SWITZERLAND.
LUCERNE, July 22d.
To know Switzerland well, one should spend weeks and months among its
lakes and mountains. He should not merely pay a formal visit to
Nature, but take up his abode with her. One can never "exhaust" such a
country. Professor Tyndall has been for years in the habit of spending
his summer vacation here, and always finds new mountains to climb, and
new passes to explore. But this would hardly suit Americans, who are
in the habit of "rushing things," and who wish in a first visit to
Europe, to get at least a general impression of the Continent. But
even a few days in Switzerland are not lost. In that time one may see
sights that will be fixed in his brain while life lasts, and receive
impressions that will never depart from him.
We left the Vale of Chamouni with the feeling of sadness with which
one always comes down from the mount, where he has had an immortal
vision. Slowly we rode up the valley, often turning to take a last
lingering look at the white head of Mont Blanc, and then, like
Pilgrim, we "went on our way and saw him no more."
But we did not come out of Chamouni as we went into it, on the top of
a diligence, with six horses, "rolling forward with impetuous speed"
over a magnificent highway. We had now nothing before us but a common
mountain-road, and our chariot was only a rude wagon, made with low
wheels to go up and down steep ascents. It was only for us two, which
suited us the better, as we had Nature all to ourselves, and could
indulge our pleasure and our admiration, without restraint. Thus
mounted, we went creeping up the pass of the Tete Noire. Nature is a
wise economist, and, after showing the traveller Mont Blanc, lets him
down gradually. If we had not come from those more awful heights and
abysses, we should consider this day's ride unsurpassed in savage
grandeur. Great mountains tower up on either hand, their lower sides
dark with pines, and their crests capped with snow. Here by the
roadside a cross marks the spot where an avalanche, falling from
yonder peak, buried two travellers. At some seasons of the year the
road is almost impassable. All along are heaps of stones to mark its
track where the winter drifts are piled so high in these gorges that
all trace of a path is lost. Even now in mid-summer the pass is wild
enough to satisfy the most romantic tastes. The day was in harmony
with the scene. Our fine weather was all gone. Clouds darkened the
sky, and angry gusts of wind and rain swept in our faces. But what
could check one's spirits let loose in such a scene? Often we got out
and walked, to work off our excitement, stopping at every turn in the
road that opened some new view, or sheltering ourselves under a rock
from the rain, and listening with delight to hear the pines murmur and
the torrents roar.
The ride over the Tete Noire takes a whole day. The road zigzags in
every direction, winding here and there to get a foothold--now hugging
the side of the mountain, creeping along the edge of a precipice,
where it makes one dizzy to look down; now rounding a point which
seems to hang over some awful depth, or seeking a safer path by a
tunnel through the rocks. Up and down, hither and thither we go, but
still everywhere encompassed with mountains, till at last one long
climb--a hard pull for the horses--brings us to a height from which we
descry in the distance the roofs and spires of a town, and begin to
descend. But we are still more than an hour winding our way through
the gentle slopes and among the Swiss chalets, till we rattle through
the stony streets of Martigny, a place of some importance, from being
at the foot of the Alps, and the point from which to make the ascent
of the Great Saint Bernard. It was by this route that Napoleon in 1800
led his daring soldiers over the Alps; the long lines of infantry and
artillery passed up this valley, and climbed yonder mountain side, a
hundred men being harnessed to a single cannon, and dragging it upward
by sheer strength of muscle. Of all the host that made that stupendous
march, perhaps not one survives; but the mountains are still here, as
the proof and the monument of their great achievement. And the same
Hospice, where the monks gave bread and wine to the passing soldiers,
is on the summit still, and the good monks with their faithful dogs,
watch to rescue lost travellers. Attached to it is a monastery here in
Martigny, to which the old monks, when worn out with years of exposure
and hardship in living above the clouds, can retire to die in peace.
At Martigny we take our leave of mountain roads and mountain
transport, as we here touch a railroad, and are once more within the
limits of civilization. We step from our little wagon (which we do not
despise, since it has carried us safely over an Alpine pass) into a
luxurious railway carriage, and reclining at our ease, are whirled
swiftly down the Valley of the Rhone to the Lake of Geneva.
