THE AUSTRIAN ALPS.
It was nearly dark when we came to the end of the plain and looked on
the city at our feet and the lovely lake that lost itself in the
mountains before us. We were early on board the steamboat next morning,
with a cloudless sky above us and a snow-crested Alp beckoning on from
the end of the lake. The water was of the most beautiful green hue, the
morning light colored the peaks around with purple, and a misty veil
rolled up the rocks of the Traunstein. We stood on the prow and enjoyed
to the fullest extent the enchanting scenery. The white houses of
Gmunden sank down to the water's edge like a flock of ducks; halfway we
passed castle Ort, on a rock in the lake, whose summit is covered with
trees.
As we neared the other extremity, the mountains became steeper and
loftier; there was no path along their wild sides, nor even a fisher's
hut nestled at their feet, and the snow filled the ravines more than
half-way from the summit. An hour and a quarter brought us to Ebensee,
at the head of the lake, where we landed and plodded on towards Ischl,
following the Traun up a narrow valley, whose mountain walls shut out
more than half the sky. They are covered with forests, and the country
is inhabited entirely by the woodmen who fell the mountain pines and
float the timber rafts down to the Danube. The steeps are marked with
white lines, where the trees have been rolled, or rather _thrown_ from
the summit. Often they descend several miles over rooks and precipices,
where the least deviation from the track would dash them in a thousand
pieces. This generally takes place in the winter when the sides are
covered with snow and ice. It must be a dangerous business, for there
are many crosses by the way-side where the pictures represent persons
accidentally killed by the trees; an additional painting represents
them as burning in the flames of purgatory, and the pious traveler is
requested to pray an Ave or a Paternoster for the repose of their souls.
On we went, up the valley of the Traun, between mountains five and six
thousand feet high, through scenes constantly changing and constantly
grand, for three or four hours. Finally the hills opened, disclosing a
little triangular valley, whose base was formed by a mighty mountain
covered with clouds. Through the two side angles came the Traun and his
tributary the Ischl, while the little town of Ischl lay in the centre.
Within a few years this has become a very fashionable bathing place, and
the influx of rich visitors, which in the summer sometimes amounts to
two thousand, has entirely destroyed the primitive simplicity the
inhabitants originally possessed. From Ischl we took a road through the
forests to St. Wolfgang, on the lake of the same name. The last part of
the way led along the banks of the lake, disclosing some delicious
views. These Alpine lakes surpass any scenery I have yet seen. The water
is of the most beautiful green, like a sheet of molten beryl, and the
cloud-piercing mountains that encompass them shut out the sun for nearly
half the day. St. Wolfgang is a lovely village in a cool and quiet nook
at the foot of the Schafberg. The houses tire built in the picturesque
Swiss style, with flat, projecting roofs and ornamented balconies, and
the people are the very picture of neatness and cheerfulness.
We started next morning to ascend the Schafberg, which is called the
Righi of the Austrian Switzerland. It is somewhat higher than its Swiss
namesake, and commands a prospect scarcely less extensive or grand. We
followed a footpath through the thick forest by the side of a roaring
torrent. The morning mist still covered the lake, but the white summits
of the Salzburg and Noric Alps opposite us, rose above it and stood pure
and bright in the upper air. We passed a little mill and one or two
cottages, and then wound round one of the lesser heights into a deep
ravine, down in whose dark shadow we sometimes heard the axe and saw of
the mountain woodmen. Finally the path disappeared altogether under a
mass of logs and rocks, which appeared to have been whirled together by
a sudden flood. We deliberated what to do; the summit rose several
thousand feet above us, almost precipitously steep, but we did not like
to turn back, and there was still a hope of meeting with the path again.
Clambering over the ruins and rubbish we pulled ourselves by the limbs
of trees up a steep ascent and descended again to the stream. We here
saw the ravine was closed by a wall of rock and our only chance was to
cross to the west side of the mountain, where the ascent seemed somewhat
easier. A couple of mountain maidens whom we fortunately met, carrying
home grass for their goats, told us the mountain could be ascended on
that side, by one who could climb _well_--laying a strong emphasis on
the word. The very doubt implied in this expression was enough to decide
us; so we began the work. And work it was, too! The side was very steep,
the trees all leaned downwards, and we slipped at every step on the dry
leaves and grass. After making a short distance this way with the
greatest labor, we came to the track of an avalanche, which had swept
away the trees and earth. Here the rock had been worn rough by torrents,
but by using both hands and feet, we clomb directly up the side of the
mountain, sometimes dragging ourselves up by the branches of trees where
the rocks were smooth. After half an hour of such work we came above the
forests, on the bare side of the mountain. The summit was far above us
and so steep that our limbs involuntarily shrunk from the task of
climbing. The side ran up at an angle of nearly sixty degrees, and the
least slip threw us flat on our faces. We had to use both hand and foot,
and were obliged to rest every few minutes to recover breath.
Crimson-flowered moss and bright blue gentians covered the rocks, and I
filled my books with blossoms for friends at home.
Up and up, for what seemed an age, we clambered. So steep was it, that
the least rocky projection hid my friend from sight, as he was coming up
below me. I let stones roll sometimes, which went down, down, almost
like a cannonball, till I could see them no more. At length we reached
the region of dwarf pines, which was even more difficult to pass
through. Although the mountain was not so steep, this forest, centuries
old, reached no higher than our breasts, and the trees leaned downwards,
so that we were obliged to take hold of the tops of those above us, and
drag ourselves up through the others. Here and there lay large patches
of snow; we sat down in the glowing June sun, and bathed our hands and
faces in it. Finally the sky became bluer and broader, the clouds seemed
nearer, and a few more steps through the bushes brought us to the summit
of the mountain, on the edge of a precipice a thousand feet deep, whose
bottom stood in a vast field of snow!
We lay down on the heather, exhausted by five hours' incessant toil, and
drank in like a refreshing draught, the sublimity of the scene, The
green lakes of the Salzburg Alps lay far below us, and the whole
southern horizon was filled with the mighty range of the Styrian and
Noric Alps, their summits of never-melting snow mingling and blending
with the clouds. On the other side the mountains of Salzburg lifted
their ridgy backs from the plains of Bavaria and the Chiem lake lay
spread out in the blue distance. A line of mist far to the north
betrayed the path of the Danube, and beyond it we could barely trace the
outline of the Bohemian mountains. With a glass the spires of Munich,
one hundred and twenty miles distant, can be seen. It was a view whose
grandeur I can never forget. In that dome of the cloud we seemed to
breathe a purer air than that of earth.
After an hour or two, we began to think of descending, as the path was
yet to be found. The summit, which was a mile or more in length,
extended farther westward, and by climbing over the dwarf pines for some
time, we saw a little wooden house above us. It stood near the highest
part of the peak, and two or three men were engaged in repairing it, as
a shelter for travelers. They pointed out the path which went down on
the side toward St. Gilgen, and we began descending. The mountain on
this side is much less steep, but the descent is fatiguing enough. The
path led along the side of a glen where mountain goats were grazing, and
further down we saw cattle feeding on the little spots of verdure which
lay in the forest. My knees became so weak from this continued descent,
that they would scarcely support me; but we were three hours, partly
walking and partly running down, before we reached the bottom. Half an
hour's walk around the head of the St. Wolfgang See, brought us to the
little village of St. Gilgen.
The valley of St. Gilgen lies like a little paradise between the
mountains. Lovely green fields and woods slope gradually from the
mountain behind, to the still greener lake spread out before it, in
whose bosom the white Alps are mirrored. Its picturesque cottages
cluster around the neat church with its lofty spire, and the simple
inhabitants have countenances as bright and cheerful as the blue sky
above them. We breathed an air of poetry. The Arcadian simplicity of the
people, the pastoral beauty of the fields around and the grandeur of the
mountains which shut it out from the world, realized my ideas of a
dwelling place, where, with a few kindred spirits, the bliss of Eden
might almost be restored.
We stopped there two or three hours to relieve our hunger and fatigue.
My boots had suffered severely in our mountain adventure, and I called
at a shoemaker's cottage to get them repaired. I sat down and talked for
half an hour with the family. The man and his wife spoke of the
delightful scenery around them, and expressed themselves with
correctness and even elegance. They were much pleased that I admired
their village so greatly, and related every thing which they supposed
could interest me. As I rose to go, my head nearly touched the ceiling,
which was very low. The man exclaimed: "Ach Gott! how tall!" I told him
the people were all tall in our country; he then asked where I came
from, and I had no sooner said America, than he threw up his hands and
uttered an ejaculation of the greatest surprise. His wife observed that
"it was wonderful how far man was permitted to travel." They wished me a
prosperous journey and a safe return home.
St. Gilgen was also interesting to me from that beautiful chapter in
"Hyperion"--"Footsteps of Angels,"--and on passing the church on my way
back to the inn, I entered the graveyard mentioned in it. The green turf
grows thickly over the rows of mounds, with here and there a rose
planted by the hand of affection, and the white crosses were hung with
wreaths, some of which had been freshly laid on. Behind the church,
under the shade of a tree, stood a small chapel,--I opened the
unfastened door, and entered. The afternoon sun shone through the side
window, and all was still around. A little shrine, adorned with flowers,
stood at the other end, and there were two tablets on the wall, to
persons who slumbered beneath, I approached these and read on one of
them with feelings not easily described: "Look not mournfully into the
past--it comes not again; wisely improve the present--it is thine; and
go forward to meet the shadowy future, without fear, and with a manly
heart!" This then was the spot where Paul Flemming came in loneliness
and sorrow to muse over what he had lost, and these were the words whose
truth and eloquence strengthened and consoled him, "as if the unknown
tenant of the grave had opened his lips of dust and spoken those words
of consolation his soul needed." I sat down and mused a long time, for
there was something in the silent holiness of the spot, that impressed
me more than I could well describe.
We reached a little village on the Fuschel See, the same evening, and
set off the next morning for Salzburg. The day was hot and we walked
slowly, so that it was not till two o'clock that we saw the castellated
rocks on the side of the Gaissberg, guarding the entrance to the valley
of Salzburg. A short distance further, the whole glorious panorama was
spread out below us. From the height on which we stood, we looked
directly on the summit of the Capuchin Mountain, which hid part of the
city from sight; the double peak of the Staufen rose opposite, and a
heavy storm was raging along the Alpine heights around it, while the
lovely valley lay in sunshine below, threaded by the bright current of
the Salza. As we descended and passed around the foot of the hill, the
Untersberg came in sight, whose broad summits lift themselves seven
thousand feet above the plain. The legend says that Charlemagne and his
warriors sit in its subterraneous caverns in complete armor, and that
they will arise and come forth again, when Germany recovers her former
power and glory.
I wish I could convey in words some idea of the elevation of spirit
experienced while looking on these eternal mountains. They fill the soul
with a sensation of power and grandeur which frees it awhile from the
cramps and fetters of common life. It rises and expands to the level of
their sublimity, till its thoughts stand solemnly aloft, like their
summits, piercing the free heaven. Their dazzling and imperishable
beauty is to the mind an image of its own enduring existence. When I
stand upon some snowy summit--the invisible apex of that mighty
pyramid--there seems a majesty in my weak will which might defy the
elements. This sense of power, inspired by a silent sympathy with the
forms of nature, is beautifully described--as shown in the free,
unconscious instincts of childhood--by the poet Uhland, in his ballad of
the "Mountain Boy." I have attempted a translation.
THE MOUNTAIN BOY.
A herd-boy on the mountain's brow,
I see the castles all below.
The sunbeam here is earliest cast
And by my side it lingers last--
I am the boy of the mountain!
The mother-house of streams is here--
I drink them in their cradles clear;
From out the rock they foam below,
I spring to catch them as they go!
