From the Lakes of Killarney to the Golden Horn Part 11

But not only is the dramatic element in human nature, it is in the Bible, which runs over with it. The Bible is not merely a volume of ethics. It is full of narrative, of history and biography, and of dialogue. Many of the teachings of our Saviour are in the form of conversations, of which it is quite impossible to give the full meaning and spirit, without changes of manner and inflections of voice. Take such an exquisite portion of the Old Testament as the story of Ruth, or that of Joseph and his brethren. What an outrage upon the sacred word to read such sweet and tender pa.s.sages in a dull and monotonous voice, as if one had not a particle of feeling of their beauty. One might ask such a reader "Understandest thou what thou readest?" and if he is too dull to learn otherwise, these simple Bavarian peasants might teach him to throw into his reading from the pulpit a little of the pathos and tenderness which they give to the conversations of Joseph with his father Jacob.

Of course, in introducing the dramatic element into the pulpit, it is to be done with a close self-restraint, and with the utmost delicacy and tenderness. But so used, it may subserve the highest ends of preaching. Of this a very ill.u.s.trious example is furnished in the annals of the American pulpit, in the Blind Preacher of Virginia, the impression of whose eloquence is preserved by the pen of William Wirt.

When that venerable old man, lifting his sightless eyeb.a.l.l.s to heaven, described the last sufferings of our Lord, it was with a manner adapted to the recital, as if he had been a spectator of the mournful scene, and with such pathos in his tones as melted the whole a.s.sembly into tears, and the excitement seemed almost beyond control; and the stranger held his breath in fear and wonder how they were ever to be let down from that exaltation of feeling. But the blind man held them as a master. He paused and lifted his hands to heaven, and after a moment of silence, repeated only the memorable exclamation of Rousseau: "Socrates died like a philosopher, but Jesus Christ like a G.o.d!" In this marvellous eloquence the preacher used the dramatic element as truly as any actor in the Pa.s.sion Play, the object in both cases being the same, to bring most vividly before the mind the life and death of the Son of G.o.d.

And is not that the great object, and the great subject, of all our preaching? The chief lesson which I have learned to-day, concerns not the _manner_, but the _substance_, of what we preach. This Pa.s.sion Play teaches most impressively, that the one thing which most interests all, high and low, rich and poor, is the simple story of Jesus Christ, and that the power of the pulpit depends on the vividness with which Christ and His Cross are brought, if not before the _eyes_, at least before the _minds_ and hearts of men. It is not eloquent essays on the beauty of virtue, or learned discussions on the relations of Science and Religion, that will ever touch the heart of the world, but the old, old story of that Divine life, told with the utmost simplicity and tenderness. I think it lawful to use any object which can bring me nearer to Him. That which has been conceived in superst.i.tion may minister to a devout spirit. And so I never see one of these crosses by the roadside without its turning my thoughts to Him who was lifted up upon it, and in my secret heart I whisper, "O Christ, Redeemer of the world, be near me now!"

Some, I know, will think this a weak sentimentalism, or even a sinful tolerance of superst.i.tion. But with all proper respect for their prejudices, I must hail my Saviour wherever I can find Him, whether in the city or the forest, or on the mountain. What a consolation there is in carrying that blessed image with us, wherever we go! How it stills our beating hearts, and dries our tears, to think of Him who has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows! Often do I repeat to myself those sweet lines of George Herbert:

Christ leads us through no darker rooms Than He went through before; Whoso into G.o.d's kingdom comes Must enter by this door.

I do not like to speak of my own feelings; for they are too private and sacred, and I shrink from any expression of them. But all this summer, while wandering in so many beautiful scenes, among lakes and mountains, I have felt the strongest religious craving. I have been looking for something which I did not find either in the populous city, or in the solitary place where no man was. Something had vanished from the earth, the absence of which could only be supplied by an invisible presence and spiritual grace. Amid great scenes of nature one is very lonely; and especially if there be a hidden weight that hangs heavy on the heart, he feels the need of a Presence of which "The deep saith, It is not in me," and Nature saith, "It is not in me." What is this but the human soul groping after G.o.d, if haply it may find him? The psalmist has expressed it in one word, when he says, "My heart and my flesh crieth out for the living G.o.d." How often has that cry been wrung from my heart in lonely and desolate hours, when standing on the deck of a ship, or on the peak of a mountain! And wherever I see any sign of religion, I am comforted; and so as I look around, and see upon all these hills the sign of the cross, I think of Him who died for me, and the cry which has so often been lifted up in distant lands, goes up here from the heart of the Bavarian Alps: "O Lamb of G.o.d, that takest away the sin of the world, grant me Thy peace!"

