scene of Byron's story. These dungeons are several cells, of different
sizes, dug out of the rock upon which the massive arches of the castle
seem to rest. The two largest of them are beneath the dining and justice
halls. From the latter we were shown a narrow staircase, descending into
a little narrow recess, where victims were brought down, and strangled
with a rope thrown across an oak beam, which still remains, blackened
with age. Near it was another narrow, gloomy cell, said to be that in
which the prisoner passed the night previous to execution, and near by
the place where thousands of Jews were beheaded in the thirteenth
century, on accusation of poisoning the wells, and causing the plague.
The gloomy place fairly reeked with horror; its stones seemed cemented
with blood, and the very sighing of the summer breeze without was
suggestive of the groans of the sufferers who had been tortured and
murdered within this terrible prison.
Next we came to the dungeon where
"There are seven pillars of Gothic mould,"
and there _are_ the pillars to which the prisoners were chained, and
there is the stone floor, worn by the pacing of the prisoner, as his
footsteps, again and again as the weary years went by, described the
circuit of his chain. Bonivard's pillar, to which he was chained for six
weary years, hearing no sound but the plashing of the waters of the lake
without, or the clanking of his own chain, is thickly covered with
autographs, carved and cut into it. Conspicuous among them is that of
Byron, which looks so fresh and new as to excite suspicion that it has
been occasionally deepened, "Old Mortality" like, in order that the
record may not be lost.
Here we were, then,
"In Chillon's dungeons, deep and old."
Now every word of Byron's poem, that we had read and heard recited at
school, and which made such an impression on our mind when a boy, came
back to us.
Which was the pillar the younger brother was chained to?
There was "the crevice in the wall," where the slanting sunbeam came in.
Here was the very iron ring at the base of the huge pillar; there were
the barred windows--narrow slits, through which the setting sun
streamed, and to which the prisoner climbed to look upon the scene
without,--
"to bend
Once more upon the mountains high
The quiet of a loving eye."
I stood, and mused, and dreamed, as my companions passed on, and
suddenly started to find myself alone in that terrible place, and, with
a shudder, I hurried after the voices, leaving the gloomy dungeon behind
me; after which the white-curtained, quiet room of the Hotel Byron
seemed a very palace, and the beautiful view of lovely lake and lofty
mountain a picture that lent additional charm to liberty and freedom.
Is it to be wondered at that so many people quote Byron at this place?
For it is his poetry that has given such a peculiar and nameless charm
to it, that if one has a spark of poetic fire in his composition, and
sits out amid the flowers and trees, of a pleasant afternoon, looking at
the blue lake, the distant, white-walled town, the little isle, with its
three trees, that the prisoner saw from his dungeon, and even sees the
eagle riding on the blast, up towards the great Jura range,--Jura, that
answered,--
"through her misty shroud,
Back to the joyous Alps, that call on her aloud,"--
and follows up his thought by reading part of the third canto of Childe
Harold, in which Lake Leman and a thunder storm in the Alps are
described, he feels very much like repeating it aloud.
Not having Childe Harold to read, I found relief in quoting those
passages that everybody knows, and doing the following bit of
inspiration upon the spot:--
Dreams of my youth, my boyhood's castles fair,
That seemed, in later years, but made of air,
Are these the scenes that now my soul entrance,
Scenes hallowed in dim history and romance?
This dark old castle, with its wave-washed wall,
Its ancient drawbridge, and its feudal hall,
Its dreary dungeon, where the sweet sun's ray
Scarce tells the tenant that without 'tis day;
These seven grim pillars of the Gothic mould,
Where weary years the chainéd captive told,
Waited, and wept, and prayed for freedom sweet,
Paced round the dungeon pillar, till his feet
Wore in the floor of rock this time-enduring mark
Of cruelty of men, in ages past and dark.
Glorious Childe Harold! How, in boyhood's age,
Longing I traced that wondrous pilgrimage.
Thine imperishable verse invests these mountains grand
With new glories. Can it be that here I stand
And gaze, as thou, upon the self-same things?
The glassy lake, "the eagle on the blast," who slowly wings
His flight to the gray peaks that lift their crests on high,
In everlasting grandeur to the sky?
There rise the mountain peaks, here shines the lake;
Familiar scenes the beauteous picture make.
The "white-walled, distant town," glassed in the tide,
And on its breast the whiter sails still ride,
As when thine eye swept o'er the lovely view;
Thy glorious fancies and imagination grew
T' immortal verse, and with a nameless charm
Embalmed the scene for ages yet to come.
Others shall, deep in Chillon's dungeon drear,
Muse round th' historic pillars, for 'twas here,
If we accept th' entrancing fable of thy lay,
The brothers pined, and wasted life away.
The guide clanks here the rusted iron ring--
We shudder; "iron is a cankering thing."
Through the rent walls a silver sunbeam flashes;
Faint is the sound of waves that 'gainst them dashes;
There is the window where, with azure wing,
The bright bird perched the prisoner heard sing;
Here, 'neath our very feet, perhaps, the place
The boy, "his mother's image in fair face,"
Was laid. 'Tis but a fable; yet we love to trace
These pictures, hallowed in our youthful dreams,
And think thy lay all truthful as it seems.
We leave Villeneuve, and the pleasant Hotel Byron, with regret, and
"Once more on the deck I stand,
Of my own swift-gliding craft;"
or, in other words, we are again on board one of the pretty little lake
steamers, paddling through the blue waters of Lake Geneva. Back we went,
past Vevay and Ouchy, with their elegant hotels and gardens; past
Clarens, and amid scenes of exquisite and picturesque beauty, for five
or six hours, till we reach Geneva, at the other extreme of this lovely
sheet of water, about fifty-five miles from Villeneuve. There is nothing
very striking in this city to the tourist,--none of those curious old
walls, towers, cathedrals, or quaint and antique-looking streets that he
finds in so many of the other old European cities. There is a long and
splendid row of fine buildings upon the quay on the river bank, elegant
jewelry stores and hotels, a few other good streets, and the usual
amount of narrow alleys and dirty lanes.
The pleasantest part of the city seen during our brief stay was the fine
quays, and the town at that part of the lake where it began to narrow
into a river, with the splendid bridge spanning it, and a little island
at about the middle of the bridge, or rather just at one side of it, and
connecting with it by a pretty suspension bridge. This little island is
Rousseau's Island, has his bronze statue, and pleasant shade trees upon
it, a charming little promenade and seats, and is an agreeable resort,
besides being an admirable point to view the blue lake, the River Rhone
emerging from it with arrowy swiftness, and the snowy Mont Blanc chain
of mountains in the distance. From the windows of our room in Hotel Ecu
de Genève, we look down upon the swiftly-flowing blue tide of the river,
upon which, nearly all day, black and white swans float, breasting
against the current, and apparently keeping just about in the same
place, arching their necks gracefully, and now and then going over to
their home on a little isle just above Rousseau's, or coming on shore
here and there--popular pets, and well cared for.
The display of jewelry, particularly watches and chains, in the splendid
shops along the grand quay, is very fine. Geneva is headquarters for
watches and chains, and nearly all Americans who mean to buy those
articles abroad do so at Geneva, for two reasons; first, because a very
good article can be bought there much cheaper than at home; and next,
because they are always assured of the quality of the gold. None is sold
at any of the shops in Geneva under eighteen carats in fineness. Very
handsome enamelled jewelry, of the best workmanship, is also sold in
Geneva. Indeed, the quality of the material and the excellence of the
workmanship of the Geneva jewelry are obvious even to the uninitiated.
In Paris more elaborate designs and a greater variety can be found, but
the prices are from fifteen to twenty per cent. higher.
I had always supposed, from a boy, that Geneva was overflowing with
musical box manufacturers, from the fact that all I used to see in the
stores at home were stamped with the name of that city. Judge of my
surprise in finding scarcely any exhibited in the shop windows here. At
the hotel a fine large one played in the lower hall, with drum
accompaniment, and finding from the dealer's cards beside it that it was
intended as a sample of his wares, we went to his factory across the
river, where the riddle was explained in the fact that the retail
shopkeepers demanded so large a commission for selling, that the
music-box makers had refused to send any more to them for sale. This may
be a good move for their jobbing trade, but death to the retail trade
with foreigners. Berne is the place for music-boxes.