I am the boy of the mountain!
To me belongs the mountain's bound,
Where gathering tempests march around;
But though from north and south they shout,
Above them still my song rings out--
"I am the boy of the mountain!"
Below me clouds and thunders move;
I stand amid the blue above.
I shout to them with fearless breast:
"Go, leave my father's house in rest!"
I am the boy of the mountain!
And when the loud bell shakes the spires
And flame aloft the signal-fires,
I go below and join the throng
And swing my sword and sing my song:
"I am the boy of the mountain!"
Salzburg lies on both sides of the Salza, hemmed in on either hand by
precipitous mountains. A large fortress overlooks it on the south, from
the summit of a perpendicular rock, against which the houses in that
part of the city arc built. The streets are narrow and crooked, but the
newer part contains many open squares, adorned with handsome fountains.
The variety of costume among the people, is very interesting. The
inhabitants of the salt district have a peculiar dress; the women wear
round fur caps, with little wings of gauze at the side. I saw other
women with headdresses of gold or silver filagree, something in shape
like a Roman helmet, with a projection at the back of the head, a foot
long. The most interesting objects in Salzburg to us, were the house of
Mozart, in which the composer was born, and the monument lately erected
to him. The St. Peter's Church, near by, contains the tomb of Haydn, the
great composer, and the Church of St. Sebastian, that of the renowned
Paracelsus, who was also a native of Salzburg.
Two or three hours sufficed to see every thing of interest in the city.
We had intended lo go further through the Alps, to the beautiful vales
of the Tyrol, but our time was getting short, our boots, which are the
pedestrian's _sole_ dependence, began to show symptoms of wearing out,
and our expenses among the lakes and mountains of Upper Austria, left us
but two florins apiece, so we reluctantly turned our backs upon the
snowy hills and set out for Munich, ninety miles distant. After passing
the night at Saalbruck, on the banks of the stream which separates the
two kingdoms, we entered Bavaria next morning. I could not help feeling
glad to leave Austria, although within her bounds I had passed scones
whose beauty will long haunt me, and met with many honest friendly
hearts among her people. We noticed a change as soon as we had crossed
the border. The roads were neater and handsomer, and the country people
greeted us in going by, with a friendly cheerfulness that made us feel
half at home. The houses are built in the picturesque Swiss fashion,
their balconies often ornamented with curious figures, carved in wood.
Many of them, where they are situated remote from a church, have a
little bell on the roof which they ring for morning and evening prayers;
we often heard these simple monitors sounding from the cottages as we
passed by.
The next night we stopped at the little village of Stein, famous in
former times for its robber-knight, Hans von Stein. The ruins of his
castle stand on the rock above, and the caverns hewn in the sides of the
precipice, where he used to confine his prisoners, are still visible.
Walking on through a pleasant, well-cultivated country, we came to
Wasserburg, on the Inn. The situation of the city is peculiar. The Inn
has gradually worn his channel deeper in the sandy soil, so that he now
flows at the bottom of a glen, a hundred feet below the plains around.
Wasserburg lies in a basin, formed by the change of the current, which
flows around it like a horseshoe, leaving only a narrow neck of land
which connects it with the country above.
We left the little village where we were quartered for the night and
took a foot path which led across the country to the field of
Hohenlinden, about six miles distant. The name had been familiar to me
from childhood, and my love for Campbell, with the recollection of the
school-exhibitions where "On Linden when the sun was low" had been so
often declaimed, induced me to make the excursion to it. We traversed a
large forest, belonging to the King of Bavaria, and came out on a plain
covered with grain fields and bounded on the right by a semi-circle of
low hills. Over the fields, about two miles distant, a tall,
minaret-like spire rose from a small cluster of houses, and this was
Hohenlinden! To tell the truth, I had been expecting something more. The
"hills of blood-stained snow" are very small hills indeed, and the
"Isar, rolling rapidly," is several miles off; it was the spot, however,
and we recited Campbell's poem, of course, and brought away a few wild
flowers as memorials. There is no monument or any other token of the
battle, and the people seem to endeavor to forget the scene of Moreau's
victory and their defeat.
From a hill twelve miles off we had our first view of the spires of
Munich, looking like distant ships over the sea-like plain. They kept in
sight till we arrived at eight o'clock in the evening, after a walk of
more than thirty miles. We crossed the rapid Isar on three bridges,
entered the magnificent Isar Gate, and were soon comfortably quartered
in the heart of Munich.
Entering the city without knowing a single soul within it, we made
within a few minutes an agreeable acquaintance. After we passed the
Isar Gate, we began looking for a decent inn, for the day's walk was
very fatiguing. Presently a young man, who had been watching us for some
time, came up and said, if we would allow him, he would conduct us to a
good lodging-place. Finding we were strangers, he expressed the greatest
regret that he had not time to go with us every day around the city. Our
surprise and delight at the splendor of Munich, he said, would more than
repay him for the trouble. In his anxiety to show us something, he took
us some distance out of the way, (although it was growing dark and we
were very tired,) to see the Palace and the Theatre, with its front of
rich frescoes.
END OF PART I.
VIEWS A-FOOT; OR EUROPE SEEN WITH KNAPSACK AND STAFF.
BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.
WITH A PREFACE BY N.P. WILLIS.
"Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way,
And merrily hent the stile-a;
A merry heart goes all the day,
Your sad tires in a mile-a."
_Winter's Tale._
IN TWO PARTS.
PART II.
CHAPTER XXVI.
MUNICH.
_June 14._--I thought I had seen every thing in Vienna that could excite
admiration or gratify fancy; here I have my former sensations to live
over again, in an augmented degree. It is well I was at first somewhat
prepared by our previous travel, otherwise the glare and splendor of
wealth and art in this German Athens might blind me to the beauties of
the cities we shall yet visit. I have been walking in a dream where the
fairy tales of boyhood were realized, and the golden and jeweled halls
of the Eastern genii rose glittering around me--"a vision of the brain
no more." All I had conceived of oriental magnificence, all descriptions
of the splendor of kingly halls and palaces, fall far short of what I
here see. Where shall I begin to describe the crowd of splendid edifices
that line its streets, or how give an idea of the profusion of paintings
and statues--of marble, jasper and gold?
Art has done every thing for Munich. It lies on a large, flat plain,
sixteen hundred feet above the sea, and continually exposed to the cold
winds from the Alps. At the beginning of the present century it was but
a third-rate city, and was rarely visited by foreigners. Since that time
its population and limits have been doubled, and magnificent edifices in
every style of architecture erected, rendering it scarcely secondary in
this respect to any capital in Europe. Every art that wealth or taste
could devise, seems to have been spent in its decoration. Broad,
spacious streets and squares have been laid out, churches, halls and
colleges erected, and schools of painting and sculpture established,
which draw artists from all parts of the world. All this was principally
brought about by the taste of the present king, Ludwig I., who began
twenty or thirty years ago, when he was Crown Prince, to collect the
best German artists around him and form plans for the execution of his
grand design. He can boast of having done more for the arts than any
other living monarch, and if he had accomplished it all without
oppressing his people, he would deserve an immortality of fame.
Now, if you have nothing else to do, let us take a stroll down the
Ludwigstrasse. As we pass the Theatiner Church, with its dome and
towers, the broad street opens before us, stretching away to the north,
between rows of magnificent buildings. Just at this southern end, is the
_Schlusshalle_, an open temple of white marble terminating the avenue.
To the right of us extend the arcades, with the trees of the Royal
Garden peeping above them; on the left is the spacious concert building
of the Odeon, and the palace of the Duke of Leuchtenberg, son of Eugene
Beauharnois. Passing through a row of palace-like private buildings, we
come to the Army Department, on the right--a neat and tasteful building
of white sandstone. Beside it stands the Library, which possesses the
first special claim on our admiration. With its splendid front of five
hundred and eighteen feet, the yellowish brown cement with which the
body is covered, making an agreeable contrast with the dark red
window-arches and cornices, and the statues of Homer, Hippocrates,
Thucydides and Aristotle guarding the portal, is it not a worthy
receptacle for the treasures of ancient and modern lore which its halls
contain?
Nearly opposite stands the Institute for the Blind, a plain but large
building of dark red brick, covered with cement, and further, the
Ludwig's Kirche, or Church of St. Louis. How lightly the two square
towers of gray marble lift their network of sculpture! And what a novel
and beautiful effect is produced by uniting the Byzantine style of
architecture to the form of the Latin cross! Over the arched portal
stand marble statues by Schwanthaler, and the roof of brilliant tiles
worked into mosaic, looks like a rich Turkey carpet covering the whole.
We must enter to get an idea of the splendor of this church. Instead of
the pointed arch which one would expect to see meeting above his head,
the lofty pillars on each side bear an unbroken semicircular vault,
which is painted a brilliant blue, and spangled with silver stars. These
pillars, and the little arches above, which spring from them, are
painted in an arabesque style with gold and brilliant colors, and each
side-chapel is a perfect casket of richness and elegance. The windows
are of silvered glass, through which the light glimmers softly on the
splendor within. The whole end of the church behind the high altar, is
taken up with Cornelius's celebrated fresco painting of the "Last
Judgment,"--the largest painting in the world--and the circular dome in
the centre of the cross contains groups of martyrs, prophets, saints and
kings, painted in fresco on a ground of gold. The work of Cornelius has
been greatly praised for sublimity of design and beauty of execution, by
many acknowledged judges; I was disappointed in it, but the fault lay
most probably in me and not in the painting. The richness and elegance
of the church took me all "aback;" it was so entirely different from
anything I had seen, that it was difficult to decide whether I was most
charmed by its novelty or its beauty. Still, as a building designed to
excite feelings of worship, it seems to me inappropriate. A vast, dim
Cathedral would be far preferable; the devout, humble heart cannot feel
at home amid such glare and brightness.
As we leave the church and walk further on, the street expands suddenly
into a broad square. One side is formed by the new University building
and the other by the Royal Seminary, both displaying in their
architecture new forms of the graceful Byzantine school, which the
architects of Munich have adapted in a striking manner to so many varied
purposes. On each side stands a splendid colossal fountain of bronze,
throwing up a great mass of water, which falls in a triple cataract to
the marble basin below. A short distance beyond this square the
Ludwigstrasse terminates. It is said the end will be closed by a
magnificent gate, on a style to correspond with the unequalled avenue to
which it will give entrance. To one standing at the southern end, it
would form a proper termination to the grand vista. Before we leave,
turn around and glance back, down this street, which extends for half a
mile between such buildings as we have just viewed, and tell me if it is
not something of which a city and a king may boast, to have created all
this within less than twenty years!
We went one morning to see the collection of paintings formerly
belonging to Eugene Beauharnois, who was brother-in-law to the present
king of Bavaria, in the palace of his son, the Duke of Leuchtenberg. The
first hall contains works principally by French artists, among which are
two by Gerard--a beautiful portrait of Josephine, and the blind
Belisarius carrying his dead companion. The boy's head lies on the old
man's shoulder; but for the livid paleness of his limbs, he would seem
to be only asleep, while a deep and settled sorrow marks the venerable
features of the unfortunate Emperor. In the middle of the room are six
pieces of statuary, among which Canova's world-renowned group of the
Graces at once attracts the eye. There is also a kneeling Magdalen,
lovely in her woe, by the same sculptor, and a very touching work of
Schadow, representing a shepherd boy tenderly binding his sash around a
lamb which he has accidentally wounded with his arrow.
We have since seen in the St. Michael's Church, the monument to Eugene
Beauharnois, from the chisel of Thorwaldsen. The noble, manly figure of
the son of Josephine is represented in the Roman mantle, with his helmet
and sword lying on the ground by him. On one side sits History, writing
on a tablet; on the other, stand the two brother-angels, Death and
Immortality. They lean lovingly together, with arms around each other,
but the sweet countenance of Death has a cast of sorrow, as he stands
with inverted torch and a wreath of poppies among his clustering locks.