Of course all romantic tourists stop at Villeneuve, to visit the
Castle of Chillon, which Byron has made so famous. I had been under
its arches and in its vaulted chambers years ago, and was surprised at
the fresh interest which I had in revisiting the spot. It is at once
"a palace and a prison." We went down into the dungeon in which
Bonnivard was confined, and saw the pillar to which he was chained for
so many years that his feet wore holes in the stone floor. The pillar
is now covered with names of pilgrims that have visited his prison as
"a holy place." We were shown, also, the Chamber of Question,
(adjoining what was called, as if in mockery, the Hall of Justice!)
where prisoners were put to the torture, with the post still standing
to which they were bound, with the marks upon it of the hot irons
which were applied to their writhing limbs. Under this is the dungeon
where the condemned passed their last night before execution, chained
to a sloping rock, above which, dimly seen in the gloom, is the
cross-beam to which they were hung, and near the floor is an opening
in the wall, through which their bodies were cast into the lake. In
another part of the castle is shown the _oubliette_--a pit or well,
into which the victim was thrown, and fell into some unknown depth,
and was seen no more. Such are some of the remains of an age of
"chivalry." One cannot look at these instruments of torture without a
shudder at "man's inhumanity to man," and rejoicing that such things
are past, since in no country of Europe--not even in Spain, the land
of the Inquisition--could such barbarities be permitted now. Surely
civilization has made some progress since those ages of cruelty and
blood.
Leaving these gloomy dungeons, we come up into air and sunshine, and
skim along the Lake of Geneva by the railway, which, lying "between
sea and shore," presents a succession of charming views. On one side
all the slopes are covered with vines, which are placed on this
southern exposure to ripen in the sun; on the other is the lake, with
the mountains beyond.
At Lausanne I had hoped to meet an old friend, Prof. J. F. Astie, once
pastor of the French church in New York, and now Professor in the
Theological Seminary here, but he was taking his vacation in the
country. We drove, however, to his house, which is on high ground, in
the rear of the town, and commands a lovely view of the lake, with the
mountains in the distance as a background for the picture.
When I was in Switzerland twenty seven years ago, such a thing as a
railroad was unknown. Now they are everywhere, and though it may seem
very prosaic to travel among the mountains by steam, still it is a
great convenience, in getting from one point to another. Of course,
when it comes to climbing the Alps, one must take to mules or to his
feet.
The railroad from Lausanne to Berne, after reaching the heights around
the former city, lingers long, as if reluctant to quit the enchanting
scenery around the lake, but at length plunging through a tunnel, it
leaves all that glory behind, to turn to other landscapes in the heart
of Switzerland. For a few leagues, the country, though not
mountainous, is undulating, and richly cultivated. At Fribourg the two
suspension bridges are the things to _see_, and the great organ the
thing to _hear_, which being done, one may pass on to Berne, the
capital of Switzerland, a compact and prosperous town of some 35,000
inhabitants. The environs are very beautiful, comprising several parks
and long avenues of trees. But what one may see _in_ Berne, is nothing
to what one may see _from_ it, which is the whole chain of the Bernese
Oberland. We were favored with only a momentary sight, but even that
we shall never forget. As we were riding out of the town, the sun,
which was setting, burst through the clouds, and lighted up a long
range of snowy peaks. This was the Alpine afterglow. It was like a
vision of the heavenly battlements, with all their pinnacles and
towers shining resplendent in the light of setting day. We gazed in
silent awe till the dazzling radiance crept to the last mountain top,
and faded into night.
A few miles from Berne, we crossed the Lake of Thun, a sheet of water,
which, like Loch Lomond and other Scotch lakes, derives its chief
beauty from reflecting in its placid bosom the forms of giant
mountains. Between Thun and Brienz lies the little village fitly
called from its position Interlachen (between the lakes). This is the
heart of the Bernese Oberland. The weather on Saturday permitted no
excursions. But we were content to remain indoors after so much
climbing, and here we passed a quiet and most restful Sunday. There is
but one building for religious services--an old Schloss, but it
receives into its hospitable walls three companies of worshippers. In
one part is a chapel fitted up for the Catholics; in another the
Church of England gathers a large number of those travellers from
Britain, who to their honor carry their religious observances with
them. Besides these I found in the same building a smaller room, where
the Scotch Presbyterians meet for worship, and where a minister of the
Free Church was holding forth with all that _ingenium perfervidum
Scotorum_ for which his countrymen are celebrated. It was a great
pleasure and comfort to meet with this little congregation, and to
listen to songs and prayers which brought back so many tender memories
of home.