Returning across the long bridge to our hotel, we saw a specimen of
Swiss clothes washing, and which in a measure may constitute some of the
reasons why some of the inhabitants of this part of the world change
their linen so seldom. Beneath a long wooden shed, with its side open to
the swift-flowing stream, were a row of stout-armed, red-cheeked women
bending over a long wash-board, which extended into the stream before
them. Seizing a shirt, they first gave it a swash into the stream; next
it was thoroughly daubed with soap, and received other vigorous swashes
into the water, and was then drawn forth dripping, moulded into a moist
mass, and beaten with a short wooden bludgeon with a will; then come two
or three more swashes and a thrashing by the stalwart washerwoman of the
garment down upon the hard board before her with a vigor that makes the
buttons spatter out into the stream like a charge of bird shot. After
witnessing this, I accounted for the recent transformation of a new
linen garment by one washing into a mass of rags and button splinters.
This style of washing may be avoided to some extent by particular
direction, but the gloss or glazing which the American laundries put
upon shirt fronts seems to be unknown on the continent.
The sun beat down fiercely as we started out of Geneva,--one of the
hottest places in Switzerland I really believe,--and for fifteen miles
or so its rays poured down pitilessly upon the unshaded road. Grateful
indeed was a verdant little valley, bounded by lofty mountains, and the
cliff road shaded with woods, that we next reached, and rattled through
a place called Cluses; and going over a bridge spanning the River Arve,
we entered a great rocky gorge, and again began to feel the cold breath
of the mountains, and come in sight of grand Alpine ranges, snowy peaks,
and rushing waterfalls. Finally we reach Sallanches. Here we have a fine
view of the white and dazzling peaks of Mont Blanc towering into the
blue sky, apparently within two or three miles from where we stand, but
which our driver tells us are nearly fifteen miles away.
Again we are in the midst of the magnificent scenery of the great
mountain passes, verdant and beautiful slopes, gray splintered peaks,
huge mountain walls, wild picturesque crags, waterfalls dashing down the
mountain sides far and near, the whole air musical with their rush; and
the breath of the Alps was pure, fresh, and invigorating as cordial to
the lungs.
We that a few hours ago were limp, wilted, and moist specimens of
humanity, were now bright, cheery, and animated; we quoted poetry,
laughed, sang, and exhausted our terms of admiration at the great rocky
peaks that seemed almost lost in the heavens, or the fir-clad mountain
side that jutted its dark fringe sharply against the afternoon sky.
Beyond, as ever, rose the pure frosted peaks, and as they glowed and
sparkled, and finally grew rose-colored and pink in the sunset, it
became almost like a dream of enchantment, that darkness gradually
blotted out from view.
We had started from Geneva with coat and vest thrown aside for a linen
duster; we descended into the valley of Chamouny with coat and vest
replaced, and covered with a substantial surtout. As we came down to the
village, the driver pointed out to us what looked like a great blue
steel shield, thousands of feet up in the heavens, hanging sharply out
from the dome of impenetrable blackness above, and shining in a
mysterious light. It was the first beams of the rising moon, as yet
invisible, striking upon the clear, blue ice of a great glacier far
above us. It gradually came more distinctly into view, flashing out in
cold, icy splendor, as the moon began to frost the opposite mountain,
from behind which it seemed to climb into the heavens with a fringe of
pale silver. We had expressed disappointment at not being able to enter
Chamouny by daylight, but found some compensation in the novel scene of
moonlight upon these vast fields of ice, with their sharp points rising
up like the marshalled spears of an army of Titans, glittering in the
moonlight, or stretching away in other directions in great sheets of
blue ice, or ghostly snow shrouds in the dark distance. We reached the
Hotel Royal at nine and a half P. M., thoroughly tired with our eleven
hours' ride.
Fatigued with travel, I certainly felt no inclination to rise early the
next morning; and so, when a sonorous cow-bell passed, slowly sounding
beneath our window at about four and a half A. M., I mentally
anathematized the wearer, and composed myself for a renewal of sleep.
Scarce comfortably settled ere another cow-bell, with a more spiteful
clang, was heard approaching; clank, clink, clank, clink, like the
chain about a walking ghost, it neared the window at the foot of my
couch, passed, and faded off into the distance. That's gone; but what is
this distant tinkle? Can it be there is sleighing here, and this is a
party returning home? Tinkle, jinkle, tinkle, tinkle--there they come!
"Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open"--the curtain, looked out through the sash,--
"When what to my wondering eyes should appear
But"
a procession of goats being driven to pasture by a girl in the gray
light of the morning! With an ejaculation more fervid than elegant, the
couch was sought again; but it was of no avail; a new campanologian
company was heard approaching with differently toned instruments of
torture; this was in turn succeeded by another, till it seemed as if
every note in the bell-ringing gamut had been sounded, and every
contrivance, from a church to a tea bell, had been rung.
After half an hour of this torture, flesh and blood could endure it no
longer, and I went once more to the window, to find that beneath it ran
the path by which the goats and cattle of the whole district were driven
to pasture, and, casting my eyes upwards, saw the gorgeous spectacle of
sunrise on Mont Blanc, whose glistening peaks were in full view. Half an
hour's admiration of this spectacle was enough for one not clad for the
occasion, and having made the discovery that the cows and goats were all
driven to pasture before half past six A. M., we took our revenge in two
hours of tired nature's sweet restorer after that time, before
discussing breakfast and topographically examining Chamouny.
Chamouny appears to be a village of eight or ten hotels, a church or
two, and a collection of peasants' huts and poor Swiss houses,
surrounded on all sides by the grandest and most sublime scenery ever
looked upon. It seems to be a grand central point in Switzerland for the
tourists of all nations. The great hotels are full, their _table
d'hotes_ are noisy with the clatter of tongues of half a dozen
nationalities, and gay with the fashions of Paris. The principal portion
of the inhabitants are either employés of the hotels; or guides, and
these Chamouny guides are the best, most honest, and most reliable of
their craft in Europe. They are formed into a regular association, and
bound by very strict rules, such as not being permitted to guide until
of a certain age, not to take the lead till after a certain amount of
experience; and absolute honesty and temperance being requisite for the
service. Indeed, I find that some consider honesty a characteristic
of the Swiss in this region; for upon my remonstrating with a
fellow-tourist, an old traveller, for leaving his watch and chain
exposed upon his dressing-table during his absence from his room at the
hotel, he replied there was no danger, as the attendants in the wing of
the house he occupied were all Swiss, and no English, French, or
Americans ever came there. To be a guide upon the excursions from
Chamouny requires a man of very steady habits, and of unquestionable
skill and endurance; and all of these men that we saw appeared so. They
are very jealous also of their reputation, and never allow it to be
injured by incompetency, dishonesty, or any species of imposition upon
travellers.
Here we are in the midst of Alps, a whole panorama of them in full view
on every side. The River Arve, a dark-colored stream fresh from the
glaciers, roars and rushes through the valley into which Chamouny seems
sunk. Above us are great mountains with snowy peaks; great mountains
with dark-green pines at their base, and splintered, gray, needle-like
points; glittering glaciers, like frozen rivers, can be seen coming down
through great ravines; waterfalls are on the mountain-sides; and
towering up like a gigantic dome, the vastness and awful sublimity of
which is indescribable, is Mont Blanc, which the lover of grand mountain
scenery will pause and gaze at, again and again, in silent awe and
admiration. But whither shall we go? There are dozens of excursions that
may be made. Looking across a level pasture of the valley from our
window, we see a waterfall leaping down the mountain. An easy path to
it is visible, and we make a little excursion, in the forenoon, to the
Falls of Blatière, just to get used to climbing; for at two P. M. mules
were at the door, with trusty guides at their heads, and away we started
for the ascent of the Flegère, a height on the spur of one of the
mountains, commanding a fine view of the Mer de Glace and Glacier des
Bois, which are directly opposite. The ascent of this occupied some
three hours, and the path reminds one very much of the ascent of Mount
Washington, New Hampshire, although the distant scenery is of course
incomparably more grand. We went through woods, and over rocks, across
stony slopes, and up zigzags, until finally we reached the Cross of
Flegère, the point of view.
From this perch we looked right over across on to the Mer de Glace,
where it gushed out like a great frozen torrent around the Montanvert,
and the Glacier des Bois, another silent ice torrent, that flowed out of
it. At our right, far down, five thousand feet below, rested Chamouny,
with the cloudy Arve running beside it. Away off to the left were a
number of needle-like peaks, with vast snow-fields between them; and
nearly in front of us, a little to the left, rose the sharp, jagged
points about the Aiguille Verte, and a right lofty needle it was, its
point piercing the air to the height of twelve thousand five hundred
feet; and then there were the Red Needles, and the Middle Needles, and,
in fact, a whole chain of peaks of the range--the best view we have had
yet, including, of course, the grand old snowy sovereign, Mont Blanc, at
the right, overtopping all the rest.