Immortality, crowned with never-fading flowers, looks upwards with a
smile of triumph, and holds in one hand his blazing torch. It is a
beautiful idea, and Thorwaldsen has made the marble eloquent with
feeling.
The inside of the square formed by the Arcades and the New Residence, is
filled with noble old trees, which in summer make a leafy roof over the
pleasant walks. In the middle, stands a grotto, ornamented with rough
pebbles and shells, and only needing a fountain to make it a perfect
hall of Neptune. Passing through the northern Arcade, one comes into the
magnificent park, called the English Garden, which extends more than
four miles along the bank of the Isar, several branches of whose milky
current wander through it, and form one or two pretty cascades. It is a
beautiful alternation of forest and meadow, and has all the richness and
garden-like luxuriance of English scenery. Winding walks lead along the
Isar, or through the wood of venerable oaks, and sometimes a lawn of
half a mile in length, with a picturesque temple at its further end,
comes in sight through the trees. I was better pleased with this park
than with the Prater in Vienna. Its paths are always filled with persons
enjoying the change from the dusty streets to its quiet and cool
retirement.
The New Residence is not only one of the wonders of Munich, but of the
world. Although commenced in 1826 and carried on constantly since that
time by a number of architects, sculptors and painters, it is not yet
finished; if art were not inexhaustible it would be difficult to imagine
what more could be added. The north side of the Max Joseph Platz is
taken up by its front of four hundred and thirty feet, which was nine
years in building, under the direction of the architect Klenze. The
exterior is copied after the Palazzo Pitti, in Florence. The building is
of light brown sandstone, and combines an elegance and even splendor,
with the most chaste and classic style. The northern front, which faces
on the Royal Garden, is now nearly finished. It has the enormous length
of eight hundred feet; in the middle is a portico of ten Ionic columns;
instead of supporting a triangular facade, each pillar stands separate
and bears a marble statue from the chisel of Schwanthaler.
The interior of the building does not disappoint the promise of the
outside. It is open every afternoon in the absence of the king, for the
inspection of visitors; fortunately for us, his majesty is at present on
a journey through his provinces on the Rhine. We went early to the
waiting hall, where several travelers were already assembled, and at
four o'clock, were admitted into the newer part of the palace,
containing the throne hall, ballroom, etc. On entering the first hall,
designed for the lackeys and royal servants, we were all obliged to
thrust our feet into cloth slippers to walk over the polished mosaic
floor. The walls are of scagliola marble and the ceilings ornamented
brilliantly in fresco. The second hall, also for servants, gives tokens
of increasing splendor in the richer decorations of the walls and the
more elaborate mosaic of the floor. We next entered the receiving
saloon, in which the Court Marshal receives the guests. The ceiling is
of arabesque sculpture, profusely painted and gilded. Passing through a
little cabinet, we entered the great dancing saloon. Its floor is the
richest mosaic of wood of different colors, the sides are of polished
scagliola marble, and the ceiling a dazzling mixture of sculpture,
painting and gold. At one end is a gallery for the orchestra, supported
by six columns of variegated marble, above which are six dancing nymphs,
painted so beautifully that they appear like living creatures. Every
decoration which could be devised has been used to heighten its
splendor, and the artists appear to have made free use of the Arabian
Nights in forming the plan.
We entered next two smaller rooms containing the portraits of beautiful
women, principally from the German nobility. I gave the preference to
the daughter of Marco Bozzaris, now maid of honor to the Queen of
Greece. She had a wild dark eye, a beautiful proud lip, and her rich
black hair rolled in glossy waves down her neck from under the red
Grecian cap stuck jauntily on the side of her head. She wore a scarf and
close-fitting vest embroidered with gold, and there was a free, lofty
spirit in her countenance worthy the name she bore. These pictures form
a gallery of beauty, whose equal cannot easily be found.
Returning to the dancing hall, we entered the dining saloon, also called
the Hall of Charlemagne. Each wall has two magnificent fresco paintings
of very large size, representing some event in the life of the great
emperor, beginning with his anointing at St. Deny's as a boy of twelve
years, and ending with his coronation by Leo III. A second dining
saloon, the Hall of Barbarossa, adjoins the first. It has also eight
frescoes as the former, representing the principal events in the life of
Frederic Barbarossa. Then comes a _third_, called the Hapsburg Hall,
with four grand paintings from the life of Rudolph of Hapsburg, and a
triumphal procession along the frieze, showing the improvement in the
arts and sciences which was accomplished under his reign. The drawing,
composition and rich tone of coloring of these glorious frescoes, are
scarcely excelled by any in existence.
Finally we entered the Hall of the Throne. Here the encaustic
decoration, so plentifully employed in the other rooms, is dropped, and
an effect even more brilliant obtained by the united use of marble and
gold. Picture a long hall with a floor of polished marble, on each side
twelve columns of white marble with gilded capitals, between which stand
colossal statues of gold. At the other end is the throne of gold and
crimson, with gorgeous hangings of crimson velvet. The twelve statues in
the hall are called the "Wittlesbach Ancestors," and represent renowned
members of the house of Wittlesbach from which the present family of
Bavaria is descended. They were cast in bronze by Stiglmaier, after the
models of Schwanthaler, and then completely covered with a coating of
gold, so that they resemble solid golden statues. The value of the
precious metal on each one is about $3,000, as they arc nine feet in
height! What would the politicians who made such an outcry about the new
papering of the President's House, say to such a palace as this?
Going back to the starting point, we went to the other wing of the
edifice and joined the party who came to visit the apartments of the
king. Here we were led through two or three rooms, appropriated to the
servants, with all the splendor of marble doors, floors of mosaic, and
frescoed ceilings. From these we entered the king's dwelling. The
entrance halls are decorated with paintings of the Argonauts and
illustrations of the Hymns of Hesiod, after drawings by Schwanthaler.
Then came the Service Hall, containing frescoes illustrating Homer, by
Schnorr, and the Throne Hall, with Schwanthaler's bas-reliefs of the
songs of Pindar, on a ground of gold. The throne stands under a splendid
crimson canopy. The Dining Room with its floor of polished wood is
filled with illustrations of the songs of Anacreon. To these follow the
Dressing Room, with twenty-seven illustrations of the Comedies of
Aristophanes, and the sleeping chamber with frescoes after the poems of
Theocritus, and two beautiful bas-reliefs representing angels bearing
children to Heaven. It is no wonder the King writes poetry, when he
breathes, eats, and even sleeps in an atmosphere of it.
We were shown the rooms for the private parties of the Court, the
school-room, with scenes from the life of the Ancient Greeks, and then
conducted down the marble staircases to the lower story, which is to
contain Schnorr's magnificent frescoes of the Nibelungen Lied--the old
German Iliad. Two halls are at present finished; the first has the
figure of the author, Heinrich von Ofterdingen, and those of
Chriemhilde, Brunhilde, Siegfried and the other personages of the poem;
and the second, called the Marriage Hall, contains the marriage of
Chriemhilde and Siegfried, and the triumphal entry of Siegfried into
Worms.
Adjoining the new residence on the east, is the Royal Chapel, lately
finished in the Byzantine style, under the direction of Klenze. To enter
it, is like stepping into a casket of jewels. The sides are formed by a
double range of arches, the windows being so far back as to be almost
out of sight, so that the eye falls on nothing but painting and gold.
The lower row of arches is of alternate green and purple marble,
beautifully polished; but the upper, as well as the small chancel behind
the high altar, is entirely covered with fresco paintings on a ground of
gold! The richness and splendor of the whole church is absolutely
incredible. Even after one has seen the Ludwig's Kirche and the
Residence itself, it excites astonishment. I was surprised, however, to
find at this age, a painting on the wall behind the altar, representing
the Almighty. It seems as if man's presumption has no end. The simple
altar of Athens, with its inscription "_to the Unknown God_," was more
truly reverent than this. As I sat down awhile under one of the arches,
a poor woman came in, carrying a heavy basket, and going to the steps
which led up to the altar, knelt down and prayed, spreading her arms out
in the form of a cross. Then, after stooping and kissing the first step,
she dragged herself with her knees upon it, and commenced praying again
with outspread arms. This she continued till she had climbed them all,
which occupied some time; then, as if she had fulfilled a vow she turned
and departed. She was undoubtedly sincere in her piety, but it made me
sad to look upon such deluded superstition.
We visited yesterday morning the Glyptothek, the finest collection of
ancient sculpture except that in the British Museum, I have yet seen,
and perhaps elsewhere unsurpassed, north of the Alps. The building which
was finished by Klenze, in 1830, has an Ionic portico of white marble,
with a group of allegorical figures, representing Sculpture and the
kindred arts. On each side of the portico, there are three niches in the
front, containing on one side, Pericles, Phidias and Vulcan; on the
other, Hadrian, Prometheus and Dædalus. The whole building forms a
hollow square, and is lighted entirely from the inner side. There are in
all twelve halls, each containing the remains of a particular era in the
art, and arranged according to time, so that, beginning with the clumsy
productions of the ancient Egyptians, one passes through the different
stages of Grecian art, afterwards that of Rome, and finally ends with
the works of our own times--the almost Grecian perfection of Thorwaldsen
and Canova. These halls are worthy to hold such treasures, and what more
could be said of them? The floors are of marble mosaic, the sides of
green or purple scagliola, and the vaulted ceilings covered with raised
ornaments on a ground of gold. No two are alike in color and decoration,
and yet there is a unity of taste and design in the whole, which renders
the variety delightful.
From the Egyptian Hall, we enter one containing the oldest remains of
Grecian sculpture, before the artists won power to _mould_ the marble to
their conceptions. Then follow the celebrated Egina marbles, from the
temple of Jupiter Panhellenius, on the island of Egina. They formerly
stood in the two porticoes, the one group representing the fight for the
body of Laomedon, the other the struggle for the dead Patroclus. The
parts wanting have been admirably restored by Thorwaldsen. They form
almost the only existing specimens of the Eginetan school. Passing
through the Apollo Hall, we enter the large hall of Bacchus, in which
the progress of the art is distinctly apparent. A satyr, lying asleep on
a goat-skin which he has thrown over a rock, is believed to be the work
of Praxiteles. The relaxation of the figure and perfect repose of every
limb, is wonderful. The countenance has traits of individuality which
led me to think it might have been a portrait, perhaps of some rude
country swain.
In the Hall of Niobe, which follows, is one of the most perfect works
that ever grew into life under a sculptor's chisel. Mutilated as it is,
without head and arms, I never saw a more expressive figure. Ilioneus,
the son of Niobe, is represented as kneeling, apparently in the moment
in which Apollo raises his arrow, and there is an imploring supplication
in his attitude which is touching in the highest degree. His beautiful
young limbs seem to shrink involuntarily from the deadly shaft; there is
an expression of prayer, almost of agony, in the position of his body.
It should be left untouched. No head could be added, which would equal
that one pictures to himself, while gazing upon it.