While enjoying this rest, we had mourned the absence of the sun.
Interlachen lies in the very lap of the mountains. But though so near,
our eyes were holden that we could not see them, and we thought we
should have to leave without even a sight of the Jungfrau. But Monday
morning, as we rose early to depart, the clouds were gone--and there
it stood revealed to us in all its splendor, a pyramid of snow, only a
little less lofty than Mont Blanc himself. Having this glorious vision
vouchsafed to us, we departed in peace.
Sailing over the Lake of Brienz, as we had over that of Thun, we came
again to a mountain pass, which had to be crossed by diligence; and
here, as before, mounted in the front seat beside the postilion, we
feasted our eyes on all the glory of Alpine scenery. For nearly two
hours we were ascending at the side of the Vale of Meyringen, from
which, as we climbed higher and higher, we looked down to a greater
depth, and often at a turn of the road could see back to the Lake of
Brienz, which lay far behind us, and thus in one view took in all the
beauties of lake and valley and mountain. While slowly moving upward,
boys ran along by the diligence, singing snatches from the _Ranz des
Vaches_, the wild airs of these mountain regions. If it was so
exciting to go up, it was hardly less so to come down. The road is not
like that over the Tete Noire, but is smooth and even like that from
Geneva to Chamouni, and we were able to trot rapidly down the slope,
and as the road turns here and there to get an easy grade, we had a
hundred lovely views down the valley which was opening before us. Thus
we came to the Lake of the Four Cantons, over which a steamer brought
us to Lucerne.
My friend Dr. Holland has spoken of the place where I now write as
"the spot on earth which seemed to him nearest to heaven," and surely
there are few where one feels so much like saying, "This is my rest,
and here will I dwell." The great mountains shut out the world with
all its noises, and the lake, so peaceful itself, invites to repose.
There are two ways to enjoy a beautiful sheet of water--one from its
shores, and the other from its surface. We have tried both. The first
evening we took a boat and spent a couple of hours on the lake. How it
recalled the moonlight evenings at Venice, when we floated in our
gondola! Indeed the boatmen here are not unlike the gondoliers. They
have the same way of standing, instead of sitting, in the boat and
pushing, instead of pulling, the oars. They manage their little crafts
with great skill, and cause them to glide very swiftly through the
water. We took a row of several miles to call on a friend, who was at
a villa on the lake. She had left for Zurich, but the villa was
occupied. A day or two before it had been taken by a lady, who, though
she came with a retinue large enough to fill all the rooms, wished to
be _incognita_. She proved to be the Queen of Saxony, who, like all
the rest of the world, was glad to have a little retirement, and to
escape from the stiffness of court life in her palace at Dresden, to
enjoy herself on these quiet shores. While we were in the grounds,
she came out, and walked under the trees, in most simple dress: a
woman whom it was pleasant to look upon, a fair-haired daughter of the
North, (she is a Swedish princess,) who won the hearts of the Saxon
people by her care for the wounded in the Franco-German war. She shows
her good sense and quiet tastes to seek seclusion and repose in such a
spot as this, (instead of going off to fashionable watering-places,)
where she can sit quietly by these tranquil waters, under the shadow
of these great mountains.
All travellers who go to Lucerne must make an excursion to the Righi,
a mountain a few miles from the town, which is exalted above other
mountains of Switzerland, not because it is higher--for, in fact, it
is much lower than many of them--but that it stands alone, apart from
a chain, and so commands a view on all sides--a view of vast extent
and of infinite variety. I had been on the Righi-Culm before, but the
impression had somewhat faded, and I was glad to go again, when all my
enthusiasm was renewed. The mountain is easier of access now. Then I
walked up, as most tourists did; now there is a railroad to the very
top, which of itself is worth a visit, as a remarkable piece of
engineering, mounting a very steep grade--in many places _one foot in
every four_! This is a terrible climb, and is only overcome by
peculiar machinery. The engine is behind, and pushes the car up the
ascent. Of course if any accident were to happen by which the train
were to break loose, it would descend with tremendous velocity. But
this is guarded against by a central rail, into which a wheel fits
with cogs; so that, in case of any accident to the engine, by shutting
down the brakes, the whole could be held fast, as in a vice, and be
immovable. The convenience of the road is certainly very great, but
the sensation is peculiar--of being literally "boosted" up into the
clouds.