An hour was spent gazing upon this magnificent scene; after which we
began the descent, which was made in about an hour and a quarter,
bringing us to the hotel door at seven P. M. Our leading guide we
discovered to be an experienced one, of many years' service, who had
guided Louis Napoleon, on his visit here in 1861, soon after Savoy was
annexed to France--a service of which he was quite proud, as the emperor
held his hand during his excursion to the centre of the Mer de Glace
(always necessary for safety); he was also interested in the American
war of the rebellion, and, like all the Swiss who know enough to read,
was strong on the Union side of the question. Being an old soldier, the
song of "Tramp, tramp, the boys are marching," had especial charms for
him, and he called for a repetition of the "Glory, glory, hallelujah"
chorus, till he had mastered the words himself, from a young Union
officer of our party. Of course we were glad to engage our cheerful
_vieux moustache_ for our excursion on the morrow to the Montanvert and
Mer de Glace. In the evening we were called out to see the lights of a
party at the Grand Mulets, where they had halted for the night,
preparatory to completing the ascent of Mont Blanc. The sight of the
little twinkling flame, away up in the darkness, I confess, awakened no
desire in my mind to make the ascent; and I fully agree with one of the
guide-books, which says it cannot conceive why people will undergo the
trial and fatigue of the ascent, when they can risk their lives in a
balloon for one half of the expense.
Next morning we started with guides, and on muleback, for the
Montanvert, directly opposite the Flegère, the scene of our ascent the
day before, twenty minutes' ride across the meadow, and by the river
side; and then we began to ascend the mountain, through romantic pine
woods, and by a zigzag pathway upon the brow of the mountain, crossing,
occasionally, the deep channel of an avalanche, or an earth-slide, and
getting occasional glimpses of the valley below or the mountain
opposite, till, after a three hours' climb, we stand upon a rugged crag,
overlooking the tremendous and awful sea of ice, and the huge mountains
that enclose it.
This great petrified or frozen stream, between its precipitous banks,
seemed more like a mass of dirty snow or dingy plaster than ice. Looking
far up into the gorge between the mountains, we could see where the ice
and snow looked purer and more glistening than that directly beneath us.
Indeed, we began to imagine that the terrors of the passage, told by
travellers and letter-writers, were pure fables; and, to some extent,
they are; and a marked instance of magnifying the dangers is shown in
the account of Miss Frederika Bremer's experience, quoted in Harper's
Guide-Book, which, to any one of ordinary nerves, who has recently made
the passage, appears to be a most ridiculous piece of affectation.
We descended the rocky sides of the cliff, seamed and creased by the
ice-flood, and stood upon the great glacier. At first, near the shore,
it seemed like a mixture of dirty snow and ice, such as is frozen in a
country road after a thaw, and its surface but slightly irregular, and
but little trouble to be anticipated in crossing; but as we advanced far
into its centre, we began to realize more forcibly the appropriateness
of the title given to this great ice-field. On every side of us were
frozen billows, sharp, upheaved points, great spires of ice, congealed
waves, as if a mighty torrent were tumbling down this great ravine, and
had been suddenly arrested by the wand of the ice-king in mid career. We
came to crevasses,--broad splits,--revealing the clear, clean, blue ice,
as we looked hundreds of feet down into them. We crossed and passed some
of them on narrow ice-bridges, not more than two or three feet wide,
where notched steps were cut for us by the forward guide's hatchet, and
we held the firm grasp of one before and one behind, to guard against a
slip, which might have been fatal.
We passed little pools, which were melted into the bosom of this silent
field, and now and then a huge piece of rock in the midst of a pellucid
pool, which had been borne along upon the surface of this slow-moving
stream since it fell from the mountain-side, and gradually sank by its
weight, and the action of the sun. Midway, we were bidden to halt and
look away up the ravine, and see the frozen stream that was coming
tumbling down towards us. There was genuine ice enough now--waves,
mounds, peaks, hillocks, great blue sheets, and foaming masses. It
sparkled like silver beneath the sunbeams between the dark framework of
the two mountains on either side. We stopped talking. Not a sound was
heard. The stillness was as profound as the hush preceding a thunder
storm; and, as we listened, the crash of a great boulder that had become
loosed by the slow-moving torrent, falling into a crevasse from its
brink, echoed for a moment in the solitude, and all was still again.
The sure-footed guides, with their iron-spiked shoes, led us on. The
ladies were a trifle nervous as we passed one or two of the narrower
ice-bridges; but on the route we crossed there were not above three or
four such, and the whole passage was made in less than an hour. Arrived
at the other side, we clambered up the cliff, and began our descent. I
should have remarked, that we sent back the mules from Montanvert, to
meet us upon our descent on the other side of the Mer de Glace, on foot,
by the way of the Mauvais Pas, a tiresome, but most interesting tramp of
three or four miles, over rugged rocks and rough pathways, but such a
one as gives real zest to Alpine journeys, from its exciting scenes.
We now entered upon the celebrated Mauvais Pas. I had read so much, from
youth upwards, about the dangers of this pass, that I began to wonder if
we had done right in bringing ladies, and how we should get around that
sharp projection of the cliff; where a traveller is said to be obliged
to hold on to the face of the rock, and stretch his leg around the
projecting cliff, and feel for a foothold, the guides guarding him from
a slip out into empty space, by standing, one on each side of the
projection, and forming an outside hand-rail, by holding each end of an
alpenstock. Was not this the pass where the Swiss hunter met the
chamois, and, finding that neither could turn backward, had lain down
and let the herd jump over him?
But how these travellers' tales and sublime exaggerations vanish as one
approaches them! The Mauvais Pas may have been _très mauvais_ many years
ago; but either its dangers have been greatly exaggerated, or the hand
of improvement has rendered it _pas mauvais_ at present. It is a series
of steps, hewn for some distance along the rocky side of the mountain.
These steps are about three feet in width from the face of the cliff,
into which a strong iron rail is fastened, by which the traveller may
hold on, the whole distance. The outer edge is unprotected, and, at some
points, it must be confessed, it is an ugly look to glance down the
tremendous heights to the jagged rocks below, that form the shores of
the icy sea; but in some of the more dangerous places, modern
improvement has provided an additional safeguard in an outer rail, so
that the danger is but trifling to persons of ordinary nerve.
Finally, we reach the end of this narrow pathway, and find ourselves at
a small house on a jutting precipice, called the _Chapeau_; and here we
pause and breathe a while, buy beer, Swiss bread and honey, curious
Alpine crystals, &c., and enjoy another one of those wondrous Alpine
views which, once seen, live in memory forever as a scene of sublime
beauty and grandeur.
They call all the mountain peaks needles here. There were the Aiguilles
de Charmoz, ten thousand two hundred feet high, and ever so many other
"_aiguilles_," whose names I have not noted. As we looked down here upon
the glacier, it seemed to be more broken and upheaved; it rose into
huge, sharp, icicle-pointed waves, rent in every direction by large
cracks and fissures; the great pointed pinnacles and upheavals assumed
as curious appearances as the frost-work upon a window; there were a
procession of monks, the pinnacles of a Gothic cathedral, and the ruins
of a temple. It is here that the Mer de Glace begins to debouche into
the Glacier des Bois, which, in turn, runs down into the Chamouny
valley, and from which runs the Arveiron; in fact, the end of this
glacier is the river's source.
Down we go through the woods, and finally strike upon a rocky, rugged
path, on through a mass of miles of pulverized rock, fragments of
boulders, stone chips, and the rocky debris of ages, which has been
brought down by the tremendous grinding of the slow-moving glaciers,
till we reach a valley covered with the moraine in front of the great
ice arches of the Glacier des Bois, out of which rushes the river. Of
course here was a wooden hut, with Swiss crystals, carved work, and a
fee of a franc, if we would like to go under the glacier. There had been
a winding cavern hewed into this great ice wall, and planks laid along
into it for two hundred feet or more, and, with umbrellas to protect us,
the author and two other gentlemen started for this ice grotto, about a
hundred rods distant.