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE TYROL AND LAKE COMO.

CADENABBIA, LAKE COMO, August 30th.

The Rev. Dr. Bellows of New York is to blame--or "to praise"--for our last week's wanderings; for he it was who advised me by no means to leave out the Tyrol in our European tour--and if he could have seen all the delight of these few days, I think he would willingly take the responsibility. The Tyrol is less visited than Switzerland; it is not so overrun with tourists (and this is a recommendation); but it is hardly less worthy of a visit. To be sure, the mountains are not quite so high as Mont Blanc and the Matterhorn (there are not so many snow-clad peaks and glaciers), but they are high enough; there are many that pierce the clouds, and the roads wind amid perpetual wildness, yet not without beauty also, for at the foot of these savage mountains lie the loveliest green valleys, which are inhabited by a simple, brave people, who have often defended their Alpine pa.s.ses with such valor as has made them as full of historical interest as they are of natural grandeur.

Innsbruck is the capital of the Tyrol, and the usual starting point for a tour--but as at Ober-Ammergau we were to the west, we found a nearer point of departure at Partenkirchen, a small town lying in the lap of the mountains, from which a journey through Lermos, Na.s.sereit, Imst, Landeck and Mals, leads one through the heart of the Tyrol, ending with the Stelvio Pa.s.s, the highest over the Alps. It is a long day's ride to Landeck, but we ordered a carriage with a pair of stout horses, and went to our rest full of expectation of what we should see on the morrow.

But the night was not promising; the rain fell in torrents, and the morning was dark and lowering; but "he that regardeth the clouds shall not reap," so with faith we set out, and our faith was rewarded, for soon the clouds broke away, and though they lingered in scattered ma.s.ses, sufficient to shade us from the oppressive heat of the sun, they did not obscure the sight of the mountains and the valleys. The rains had laid the dust and cooled the air, and all day long we were floating through a succession of the most varied scenes, in which there was a mingled wildness and beauty that would have delighted our landscape artists.

The villages are less picturesque than the country. They are generally built very compact, apparently as a security against the winter, when storms rage through these valleys, and there is a feeling of safety in being thus "huddled" together. The houses are of stone, with arched pa.s.sage-ways for the horses to be driven into a central yard. They look very solid, but they are not tasteful. There are not good accommodations for travellers. There are as yet none of those magnificent hotels which the flood of English tourists has caused to be built at every noted point in Switzerland; in the Tyrol one has to depend on the inns of the country, and these, with a few exceptions, are poor. Looking through the one long, narrow street of a Tyrolean village, one sees little that is attractive, but much to the contrary.

Great heaps of manure lie exposed by the roadside, and often not only before the barns, but before the houses. These seem to be regarded as the agricultural riches of the cultivators of the soil, and are displayed with as much pride as a shepherd would take in showing his flocks and herds. These features of a hamlet in the Tyrol a traveller regards with disgust, and we used often to think of the contrast presented to one of our New England villages, the paradise of neatness and comfort.

Such things seem to show an utter absence of taste; and yet this people are very fond of flowers. Almost every house has a little patch of ground for their cultivation, and the contrast is most strange between the filth on one side and the beauty and bloom on the other.

Another feature which strikes one, is the universal reverence and devotion. The Tyrolese, like the peasants of Bavaria, are a very religious people. One can hardly travel a mile without coming to a cross or a shrine by the wayside, with an image of Christ and the Virgin. Often on the highest points of the mountains, where only the shepherd builds his hut, that he may watch his flocks in the summer as they feed on those elevated pastures, may be seen a little chapel, whose white spire, gleaming in the sunset, seems as strange and lonely as would a rude chapel built by a company of miners on some solitary peak of the Rocky Mountains.