The Pinacothek is a magnificent building of yellow sandstone, five
hundred and thirty feet long, containing thirteen hundred pictures,
selected with great care from the whole private collection of the king,
which amounts to nine thousand. Above the cornice on the southern side,
stand twenty-five colossal statues of celebrated painters, by
Schwanthaler. As we approached, the tall bronze door was opened by a
servant in the Bavarian livery, whose size harmonized so well with the
giant proportions of the building, that, until I stood beside him and
could mark the contrast, I did not notice his enormous frame. I saw then
that he must be near eight feet high, and stout in proportion. He
reminded me of the great "Baver of Trient," in Vienna. The Pinacothek
contains the most complete collection of works by old German artists,
anywhere to be found. There are in the hall of the Spanish masters, half
a dozen of Murillo's inimitable beggar groups. It was a relief, after
looking upon the distressingly stiff figures of the old German school,
to view these fresh, natural countenances. One little black-eyed boy has
just cut a slice out of a melon and turns with a full mouth to his
companion, who is busy eating a bunch of grapes. The simple, contented
expression on the faces of the beggars is admirable. I thought I
detected in a beautiful child, with dark curly locks, the original of
his celebrated Infant St. John. I was much interested in two small
juvenile works of Raphael and his own portrait. The latter was taken
most probably after he became known as a painter. The calm, serious
smile which we see on his portrait as a boy, had vanished, and the thin
features and sunken eye told of intense mental labor.
One of the most remarkable buildings now in the course of erection is
the Basilica, or Church of St. Bonifacius. It represents another form of
the Byzantine style, a kind of double edifice, a little like a North
River steamboat, with a two story cabin on deck. The inside is not yet
finished, although the artists have been at work on it for six years,
but we heard many accounts of its splendor, which is said to exceed
anything that has been yet done in Munich. We visited to-day the
atelier of Sohwanthaler, which is always open to strangers. The sculptor
himself was not there, but five or six of his scholars were at work in
the rooms, building up clay statues after his models and working out
bas-reliefs in frames. We saw here the original models of the statues on
the Pinacothek, and the "Wittelsbach Ancestors" in the Throne Hall of
the palace. I was glad also to find a miniature copy in plaster, of the
Herrmannsschlacht, or combat of the old German hero, Herrmann, with the
Romans, from the frieze of the Walhalla, at Ratisbon. It is one of
Schwanthaler's best works. Herrmann, as the middle figure, is
represented in fight with the Roman general; behind him the warriors are
rushing on, and an old bard is striking the chords of his harp to
inspire them, while women bind up the wounds of the fallen. The Roman
soldiers on the other side are about turning in confusion to fly. It is
a lofty and appropriate subject for the portico of a building containing
the figures of the men who have labored for the glory and elevation of
their Fatherland.
Our new-found friend came to visit us last evening and learn our
impressions of Munich. In the course of conversation we surprised him by
revealing the name of our country. His countenance brightened up and he
asked us many questions about the state of society in America. In
return, he told us something more about himself--his story was simple,
hut it interested me. His father was a merchant, who, having been ruined
by unlucky transactions, died, leaving a numerous family without the
means of support. His children were obliged to commence life alone and
unaided, which, in a country where labor is so cheap, is difficult and
disheartening. Our friend chose the profession of a machinist, which,
after encountering great obstacles, he succeeded in learning, and now
supports himself as a common laborer. But his position in this respect
prevents him from occupying that station in society for which he is
intellectually fitted. His own words, uttered with a simple pathos which
I can never forget, will best describe how painful this must be to a
sensitive spirit. "I tell you thus frankly my feelings," said he,
"because I know you will understand me. I could not say this to any of
my associates, for they would not comprehend it, and they would say I
am proud, because I cannot bring my soul down to their level. I am poor
and have but little to subsist upon; but the spirit has needs as well as
the body, and I feel it a duty and a desire to satisfy them also. When I
am with any of my common fellow-laborers, what do I gain from them?
Their leisure hours are spent in drinking and idle amusement, and I
cannot join them, for I have no sympathy with such things. To mingle
with those above me, would be impossible. Therefore I am alone--I have
no associate!"
I have gone into minute, and it may be, tiresome detail, in describing
some of the edifices of Munich, because it seemed the only way in which
I could give an idea of their wonderful beauty. It is true that in
copying after the manner of the daguerreotype, there is danger of
imitating its _dullness_ also, but I trust to the glitter of gold and
rich paintings, for a little brightness in the picture. We leave
to-morrow morning, having received the sum written for, which, to our
surprise, will be barely sufficient to enable us to reach Heidelberg.
CHAPTER XXVII.
THROUGH WURTEMBERG TO HEIDELBERG.
We left Munich in the morning train for Augsburg. Between the two cities
extends a vast unbroken plain, exceedingly barren and monotonous. Here
and there is a little scrubby woodland, and sometimes we passed over a
muddy stream which came down from the Alps. The land is not more than
half-cultivated, and the villages are small and poor. We saw many of the
peasants at their stations, in their gay Sunday dresses; the women wore
short gowns with laced boddices, of gay colors, and little caps on the
top of their heads, with streamers of ribbons three feet long. After two
hours' ride, we saw the tall towers of Augsburg, and alighted on the
outside of the wall. The deep moat which surrounds the city, is all
grown over with velvet turf, the towers and bastions are empty and
desolate, and we passed unchallenged under the gloomy archway.
Immediately on entering the city, signs of its ancient splendor are
apparent. The houses are old, many of them with quaint, elaborately
carved ornaments, and often covered with fresco paintings. These
generally represent some scene from the Bible history, encircled with
arabesque borders, and pious maxims in illuminated scrolls. We went into
the old _Rathhaus_, whose golden hall still speaks of the days of
Augsburg's pride. I saw in the basement a bronze eagle, weighing sixteen
tons, with an inscription on the pedestal stating that it was cast in
1606, and formerly stood on the top of an old public building, since
torn down. In front of the Rathhaus is a fine bronze fountain, with a
number of figures of angels and tritons.
The same afternoon, we left Augsburg for Ulm. Long, low ranges of hills,
running from the Danube, stretched far across the country, and between
them lay many rich, green valleys. We passed, occasionally, large
villages, perhaps as old as the times of the crusaders, and looking
quite pastoral and romantic from the outside; but we were always glad
when we had gone through them and into the _clean_ country again. The
afternoon of the second day we came in sight of the fertile plain of the
Danube; far, far to the right lay the field of Blenheim, where
Marlborough and the Prince Eugene conquered the united French and
Bavarian forces and decided the war of the Spanish succession.
We determined to reach Ulm the same evening, although a heavy storm was
raging along the distant hills of Wurtemberg. The dark mass of the
mighty Cathedral rose in the distance through the twilight, a perfect
mountain in comparison with the little houses clustered around its base.
We reached New Ulm, finally, and passed over the heavy wooden bridge
into Wurtemberg, unchallenged for passport or baggage. I thought I could
feel a difference in the atmosphere when I reached the other side--it
breathed of the freer spirit that ruled through the land. The Danube is
here a little muddy stream, hardly as large as my native Brandywine, and
a traveler who sees it at Ulm for the first time would most probably be
disappointed. It is not until below Vienna, where it receives the Drave
and Save, that it becomes a river of more than ordinary magnitude.
We entered Ulm, as I have already said. It was after nine o'clock,
nearly dark, and beginning to rain; we had walked thirty-three miles,
and being of course tired, we entered the first inn we saw. But, to our
consternation, it was impossible to get a place--the fair had just
commenced, and the inn was full to the roof. We must needs hunt another,
and then another, and yet another, with like fate at each. It grew quite
dark, the rain increased, and we were unacquainted with the city. I grew
desperate, and at last, when we had stopped at the _eighth_ inn in vain,
I told the people we _must_ have lodgings, for it was impossible we
should walk around in the rain all night. Some of the guests interfering
in our favor, the hostess finally sent a servant with us to the first
hotel in the city. I told him on the way we were Americans, strangers in
Ulm, and not accustomed to sleeping in the streets. "Well," said he, "I
will go before, and recommend you to the landlord of the Golden Wheel."
I knew not what magic he used, but in half an hour our weary limbs were
stretched in delightful repose and we thanked Heaven more gratefully
than ever before, for the blessing of a good bed.
Next morning we ran about through the booths of the fair, and gazed up
from all sides at the vast Cathedral. The style is the simplest and
grandest Gothic; but the tower, which, to harmonize, with the body of
the church, should be 520 feet high, was left unfinished at the height
of 234 feet. I could not enough admire the grandeur of proportion in the
great building. It seemed singular that the little race of animals who
swarmed around its base, should have the power to conceive or execute
such a gigantic work.
There is an immense fortification now in progress of erection behind
Ulm. It leans on the side of the hill which rises from the Danube, and
must be nearly a mile in length. Hundreds of laborers are at work, and
from the appearance of the foundations, many years will be required to
finish it. The lofty mountain-plain which we afterwards passed over, for
eight or ten miles, divides the waters of the Danube from the Rhine.
From the heights above Ulm, we bade adieu to the far, misty Alps, till
we shall see them again in Switzerland. Late in the afternoon, we came
to a lovely green valley, sunk as it were in the earth. Around us, on
all sides, stretched the bare, lofty plains; but the valley lay below,
its steep sides covered with the richest forest. At the bottom flowed
the Fils. Our road led directly down the side; the glen spread out
broader as we advanced, and smiling villages stood beside the stream. A
short distance before reaching Esslingen, we came upon the banks of the
Neckar, whom we hailed as an old acquaintance, although much smaller
here in his mountain home than when he sweeps the walls of Heidelberg.
Delightful Wurtemberg! Shall I ever forget thy lovely green vales,
watered by the classic current of the Neckar, or thy lofty hills covered
with vineyards and waving forests, and crowned with heavy ruins, that
tell many a tale of Barbarossa and Duke Ulric and Goetz with the Iron
Hand! No--were even the Suabian hills less beautiful--were the Suabian
people less faithful and kind and true, still I would love the land for
the great spirits it has produced; still would the birth-place of
Frederick Schiller, of Uhland and Hauff, be sacred. I do not wonder
Wurtemberg can boast such glorious poets. Its lovely landscapes seem to
have been made expressly for the cradle of genius; amid no other scenes
could his infant mind catch a more benign inspiration. Even the common
people are deeply imbued with a poetic feeling. We saw it in their
friendly greetings and open, expressive countenances; it is shown in
their love for their beautiful homes and the rapture and reverence with
which they speak of their country's bards. No river in the world, equal
to the Neckar in size, flows for its whole course through more
delightful scenery, or among kinder and happier people.
After leaving Esslingen, we followed its banks for some time, at the
foot of an amphitheatre of hills, covered to the very summit, as far as
the eye could reach, with vineyards. The morning was cloudy, and white
mist-wreaths hung along the sides. We took a road that led over the top
of a range, and on arriving at the summit, saw all at once the city of
Stuttgard, lying beneath our feet. It lay in a basin encircled by
mountains, with a narrow valley opening to the south-east, and running
off between the hills to the Neckar. The situation of the city is one of
wonderful beauty, and even after seeing Salzburg, I could not but be
charmed with it.
We descended the mountain and entered it. I inquired immediately for the
monument of Schiller, for there was little else in the city I cared to
see. We had become tired of running about cities, hunting this or that
old church or palace, which perhaps was nothing when found. Stuttgard
has neither galleries, ruins, nor splendid buildings, to interest the
traveler; but it has Thorwaldsen's statue of Schiller, calling up at the
same time its shame and its glory. For the poet in his youth was obliged
to fly from this very same city--from home and friends, to escape the
persecution of the government on account of the free sentiments
expressed in his early works. We found the statue, without much
difficulty. It stands in the Schloss Platz, at the southern end of the
city, in an unfavorable situation, surrounded by dark old buildings. It
should rather be placed aloft on a mountain summit, in the pure, free
air of heaven, braving the storm and the tempest. The figure is fourteen
feet high and stands on a pedestal of bronze, with bas reliefs on the
four sides. The head, crowned with a laurel wreath, is inclined as if in
deep thought, and all the earnest soul is seen in the countenance.
Thorwaldsen has copied so truly the expression of poetic reverie, that I
waited, half-expecting he would raise his head and look around him.