Arrived near its mouth, we beheld, on one side, the river, rushing out
from under a great natural ice arch, fifty feet in height, the glacier
here appearing to be about one hundred feet in height; the stream came
out with a force and vigor, gained, doubtless, from running a long
distance beneath the ice before it came out into the daylight. The ice
grotto, which has been hollowed out for visitors, is eight or ten feet
high, and the guide, who goes on before, lights it up with numerous
candles, placed at intervals, causing the clear, deep-blue ice to
resemble walls of polished steel; but the thought suggested by one
visitor when we had reached the farthermost extremity, "What if the
arches overhead should give way beneath the pressure?" did not incline
us to protract our stay in its chilly recesses; so, returning to the
chalet, where our mules were waiting, that had been sent round and down
from the Montanvert, we completed the day's laborious excursion by an
hour's ride back to the hotel at Chamouny.
Now good by to Chamouny, and away to the Tête Noir Pass, on our way to
Martigny. Starting at eight o'clock A. M., a vehicle carried us to
Argentière, about two hours' ride, where mules were found in waiting, by
the aid of which the rest of the journey, occupying the remainder of the
day, was made, though why the road of this pass is not laid out like
others, as a carriage road, I am at a loss to comprehend, unless it be
that the fees for mules and guides are too profitable a source of income
to be easily relinquished. Indeed, a large portion of the pass, in
its present condition, could be traversed safely by a one-horse
vehicle--some improvement over the tedious muleback ride of a whole
day's duration.
The road is romantic, pleasant, and picturesque, with deep gorges, dark
pine-clad mountains, crags, and waterfalls. Invigorated by the fresh
mountain air, we left our mules to follow in the train with the guides
and ladies, and, alpenstock in hand, trudged forward on foot, keeping in
advance by short cuts, and having an infinitely better opportunity,
under the guidance of a tourist who had been over the route, of enjoying
the scenery. We passed two or three waterfalls, walked over a spot noted
as being swept by avalanches in the early spring, where was a cross in
memory of a young count and two guides who fell beneath one: the guides
say, when the avalanche is heard approaching, it is already too late to
think of escaping, so swift is its career, and nothing but the hand of
Providence will save the traveller from destruction.
Our path carried us through a wild, stony ravine, with great mountains
on either side, and the inevitable river in the centre, rushing and
foaming over the rocks. Then we went up and over a beautiful mountain
path, commanding fine views of the distant mountains, with deep gorges
below, then wound round the base of the Tête Noir Mountain and through
the woods, and a tunnel, pierced through a rocky spur of the mountain,
that jutted out upon the pass. We saw away across, from one point on our
journey, the wild-looking road that was the route to the Pass of the
Great St. Bernard, and at another, looked far down into the valley,
where we could see the River Trient rushing and tumbling on its course.
We soon came to a point, before commencing our descent, which commanded
a view of the Rhone valley as far as Sion, spread out, seemingly, as
flat as a carpet, with the river meandering through its entire length,
the white chalets and brown roads looking rather hot in the blaze of the
afternoon sunlight. The view of this valley--what little we saw of
it--is far better at this distance than when one reaches its tumble-down
towns and poor inhabitants.
We went down a pleasant descent, past orchards and farm-houses, till we
reached Martigny, where we had supper, and were nearly devoured by
mosquitos, so that at nine P. M. we were glad to take the railway
train. How odd it seemed to be rattling over a railroad, in a
comfortable railway carriage, after our mountain experiences! The train,
at quarter past ten o'clock, landed us at Sion, where we took up our
quarters at the Hotel de la Poste, an Italian inn, with an obsequious
little French landlord, who was continually bowing, and rubbing his
hands, as if washing them with invisible soap, and saying, "_Oui,
monsieur_," to every question that was asked him, and withal looking so
like the old French teacher of my boyhood's days, that it seemed as
though it must be the old fellow, who had stopped growing old, and been
transported here by some mysterious means.
The fifteen-mile mountain tramp I had made, and the day's journey, as a
whole, caused the not very comfortable beds of the hotel to seem
luxurious couches soon after arrival, and we therefore deferred
interviews with Italian drivers, a crowd of whom were in attendance
from Stressa, via the Simplon Road, and who were anxious to open
negotiations, till the next morning, notwithstanding their assertions
that they might be engaged and gone when we should come down to
breakfast, and that we should, therefore, lose the magnificent
opportunities they were offering.
We were fortunate in having the company of a gentleman who had
frequently been over this route, and fully understood the _modus
operandi_ of making contracts with Italian post drivers, as will be
seen. It seems that there are often drivers here at Sion who have driven
parties from Stressa (via the Simplon) who desire to get a freight back,
and with whom the tourist, if he understands matters, can make a very
reasonable contract, as they prefer to take a party back at a low rate,
rather than to wait long at an expense, or return with empty vehicles.
If there be more than one (as in our case) of these waiting post
drivers, there is likely to be a competition among them, which of course
results to the tourist's advantage.
Therefore, after breakfast, instead of "having been engaged and gone,"
we found two or three anxious drivers, who jabbered with all their might
about the merits of their respective vehicles and themselves, and were
anxious to be engaged. The price mentioned as _bon marché_ at first was
four hundred francs for our whole party of seven for the three days'
journey over the Simplon Pass to Lake Maggiore; and really, I thought it
was, and had I been the negotiator for the party, should have closed;
but not so he who acted for us--acted in more senses than one; for when
this price was named, he gave the true French deprecatory shrug of the
shoulders, filled his pipe, and sat down on the hotel portico to smoke.
Ere long he was waited upon by driver number two, who represented that
three hundred and fifty francs would induce _him_ to take the party, "if
monsieur would start _to-day_." Smoker only elevated his eyebrows, and
thought if he "waited a few days there would be more carriages here."
In fifteen minutes the price was down to three hundred francs--no
anxiety on the part of monsieur to close.
A smart young driver, whose team had been "eating their heads off" for
three days, proposed two hundred and twenty francs, and to pay all
expenses, except our own hotel bills; and monsieur concluded to accept
him, putting the agreement, to prevent mistakes, in writing, which is
necessary with the Italian drivers. The contract was duly signed.
"When would monsieur's party be ready?"
"In fifteen minutes;" and the calm, indifferent smoker, to the driver's
surprise, became a lithe, elastic American, driving half a dozen
servants nearly crazy by hurrying them down with the luggage, mustering
the whole party with explanations of the necessity of starting at once,
and helping the landlord's major-domo make out the bills, without giving
any opportunity of getting in extras that we didn't have.
He shouted in Italian at the driver, who, with the stable-helpers, was
putting in the horses, jabbered in French with the hotel servants, and
in half an hour we were seated in the vehicle, with the luggage strapped
on behind, and the old landlord and the waiters and porters bowing at
the door, as we started, amid a volley of whip smacks, sounding like the
firing of a bunch of Chinese crackers.
These post drivers are marvellously skilful at whip-snapping. They can
almost crack out a tune with their whips, and they make a noise
consistent with their ideas of the importance of their freight, or
perhaps as a signal to the landlords that especial attention is
required, as distinguished foreigners are coming; for, as they
approached hotels, or drove into their court-yards, it was always with
eight or a dozen pistol-like cracks in succession that brought out a
bowing landlord and string of servants, who formed a double line from
the carriage to the door, welcoming the tourist in with great deference
and politeness. On the road the whip-cracks admonish all peasants,
donkey-carts, and market-wagons to sheer off, and allow monsieur's
carriage to pass; and, as he enters a little village, the fusillade from
his lash brings half the population to the doors and windows.
Our first day's journey, after leaving Sion, was through the Rhone
Valley--rather a hot ride, and tame and uninteresting after the grand
views we had been enjoying. We passed Sierre on a hill-side, rattled
over a bridge across the Rhone, having a view of pleasantly-wooded hills
near at hand, and the great mountains in the background; then passed
two or three other villages, and finally halted at a place called
Tourtemagne for dinner. After this we pushed on, went past Visp, and in
the afternoon trotted into Brieg, where, with a view to a good night's
rest before the morrow's journey, we stopped for the night. After tea
we had a magnificent view of sunset upon the lofty snow-clads above
us, which fairly glowed in a halo of rose-pink--a beautiful and
indescribable effect. Far away up on one of the mountain sides we were
pointed to the road over which we were to journey on the morrow. After
an early breakfast we started off with the usual fusillade of
whip-cracks, and were soon upon the famous Simplon Road.