These summer pastures are a feature of the Tyrol. High up on the sides of the mountains one may descry here and there, amid the ma.s.ses of rock, or the pine forest, a little oasis of green (called an _Alp_), where a few rods of more level ground permit of cultivation. It would seem as if these heights were almost inaccessible, as if only the chamois could clamber up such rocks, or find a footing where only stunted pines can grow. Yet so industrious are these simple Tyroleans, and so hard-pressing is the necessity which compels them to use every foot of the soil, that they follow in the path of the chamois, and turn even the tops of the mountains into greenness, and plant their little patches almost on the edge of the snows. Wherever the gra.s.s can grow, the cattle and goats find sustenance on the scanty herbage. To these mountain pastures they are driven, so soon as the snows have melted off from the heights, and the tender gra.s.s begins to appear, and there they are kept till the return of cold compels them to descend. We used often to look through our spygla.s.s at the little cl.u.s.ters of huts on the very tops of the mountains, where the shepherds, by coming together, try to lighten a little the loneliness of their lot, banished for the time from all other human habitations.

But what a solitary existence--the only sound that greets their ears the tinkling of the cow-bells, or the winding of the shepherd's horn, or the chime of some chapel bell, which, perched on a neighboring height, sends its sweet tones across the valley. Amid such scenes, we rode through a dozen villages, past hills crowned with old castles, and often looked down from the mountain sides into deep hollows glistening with lakes. As we came into the valley of the Inn, we remembered that this was all historic ground. The bridges over which we pa.s.sed have often been the scene of b.l.o.o.d.y conflicts, and in these narrow gorges the Tyrolese have rolled down rocks and trees on the heads of their invaders.

We slept that night at Landeck, in a very decent, comfortable inn, kept by a good motherly hostess. The next morning we exchanged our private carriage for the _stellwaggen_, a small diligence which runs to Mals. Our journey was now made still more pleasant by falling in with a party of three clergymen of the Church of England--all rectors of important churches in or near London, who had been, like ourselves, to Ober-Ammergau, and were returning through the Tyrol. They had been also to the Old Catholic Conference at Bonn, where they met our friend Dr. Schaff. They had much to say of the addresses of Dr. Dollinger, and of the Old Catholic movement, of which they had not very high expectations, although they thought its influence, as far as it went, was good. We travelled together for three days. I found them (as I have always found clergymen of the Church of England) men of culture and education, as well as gentlemen in their manners. They proved most agreeable travelling companions, and their pleasant conversation, as we rode together, or walked up the steep ascents of the mountains, gave an additional enjoyment to this most delightful journey.

This second day's ride led us over the Finstermunz Pa.s.s in which all the features of Tyrolean scenery of the day before were repeated with increasing grandeur. For many miles the line of the Tyrol is close to that of Switzerland; across a deep gorge, through which flows a rapid river, lies the Engadine, which of late years has been a favorite resort of Swiss tourists, and where our friend Prof. Hitchc.o.c.k with his family has been spending the summer at St. Moritz.

Towards the close of the day we descried in the distance a range of snowy summits, and were told that this was the chain that we were to cross on the morrow.

But all the experiences of those two days--in which we thought our superlatives were exhausted--were surpa.s.sed on the third as we crossed the Pa.s.s of the Stelvio. This is the highest pa.s.s in Europe, and on this day it seemed as if we were scaling heaven itself. Having a party of five, we procured a diligence to ourselves. We set out from Mals at six o'clock in the morning, and crossing the rushing, foaming Adige, began the ascent. Soon the mountains close in upon us, the Pa.s.s grows narrower and steeper; the horses have to pull harder; we get out and walk, partly to relieve the hard-breathing animals, but more to see at every turn the savage wildness of the scenery. How the road turns and twists in every way to get a foothold, doubling on itself a hundred times in its ascent of a few miles. And look, how the grandeur grows as we mount into this higher air! The snow-peaks are all around us, and the snow melting in the fiery sun, feeds many streams which pour down the rocky sides of the mountains to unite in the valley below, and which filled the solitudes with a perpetual roar.

