Field of Foam--Precipice--Puzzled--Philosophy--Rheinfelden
Rapids--Dazzled--Astride--Fate of the Four-oar--Very Salt--The
Ladies--Whirlpool--Funny English--A baby--The bride.
The canoe was now fixed on a hand-cart and dragged once more through the
streets to a point below the falls, and the Rob Roy became very lively
on the water after its few hours of rest. All was brilliant around, and
deep underneath, and azure above, and happy within, till the dull
distant sound of breakers began and got louder, and at last could not be
ignored; we have come to the rapids of Rheinfelden.
The exaggeration with which judicious friends at each place describe the
dangers to be encountered is so general in these latitudes, that one
learns to receive it calmly, but the scene itself when I came to the
place was certainly puzzling and grand.
Imagine some hundreds of acres all of water in white crested waves,
varied only by black rocks resisting a struggling torrent, and a loud,
thundering roar, mingled with a strange hissing, as the spray from ten
thousand sharp-pointed billows is tossed into the air.
And then you are alone, too, and the banks are high, and you have a
precious boat to guard.
While there was time to do it I stood up in my boat to survey, but it
was a mere horizon of waves, and nothing could be learned from looking.
Then I coasted towards one side where the shrubs and trees hanging in
the water brushed the paddle, and seemed so safe because they were on
shore.
The rapids of Bremgarten could probably be passed most easily by keeping
to the edge, though with much delay and numerous "getting outs," but an
attempt now to go along the side in this way was soon shown to be
useless, for presently I came to a lofty rock jutting out into the
stream, and the very loud roar behind it fortunately attracted so much
attention that I pulled into the bank, made the boat fast, and mounted
through the thicket to the top of the cliff.
I saw at once that to try to pass by this rock in any boat would be
madness, for the swiftest part of the current ran right under the
projecting crag, and then wheeled round and plunged over a height of
some feet into a pool of foam, broken fragments, and powerful waves.
Next, would it be just possible to float the boat past the rock while I
might hold the painter from above? The rock on careful measurement was
found too high for this.
To see well over the cliff I had to lie down on my face, and the
pleasant curiosity felt at first, as to how I should have to act, now
gradually sickened into the sad conviction, "Impossible!" Then was the
time to turn with earnest eyes to the wide expanse of the river, and see
if haply, somewhere at least, even in the middle, a channel might be
traced. Yes, there certainly was a channel, only one, very far out, and
very difficult to hit upon when you sit in a boat quite near the level
of the water; but the attempt must be made, or stay,--might I not get
the boat carried round by land? Under the trees far off were men who
might be called to help, labourers quietly working, and never minding
me. I was tempted, but did not yield.
For a philosophical thought had come upmost, that, after all, the boat
had not to meet _every_ wave and rock now visible, and the thousand
breakers dashing around, but only a certain few which would be on each
side in my crooked and untried way; of the rocks in any one line--say
fifty of them between me and any point--only two would become a new
danger in crossing that line.
Then again, rapids look worse from the shore than they really are,
because you see all their difficulties at once, and you hear the
general din. On the other hand, waves look much smaller from the bank
(being half hidden by others) than you find them to be when the boat is
in the trough between two. The hidden rocks may make a channel which
looks good enough from the land, to be quite impracticable when you
attempt it in the water.
Lastly, the current is seen to be swifter from the shore where you can
observe its speed from a fixed point, than it seems when you are in the
water where you notice only its velocity in relation to the stream on
each side, which is itself all the time running at four or five miles an
hour. But it is the positive speed of the current that ought really to
be considered, for it is by this the boat will be urged against a
breaker stationary in the river.
To get to this middle channel at once from the place where I had left my
boat was not possible. We must enter it higher up the river, so I had to
pull the canoe up stream, over shallows, and along the bristly margin,
wading, towing, and struggling, for about half a mile, till at length it
seemed we must be high enough up stream to let me paddle out swiftly
across, while the current would take the boat sideways to the rough
water.
And now in a little quiet bay I rested half an hour to recover strength
after this exertion, and to prepare fully for a "spurt," which might
indeed be delayed in starting, but which, once begun, must be vigorous
and all watchful to the end.
Here various thoughts blended and tumbled about in the mind most
disorderly. To leave this quiet bank and willingly rush out, in cold
blood, into a field of white breakers; to tarnish the fair journey with
a foolhardy prank; to risk the Rob Roy where the touch of one rock was
utter destruction. Will it be pleasant? Can it be wise? Is it right?
The answer was, to sponge out every drop of water from the boat, to
fasten the luggage inside, that it might not fall out in an upset, to
brace the waterproof cover all tight around, and to get its edge in my
teeth ready to let go in capsizing, and then to pull one gentle stroke
which put the boat's nose out of the quiet water into the fast stream,
and hurrah! we are off at a swinging pace.