This magnificent road is one of the wonders of the old world. Its cost
must have been enormous, and the cost of keeping it in such splendid
condition very large, owing to the injury it must inevitably sustain
from storms and avalanches during the winter season. The cost of the
road is said to have averaged over three thousand pounds sterling per
mile. The splendid engineering excites admiration from even the
inexperienced in those matters. You go sometimes right up the very face
of a steep mountain, that would seem to have originally been almost
inaccessible, by means of a series of zigzags. Then again the road winds
round a huge mountain wall, thousands of feet high on one side, with a
yawning ravine thousands of feet deep on the other. Long tunnels pierce
through the very heart of mountains. Bridges span dizzy heights and mad
torrents. Great galleries, or shelters, protect some parts of the road,
which are suspended midway up the mountain, from the avalanches which
ever and anon thunder down from above. At one place, where a great a
roaring cataract comes down, the road is conducted safely under the
sheet, which scatters but a few drops of spray upon it, except the
covered portion, as it leaps clear over the passage, and plunges into
the deep abyss below, a mass of thundering foam.
This part of the road, we were told, although it was a section not six
hundred feet long, was one of the most difficult to construct, and
required the labor of a hundred men for over a year and a half before it
could be completed, it being necessary in some places to suspend the
workmen by ropes from above, until a platform and a footing could be
built. And, indeed, standing there with the torrent roaring above, and
leaping clear over our heads away down into that rocky gorge, the clean,
broad road the only foothold about there, we could only wonder at human
skill, perseverance, and ingenuity in overcoming natural obstacles. From
the great glaciers far above the Kaltwasser come several other rushing
cascades, one of which, as you approach, seems as if it would drop
directly upon the road itself, but hits just short of it, and plunges
directly under, so that you can stand on the arched bridge, and look
right at it, as it comes leaping fiercely to wards you.
Murray gives the bridges, great and small, on this wonderful road
between Brieg and Sesto as "six hundred and eleven, in addition to the
far more vast and costly constructions, such as terraces of massive
masonry, miles in length, ten galleries, either cut out of the living
rock or built of solid stone, twenty houses of refuge to shelter
travellers, and lodge the laborers constantly employed in taking care of
the road. Its breadth is throughout at least twenty-five feet, in some
places thirty feet, and the average slope nowhere exceeds six inches in
six feet and a half."
After emerging from the Kaltwasser Glacier Gallery, we had a superb view
of the Rhone Valley, with Brieg, which we had left in the morning,
directly beneath us, while away across the valley, distinctly visible in
the clear atmosphere, rose the Bernese Alps, with the Breithorn, and
Aletshorn, and the great Aletsch Glacier distinctly visible. At the
highest point of the pass is the Hospice, over six thousand two hundred
feet above the level of the sea; and here we halted for a lunch, and
then trudged on in advance, leaving the carriage and ladies to overtake
us--enjoying the wild scenery of distant snow-capped mountains, great
glaciers, with cascades pouring from their ruffled edges to the green
valleys that were far below.
Soon after passing the little village of Simplon, we came to the
never-to-be-forgotten ravine of Gondo, one of the wildest, grandest, and
most magnificent gorges in the whole Alps. The ravine, as you proceed,
grows narrower and narrower, with its huge, lofty walls of rock rising
on either side. The furious River Diveria rushes through it like a
regiment of white-plumed cavalry at full gallop, and its thundering roar
is not unlike the tremendous rush of their thousand hoof-beats, as it
goes up between these massy barriers. The gorge narrows till there is
nought but road and river, with the black crags jutting out over the
pathway, and we come to a huge black mass that seems a barrier directly
across it; but through this the determined engineers have bored a great
gallery, and we ride through a tunnel of six hundred and eighty-three
feet in length, to emerge upon a new surprise, and a scene which called
forth a shout of admiration from every one of us.
As we emerged from this dark, rocky grotto, we beheld the towering
masses of rock on either side, like great walls of granite upholding,
the blue masonry of heaven, that seemed bent like a vaulted arch above;
and from one side, right at our very path, coming from far above with a
roar like thunder, leaped a mass of foam, like a huge cascade of snowy
ostrich plumes--the Fressinone Waterfall, which tossed its fine,
scintillating spray upon the slender bridge that spanned the gorge,
while the roaring cataract itself passed beneath, striking sixty or
eighty feet below upon the black rocks. It is a magnificent cascade, and
prepared us for the grandeur of the great gorge of Gondo, with its huge
walls of rock rising two thousand feet high, which seemed, when we were
hemmed in to their prison walls of black granite, as though there was no
possible way out, except upwards to the strip of sky that roofed the
narrow ravine.
Other cascades and waterfalls we saw, but none like the magnificent
Fressinone, with the graceful and apparently slender-arched bridge, that
almost trembled beneath its rush as we stood upon it--the huge rocky
walls towering to heaven, the black entrance to the tunnel just beyond,
looking, in the midst of this wild scene of terrific grandeur, like the
cavern of some powerful enchanter--the wild, deep gorge, with the
foaming waters swiftly gliding away in masses of tumbling foam far
below, and all the surroundings so grand and picturesque as to make it
no wonder that it is a favorite study for artists, as one of the most
spirited of Alpine pictures.
We passed the granite pillar that marked the boundary line, and were in
Italy; and soon after at the mountain custom-house and inn, where we
were to dine. The officials are very polite, make scarce any examination
whatever of the luggage of tourists; and our trunks remained undisturbed
on the travelling carriage while we dined.
Now we begin to ride towards the valley, and soon begin to have Italian
views of sunny landscape and trellised vines. We reach the town of Domo
d' Ossola, and our driver proclaims his coming by a _feu de joie_ with
the whip. The town looks like a collection of worn-out scenery thrown
together promiscuously from an old theatre. Old shattered arches cross
the street; half-ruined houses of solid masonry have the graceful
pillars of their lower stories broken and cracked, and ornamented with
strings of onions and bunches of garlic, sold in the shops within; old
churches, with a Gothic arch here and there, are turned into a warehouse
or a stable; tough old mahogany-colored women are seen squatting before
baskets of peaches, grapes, and figs in the streets; dark-skinned,
black-eyed girls, with the flat Italian head-dresses seen in pictures;
men, dirty and lazy-looking, with huge black whiskers, dark, greasy
complexions, in red and blue flannel shirts, and their coats thrown over
their shoulders without putting their arms in the sleeves, the coats
looking as though they had done many years duty in cleaning oiled
machinery; curious houses with overhanging upper stories; striped
awnings project outside of upper windows; a garlicky, greasy, Italian
smell pervades the narrower streets, from which we were glad to emerge
into the more open square, upon which our hotel--quite a spacious
affair--was located.
Our carriage rattled beneath the arched entrance, and into the paved
court-yard, where were three or four other similar equipages, and two
great lumbering diligences, while the rattling peal of whip-crack
detonations must have made the landlord think that a grand duke and
suite, at least, were arriving; for he tumbled out, with half a dozen
waiters, porters, and helpers, in a twinkling, and we were soon bestowed
in cool and lofty rooms, with many bows and flourishes. This old hotel
was a curiosity, many of its rooms opening upon the wooden gallery that
ran all around and above the large paved court-yard, into which
diligences arrived, stopped for the night, or took up their loads and
departed, and post carriages came with their freights to and from the
Simplon. It always had a group or two of drivers harnessing up, or
wrangling over something or other, or travellers, stowing themselves
away in the diligence; horses stamping, and jingling their bells and
harnesses; tourists, hunting up luggage; or couriers, arranging matters
for the travelling parties they were cheating.
The fatigue of a day's mountain ride, and continued sight-seeing,
however, made us sleep soundly, despite any of these noises. Of all
fatigues, the tourist ere long discovers the fatigue of a constant
succession of sight-seeing to be the most exhausting; so that he soon
comes to regard a tolerably good bed and clean room as among the most
agreeable experiences of his journey. In the morning we were escorted to
the carriage with many bows by the young Italian landlord, and his wife,
who, with one of those splendid oval faces, beautiful hair descending in
graceful curve to and away from her rich, pure brunette complexion, her
wonderful great lustrous eyes, a head such as one seldom sees, except in
a painting or upon a cameo, made every Englishman or American, when he
first saw her, start with surprise, utter something to his neighbor, and
always look at her a second time, evidently to the landlord's
gratification, for he did not seem to have a particle of the traditional
Italian jealousy about him--perhaps he had been married too long.