After such steady climbing for seven hours, at one o'clock we reached a resting place for dinner (where we halted an hour), a shelf between the mountains, from which, as we were now above the line of trees, and no forests intercepted the view, we could see our way to the very summit. The road winds in a succession of zigzags up the side of the mountain. The distance in an air line is not perhaps more than two miles, though it is six and a half by the road, and it took us just two hours to reach the top. At length at four o'clock we reached the point, over nine thousand feet above the level of the sea, where a stone monument marks at once the summit of the Pa.s.s and the dividing line between the Tyrol and Lombardy. All leaped from the carriage in delight, to look around on the wilderness of mountains. To the left was the great range of the Ortler Alps, with the Ortler Spitze rising like a white dome above them all. At last we were among the snows. We were above the line of vegetation, where not a tree grows, nor a blade of gra.s.s--where all is barrenness and desolation.

The Stelvio is utterly impa.s.sable the greater part of the year. In a few weeks more the snows will fall. By the end of September it is considered unsafe, and the pa.s.sage is attempted at one's peril, as the traveller may be caught in a storm, and lost on the mountain.

Perhaps some of my readers will ask, what we often asked, What is the use of building a road amid these frightful solitudes, when it cannot be travelled the greater part of the year? What is the use of carrying a highway up into the clouds? Why build such a Jacob's ladder into heaven itself, since after all this is not the way to get to heaven?

It must have cost millions. But there is no population along the road to justify the expense. It could not be built for a few poor mountaineers. And yet it is constructed as solidly as if it were the Appian way leading out of Rome. It is an immense work of engineering.

For leagues upon leagues it has to be supported by solid stone-work to prevent its being washed away by torrents. The answer is easy. It is a military road, built, if not for purposes of conquest, yet to hold one insecure dominion. Twenty years ago the upper part of Italy was a dependency of Austria, but an insecure one, always in a chronic state of discontent, always on the verge of rebellion. This road was built to enable the government at Vienna to move troops swiftly through the Tyrol over this pa.s.s, and pour them down upon the plains of Lombardy.

Hannibal and Caesar had crossed the Alps, but the achievement was the most daring in the annals of ancient warfare. Napoleon pa.s.sed the Great St. Bernard, but he felt the need of an easier pa.s.sage for his troops, and constructed the Simplon, not from a benevolent wish to benefit mankind, but simply to render more secure his hold upon Italy, as he showed by asking the engineers who came to report upon the progress of the work, "When will the road be ready to pa.s.s over the cannon?" Such was the design of Austria in building the road over the Stelvio. But man proposes and G.o.d disposes. It was built with the resources of an empire, and now that it is finished, Lombardy, by a succession of events not antic.i.p.ated in the royal councils, falls to reunited Italy, and this road, the highest in Europe, remains, not a channel of conquest, but a highway of civilization.

But here we are on the top of the Pa.s.s, from which we can look into three countries--an empire, a kingdom, and a republic. Austria is behind us, and Italy is before us, and Switzerland, throned on the Alps, stands close beside us. After resting awhile, and feasting our eyes on the glorious sight, we prepare to descend.

We are not out of the Tyrol, even when we have crossed the frontier, for there is an Italian as well as an Austrian Tyrol, which has the same features, and may be said to extend to Lake Como.

The descent from the Stelvio is quite as wonderful as the ascent.

Perhaps the impression is even greater, as the descent is more rapid, and one realizes more the awful height and depth, as he is whirled down the pa.s.s by a hundred zigzag turns, over bridges and through galleries of rock, till at last, at the close of a long summer's day, he reaches the Baths of Bormio, and plunging into one of the baths, for which the place is so famous, washes away the dust of the journey, and rests after the fatigue of a day never to be forgotten, in which he made the Pa.s.s of the Stelvio.

For one fond of mountain climbing, who wished to make foot excursions among the Alps, there are not many better points than this of the Baths of Bormio. It is under the shadow of the great mountains, yet is itself only about four thousand feet high, so that it is easily accessible from below, yet it is nearly half-way up to the heights above.