But once there, we are sensible that we are raised into a higher
region; we breathe a purer air. The eye ranges over the fairest
portion of Switzerland. Seen from such a height, the country seems
almost a plain; and yet viewed more closely, we see hills and valleys,
diversified with meadows and forests. We can count a dozen lakes. On
the horizon stretches the great chain of the Alps, covered with snow,
and when the sun breaks through the clouds, it gleams with unearthly
brightness. But it is impossible to describe all that is comprised in
that one grand panorama. Surely, I thought, these must be the
Delectable Mountains from which Bunyan's Pilgrim caught a sight of the
Celestial City; and it seemed as if, in the natural order of things,
when one is travelling over the earth, he ought to come here _last_
(as Moses went up into Mount Nebo to catch a glimpse of the Promised
Land, _and die_), so that from this most elevated point of his
pilgrimage he might step into heaven.
But at last we had to come down from the mount, and quieted our
excited imaginations by a sail up the lake. Fluellen, at the end of
the lake, was associated in my mind with a sad memory, and as soon as
we reached it, I went to the principal hotel, and asked if an American
gentleman had not died there two years since? They answered Yes, and
took me at once to the very room where Judge Chapman, the Chief
Justice of Massachusetts, breathed his last. He was a good man, and as
true a friend as we ever had. The night before he sailed we spent with
him at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. He came abroad for his health, but did
not live to return; and a few months after our parting, it was our sad
privilege to follow him to the grave in Springfield, where all the
judges of the Supreme Court of Massachusetts, and great numbers of the
Bar, stood around his bier.
If Lucerne presents such beautiful scenes in nature, it has also one
work of art, which impresses me as much as anything of the kind in
Europe. I refer to the lion of Thorwaldsen, intended to commemorate
the courage and fidelity of the Swiss regiment who were the guards of
the King Louis XVI., and who, in attempting to defend him, were
massacred in Paris on the fatal 10th of August, 1792. Never was a
great act of courage more simply, yet more grandly illustrated. The
size is colossal, the work being cut in the side of a rock. The lion
is twenty-eight feet long. Nothing can be more majestic than his
attitude. The noble beast is dying, he has exhausted his strength in
battle, but even as he sinks in death, he stretches out one huge paw
over the shield which bears on it the lilies of France, the emblem of
that royal power which he has vainly endeavored to protect. There is
something almost human in the face, in the deep-set eyes, and the
drooping mouth. It is not only the death agony, but the greater agony
of defeat, which is expressed in every line of that leonine
countenance. Nothing in ancient sculpture, not even the Dying
Gladiator, gives more of mournful dignity in death. I could hardly
tear myself away from it, and when we turned to leave, kept looking
back at it. It shows the wonderful genius of Thorwaldsen. When one
compares it with the lions around the monument of Nelson in Trafalgar
Square in London, one sees the difference between a work of genius,
and that of mere imitation. Sir Edwin Landseer, though a great painter
of animals, was not so eminent as a sculptor; and was at work for
years on his model, and finally copied, it is said, as nearly as he
could, an old lion in the Zoological Gardens; and then had the four
cast from one mould, so that all are just alike. How differently would
Thorwaldsen have executed such a work!
With such attractions of art and nature, Lucerne seems indeed one of
the most beautiful spots on the face of the earth. Sometimes a
peculiar state of the atmosphere, or sunset or moonlight, gives
peculiar effects to scenes so wonderful. Last night, as we were
sitting in front of the Hotel, our attention was attracted by what
seemed a conflagration lighting up the horizon. Wider and wider it
spread, and higher and higher it rose on the evening sky. All were
eager as to the cause of this illumination, when the mystery was
explained by the full moon rising above the horizon, and casting a
flood of light over lake and mountain. Who could but feel that God was
near at such an hour, in such a blending of the earth and sky?