The landlord and his wife said something very pretty by way of a
farewell, no doubt, for there were "_grazias_," "_buonos_," "_addios_,"
and some other words, which I remember having heard sung by singers at
the opera, in his speech, to which our driver responded with a royal
salute of whip-cracks, and we dashed out of the court-yard once more on
our journey.
Our road now lay through the Italian valley, and we pass Vogogna,
Ornavasso, and other towns, and things begin to wear a decidedly Italian
aspect--the grape trellises, with their clustering fruit; half-ruined
dwellings, with stucco work peeling off them; the general greasy, lazy,
half-brigandish look of the men; and the partiality for high colors in
dress on the part of the peasant women. Fresh from the invigorating air
of the Alpine passes, we felt the full force of the Italian sun.
Although late in August, the weather is not hotter, apparently, than in
Boston; but when the sun gets fairly at you in Italy, it seems to shine
clear through, and come out on the other side. Fifteen minutes in its
blaze, without the protection of one of the yellow, green-lined
umbrellas, will almost wilt the vigor out of anybody but a native. It
goes through the frame like a Boston east wind.
With this sun shining from a blue, cloudless, Italian sky, it may well
be imagined how grateful was a beautiful portion of the country, where
there were shady olive groves, chestnut and fig trees, and how luscious
were our first grapes and fruit purchased of the peasant women at the
roadside. We passed, as we approached Lake Maggiore, a fine granite
quarry, which seemed to have been laid under contribution to furnish
posts for the telegraphic line. Think of that luxury, granite telegraph
posts, fifteen feet high, of clear, handsome stone. We rode past them
for miles and miles, and soon came in sight of the far-famed Maggiore.
It was beautiful as a picture; and as our carriage drove along its
shore, the cool afternoon breeze came fresh and grateful to us, after
our heated experiences. Across one corner of the lake in a ferry-boat, a
short drive farther by the lake shore, and we whirled up to the splendid
Hotel des Iles Borromées directly fronting the lake, with its beautiful
flower-garden, with walks and fountains. We found the interior of this
hotel delightfully cool and clean, the staircases and floors of stone,
and the bedsteads of iron--advantages of construction in Italy the
utility of which the traveller soon learns to appreciate.
The lake is as charming as poets have sung and travellers told, with its
beautiful island and lovely blue waters. The Isola Bella, directly
opposite my windows, with its splendid terraces, one above the other,
rising a hundred feet above the lake, and rich with its graceful
cypresses, lemon trees, magnolias, orange trees, with golden fruit, and
sparkling fountains, statues, and pillars, peeping through the luxurious
foliage, is charming to look upon. But when--my _siesta_ over, and as
the sun was low in the west, with a cool air coming from the water, and
the little pleasure-boats, with their striped awnings, were gliding
hither and thither--I saw come down the road for his evening walk a
brown-robed, barefooted, rope-girdled, shaven friar, and, from the
opposite direction, a little dark-skinned Italian lad, with pointed hat,
decorated with gay ribbons, rough leggings bound to his knee, and a
mandolin in his hand, it seemed, in the soft, dreamy, hazy atmosphere,
that I was looking upon an old oil painting. The effect was heightened
when the boy struck his instrument, and began to sing--and beautifully
he did sing, too. I have heard worse singing by some whose names were in
large letters on the opera bills. The friar halted, and leaned on a gray
rock at the road-side to listen, while he toyed absently with his
rosary. Two or three peasant girls, in their bright costumes, and one
with an earthen jar on her head, paused in a group, and a barelegged
boatman, in a red cap, rested two tall oars upon the ground, the whole
forming so picturesque a group as to look as if posed for a picture.
How pleasant is an evening sail on this lovely lake! how romantic are
Isola Bella and its sister islands! how like a soft, dreamy picture is
the whole scene! and how all the surroundings seemed exactly fitted to
harmonize with it!--a purely Italian scene, the picturesque beauty of
which will long linger in the memory.
We had a delightful sail from Stressa, along the shores of Maggiore to
Sesto Calende, heard the sweet sound of convent bells come musically
across its glassy tide, passed Arona, behind which we could see the
colossal bronze statue of San Carlo Borromeo, sixty-six feet high,
placed upon a pedestal forty feet in height, looking like an immense
giant, with its hand stretched out towards the lake from the hill on
which it stands. From Sesto Calende the railway train conveyed us to
Milan, where we were landed in a magnificent railway station, the
waiting rooms large and lofty, the ceilings elegantly frescoed, and the
walls painted with beautifully executed allegorical pictures and Italian
landscapes, giving one the idea that he had arrived in a country where
artistic painting was a drug in the market, so lavishly was it used in
this manner in the railway stations.
Our rooms at the Hotel Cavour look out on a handsome square and the
public gardens. In the square stands a statue of Cavour, upon a pedestal
placed at the top of a set of granite steps. Upon these steps, seated in
the most natural position, is a bronze figure of the genius of fame or
history (a female figure) represented in the act of inscribing Cavour's
name with her pen upon the bronze pedestal. And so natural is this
representation, that strangers who see the group in the evening for the
first time, often fancy that some unauthorized person has got into the
enclosure, and is defacing the statue.
The first sight to be seen in Milan is the cathedral; and before this
magnificent architectural wonder, all cathedrals I have yet looked upon
seem to sink into insignificance.
A forest of white marble pinnacles, a wilderness of elegant statues, an
interminable maze, and never-ending mass of bewildering tracery, greets
the beholder, who finds himself gaping at it in astonishment, and
wondering where he will begin to look it over, or if it will be possible
for him to see it all. The innumerable graceful pinnacles, surmounted by
statues, the immense amount of luxurious carving prodigally displayed on
every part of the exterior, strike the visitor with amazement. Its
architecture is Gothic, and the form that of a Latin cross; and to give
an idea of its size, I copy the following authentic figures of its
dimensions: "The extreme length is four hundred and eighty-six feet, and
the breadth two hundred and fifty-two feet; the length of the transept
two hundred and eighty-eight feet, and the height inside, from pavement
to roof, one hundred and fifty-three feet; height from pavement to top
of the spire, three hundred and fifty-five feet."
After taking a walk around the exterior of this wonderful structure, and
gazing upon the architectural beauties of the great white marble
mountain, we prepared to ascend to the roof before visiting the
interior.
This ascent is made by a broad white marble staircase of one hundred and
fifty-eight steps, the end of which being reached, the visitor finds
himself amid an endless variety of beautiful pinnacles, flying
buttresses, statues, carvings, and tracery. Here are regular walks laid
out, terminating in or passing handsome squares, in the centre of which
are life-size statues by Canova, Michael Angelo, and other great
sculptors. You come to points commanding extensive views of the elegant
flying buttresses, which are beautifully wrought, and present a vista of
hundreds of feet of white marble tracery as elegant, elaborate, and
bewildering as the tree frost-work of a New England winter.
Here is a place called the "Garden," where you are surrounded by
pinnacles, richly ornamented Gothic arches, flying buttresses, with
representations of leaves, flowers, pomegranate heads, tracery,
statuary, and ornaments in such prodigality as to fairly excite
exclamation at the profuseness displayed. In every angle of the building
the eye meets new and surprising beauties, magnificent galleries,
graceful arcs, and carved parapets, pointed, needle-like pinnacles,
Gothic arches, and clustered pillars.
We come to where the carvers and stone-cutters are at work. They have a
regular stone-cutters' yard up here on the roof, with sheds for the
workmen and stone-carvers, and their progress is marked on the building
by the fresher hue of the work. These old cathedrals are never finished;
their original plans are lost, and there always seems to be some great
portion of the work that is yet to be carried out. We should have got
lost in the maze of streets, squares, and passages upon the roof,
without a guide.
A total ascent of five hundred and twelve steps carries the visitor to
the platform of the great cupola, from which a fine view of the city is
obtained, the plains surrounding it bounded by the girdle of distant,
snow-capped mountains. Directly beneath can be seen the cruciform shape
of the great cathedral; and looking down, we find that one hundred and
thirty-six spires and pinnacles rise from the roof, and that clustered
on and about them is a population of over _thirty-five hundred_ statues.
Nearly a hundred are said to be added each year by the workmen. Amid
this bewildering scene of architectural wonders, it is not surprising
that two hours passed ere we thought of descending; and even then we
left no small portion of this aerial garden, this marble forest of
enchantment, with but the briefest glance.