But we were on our way to Italy, and the next day continued our course down the valley of the Adda. Hour after hour we kept going down, down, till it seemed as if we must at last reach the very bottom of the mountains, where their granite foundations are embedded in the solid ma.s.s of the planet. But this descent gave us a succession of scenes of indescribable beauty. Slowly the valley widened before us. The mountains wore a rugged aspect. Instead of sterile ma.s.ses of rock, mantled with snows, and piercing the clouds, they began to be covered with pines, which, like moss upon rocks, softened and beautified their rugged b.r.e.a.s.t.s. As we advanced still farther, the slopes were covered with vineyards; we were entering the land of the olive and the vine; terrace on terrace rose on the mountain side; every shelf of rock, or foot of ground, where a vine could grow, was covered. The rocky soil yields the most delicious grapes. Women brought us great cl.u.s.ters; a franc purchased enough for our whole party. The industry of the people seemed more like the habits of birds building their nests on every point of vantage, or of bees constructing their precious combs in the trunks of old trees or in the clefts of the rocks, than the industry of human creatures, which requires some little "verge and scope" for its manifestations. And now along the banks of the Adda are little plots of level ground, which admit of other cultivation. Olives trees are mingled with the vines. There are orchards too, which remind us of New England. Great numbers of mulberry trees are grown along the road, for the raising of silk is one of the industries of Lombardy, and there are thousands of willows by the water-courses, from which they are cutting the lithe and supple branches, to be woven into baskets.

It is the glad summer time, and the land is rejoicing with the joy of harvest. "The valleys are covered over with corn; they shout for joy; they also sing." It was a warm afternoon, and the people were gathering in the hay; and a pretty sight it was to see men and women in the fields raking the rows, and very sweet to inhale the smell of the new-mown hay, as we whirled along the road.

These are pretty features of an Italian landscape; I wish that the impression was not marred by some which are less pleasant. But the comfort of the people does not seem to correspond to their industry.

There is no economy in their labor, everything is done in the old-fashioned way, and in the most wasteful methods. I did not see a mowing or a reaping machine in the Tyrol, either on this or the other side of the mountains. They use wooden ploughs, drawn by cows as often as by oxen, and so little management have they, that one person is employed, generally a woman, to lead the miserable team, or rather pull them along. I have seen a whole family attached to a pair of sorry cattle--the man holding the plough, the woman pulling the rope ahead, and a poor little chap, who did his best, whipping behind. The crops are gathered in the same slipshod way. The hay is all carried in baskets on the backs of women. It was a pitiful sight to see them groaning under their loads, often stopping by the roadside to rest. I longed to see one of our Berkshire farmers enter the hay-field with a pair of l.u.s.ty oxen and a huge cart, which would transport at a single load a weight, such as would break the backs of all the women in an Italian village.

Of course women subjected to this kind of work, are soon bent out of all appearance of beauty; and when to this is added the goitre, which prevails to a shocking extent in these mountain valleys, they are often but wretched hags in appearance.

And yet the Italians have a "gift of beauty," if it were only not marred by such untoward circ.u.mstances. Many a bright, Spanish-looking face looked out of windows, and peered from under the arches, as we rattled through the villages; and the children were almost always pretty, even though in rags. With their dark brown faces, curly hair, and large, beautiful eyes, they might have been the models of Murillo's beggars.

We dined at Tirano, in a hotel which once had been a monastery, and whose s.p.a.cious rooms--very comfortable "cells" indeed--and ample cellars for their wines, and large open court, surrounded with covered arches, where the good fathers could rest in the heat of the day, showed that these old monks, though so intent on the joys of the next world, were not wholly indifferent to the "creature comforts" of this.

Night brought us to Sondrio, where in a s.p.a.cious and comfortable inn, which we remember with much satisfaction after our long rides, we slept the sleep of innocence and peace.