As we passed out the eastern gate, the workmen were busy near the city,
making an embankment for the new railroad to Heilbroun, and we were
obliged to wade through half a mile of mud. Finally the road turned to
the left over a mountain, and we walked on in the rain, regardless of
the touching entreaties of an omnibus-driver, who felt a great concern
for our health, especially as he had two empty seats. There is a
peculiarly agreeable sensation in walking in a storm, when the winds
sweep by and the rain-drops rattle through the trees, and the dark
clouds roll past just above one's head. It gives a dash of sublimity to
the most common scene. If the rain did not finally soak through the
boots, and if one did not lose every romantic feeling in wet garments, I
would prefer storm to sunshine, for visiting some kinds of scenery. You
remember, we saw the North Coast of Ireland and the Giant's Causeway in
stormy weather, at the expense of being completely drenched, it is true;
but our recollections of that wild day's journey are as vivid as any
event of our lives--and the name of the Giant's Causeway calls up a
series of pictures as terribly sublime as any we would wish to behold.
The rain at last did come down a little too hard for comfort, and we
were quite willing to take shelter when we reached Ludwigsburg. This is
here called a new city, having been laid out with broad streets and
spacious squares, about a century ago, and is now about the size of our
five-year old city of Milwaukie! It is the chief military station of
Wurtemberg, and has a splendid castle and gardens, belonging to the
king. A few miles to the eastward is the little village where Schiller
was born. It is said the house where his parents lived is still
standing.
It was not the weather _alone_, which prevented our making a pilgrimage
to it, nor was it _alone_ a peculiar fondness for rain which induced us
to persist in walking in the storm. Our feeble pockets, if they could
have raised an audible jingle, would have told another tale. Our scanty
allowance was dwindling rapidly away, in spite of a desperate system of
economy. We left Ulm with a florin and a half apiece--about sixty
cents--to walk to Heidelberg, a distance of 110 miles. It was the
evening of the third day, and this was almost exhausted. As soon
therefore as the rain slackened a little, we started again, although the
roads were very bad. At Betigheim, where we passed the night, the people
told us of a much nearer and more beautiful road, passing through the
Zabergau, a region fumed for its fertility and pastoral beauty. At the
inn we were charged higher than usual for a bed, so that we had but
thirteen kreutzers to start with in the morning. Our fare that day was a
little bread and water; we walked steadily on, but owing to the wet
roads, made only thirty miles.
A more delightful region than the Zabergau I have seldom passed through.
The fields were full of rich, heavy grain, and the trees had a
luxuriance of foliage that reminded me of the vale of the Jed, in
Scotland. Without a single hedge or fence, stood the long sweep of
hills, covered with waving fields of grain, except where they were steep
and rocky, and the vineyard terraces rose one above another. Sometimes a
fine old forest grew along the summit, like a mane waving back from the
curved neck of a steed, and white villages lay coiled in the valleys
between. A line of blue mountains always closed the vista, on looking
down one of these long valleys; occasionally a ruined castle with donjon
tower, was seen on a mountain at the side, making the picture complete.
As we lay sometimes on the hillside and looked on one of those sweet
vales, we were astonished at its Arcadian beauty. The meadows were as
smooth as a mirror, and there seemed to be scarcely a grass-blade out of
place. The streams wound through ("_snaked_ themselves through," is the
German expression,) with a subdued ripple, as if they feared to displace
a pebble, and the great ash trees which stood here and there, had lined
each of their leaves as carefully with silver and turned them as
gracefully to the wind, us if they were making their toilettes for the
gala-day of nature.
That evening brought us into the dominions of Baden, within five hours'
walk of Heidelberg. At the humblest inn in an humble village, we found
a bed which we could barely pay for, leaving a kreutzer or two for
breakfast. Soon after starting the next morning, the distant Kaiserstuhl
suddenly emerged from the mist, with the high tower on its summit, where
nearly ten months before, we sat and looked at the summits of the Vosges
in France, with all the excitement one feels on entering a foreign land.
_Now_, the scenery around that same Kaiserstuhl was nearly as familiar
to us as that of our own homes. Entering the hills again, we knew by the
blue mountains of the Odenwald, that we were approaching the Neckar. At
length we reached the last height. The town of Neckargemünd lay before
us on the steep hillside, and the mountains on either side were scarred
with quarries of the rich red sandstone, so much used in building. The
blocks are hewn out, high up on the mountain side, and then sent rolling
and sliding down to the river, where they are laden in boats and floated
down with the current to the distant cities of the Rhine.
We were rejoiced on turning around the corner of a mountain, to see on
the opposite side of the river, the road winding up through the forests,
where last fall our Heidelberg friends accompanied us, as we set out to
walk to Frankfort, through the Odenwald. Many causes combined to render
it a glad scene to us. We were going to meet our comrade again, after a
separation of months; we were bringing an eventful journey to its close;
and finally, we were weak and worn out from fasting and the labor of
walking in the rain. A little further we saw Kloster Neuburg, formerly
an old convent, and remembered how we used to look at it every day from
the windows of our room on the Neckar; but we shouted aloud, when we saw
at last the well-known bridge spanning the river, and the glorious old
castle lifting its shattered towers from the side of the mountain above
us. I always felt a strong attachment to this matchless ruin, and as I
beheld it again, with the warm sunshine falling through each broken
arch, the wild ivy draping its desolate chambers, it seemed to smile on
me like the face of a friend, and I confessed I had seen many a grander
scene, but few that would cling to the memory so familiarly.
While we were in Heidelberg, a student was buried by torch-light. This
is done when particular honor is shown to the memory of the departed
brother. They assembled at dark in the University Square, each with a
blazing pine torch three feet long, and formed into a double line.
Between the files walked at short distances an officer, who, with his
sword, broad lace collar, and the black and white plumes in his cap,
looked like a cavalier of the olden time. Persons with torches walked on
each side of the hearse, and the band played a lament so deeply
mournful, that the scene, notwithstanding its singularity, was very sad
and touching. The thick smoke from the torches filled the air, and a
lurid, red light was cast over the hushed crowds in the streets and
streamed into the dark alleys. The Hauptstrasse was filled with two
lines of flame, as the procession passed down it; when they reached the
extremity of the city, the hearse went on, attended with torch-bearers,
to the Cemetery, some distance further, and the students turned back,
running and whirling their torches in mingled confusion. The music
struck up a merry march, and in the smoke and red glare, they looked
like a company of mad demons. The presence of death awed them to silence
for awhile, but as soon as it had left them, they turned relieved to
revel again and thought no more of the lesson. It gave me a painful
feeling to see them rushing so wildly and disorderly back. They
assembled again in the square, and tossing their torches up into the air
cast them blazing into a pile; while the flame and black smoke rose in a
column into the air, they sang in solemn chorus, the song "_Gaudeamus
igitur_," with which they close all public assemblies.
I shall neglect telling how we left Heidelberg, and walked along the
Bergstrasse again, for the sixth time; how we passed the old Melibochus
and through the quiet city of Darmstadt; how we watched the blue summits
of the Taunus rising higher and higher over the plain, as a new land
rises from the sea, and finally, how we reached at last the old
watch-tower and looked down on the valley of the Main, clothed in the
bloom and verdure of summer, with the houses and spires of Frankfort in
the middle of the well-known panorama. We again took possession of our
old rooms, and having to wait for a remittance from America, as well as
a more suitable season for visiting Italy, we sat down to a month's rest
and study.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
FREIBURG AND THE BLACK FOREST.
_Frankfort, July 29, 1845._--It would be ingratitude towards the old
city in which I have passed so many pleasant and profitable hours, to
leave it, perhaps forever, without a few words of farewell. How often
will the old bridge, with its view up the Main, over the houses of
Oberrad to the far mountains of the Odenwald, rise freshly and
distinctly in memory, when I shall have been long absent from them! How
often will I hear in fancy as I now do in reality, the heavy tread of
passers-by on the rough pavement below, and the deep bell of the
Cathedral, chiming the swift hours, with a hollow tone that seems to
warn me, rightly to employ them! Even this old room, with its bare
walls, little table and chairs, which I have thought and studied in so
long, that it seems difficult to think and study anywhere else, will
crowd out of memory images of many a loftier scene. May I but preserve
for the future the hope and trust which have cheered and sustained me
here, through the sorrow of absence and the anxiety of uncertain toil!
It is growing towards midnight and I think of many a night when I sat
here at this hour, answering the spirit-greeting which friends sent me
at sunset over the sea. All this has now an end. I must begin a new
wandering, and perhaps in ten days more I shall have a better place for
thought, among the mountain-chambers of the everlasting Alps. I look
forward to the journey with romantic, enthusiastic anticipation, for
afar in the silvery distance, stand the Coliseum and St. Peter's,
Vesuvius and the lovely Naples. Farewell, friends who have so long given
us a home!
_Aug. 9._--The airy, basket-work tower of the Freiburg Minster rises
before me over the black roofs of the houses, and behind stand the
gloomy, pine-covered mountains of the Black Forest. Of our walk to
Heidelberg over the oft-trodden Bergstrasse, I shall say nothing, nor
how we climbed the Kaiserstuhl again, and danced around on the top of
the tower for one hour, amid cloud and mist, while there was sunshine
below in the valley of the Neckar. I left Heidelberg yesterday morning
in the _stehwagen_ for Carlsruhe. The engine whistled, the train
started, and although I kept my eyes steadily fixed on the spire of the
Hauptkirche, three minutes hid it, and all the rest of the city from
sight. Carlsruhe, the capital of Baden, which we reached in an hour and
a half, is unanimously pronounced by travelers to be a most dull and
tiresome city. From a glance I had through one of the gates, I should
think its reputation was not undeserved. Even its name, in German,
signifies a place of repose.
I stopped at Kork, on the branch road leading to Strasbourg, to meet a
German-American about to return to my home in Pennsylvania, where he had
lived for some time. I inquired according to the direction he had sent
me to Frankfort, but he was not there; however, an old man, finding who
I was, said Herr Otto had directed him to go with me to Hesselhurst, a
village four or five miles off, where he would meet me. So we set off
immediately over the plain, and reached the village at dusk.
At the little inn, were several of the farmers of the neighborhood, who
seemed to consider it as something extraordinary to see a real, live,
native-born American. They overwhelmed me with questions about the state
of our country, its government, etc. The hostess brought me a supper of
fried eggs and _wurst_, while they gathered around the table and began a
real category in the dialect of the country, which is difficult to
understand. I gave them the best information I could about our mode of
farming, the different kinds of produce raised, and the prices paid to
laborers; one honest old man cried out, on my saying I had worked on a
farm, "Ah! little brother, give me your hand!" which he shook most
heartily. I told them also something about our government, and the
militia system, so different from the conscription of Europe, when a
farmer becoming quite warm in our favor, said to the others with an air
of the greatest decision: "One American is better than twenty Germans!"
What particularly amused me, was, that although I spoke German with
them, they seemed to think I did not understand what they said among
one another, and therefore commented very freely over my appearance. I
suppose they had the idea that we were a rude, savage race, for I
overheard one say: "One sees, nevertheless, that he has been educated!"
Their honest, unsophisticated mode of expression was very interesting to
me, and we talked together till a late hour.
My friend arrived at three o'clock the next morning, and after two or
three hours' talk about _home_, and the friends whom he expected to see
so much sooner than I, a young farmer drove me in his wagon to
Offenburg, a small city at the foot of the Black Forest, where I took
the cars for Freiburg. The scenery between the two places is grand. The
broad mountains of the Black Forest rear their fronts on the east, and
the blue lines of the French Vosges meet the clouds on the west. The
night before, in walking over the plain, I saw distinctly the whole of
the Strasbourg Minster, whose spire is the highest in Europe, being four
hundred and ninety feet, or but twenty-five feet lower than the Pyramid
of Cheops.
