Here, also, five centuries ago, hundreds of
Jews were tortured, and then buried alive, on the infamous suspicion of
poisoning the wells of Europe. But of all the memories which cluster
round its walls the most familiar is that of Bonnivard, the Swiss
patriot, who languished for six years in its dark dungeon, till he was
released by the efforts of his enthusiastic countrymen. During those
gloomy years of captivity his jailers heard from him no cry and no
complaint, save when some tempest swept the lake. Then, when the wind
moaned, as if in sympathy, around the towers, and waves dashed high
against the walls, they could distinguish sobs and cries, proving that,
when apparently alone with God, the captive sought to give his burdened
soul relief.
[Illustration: ON THE SHORE.]
"Chillon! thy prison is a holy place,
And thy sad floor an altar—for 't was trod
Until his very steps have left a trace
Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod,
By Bonnivard!—May none those marks efface!
For they appeal from tyranny to God."
When finally his liberators burst into his cell, they found him pale
and shadow-like, still chained to the column around which he had walked
so many years. A hundred voices cried to him at once: "Bonnivard, you
are free!" The prisoner slowly rose, and his first question was: "And
Geneva?" "Free, also!" was the answer.
One night, some eighty years ago, a little boat came toward this
castle, leaving behind it in its course a furrow silvered by the moon.
As it reached the shore, there sprang from it a man enveloped in a
long black cloak, which almost hid his feet from view. A close observer
would have seen, however, that he limped slightly. He asked to see the
historic dungeon, and lingered there an hour alone. When he had gone,
they found on the stone column to which Bonnivard had been chained a
new name carved. The traveler sees it there to-day. It is the name of
Byron.
[Illustration: CASTLE OF CHILLON.]
[Illustration: THE DUNGEON OF CHILLON.]
[Illustration: THE MATTERHORN EXACTED SPEEDY VENGEANCE.]
[Illustration: HISTORIC WATERS.]
[Illustration: ZERMATT.]
There is in Switzerland a village superior even to Chamonix in grandeur
of location, dominated by a mountain more imposing even than Mont
Blanc. The town is Zermatt; the mountain is the Matterhorn. As we
approach it, we discern only a tiny part of its environment; but could
we soar aloft with the eagle, and take a bird's-eye view of it, the
little village would appear to have been caught in a colossal trap of
rock and ice. There is, in fact, no path to it, save over dangerous
passes, or through a narrow cleft in the encircling mountains, down
which a river rushes with impetuous fury; while, watching over it,
like some divinely-stationed sentinel, rises the awful Matterhorn, the
most unique and imposing mountain of the Alps. No view can possibly do
it justice; yet, anticipate what you will, it is here impossible to
be disappointed. Though every other object of the world should fail,
the Matterhorn must stir the heart of the most unimpressive traveler.
Not only does its icy wedge pierce the blue air at a height of fifteen
thousand feet above the sea, but its gaunt, tusk-like form emerges from
the surrounding glaciers with almost perpendicular sides, four thousand
feet in height. It is a manifestation of the power of the Deity, beside
which all the works of man dwindle to insignificance. I never grew
accustomed to this, as to other mountains. No matter when I gazed upon
its sharp-cut edges and its ice-bound rocks, I felt, as when I first
beheld it, completely overpowered by its magnitude. The history of this
colossal pyramid is as tragic as its grim form is awe-inspiring. The
mountain is known as the "Fiend of the Alps." Year after year it had
been luring to itself, with fearful fascination, scores of brave men
who longed to scale its appalling cliffs. Over its icy pedestal,—up
its precipitous sides,—yes, even to its naked shoulders, baffled and
wistful mountaineers struggled in vain. Upon its perpendicular rocks
several men had all but perished; but the warnings were unheeded. At
length, after persistent efforts for eleven years, the famous English
mountain-climber, Whymper, gained the summit. But in return for the
humiliation of this conquest the Matterhorn exacted speedy vengeance.
[Illustration: SAFE FROM MOUNTAIN PERILS.]
[Illustration: FALLS OF THE RHINE, SCHAFFHAUSEN.]
[Illustration: THE FIEND OF THE ALPS.]
[Illustration: MOONLIGHT ON THE MATTERHORN.]
As the successful party, consisting of four Englishmen and three
guides, elated by their victory, were just beginning their descent, one
of them slipped, knocking a guide completely off his feet and dragging
his companions after him, since all were bound together by a rope. Four
of them hung an instant there, head downward, between earth and heaven.
The other three clung desperately to the icy crags, and would have
rescued them, had not the rope between them broken. There was a fearful
cry—a rush of falling bodies. Then Whymper and two guides found
themselves clinging to the rocks, and looking into each other's haggard
faces, pale as death. The others had fallen over the precipice—nearly
four thousand feet—to the ice below!
[Illustration: BERNE.]
"One moment stood they, as the angels stand,
High in the stainless eminence of air;
The next, they were not;—to their Fatherland
Translated unaware!"
[Illustration: THE MATTERHORN.]
On my last evening at Zermatt, I lingered in the deepening twilight to
say farewell to this unrivaled peak. At first its clear-cut silhouette
stood forth against the sky, unutterably grand, while darkness shrouded
its giant form. So overwhelming appeared its tapering height, that I no
longer wondered at the belief of the peasants that the gate of Paradise
was situated on its summit; because it seemed but a step thence to
Heaven.
[Illustration: THE BERNESE OBERLAND.]
At last there came a change, for which I had been waiting with
impatience. In the blue vault of heaven the full-orbed moon came
forth to sheathe the Matterhorn in silver. In that refulgent light its
icy edges looked like crystal ropes; and its sharp, glistening rocks
resembled silver steps leading to the stupendous pinnacle above. Never,
this side the shore of Eternity, do I expect to see a vision so sublime
as that of moonlight on the Matterhorn. For from the gleaming parapets
of this Alpine pyramid, not "forty centuries," but forty thousand
ages look down on us as frivolous pygmies of a day. Yes, as I gazed on
this illumined obelisk, rising from out its glittering sea of ice, to
where—four thousand feet above—the moving stars flashed round its
summit like resplendent gems, it seemed a fitting emblem of creative
majesty—the scepter of Almighty God.
[Illustration: A SWISS HERO.]
[Illustration: THE ELGIN MARBLES IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM.]