And now we are fairly entered into Italy. The mountains are behind us, and the lakes are before us. Friday brought us to Lake Como, and we found the relief of exchanging our ride in a diligence along a hot and dusty road for a sail over this most enchanting of Italian, perhaps I might say of European, lakes; for after seeing many in different countries, it seems to me that this is "better than all the waters" of Scotland or Switzerland. It is a daughter of the Alps, lying at their feet, fed by their snows, and reflecting their giant forms in its placid bosom. And here on its sh.o.r.es we have pitched our tent to rest for ten days. For three months we have been travelling almost without stopping, sometimes, to avoid the heat, riding all night--as from Amsterdam to Hamburg, and from Prague to Vienna. The last week, though very delightful, has been one of great fatigue, as for four days in succession we rode twelve or thirteen hours a day in a carriage or diligence. After being thus jolted and knocked about, we are quite willing to rest. Nature is very well, but it is a pleasant change once in a while to return to civilization; to have the luxury of a bath, and to sleep quietly in our beds, like Christians, instead of racing up and down in the earth, as if haunted by an evil spirit. And so we have decided to "come apart and rest awhile," before starting on another campaign.

We are in the loveliest spot that ever a tired mortal chose to pillow his weary head. If any of my readers are coming abroad for a summer, and wish for a place of _rest_, let me recommend to them this quiet retreat. Cadenabbia! it hath a pleasant sound, and it is indeed an enchanting spot. The mountains are all around us, to shut out the world, and the gentle waters ripple at our feet. We do not spend the time in making excursions, for in this balmy air it is a sufficient luxury to exist. We are now writing at a table under an avenue of fine old trees, which stretch along the lake to the Villa Carlotta, a princely residence, which belongs to a niece of the Emperor of Germany, where oranges and lemons are growing in the open air, and hang in cl.u.s.ters over our heads, and where one may pick from the trees figs and pomegranates. Here we sit in a paradise of beauty, and send our loving thoughts to friends over the sea.

And then, if tired of the sh.o.r.e, we have but to step into a boat, and float "at our own sweet will." This is our unfailing resource when the day is over. Boats are lying in front of the hotel, and strong-armed rowers are ready to take us anywhere. Across the lake, which is here but two miles wide, is Bellaggio, with its great hotels along the water, and its numerous villas peering out from the dense foliage of trees. How they glow in the last rays of the sunset, and how brilliant the lights along the sh.o.r.e at evening. Sometimes we sail across to visit the villas, or to look among the hotels for friendly American names. But more commonly we sail up and down, only for the pleasure of the motion, now creeping along by the sh.o.r.e, under the shadow of the mountains, and now "launching out into the deep," and rest, like one becalmed, in the middle of the lake. We do not want to go anywhere, but only to float and dream. Row gently, boatman! Softly and slowly!

_Lentissimo!_ Hush, there is music on the sh.o.r.e. We stop and listen:

"My soul was an enchanted boat, That like a sleeping swan did float, Upon the waves of that sweet singing."

But better than music or the waters is the heaven that is above the waters, and that is reflected in the tranquil bosom of the lake.

Leaning back on the cushioned seat, we look up to the stars as old friends, as they are the only objects that we recognize in the heavens above or the earth beneath. How we come to love any object that is familiar. I confess it is with a tender feeling that I look up to constellations that have so often shined upon me in other lands, when other eyes looked up with mine. How sweet it is, wherever we go, to have at least one object that we have seen before; one face that is not strange to us, the same on land or sea, in Europe and America.

Thus in our travels I have learned to look up to the stars as the most constant friends. They are the only things in nature that remain faithful. The mountains change as we move from country to country. The rivers know us not as they glide away swiftly to the sea. But the stars are always the same. The same constellations glow in the heavens to-night that shone on Julius Caesar when he led his legions through these mountains to conquer the tribes of Germany. Caesar is gone, and sixty generations since, but Orion and the Pleiades remain. The same stars are here that shone on Bethlehem when Christ was born; the same that now shine in distant lands on holy graves; and that will look down with pitying eyes on our graves when we are gone. Blessed lights in the heavens, to illumine the darkness of our earthly existence! Are they not the best witnesses for our Almighty Creator,

"Forever singing as they shine The hand that made us is Divine?"

He who hath set his bow in the cloud, hath set in the firmament that is above the clouds, these everlasting signs of His own faithfulness.

Who that looks up at that midnight sky can ever again doubt His care and love, as he reads these unchanging memorials of an unchanging G.o.d?