The sun, now shining exactly up stream, was an exceedingly uncomfortable
addition to the difficulties; for its glancing beams confounded all the
horizon in one general band of light, so that rocks, waves, solid water,
and the most flimsy foam were all the same at a little distance. This,
the sole disadvantage of a cloudless sky, was so much felt in my
homeward route that I sometimes prolonged the morning's work by three or
four hours (with sun behind or on one side), so as to shorten the
evening's _quota_ where it was dead in the eye of the sun. On the
present occasion, when it was of great moment to hit the channel
exactly, I could not see it at all, even with my blue spectacles on.
They seemed to be utterly powerless against such a fiery blaze; and,
what was almost worse, my eyes were thereby so dazzled that on looking
to nearer objects I could scarcely see them either.
This unexpected difficulty was so serious that I thought for a moment of
keeping on in my present course (directed straight across the river), so
as to attain the opposite side, and there to wait for the sun to go
down.
But it was already too late to adopt this plan, for the current had been
swiftly bearing me down stream, and an instant decision must be made.
"Now," thought I, "judging by the number of paddle-strokes, we must
surely be opposite the channel in the middle, and now I must turn to
it."
By a happy hit, the speed and the direction of the canoe were both well
fitted, so that when the current had borne us to the breakers the boat's
bow was just turned exactly down stream, and I entered the channel
whistling for very loneliness, like a boy in the dark.
But it was soon seen to be "all right, Englishman;" so in ten minutes
more the canoe had passed the rapids, and we floated along pleasantly on
that confused "bobbery" of little billows always found below broken
water,--a sort of mob of waves, which for a time seem to be elbowing and
jostling in all directions to find their proper places.
I saw here two fishermen by one of the salmon traps described above, and
at once pulled over to them, to land on a little white bank of sand,
that I might rest, and bale out, and hear the news.
The men asked if I had come down the rapids in that boat. "Yes." "By the
middle channel?" "Yes." They smiled to each other, and then both at once
commenced a most voluble and loud-spoken address in the vilest of
patois. Their eagerness and energy rose to such a pitch that I began to
suppose they were angry; but the upshot of all this eloquence (always
louder when you are seen not to understand one word of it) was this,
"There are other rapids to come. You will get there in half an hour.
They are far worse than what you have passed. Your boat _must_ be
carried round them on land."
To see if this was said to induce me to employ them as porters, I asked
the men to come along in their boat, so as to be ready to help me; but
they consulted together, and did not by any means agree in admiring this
proposal. Then I asked them to explain the best route through the next
rapids, when they drew such confused diagrams on the sand, and gave such
complicated directions, that it was impossible to make head or tail of
their atrocious jargon; so I quietly bowed, wiped out the sand pictures
with my foot, and started again happy and free; for it is really the
case that in these things "ignorance is bliss." The excitement of
finding your way, and the satisfaction when you have found it yourself,
is well worth all the trouble. Just so in mountain travel. If you go
merely to work the muscles, and to see the view, it will do to be tied
by a rope to three guides, and to follow behind them; but then _theirs_
is all the mental exertion, and tact, and judgment, while yours is only
the merit of keeping up with the leaders, treading in their steps. And
therefore I have observed that there is less of this particular pleasure
of the discoverer when one is ascending Mont Blanc, where by traditional
rule one must be tied to the guides, than in making out a path over a
mountain pass undirected, though the heights thus climbed up are not so
great.
When the boat got near the lower rapids, I went ashore and walked for
half a mile down the bank, and so was able to examine the bearings well.
It appeared practicable to get along by the shallower parts of one side,
so this was resolved upon as my course.
It is surely quite fair to go by the easiest way, provided there is no
carrying overland adopted, or other plan for shirking the water. The
method accordingly used in this case was rather a novel mode of
locomotion, and it was quite successful, as well as highly amusing.
In the wide plain of breakers here, the central district seemed
radically bad, so we cautiously kept out of the main current, and went
where the stream ran fast enough nevertheless. I sat stridelegs on the
deck of the boat near its stern, and was thus floated down until the
bow, projecting out of the water, went above a ridge of rocks, and the
boat grounded. Thus I received the shock against my legs (hanging in the
water), so that the violence of its blow was eased off from the boat.
Then I immediately fixed both feet on the rock, and stood up, and the
canoe went free from between my knees, and could be lowered down or
pushed forward until the water got deeper, and when it got too deep to
wade after her I pulled the boat back between my knees, and sat down
again on it as before.
[Illustration: "Astride the Stern."]
The chief difficulty in this proceeding was to be equally attentive at
once to keep hold of the boat, to guide it between rocks, to keep hold
of the paddle, and to manage not to tumble on loose stones, or to get
into the water above the waist.