I visited the Minster of Freiburg yesterday morning. It is a grand,
gloomy old pile, dating from the eleventh century--one of the few Gothic
churches in Germany that have ever been completed. The tower of
beautiful fretwork, rises to the height of three hundred and ninety-five
feet, and the body of the church including the choir, is of the same
length. The interior is solemn and majestic. Windows stained in colors
that burn, let in a "dim, religious light" which accords very well with
the dark old pillars and antique shrines. In two of the chapels there
are some fine altar-pieces by Holbein and one of his scholars; and a
very large crucifix of silver and ebony, which is kept with great care,
is said to have been carried with the Crusaders to the Holy Land. This
morning was the great market-day, and the peasantry of the Black Forest
came down from the mountains to dispose of their produce. The square
around the Minster was filled with them, and the singular costume of the
women gave the scene quite a strange appearance. Many of them wore
bright red head-dresses and shawls, others had high-crowned hats of
yellow oil-cloth; the young girls wore their hair in long plaits,
reaching nearly to their feet. They brought grain, butter and cheese
and a great deal of fine fruit to sell--I bought some of the wild,
aromatic plums of the country, at the rate of thirty for a cent.
The railroad has only been open to Freiburg within a few days, and is
consequently an object of great curiosity to the peasants, many of whom
never saw the like before. They throng around the station at the
departure of the train and watch with great interest the operations of
getting up the steam and starting. One of the scenes that grated most
harshly on my feelings, was seeing yesterday a company of women employed
on the unfinished part of the road. They were digging and shoveling away
in the rain, nearly up to their knees in mud and clay!
I called at the Institute for the Blind, under the direction of Mr.
Müller. He showed me some beautiful basket and woven work by his pupils;
the accuracy and skill with which everything was made astonished me.
They read with amazing facility from the raised type, and by means of
frames are taught to write with ease and distinctness. In music, that
great solace of the blind, they most excelled. They sang with an
expression so true and touching, that it was a delight to listen. The
system of instruction adopted appears to be most excellent, and gives to
the blind nearly every advantage which their more fortunate brethren
enjoy.
I am indebted to Mr. Müller, to whom I was introduced by an acquaintance
with his friend, Dr. Rivinus, of West Chester, Pa., for many kind
attentions. He went with us this afternoon to the Jägerhaus, on a
mountain near, where we had a very fine view of the city and its great
black Minster, with the plain of the Briesgau, broken only by the
Kaiserstuhl, a long mountain near the Rhine, whose golden stream
glittered in the distance. On climbing the Schlossberg, an eminence near
the city, we met the Grand Duchess Stephanie, a natural daughter of
Napoleon, as I have heard, and now generally believed to be the mother
of Caspar Hauser. Through a work lately published, which has since been
suppressed, the whole history has come to light. Caspar Hauser was the
lineal descendant of the house of Baden, and heir to the throne. The
guilt of his imprisonment and murder rests, therefore, upon the present
reigning family.
A chapel on the Schönberg, the mountain opposite, was pointed out as
the spot where Louis XV., if I mistake not, usually stood while his army
besieged Freiburg. A German officer having sent a ball to this chapel
which struck the wall just above the king's head, the latter sent word
that if they did not cease firing he would point his cannons at the
Minster. The citizens thought it best to spare the monarch and save the
cathedral.
We attended a meeting of the _Walhalla_, or society of the students who
visit the Freiburg University. They pleased me better than the
enthusiastic but somewhat unrestrained Burschenschaft of Heidelberg.
Here, they have abolished duelling; the greatest friendship prevails
among the students, and they have not that contempt for every thing
_philister_, or unconnected with their studies, which prevails in other
universities. Many respectable citizens attend their meetings; to-night
there was a member of the Chamber of Deputies at Carlsruhe present, who
delivered two speeches, in which every third word was "freedom!" An
address was delivered also by a merchant of the city, in which he made a
play upon the word _spear_, which signifies also in a cant sense,
_citizen_, find seemed to indicate that both would do their work in the
good cause. He was loudly applauded. Their song of union was by Charles
Follen, and the students were much pleased when I told them how he was
honored and esteemed in America.
After two days, delightfully spent, we shouldered our knapsacks and left
Freiburg. The beautiful valley, at the mouth of which the city lies,
runs like an avenue for seven miles directly into the mountains, and
presents in its loveliness such a contrast to the horrid defile which
follows, that it almost deserves the name which has been given to a
little inn at its head--the "Kingdom of Heaven." The mountains of the
Black Forest enclose it on each side like walls, covered to the summit
with luxuriant woods, and in some places with those forests of gloomy
pine which give this region its name. After traversing its whole length,
just before plunging into the mountain-depths, the traveler rarely meets
with a finer picture than that which, on looking back, he sees framed
between the hills at the other end. Freiburg looks around the foot of
one of the heights, with the spire of her cathedral peeping above the
top, while the French Vosges grew dim in the far perspective.
The road now enters a wild, narrow valley, which grows smaller as we
proceed. From Himmelreich, a large rude inn by the side of the green
meadows, we enter the Höllenthal--that is, from the "Kingdom of Heaven"
to the "Valley of Hell!" The latter place better deserves its
appellation than the former. The road winds between precipices of black
rock, above which the thick foliage shuts out the brightness of day and
gives a sombre hue to the scene. A torrent foams down the chasm, and in
one place two mighty pillars interpose to prevent all passage. The
stream, however, has worn its way through, and the road is hewn in the
rock by its side. This cleft is the only entrance to a valley three or
four miles long, which lies in the very heart of the mountains. It is
inhabited by a few woodmen and their families, and but for the road
which passes through, would be as perfect a solitude as the Happy Valley
of Rasselas. At the farther end, a winding road called "The Ascent,"
leads up the steep mountain to an elevated region of country, thinly
settled and covered with herds of cattle. The cherries which, in the
Rhine-plain below, had long gone, were just ripe here. The people spoke
a most barbarous dialect; they were social and friendly, for everybody
greeted us, and sometimes, as we sat on a bank by the roadside, those
who passed by would say "Rest thee!" or "Thrice rest!"
Passing by the Titi Lake, a small body of water which was spread out
among the hills like a sheet of ink, so deep was its Stygian hue, we
commenced ascending a mountain. The highest peak of the Schwarzwald, the
Feldberg, rose not far off, and on arriving at the top of this mountain,
we saw that a half hour's walk would bring us to its summit. This was
too great a temptation for my love of climbing heights; so with a look
at the descending sun to calculate how much time we could spare, we set
out. There was no path, but we pressed directly up the steep side,
through bushes and long grass, and in a short time reached the top,
breathless from such exertion in the thin atmosphere. The pine woods
shut out the view to the north and east, which is said to be
magnificent, as the mountain is about five thousand feet high. The
wild, black peaks of the Black Forest were spread below us, and the sun
sank through golden mist towards the Alsatian hills. Afar to the south,
through cloud and storm, we could just trace the white outline of the
Swiss Alps. The wind swept through the pines around, and bent the long
yellow grass among which we sat, with a strange, mournful sound, well
suiting the gloomy and mysterious region. It soon grew cold, the golden
clouds settled down towards us, and we made haste to descend to the
village of Lenzkirch before dark.
Next morning we set out early, without waiting to see the trial of
archery which was to take place among the mountain youths. Their booths
and targets, gay with banners, stood on a green meadow beside the town.
We walked through the Black Forest the whole forenoon. It might be owing
to the many wild stories whose scenes are laid among these hills, but
with me there was a peculiar feeling of solemnity pervading the whole
region. The great pine woods are of the very darkest hue of green, and
down their hoary, moss-floored aisles, daylight seems never to have
shone. The air was pure and clear, and the sunshine bright, but it
imparted no gaiety to the scenery: except the little meadows of living
emerald which lay occasionally in the lap of a dell, the landscape wore
a solemn and serious air. In a storm, it must be sublime.
About noon, from the top of the last range of hills, we had a glorious
view. The line of the distant Alps could be faintly traced high in the
clouds, and all the heights between were plainly visible, from the Lake
of Constance to the misty Jura, which flanked the Vosges of the west.
From our lofty station we overlooked half Switzerland, and had the air
been a little clearer, we could have seen Mont Blanc and the mountains
of Savoy. I could not help envying the feelings of the Swiss, who, after
long absence from their native land, first see the Alps from this road.
If to the emotions with which I then looked on them were added the
passionate love of home and country which a long absence creates, such
excess of rapture would be almost too great to be borne.
In the afternoon we crossed the border, and took leave of Germany with
regret, after near a year's residence within its bounds. Still it was
pleasant to know we were in a republic once more: the first step we took
made us aware of the change. There was no policeman to call for our
passports or search our baggage. It was just dark when we reached the
hill overlooking the Rhine, on whose steep banks is perched the antique
town of Schaffhausen. It is still walled in, with towers at regular
intervals; the streets are wide and spacious, and the houses rendered
extremely picturesque by the quaint projecting windows. The buildings
are nearly all old, as we learned by the dates above the doors. At the
inn, I met with one of the free troopers who marched against Luzerne. He
was full of spirit, and ready to undertake another such journey. Indeed
it is the universal opinion that the present condition of things cannot
last much longer.
We took a walk before breakfast to the Falls of the Rhine, about a mile
and a half from Schaffhausen. I confess I was somewhat disappointed in
them, after the glowing descriptions of travelers. The river at this
place is little more than thirty yards wide, and the body of water,
although issuing from the Lake of Constance, is not remarkably strong.
For some distance above, the fall of the water is very rapid, and as it
finally reaches the spot where, narrowed between rocks, it makes the
grand plunge, it has acquired a great velocity. Three rocks stand in the
middle of the current, which thunders against and around their bases,
but cannot shake them down. These and the rocks in the bed of the
stream, break the force of the fall, so that it descends to the bottom,
about fifty feet below, not in one sheet, but shivered into a hundred
leaps of snowy foam. The precipitous shores, and the tasteful little
castle which is perched upon the steep just over the boiling spray, add
much to its beauty, taken as a picture. As a specimen of the
picturesque, the whole scene is perfect. I should think Trenton Falls,
in New York, must excel these in wild, startling effect; but there is
such a scarcity of waterfalls in this land, that the Germans go into
raptures about them, and will hardly believe that Niagara itself
possesses more sublimity.
CHAPTER XXIX.
PEOPLE AND PLACES IN EASTERN SWITZERLAND.
We left Schaffhausen for Zurich, in mist and rain, and walked for some
time along the north bank of the Rhine. We could have enjoyed the
scenery much better, had it not been for the rain, which not only hid
the mountains from sight, but kept us constantly half soaked. We crossed
the rapid Rhine at Eglisau, a curious antique village, and then
continued our way through the forests of Canton Zurich, to Bülach, with
its groves of lindens--"those tall and stately trees, with velvet down
upon their shining leaves, and rustic benches placed beneath their
overhanging eaves."
When we left the little village where the rain obliged us to stop for
the night, it was clear and delightful. The farmers were out, busy at
work, their long, straight scythes glancing through the wet grass, while
the thick pines sparkled with thousands of dewy diamonds. The country
was so beautiful and cheerful, that we half felt like being in America.
The farm-houses were scattered over the country in real American style,
and the glorious valley of the Limmat, bordered on the west by a range
of woody hills, reminded me of some scenes in my native Pennsylvania.
The houses were neatly and tastefully built, with little gardens around
them--and the countenances of the people spoke of intelligence and
independence. There was the same air of peace and prosperity which
delighted us in the valleys of Upper Austria, with a look of freedom
which those had not. The faces of a people are the best index to their
condition. I could read on their brows a lofty self-respect, a
consciousness of the liberties they enjoy, which the Germans of the
laboring class never show. It could not be imagination, for the recent
occurrences in Switzerland, with the many statements I heard in Germany,
had prejudiced me somewhat against the land; and these marks of
prosperity and freedom were as surprising as they were delightful.