But if the roof was so beautiful, what must be the appearance of the
interior of this great temple?
It was grand beyond description; the great nave over four hundred feet
in length, the four aisles with their vistas of nearly the same length
of clustered pillars--four complete ranges of them, fifty-two in
all--supporting the magnificent vaulted arch one hundred and fifty feet
above our heads. The vastness of the space as you stand in it beside one
of the great Gothic pillars, the base of which, even, towers up nearly
as high as your head--the very vastness of the interior causes you to
feel like a fly under the dome of St. Paul's. An idea of the size of
this cathedral may be had from the fact, that while workmen with ladder,
hammer, and tools were putting up a painting upon the walls at one end
of the church, the priests were conducting a service with sixty or
seventy worshippers at the other, undisturbed by the noise of hammer or
metal tool, the blows of which, even if listened for, could scarce be
heard beyond a faint click.
A good opera-glass is a necessity in these great cathedrals, a good
guide-book is another; and I find the glass swung by its strap beneath
one arm, and the tourist's satchel beneath the other, positive
conveniences abroad, however snobbish they may appear at home.
There are five great doorways to the church, and the visitor's attention
is always called by the guide to the two gigantic pillars near the
largest door. These are single columns of polished red granite,
thirty-five feet high and four feet in diameter at the base; they
support a sort of balcony, upon which stand the colossal figures of two
saints. All along the sides of the cathedral are chapels, elegant
marble altars and altar tombs, interspersed with statues and pictures.
The capitals of many of the great columns have finely carved statues
grouped about them; some have eight, and others more. The ceiling of the
vaulted roof, which, from the pavement, appears to be sculptured
stone-work, is only a clever imitation in painting; but the floor of the
cathedral is laid out in mosaic of different colored marbles.
With what delight we wandered about this glorious interior! There was
the great window, with its colored glass, representing the Virgin Mary's
assumption, executed by Bertini. Here were the monument raised by Pius
IV. to his brothers, cut from fine Carrara marble, except the statues,
after Michael Angelo's designs; the pulpits, that are partly of bronze
work, and elegantly ornamented with bass-reliefs which encircle two of
the great pillars, and are themselves held up by huge caryatides;
numerous monuments, among them the bright-red marble tomb of Ottone
Visconti, who left his property to the Knights of St. John, who erected
this monument; the beautiful carved stalls of the choir, the high altar
and magnificent Gothic windows behind it.
In the south transept is the celebrated statue of St. Bartholomew, who
was flayed alive, and who is represented as having undergone that
operation and taking a walk, with his own skin thrown carelessly over
one arm, after the manner of an overcoat which the weather has rendered
oppressive to the wearer. But this statue can hardly fail to chain the
spectator some moments to the spot, on account of the hideous accuracy
with which every artery, muscle, and tendon appear to be represented. I
had never thought before how a man might look when stripped of that
excellent fitting garment, the _cutis vera_; but this statue gave me as
correct an idea of it as I ever wish to obtain. It is said to have been
executed by the great sculptor Phidias, and to be wonderfully correct in
anatomical detail. The latter fact can hardly be doubted by any who look
upon the marvellous skill which appears to have been exhausted upon
every part of it. Shocking as it appeared, I found myself drawn, again
and again, to look upon it; such is its effect as a wondrous work of
art.
Now the guide leads to a crypt below the pavement. We are to visit the
chapel where rests the good St. Charles Borromeo, who died nearly three
centuries ago. We go down nine or ten steps, pass through a passage
lined with the richest marbles, a portal adorned with splendid columns,
with their capitals and bases richly gilt, and stand in the sepulchral
chapel of the saint. It is a small octagonal apartment, lighted by an
opening from above, which is surrounded by a rail, so that the faithful
may look down upon the sarcophagus below. The walls of this apartment
are formed of eight massive silver bass-reliefs, representing remarkable
events in the saint's life. Then in the angles are eight caryatides of
massive silver, representing his virtues. The sarcophagus, which rests
upon the altar, is a large bronze box mounted with silver. A douceur of
five francs to the attendant priest, and he reverently crosses himself,
and, bending at a crank, causes the bronze covers of the shrine to fold
away, revealing to our view the dead body of the saint, in a splendid
transparent coffin of pure rock crystal, bound with silver, and
ornamented also with small silver statues, bearing the cipher of the
royal donor, Philip IV. of Spain.
There lay the good bishop, who had preached humility all his life,
arrayed in his episcopal garb, which was one blaze of precious stones.
Diamonds of the purest water flashed back their colored light to the
glare of the altar candles; rubies, like drops of blood, glowed in fiery
splendor, and emeralds shone green as sea-waves in the sunlight. The
saint held in his left hand a golden pastoral staff, fairly crusted with
precious stones. A splendid cross of emeralds and diamonds is suspended
above him within the shrine; it is the gift of Maria Theresa, and about
the head is a magnificent golden crown, rich with the workmanship of
that wonderful artificer, Benvenuto Cellini, the gift of the Elector of
Bavaria. But there, amid all these flashing jewels, that which the rich
habiliments failed to conceal, was the grinning skull, covered with the
shrivelled skin black with age, the sunken eye-sockets, and all bearing
the dread signet-stamp of Death; making it seem a hideous mockery to
trick out these crumbling remains with senseless trappings, now so
useless to the once mortal habitation of an immortal soul. We leave the
saint to sleep in his costly mausoleum, his narrow, eight-sided chamber,
and its riches, representing one hundred and sixty thousand pounds
sterling, and follow our guide to view more of the wealth of the church.
Here we are in the sacristy, and the custodian shows us two huge statues
of St. Charles and St. Ambrose of solid silver, and their sacerdotal
robes thickly studded with jewels; magnificent silver busts, life-size,
of other bishops; elegant gold candelabra; goblets and altar furniture
of rare and exquisite workmanship; silver lamps, censers, chalices, &c.,
of those rare, delicate, and beautiful old patterns that were a charm to
look upon; missals studded with precious stones; rich embroideries, rare
altar-pieces, and one solid ornamental piece of silver-work, weighing
over one hundred pounds. All these riches locked up, useless here, save
as a sight to the wonder-seeking tourist; while poor, ragged worshippers
of the church of Rome are prostrating themselves without, before the
great altar, from which they rise and waylay him as he passes out, to
beseech him--the heretic--for a few coppers, for the love of God, to
keep them from starvation. I can well imagine what rich plunder old
Cromwell's bluff Round-heads must have found in the Roman Catholic
cathedrals of England, although I have more than once mentally
anathematized their vandalism, which was shown in defacing and
destroying some of the most beautiful specimens of art of the middle
ages.
The old Church of St. Ambrosio is an interesting edifice to visit, with
its curious relics, tombs, altars, and inscriptions. The principal altar
here is remarkable for its richness; its sides are completely enclosed
in a strong iron-bound and padlocked sheathing, which, however, the
silver key unlocked, and we found the front to be sheathed in solid
gold, elegantly enamelled and ornamented, the back and sides being of
solid silver; all about the border, corners, and edges were set every
species of precious stones, cameos, and rich jewels. The rubies,
amethysts, topazes, &c., were in the rough, uncut; but the goldsmith's
work, carving and chasing, was elaborate, and the dirty friar who
exhibited the sight, with small candles, about the size of pen-holders,
stuck between his fingers, took much pride in pointing out the beauties
of the work, and holding his little candles so that their light might be
the more effectual to display them. The back was all covered with
representations of the principal events in the life of St. Ambrose,
separated from each other by enamelled borders.
We next went to the refectory of the Church of Santa Maria delle Grazie,
and saw Leonardo da Vinci's celebrated painting of the Last Supper, the
picture that we are all familiar with from childhood, from having seen
it in Bibles, story-books, and engravings. In fact, it is _the_ picture
of the Last Supper always referred to when the representation is spoken
of. I could not go into raptures over this half-defaced fresco, which
has had a door cut through one portion of it, has sustained the damage
incidental to the refectory, being used as a cavalry stable, and has
twice been nearly all painted over by bad artists since the great
painter left it; and he, in his preparation of the wall for the
painting, used a process which proved a failure, causing it to fade and
flake off. Although this is the great original, from which so many
copies are taken,--and it is something to have seen the original,--we
think we have seen more than one copy far more striking, and more
beautiful in its finish.