Thus by successive riding and ferrying over the deep pools, and walking
and wading in the shallows, by pushing the boat here, and by being
carried upon it there, the lower rapids of Rheinfelden were most
successfully passed without any damage.
It will be seen from the description already given of the rapids at
Bremgarten, and now of these two rapids on the Rhine, that the main
difficulties are only for him who goes there uninformed, and that these
can be avoided by examining them on the spot at the cost of a walk and a
short delay. But the pleasure is so much enhanced by the whole thing
being novel, that, unless for a man who wishes simply to _get past_, it
is better to seek a channel for oneself, even if a much easier one has
been found out by other people.
The town of Rheinfelden was now in view, and I began to wonder how the
English four-oar boat we had traced as far as Lauffenburg could have
managed to descend the rapids just now passed. But I learned afterwards
that the four-oar had come there in a time of flood, when rocks would be
covered, and probably with only such eddies as I have already noticed
higher up the river where it was deep. So they pulled on bravely to
Bâle, where the hotel folks mentioned that when the five moist Britons
arrived their clothes and baggage were all drenched, and the waiter
said, with a malicious grin, that thereby his friend the washerwoman
had earned twenty-seven francs in one night.
On the left bank of the river was a large building with a smooth gravel
shore in front, to which I steered at once. This was the great
salt-water baths of Rheinfelden--a favourite resort for crippled
invalids. The salt rock in the earth beneath impregnates the springs
with such an intensity of brine that eighty per cent. of fresh water has
to be added before the saline mixture can be medicinally employed as a
bath. If you take a glass of the water as it proceeds from the spring,
and put a little salt in it, the salt will not dissolve, the water is
already saturated. A drop of it put on your coat speedily dries up and
leaves a white stain of minute crystals. In fact, this water seemed to
me to be far more saline than even the water of the Dead Sea, which is
in all conscience salt enough, as every one knows who has rubbed it on
his face in that reeking-hot death-stricken valley of Jericho.
Though the shore was pleasant here and the water was calm, I found no
one to welcome me now, and yet this was the only time I had reason to
expect somebody to greet the arrival of the canoe. For in the morning a
worthy German had told me he was going by train to Rheinfelden, and he
would keep a look out for the canoe, and would surely meet me on the
beach if I "ever got through the rapids." But I found afterwards that he
_had_ come there, and with his friends, too, and they had waited and
waited till at last they gave up the Rob Roy as a "missing ship."
Excellent man, he must have had some novel excuses to comfort his
friends with as they retired, disappointed, after waiting in vain!
There was however, not far off, a poor woman washing clothes by the
river, and thumping and bullying them with a wooden bludgeon as if her
sole object was to smash up the bachelor's shirt-buttons. A fine boy of
eight years old was with her, a most intelligent little fellow, whose
quick eye at once caught sight of the Rob Roy as it dashed round the
point into the smooth water of the bay, and landed me there a tired,
tanned traveller, wet and warm.
This juvenile helped me more than any man ever did, and with such
alacrity, too, and intelligence, and good humour, that I felt grateful
to the boy. We spread out the sails to dry, and my socks and shoes in
the sun, and sponged out the boat, and then dragged her up the high
bank. Here, by good luck, we found two wheels on an axle left alone, for
what purpose I cannot imagine; but we got a stick and fastened it to
them as a pole, and then put the boat on this extemporized vehicle, and
with the boy (having duly got permission from his mamma) soon pulled the
canoe to the gates of the old town, and then rattling through the
streets, even to the door of the hotel. A bright franc in the lad's hand
made him start with amaze, but he instantly rose to the dignity of the
occasion, and some dozens of other urchins formed an attentive audience
as he narrated over and over the events of the last half-hour, and ended
always by showing the treasure in his hand, "and the Herr gave me this!"
The Krone hotel here is very prettily situated. It is a large house,
with balconies overlooking the water, and a babbling _jet d'eau_ in its
garden, which is close by the river.
The stream flows fast in front, and retains evidence of having passed
through troublous times higher up; therefore it makes no small noise as
it rushes under the arches of the covered wooden bridge, but though
there are rocks and a few eddies the passage is easy enough if you look
at it for five minutes to form a mental chart of your course. My German
friend having found out that the canoe had arrived after all, his
excitement and pleasure abounded. Now he was proved right. Now his
promises, broken as it seemed all day, were all fulfilled.
He was a very short, very fat, and very hilarious personage, with a
minute smattering of English, which he had to speak loudly, so as to
magnify its value among his Allemand friends, envious of his
accomplishment.
His explanations of the contents of my sketch-book were truly ludicrous
as he dilated on it page by page, but he well deserved all gratitude for
ordering my hotel bedroom and its comforts, which were never more
acceptable than now after a hard day's work. Music finished the evening,
and then the hum of the distant rapids sung me a lullaby breathing soft
slumber.