As we approached Zurich, the noise of employment from mills, furnaces
and factories, came to us like familiar sounds, reminding us of the
bustle of our home cities. The situation of the city is lovely. It lies
at the head of the lake, and on both sides of the little river Limmat,
whose clear green waters carry the collected meltings of the Alps to the
Rhine. Around the lake rise lofty green hills, which, sloping gently
back, bear on their sides hundreds of pleasant country-houses and farms,
and the snowy Alpine range extends along the southern sky. The Limmat is
spanned by a number of bridges, and its swift waters turn many mills
which are built above them. From these bridges one can look out over the
blue lake and down the thronged streets of the city on each side, whose
bright, cheerful houses remind him of Italy.
Zurich can boast of finer promenades than any other city in Switzerland.
The old battlements are planted with trees and transformed into pleasant
walks, which being elevated above the city, command views of its
beautiful environs. A favorite place of resort is the Lindenhof, an
elevated court-yard, shaded by immense trees. The fountains of water
under them are always surrounded by washerwomen, and in the morning
groups of merry school children may be seen tumbling over the grass. The
teachers take them there in a body for exercise and recreation. The
Swiss children are beautiful, bright-eyed creatures; there is scarcely
one who does not exhibit the dawning of an active, energetic spirit. It
may be partly attributed to the fresh, healthy climate of Switzerland,
but I am partial enough to republics to believe that the influence of
the Government under which they live, has also its share in producing
the effect.
There is a handsome promenade on an elevated bastion which overlooks the
city and lakes. While enjoying the cool morning breeze and listening to
the stir of the streets below us, we were also made aware of the social
and friendly politeness of the people. Those who passed by, on their
walk around the rampart, greeted us, almost with the familiarity of an
acquaintance. Simple as was the act, we felt grateful, for it had at
least the seeming of a friendly interest and a sympathy with the
loneliness which the stranger sometimes feels. A school-teacher leading
her troop of merry children on their morning walk around the bastion,
nodded to us pleasantly and forthwith the whole company of
chubby-cheeked rogues, looking up at us with a pleasant archness, lisped
a "_guten morgen_" that made the hearts glad within us. I know of
nothing that has given me a more sweet and tender delight than the
greeting of a little child, who, leaving his noisy playmates, ran across
the street to me, and taking my hand, which he could barely clasp in
both his soft little ones, looked up in my face with an expression so
winning and affectionate, that I loved him at once. The happy, honest
farmers, too, spoke to us cheerfully everywhere. We learned a lesson
from all this--we felt that not a word of kindness is ever wasted, that
a simple friendly glance may cheer the spirit and warm the lonely heart,
and that the slightest deed, prompted by generous sympathy, becomes a
living joy in the memory of the receiver, which blesses unceasingly him
who bestowed it.
We left Zurich the same afternoon, to walk to Stafa, where we were told
the poet Freiligrath resided. The road led along the bank of the lake,
whose shores sloped gently up from the water, covered with gardens and
farm-houses, which, with the bolder mountains that rose behind them,
made a combination of the lovely and grand, on which the eye rested with
rapture and delight. The sweetest cottages were embowered among the
orchards, and the whole country bloomed like a garden. The waters of the
lake are of a pale, transparent green, and so clear that we could see
its bottom of white pebbles, for some distance. Here and there floated a
quiet boat on its surface. The opposite hills were covered with a soft
blue haze, and white villages sat along the shore, "like swans among the
reeds." Behind, we saw the woody range of the Brunig Alp. The people
bade us a pleasant good evening; there was a universal air of
cheerfulness and content on their countenances.
Towards evening, the clouds which hung in the south the whole day,
dispersed a little and we could see the Dodiberg and the Alps of Glarus.
As sunset drew on, the broad summits of snow and the clouds which were
rolled around them, assumed a soft rosy hue, which increased in
brilliancy as the light of day faded. The rough, icy crags and snowy
steeps were fused in the warm light and half blended with the bright
clouds. This blaze, as it were, of the mountains at sunset, is called
the _Alp-glow_, and exceeds all one's highest conceptions of Alpine
grandeur. We watched the fading glory till it quite died away, and the
summits wore a livid, ashy hue, like the mountains of a world wherein
there was no life. In a few minutes more the dusk of twilight spread
over the scene, the boatmen glided home over the still lake and the
herdsmen drove their cattle back from pasture on the slopes and meadows.
On inquiring for Freiligrath at Stafa, we found he had removed to
Rapperschwyl, some distance further. As it was already late, we waited
for the steamboat which leaves Zurich every evening. It came along about
eight o'clock, and a little boat carried us out through rain and
darkness to meet it, as it came like a fiery-eyed monster over the
water. We stepped on board the "Republican," and in half an hour were
brought to the wharf at Rapperschwyl.
There are two small islands in the lake, one of which, with a little
chapel rising from among its green trees, is Ufnau, the grave of Ulrich
von Hutten, one of the fathers of the German Reformation. His fiery
poems have been the source from which many a German bard has derived his
inspiration, and Freiligrath who now lives in sight of his tomb, has
published an indignant poem, because an inn with gaming tables has been
established in the ruins of the castle near Creuznach, where Hutten
found refuge from his enemies with Franz von Sickingen, brother-in-law
of "Goetz with the iron Hand." The monks of Einsiedeln, to whom Ufnau
belongs, have carefully obliterated all traces of his grave, so that the
exact spot is not known, in order that even a tombstone might be denied
him who once strove to overturn their order. It matters little to that
bold spirit whose motto was: "_The die is cast--I have dared it!_"--the
whole island is his monument, if he need one.
I spent the whole of the morning with Freiligrath, the poet, who was
lately banished from Germany on account of the liberal principles his
last volume contains. He lives in a pleasant country-house on the
Meyerberg, an eminence near Rapperschwyl, overlooking a glorious
prospect. On leaving Frankfort, R.S. Willis gave me a letter to him, and
I was glad to meet with a man personally whom I admired so much through
his writings, and whose boldness in speaking out against the tyranny
which his country suffers, forms such a noble contrast to the cautious
slowness of his countrymen. He received me kindly and conversed much
upon American literature. He is a warm admirer of Bryant and Longfellow,
and has translated many of their poems into German. He said he had
received a warm invitation from a colony of Germans in Wisconsin, to
join them and enjoy that freedom which his native land denies, but that
his circumstances would not allow it at present. He is perhaps
thirty-five years of age. His brow is high and noble, and his eyes,
which are large and of a clear gray, beam with serious, saddened
thought. His long chesnut hair, uniting with a handsome beard and
moustache, gives a lion-like dignity to his energetic countenance. His
talented wife, Ida Freiligrath, who shares his literary labors, and an
amiable sister, are with him in exile, and he is happier in their
faithfulness than when he enjoyed the favors of a corrupt king.
We crossed the long bridge from Rapperschwyl, and took the road over the
mountain opposite, ascending for nearly two hours along the side, with
glorious views of the Lake of Zurich and the mountains which enclose it.
The upper and lower ends of the lake were completely hid by the storms,
which, to our regret, veiled the Alps, but the part below lay spread out
dim and grand, like a vast picture. It rained almost constantly, and we
were obliged occasionally to take shelter in the pine forests, whenever
a heavier cloud passed over. The road was lined with beggars, who
dropped on their knees in the rain before us, or placed bars across the
way, and then took them down again, for which they demanded money.
At length we reached the top of the pass. Many pilgrims to Einsiedeln
had stopped at a little inn there, some of whom came a long distance to
pay their vows, especially as the next day was the Ascension day of the
Virgin, whose image there is noted for performing many miracles. Passing
on, we crossed a wild torrent by an arch called the "Devil's Bridge."
The lofty, elevated plains were covered with scanty patches of grain
and potatoes, and the boys tended their goats on the grassy slopes,
sometimes trilling or _yodling_ an Alpine melody. An hour's walk brought
us to Einsiedeln, a small town, whose only attraction is the
Abbey--after Loretto, in Italy, the most celebrated resort for pilgrims
in Europe.
We entered immediately into the great church. The gorgeous vaulted roof
and long aisles were dim with the early evening; hundreds of worshippers
sat around the sides, or kneeled in groups on the broad stone pavements,
chanting over their Paternosters and Ave Marias in a shrill, monotonous
tone, while the holy image near the entrance was surrounded by persons,
many of whom came in the hope of being healed of some disorder under
which they suffered. I could not distinctly make out the image, for it
was placed back within the grating, and a strong crimson lamp behind it
was made to throw the light around, in the form of a glory. Many of the
pilgrims came a long distance. I saw some in the costume of the Black
Forest, and others who appeared to be natives of the Italian Cantons;
and a group of young women wearing conical fur caps, from the forests of
Bregenz, on the Lake of Constance.
I was astonished at the splendor of this church, situated in a lonely
and unproductive Alpine valley. The lofty arches of the ceiling, which
are covered with superb fresco paintings, rest on enormous pillars of
granite, and every image and shrine is richly ornamented with gold. Some
of the chapels were filled with the remains of martyrs, and these were
always surrounded with throngs of believers. The choir was closed by a
tall iron grating; a single lamp, which swung from the roof, enabled me
to see through the darkness, that though much more rich in ornaments
than the body of the church, it was less grand and impressive. The
frescoes which cover the ceiling, are said to be the finest paintings of
the kind in Switzerland.
In the morning our starting was delayed by the rain, and we took
advantage of it to hear mass in the Abbey and enjoy the heavenly music.
The latter was of the loftiest kind; there was one voice among the
singers I shall not soon forget. It was like the warble of a bird who
sings out of very wantonness. On and on it sounded, making its clear,
radiant sweetness heard above the chant of the choir and the thunder of
the orchestra. Such a rich, varied and untiring strain of melody I have
rarely listened to.
When the service ceased, we took a small road leading to Schwytz. We had
now fairly entered the Alpine region, and our first task was to cross a
mountain. This having been done, we kept along the back of the ridge
which bounds the lake of Zug on the south, terminating in the well known
Rossberg. The scenery became wilder with every step. The luxuriant
fields of herbage on the mountains were spotted with the picturesque
_chalets_ of the hunters and Alp-herds; cattle and goats were browsing
along the declivities, their bells tinkling most musically, and the
little streams fell in foam down the steeps. We here began to realize
our anticipations of Swiss scenery. Just on the other side of the range,
along which we traveled, lay the little lake of Egeri and valley of
Morgarten, where Tell and his followers overcame the army of the German
Emperor; near the lake of Lowertz, we found a chapel by the roadside,
built on the spot where the house of Werner Stauffacher, one of the
"three men of Grütli," formerly stood. It bears a poetical inscription
in old German, and a rude painting of the Battle of Morgarten.
As we wound around the lake of Lowertz, we saw the valley lying between
the Rossberg and the Righi, which latter mountain stood full in view. To
our regret, and that of all other travelers, the clouds hung low upon
it, as they had done for a week at least, and there was no prospect of a
change. The Rossberg, from which we descended, is about four thousand
feet in height; a dark brown stripe from its very summit to the valley
below, shows the track of the avalanche which, in 1806, overwhelmed
Goldau, and laid waste the beautiful vale of Lowertz. We could trace the
masses of rock and earth as far as the foot of the Righi. Four hundred
and fifty persons perished by this catastrophe, which was so sudden that
in five minutes the whole lovely valley was transformed into a desolate
wilderness. The shock was so great that the lake of Lowertz overflowed
its banks, and part of the village of Steinen at the upper end was
destroyed by the waters.