A ramble through Victor Emmanuel's palace gave us an opportunity of
seeing some fine pictures, the great state ball-room, elegantly-frescoed
ceilings, and the rich furniture and tapestry, that one ere long begins
to find are in some degree, when no historical association is connected
with them, so much alike in all palaces. The celebrated La Scala Theatre
was closed for the season during our visit to Milan; but the custodians
have an eye to business. They keep the lower row of gas-lights burning,
turned low, and for a consideration turn on the gas, and light up the
vast interior sufficiently for visitors to get something of an idea of
it.
Notwithstanding its vast size, the excellence of its internal
arrangements for seeing and hearing is remarkable. Standing upon the
stage, we delivered a Shakespearian extract to an extremely select but
discriminating audience, whose applause was liberally, and, need we add,
deservedly bestowed. I know not how it may be when the house is filled
with an audience, but it appeared to us that its acoustic properties
were remarkable, for a "stage whisper" could be distinctly heard at the
extreme rear of the centre of the first row of boxes, while the echo of
the voice seemed to return to the speaker on the stage, as from a
sounding-board above his head, with marvellous distinctness. This house
will hold an audience of thirty-six hundred persons. The distance from
the centre box to the curtain is ninety-six feet; width of the stage,
fifty-four feet; and depth of the stage behind the curtain, one hundred
and fifty feet--room enough for the most ambitious scenic display.
The form of the house is the usual semicircle, there being forty-one
boxes in each row. Many of those in the first row have small
withdrawing-rooms. One--the Duke Somebody's--has a supper room, in which
his highness and friends partake of a _petit souper_ between the acts,
there being cooking conveniences for the preparation of the same below.
The brevity of our visit to Milan causes the day that was devoted to the
wonderful library, the Biblioteca Ambrosiana, with its grand halls, its
one hundred and fifty thousand volumes, and eight thousand manuscripts,
rare autographic and literary treasures, and the great halls of
paintings, where the works of Guido, Paul Veronese, Raphael, Da Vinci,
and Rubens adorn the walls, to seem like a wondrous dream; and our
general rule being to see thoroughly what we saw, we regretted that we
had even attempted these two interesting galleries--places which, to any
one having any taste whatever for art or literature, it is little less
than an aggravation to be hurried through.
By rail from Milan we came to a place about a mile from Como, where
omnibuses conveyed us through that hot, vilesmelling, filthy Italian
town to the pier on the lake, where the steamer was waiting our arrival,
and which we were right glad to have paddle out into the lake from the
vile odors that surrounded us. But once out upon the blue waters, and
free from the offence to our nostrils, how charming was the scene! The
dirty city that we had left was picturesque on the undulating shore,
with its old tower, spires, and quaint houses. As we sailed along,
beautiful villas were seen on the shore, their fronts with marble
pillars, their gardens with terraces rich in beautiful flowers, and
adorned with statues, vases, and fountains; marble steps, with
huge carved balusters, ran down to the very water's edge, where
awning-covered pleasure-boats were in waiting--just such scenes as you
see on the act-drop at the theatre, and believe to be mere flights of
artistic fancy, but which now are found to exist in reality.
At a point where Lake Como divides into two arms, one extending to Como
and the other to Lecco, we passed Bellaggio, one of the most beautiful
spots ever seen. It is on a high promontory at this point, commanding
extensive views of the lake and surrounding country. The promontory is
covered with the elegant villas of wealthy people.
There is something luxurious and charming in a sail upon this lovely
lake, with the beautiful villas upon its shores, the vine-clad hills,
with the broad-hatted peasant women seen among the grape-vines, white
turreted churches, brown, distant convents, from which the faint music
of the bell came softened over the water, the long reaches of beautiful
landscape view between the hills, the soft, blue sky, and the delicious,
dreamy atmosphere. A charming lake is Como, but with many objects, "'tis
distance lends enchantment to the view."
A boat put off from a romantic little cove for the steamer, which paused
for its arrival. Its occupants were a stalwart rower, in blue shirt, red
cap, and black slashed breeches, a sort of Massaniello-looking fellow,
who bent to the oars with a will, and a friar, with shaven crown and
brown cowl, with cross and rosary at his waist. Soon after we saw the
holy man on board; and certainly he did not believe cleanliness was
next to godliness, for all that was visible of his person was filthy,
and evidently not on frequent visiting acquaintance with soap and water,
while the vile odor of garlic formed a halo of nearly three feet in
circumference about his person--an odor of sanctity requiring the
possession of a stomach not easily disturbed to enable one to endure it.
I once saw one of these friars at a railway station, whose curious
blending of the mediæval and modern together in his costume and
occupation struck me as so irresistibly comical that I could not resist
a laugh, much to his amazement. But fancy seeing a friar, or monk, in
the sandals, brown robe, and corded waist, just such as you have seen in
engravings, and whom you naturally associate with Gothic cathedrals,
cloistered convents, as bearing a crosier, or engaged in some
ecclesiastical occupation--fancy seeing a monk in this well-known
costume, near a railway station, his head surmounted with a modern straw
hat, a sort of market-basket in his hand, and smoking a cigarette with
great nonchalance as he watched the train!
We landed at Colico, at the end of the lake--a filthy place, where dirt
was trumps, and garlic and grease were triumphant. We attempted a meal
at the hotel while the diligence was getting ready; but on coming to the
board, notwithstanding it was with sharpened appetites, the dirt and
odor were too much for us, and we retreated in good order, at the
expense of five francs for the landlord's trouble and unsuccessful
attempt. A diligence ride of eighteen miles brought us to Chiavenna at
eight o'clock P.M. Here the hotel was tolerable, the landlord and head
waiter spoke English, and, late as it was, we ordered dinner, for we
were famished; and a very delectable one we had, and comfortable rooms
for the night. Chiavenna is a dull old place, with the ruins of the
former residences and strongholds of the old dukes of Milan scattered
about it. One old shattered castle was directly opposite our hotel.
We now prepared for a journey from here over another Alpine pass, the
Splügen. This pass was constructed by the Austrians, in 1821, in order
to preserve for themselves a good passage over to Lombardy. We engaged
our post carriage as usual, with a fair _written_ contract with the
driver,--necessary when agreeing with an Italian, to prevent
_mistakes_,--and preliminaries being settled, started off with the usual
rattle of whip-cracks, rode through pleasant scenery of vineyards,
mountain slopes, and chestnut trees, and soon began to wind on our way
upwards. Passing the custom-house in the little village of Campo
Dolcino, thirty-three hundred feet above the level of the sea, we are
again upon the beautifully engineered road of an Alpine pass, and at one
point the zigzags were so sharp and frequent that the granite posts
protecting the edge of the road presented the appearance of a straight
row directly in front of us, rising at an angle of forty-five degrees,
although the real ascent by the numerous windings is comparatively easy
and apparently slight.
As we went winding up, back and forth, we came in sight of the beautiful
Madesimo Waterfall, seen from various angles of the road pouring down
from far above us to the valley below. Each turn gave us a different
view. It was a succession of pictures of valley and cascade, until we
finally passed through a covered gallery, and our road led us past the
cliff over which the level stream took its leap for its downward career.
Leaving the carriage, we walked to a small projecting table rock
directly overhanging the ravine,--a portion of the rock over which the
stream falls,--where, leaning over the iron railing,--grasped, we
confess, with a firm clutch,--we looked down to the frothy foam of the
waterfall, seven hundred feet below. It was a fine point of view--an
exciting position to feel one's self so near a terribly dangerous place,
and yet be safe, to defy danger, enjoy the beauty of the cascade, and
measure with the eye the great distance of its leap.
After leaving here, we begin to enter a wild, and in winter a dangerous,
portion of the pass. This is the Cardinell Gorge. Not only are the
zigzags sharp and frequent, but we come to great covered galleries, made
of solid masonry, with sloping roofs, to cause avalanches, that are
constantly precipitated from above, to slide off, and thus protect
travellers and the road itself. The galleries are wonderful pieces of
workmanship. One of them is six hundred and fifty, another seven
hundred, and a third fifteen hundred and thirty feet in length. They are
lighted by openings at the sides. We have fine views of the lofty
mountains all around, and the deep gorges torn by countless avalanches;
and now we reach one of the houses of refuge. We stand fifty-eight
hundred and sixty feet above the level of the sea. The air is cold, and
overcoats are comfortable. On we go, and at length shiver in the
glacier's breath at the boundary line between Switzerland and Italy--the
summit of the pass six thousand eight hundred and eighty feet above the
sea.