Next morning, as there was but a short row to Bâle, I took a good long
rest in bed, and then carried the canoe half way across the bridge where
a picturesque island is formed into a terraced garden, and here we
launched the boat on the water. Although the knocks and strains of the
last few days were very numerous, and many of them of portentous force,
judging by the sounds they made, the Rob Roy was still hale and hearty,
and the carpenter's mate had no damages to report to the captain. It was
not until harder times came, in the remainder of the voyage, that her
timbers suffered and her planks were tortured by rough usage.
A number of ladies patronized the start on this occasion, and as they
waved their parasols and the men shouted Hoch! and Bravo! we glided
down stream, the yellow paddle being waved round my head in an original
mode of "salute," which I invented specially for returning friendly
gratulations of this kind.
Speaking about Rheinfelden, Baedeker says, "Below the town another rapid
of the Rhine forms a sort of whirlpool called the Höllenhaken," a
formidable announcement, and a terrible name; but what is called here a
"whirlpool" is not worth notice.
The sound of a railway train beside the river reminds you that this is
not quite a strange, wild, unseen country. Reminds you I say, because
really when you are in the river bed, you easily forget all that is
beyond it on each side.
Let a landscape be ever so well known from the road, it becomes new
again when you view it from the level of the water. For before the scene
was bounded by a semicircle with the diameter on the horizon, and the
arch of sky for its circumference. But when you are seated in the canoe,
the picture changes to the form of a great sector, with its point on the
clear water, and each radius inclining aloft through rocks, trees, and
mossy banks, on this side and on that. And this holds good even on a
well worn river like the Thames. The land-scenes between Oxford and
London get pretty well known and admired by travellers, but the views
will seem both fresh and fair if you row down the river through them.
Nay, there are few rivers which have such lovely scenery as the Thames
can show in its windings along that route.
But our canoe is now getting back to civilization, and away from that
pleasant simplicity where everything done in the streets or the hotel is
strange to a stranger. Here we have composite candles and therefore no
snuffers; here the waiter insists on speaking English, and sitting down
by me, and clutching my arm, he confidentially informs me that there are
no "bean green," translating "haricots verts," but that perhaps I might
like a "flower caul," so we assent to a cauliflower.
This is funny enough, but far more amusing is it when the woman waiter
of some inland German village shouts louder German to you, because that
she rattles out at first is not understood. She gazes with a new
sensation at a guest who actually cannot comprehend her voluble words,
and then guest and waiter burst into laughter.
Here too I saw a boat towed along the Rhine--a painful evidence of being
near commerce, even though it was in a primitive style; not that there
was any towing-path, but men walked among the bushes, pulling the boat
with a rope, and often wading to do so. This sight told me at once that
I had left the fine free forests where you might land anywhere, and it
was sure to be lonely and charming.
After a few bends westward we come in sight of the two towers of Bâle,
but the setting sun makes it almost impossible to see anything in its
brightness, so we must only paddle on.
The bridge at Bâle was speedily covered by the idle and the curious as
the canoe pulled up at an hotel a few yards from the water on Sept.
14th.
It was here that the four-oared boat had arrived some weeks ago with its
moist crew. The proprietor of the house was therefore much pleased to
see another English boat come in, so little and so lonely, but still so
comfortable and so dry. I walked about the town and entered a church
(Protestant here of course), where a number of people had assembled at a
baptism. The baby was fixed on a sort of frame, so as to be easily
handed about from mother to father, and from clerk to minister; I hereby
protest against this mechanical arrangement as a flagrant indignity to
the little darling. I have a great respect for babies, sometimes a
certain awe.
The instant the christening was done, a happy couple came forward to be
married, an exceedingly clumsy dolt of a bridegroom and a fair bride,
not very young, that is to say, about fifty-five years old. There were
no bridesmaids or other perplexing appurtenances, and after the simple
ceremony the couple just walked away, amid the titters of a numerous
crowd of women. The bridegroom did not seem to know exactly what to do
next. He walked before his wife, then behind her, and then on one side,
but it did not somehow feel quite comfortable, so he assumed a sort of
diagonal position, and kept nudging her on till they disappeared in some
house. Altogether, I never saw a more unromantic commencement of married
life, but there was this redeeming point, that they were not bored by
that dread infliction--a marriage breakfast--the first meeting of two
jealous sets of new relations, who are all expected to be made friends
at once by eating when they are not hungry, and listening when there is
nothing to say. But, come, it is not proper for me to criticise these
mysteries, so let us go back to the inn.
In the coffee-room a Frenchman, who had been in London, has just been
instructing two Mexicans, who are going there, as to hotels, and it is
excessively amusing to hear his description of the London "Caffy Hous,"
and the hotels in "Lyces-ter-squar." "It is pronounced squar," he said,
"in England."