An hour's walk through a blooming Alpine vale brought us to the little
town of Schwytz, the capital of the Canton. It stands at the foot of a
rock-mountain, in shape not unlike Gibraltar, but double its height. The
bare and rugged summits seem to hang directly over the town, but the
people dwell below without fear, although the warning ruins of Goldau
are full in sight. A narrow blue line at the end of the valley which
stretches westward, marks the lake of the Four Cantons. Down this valley
we hurried, that we might not miss the boat which plies daily, from
Luzerne to Fluelen. I regretted not being able to visit Luzerne, as I
had a letter to the distinguished Swiss composer, Schnyder von
Wartensee, who resides there at present. The place is said to present a
most desolate appearance, being avoided by travelers, and even by
artisans, so that business of all kinds has almost entirely ceased.
At the little town of Brunnen, on the lake, we awaited the coming of the
steamboat. The scenery around it is exceedingly grand. Looking down
towards Luzerne, we could see the dark mass of Mount Pilatus on one
side, and on the other the graceful outline of the Righi, still wearing
his hood of clouds. We put off in a skiff to meet the boat, with two
Capuchin friars in long brown mantles and cowls, carrying rosaries at
their girdles.
Nearly opposite Brunnen is the meadow of Grütli, where the union of the
Swiss patriots took place, and the bond was sealed that enabled them to
cast off their chains. It is a little green slope on the side of the
mountain, between the two Cantons of Uri and Unterwalden, surrounded on
all sides by precipices. A little crystal spring in the centre is
believed by the common people to have gushed up on the spot where the
three "linked the hands that made them free." It is also a popular
belief that they slumber in a rocky cavern near the spot, and that they
will arise and come forth when the liberties of Switzerland are in
danger. She stands at present greatly in need of a new triad to restore
the ancient harmony.
We passed this glorious scene, almost the only green spot on the bleak
mountain-side, and swept around the base of the Axenberg, at whose foot,
in a rocky cave, stands the chapel of William Tell. This is built on the
spot where he leaped from Gessler's boat during the storm. It sits at
the base of the rock, on the water's edge, and can be seen far over the
waves. The Alps, whose eternal snows are lifted dazzling to the sky,
complete the grandeur of a scene so hallowed by the footsteps of
freedom. The grand and lonely solemnity of the landscape impressed me
with an awe, like that one feels when standing in a mighty cathedral,
when the aisles are dim with twilight. And how full of interest to a
citizen of young and free America is a shrine where the votaries of
Liberty have turned to gather strength and courage, through the storms
and convulsions of five hundred years!
We stopped at the village of Fluelen, at the head of the lake, and
walked on to Altorf, a distance of half a league. Here, in the
market-place, is a tower said to be built on the spot where the linden
tree stood, under which the child of Tell was placed, while, about a
hundred yards distant, is a fountain with Tell's statue, on the spot
from whence he shot the apple. If these localities are correct, he must
indeed have been master of the cross-bow. The tower is covered with rude
paintings of the principal events in the history of Swiss liberty. I
viewed these scenes with double interest from having read Schiller's
"Wilhelm Tell," one of the most splendid tragedies ever written. The
beautiful reply of his boy, when he described to him the condition of
the "land where there are no mountains," was sounding in my ears during
the whole day's journey:
"Father, I'd feel oppressed in that broad land,
I'd rather dwell beneath the avalanche!"
The little village of Burglen, whose spire we saw above the forest, in a
glen near by, was the birth-place of Tell, and the place where his
dwelling stood, is now marked by a small chapel. In the Schachen, a
noisy mountain stream that comes down to join the Reuss, he was drowned,
when an old man, in attempting to rescue a child who had fallen in--a
death worthy of the hero! We bestowed a blessing on his memory in
passing, and then followed the banks of the rapid Reuss. Twilight was
gathering in the deep Alpine glen, and the mountains on each side,
half-seen through the mist, looked like vast, awful phantoms. Soon they
darkened to black, indistinct masses; all was silent except the
deepened roar of the falling floods; dark clouds brooded above us like
the outspread wings of night, and we were glad, when the little village
of Amstegg was reached, and the parlor of the inn opened to us a more
cheerful, if not so romantic scene.
CHAPTER XXX.
PASSAGE OF THE ST. GOTHARD AND DESCENT INTO ITALY.
Leaving Amstegg, I passed the whole day among snowy, sky-piercing Alps,
torrents, chasms and clouds! The clouds appeared to be breaking up as we
set out, and the white top of the Reassberg was now and then visible in
the sky. Just above the village are the remains of Zwing Uri, the castle
begun by the tyrant Gessler, for the complete subjugation of the canton.
Following the Reuss up through a narrow valley, we passed the
Bristenstock, which lifts its jagged crags nine thousand feet in the
air, while on the other side stand the snowy summits which lean towards
the Rhone Glacier and St. Gothard. From the deep glen where the Reuss
foamed down towards the Lake of the Forest Cantons, the mountains rose
with a majestic sweep so far into the sky that the brain grew almost
dizzy in following their outlines. Woods, chalets and slopes of herbage
covered their bases, where the mountain cattle and goats were browsing,
while the herd-boys sang their native melodies or woke the ringing
echoes with the loud, sweet sounds of their wooden horns; higher up, the
sides were broken into crags and covered with stunted pines; then
succeeded a belt of bare rock with a little snow lying in the crevices,
and the summits of dazzling white looked out from the clouds nearly
three-fourths the height of the zenith. Sometimes when the vale was
filled with clouds, it was startling to see them parting around a
solitary summit, apparently isolated in the air at an immense height,
for the mountain to which it belonged was hidden to the very base!
The road passed from one side of the valley to the other, crossing the
Reuss on bridges sometimes ninety feet high. After three or four hours
walking, we reached a frightful pass called the Schollenen. So narrow is
the defile that before reaching it, the road seemed to enter directly
into the mountain. Precipices a thousand feet high tower above, and the
stream roars and boils in the black depth below. The road is a wonder of
art; it winds around the edge of horrible chasms or is carried on lofty
arches across, with sometimes a hold apparently so frail that one
involuntarily shudders. At a place called the Devil's Bridge, the Reuss
leaps about seventy feet in three or four cascades, sending up
continually a cloud of spray, while a wind created by the fall, blows
and whirls around, with a force that nearly lifts one from his feet.
Wordsworth has described the scene in the following lines:
"Plunge with the Reuss embrowned by terror's breath,
Where danger roofs the narrow walks of Death;
By floods that, thundering from their dizzy height,
Swell more gigantic on the steadfast sight,
Black, drizzling crags, that, beaten by the din,
Vibrate, us if a voice complained within,
Loose hanging rocks, the Day's blessed eye that hide,
And crosses reared to Death on every side!"
Beyond the Devil's Bridge, the mountains which nearly touched before,
interlock into each other, and a tunnel three hundred and seventy-five
feet long leads through the rock into the vale of Urseren, surrounded by
the Upper Alps. The little town of Andermatt lies in the middle of this
valley, which with the peaks around is covered with short,
yellowish-brown grass. We met near Amstegg a little Italian boy walking
home, from Germany, quite alone and without money, for we saw him give
his last kreutzer to a blind beggar along the road. We therefore took
him with us, as he was afraid to cross the St. Gothard alone.
After refreshing ourselves at Andermatt, we started, five in number,
including a German student, for the St. Gothard. Behind the village of
Hospiz, which stands at the bottom of the valley leading to Realp and
the Furca pass, the way commences, winding backwards and forwards,
higher and higher, through a valley covered with rocks, with the mighty
summits of the Alps around, untenanted save by the chamois and mountain
eagle. Not a tree was to be seen. The sides of the mountains were
covered with loose rocks waiting for the next torrent to wash them down,
and the tops were robed in eternal snow. A thick cloud rolled down over
us as we went on, following the diminishing brooks to their snowy source
in the peak of St. Gothard. We cut off the bends of the road by
footpaths up the rocks, which we ascended in single file, one of the
Americans _going ahead_ and little Pietro with his staff and bundle
bringing up the rear. The rarefied air we breathed, seven thousand feet
above the sea, was like exhilarating gas. We felt no fatigue, but ran
and shouted and threw snowballs, in the middle of August!
After three hours' walk we reached the two clear and silent lakes which
send their waters to the Adriatic and the North Sea. Here, as we looked
down the Italian side, the sky became clear; we saw the top of St.
Gothard many thousand feet above, and stretching to the south, the
summits of the mountains which guard the vales of the Ticino and the
Adda. The former monastery has been turned into an inn; there is,
however, a kind of church attached, attended by a single monk. It was so
cold that although late, we determined to descend to the first village.
The Italian side is very steep, and the road, called the Via Trimola, is
like a thread dropped down and constantly doubling back upon itself. The
deep chasms were filled with snow, although exposed to the full force of
the sun, and for a long distance there was scarcely a sign of
vegetation.
We thought as we went down, that every step was bringing us nearer to a
sunnier land--that the glories of Italy, which had so long lain in the
airy background of the future, would soon spread themselves before us in
their real or imagined beauty. Reaching at dusk the last height above
the vale of the Ticino, we saw the little village of Airolo with its
musical name, lying in a hollow of the mountains. A few minutes of
leaping, sliding and rolling, took us down the grassy declivity, and we
found we had descended from the top in an hour and a half, although the
distance by the road is nine miles! I need not say how glad we were to
relieve our trembling knees and exhausted limbs.
I have endeavored several times to give some idea of the sublimity of
the Alps, but words seem almost powerless to measure these mighty
mountains. No effort of the imagination could possibly equal their real
grandeur. I wish also to describe the _feelings_ inspired by being
among them,--feelings which can best be expressed through the warmer
medium of poetry.
SONG OF THE ALP.
I.
I sit aloft on my thunder throne,
And my voice of dread the nations own
As I speak in storm below!
The valleys quake with a breathless fear,
When I hurl in wrath my icy spear
And shake my locks of snow!
When the avalanche forth like a tiger leaps,
How the vassal-mountains quiver!
And the storm that sweeps through the airy deeps
Makes the hoary pine-wood shiver!
Above them all, in a brighter air,
I lift my forehead proud and bare,
And the lengthened sweep of my forest-robe
Trails down to the low and captured globe,
Till its borders touch the dark green wave
In whose soundless depths my feet I lave.
The winds, unprisoned, around me blow,
And terrible tempests whirl the snow;
Rocks from their caverned beds are torn,
And the blasted forest to heaven is borne;
High through the din of the stormy band,
Like misty giants the mountains stand,
And their thunder-revel o'er-sounds the woe,
That cries from the desolate vales below!
I part the clouds with my lifted crown,
Till the sun-ray slants on the glaciers down,
And trembling men, in the valleys pale,
Rejoice at the gleam of my icy mail!
II.
I wear a crown of the sunbeam's gold,
With glacier-gems en my forehead old--
A monarch crowned by God!
What son of the servile earth may dare
Such signs of a regal power to wear,
While chained to her darkened sod?
I know of a nobler and grander lore
Than Time records on his crumbling pages,
And the soul of my solitude teaches more
Than the gathered deeds of perished ages!
For I have ruled since Time began
And wear no fetter made by man.
I scorn the coward and craven race
Who dwell around my mighty base,
For they leave the lessons I grandly gave
And bend to the yoke of the crouching slave.
I shout aloud to the chainless skies;
The stream through its falling foam replies,
And my voice, like the sound of the surging sea,
To the nations thunders: "_I am free!_"
I spoke to Tell when a tyrant's hand
Lay heavy and hard on his native land,
And the spirit whose glory from mine he won
Blessed the Alpine dwellers with Freedom's sun!
The student-boy on the Gmunden-plain
Heard my solemn voice, but he fought in vain;
I called from the crags of the Passeir-glen,
When the despot stood in my realm again,
And Hofer sprang at the proud command
And roused the men of the Tyrol land!
III.