Over the Ocean Part 29

What beautiful views we have had as we ascended! An attempt at description would be but a series of rhapsodies. Let any one who has seen the view from the Catskill Mountains imagine the scene filled in with eight Swiss lakes shining in the sunlight, dozens of Swiss villages in the valleys, chapels on the mountain-sides, ribbons of rivers sparkling in the distance, the melodious tinkle of cow-bells from the many herds on the mountain-sides below, coming up like the faint notes of a musical box, and the whole framed by a lofty chain of mountain peaks, that seem to rim in the picture in a vast oval. The view changed twenty times in the ascent, and a faint idea may be had of its grandeur and beauty.

"But wait till you reach the Kulm, if you want to see a view," says one, pointing to the tip-top hotel of the mountain, on its great platform above us.

"Will monsieur ride now?"

"Pshaw! No."

The rest of the distance is so short--just up there--that monsieur, though breathless and fatigued, will do no such thing, and so sits down on a broad, flat stone, to look at the view and recover wind for the last _brief_ "spurt," as he thinks; and the guide, with a smile, starts on.

We have learned a lesson of the deceptive appearance of distance in the mountains, for what appeared at most a ten minutes' journey, was a good half hour's vigorous climb before the hotel of Righi-Kulm was gained; and we stood breathless and exhausted in the portico, mentally vowing never to attempt mountain climbing on foot when horses could be had--a vow with which, perhaps, the last portion of the journey over a path made slippery by a shower, making the pedestrian's ascent resemble that of the arithmetical frog in the well, whose retrogression amounted to two thirds of his progression, had something to do--and a vow which, it is unnecessary to say, was not rigidly adhered to.

But Righi-Kulm was gained. Here we were, at a large, well-kept hotel.

The rattle of the French, German, Italian, and English tongues tells us that Switzerland has attractions for all nations, and the fame of her natural scenery attracts all to worship at its shrine. A brief rest, after our nearly four hours' journey, and we are called out, one and all, to see the sun set. Forth we went, and mounted on a high, broad platform, a great, flat, table-like cliff, which, when contemplating the scene below, I could liken only to a t.i.tanic sacrificial altar, erected to the Most High, it jutted out so towards heaven, with all the world below it.

But were we to be disappointed in the sunset?

Look! huge clouds are rising; one already veils the sun, its edges crimsoned, and its centre translucent. A moment more and the cloudy veil is torn aside as by the hand of a genie, and as the red rays of the great orb of day blaze into our faces like a huge conflagration, a universal burst of admiration follows at one of the grandest and most magnificent views the eye of man can look upon. The sudden effect of the sunburst revealed a spectacle that was like a vision of the promised land.

We realized now how "distance lends enchantment to the view." That blue atmosphere of distance, that seems to paint everything with its softening finish, is exquisite here. Lake Lucerne was at our very feet, and looked as though we might toss a pebble into it; eight other lakes, calm and still, and looking like polished blue steel plates resting in the landscape, flashed in the sunbeams, the little water-craft like motes upon their surface; silver ribbons of rivers glittered on the bosom of the mountains like necklaces, while villages appeared like pearls scattered on the dark-green carpet below, and we looked right through a great rainbow, "the half of the signet ring of the Almighty,"

at one, and the landscape about it--a singular and beautiful effect.

Villages, lakes, landscapes were seen, as it were, through a river of light in a great panorama of hundreds of miles in extent, forming a view the grandeur and splendor of which it is impossible to describe.

But while we are looking at this wondrous picture, the sun sinks lower, and we raise our gaze to the grand chain of mountains, whose edges are now fringed with fire, or their snow peaks glowing in rose tints, sending back reflections from their blue glaciers, or sparkling in the latent rays.

There rises the great chain of Bernese Alps.

There _are_ mountains--eight, ten, twelve thousand feet into the air.

How sharply they are printed against the sky! and how they roll away off towards the horizon in a great billowy swell, till lost in the far distance, the white-topped peak of one tall sentinel just visible, touched by the arrowy beam of the sun that glances from his icy helmet!

Look which way you may, and a new scene of surpa.s.sing beauty chains the attention. Here rises rugged old Pilatus, almost from the bosom of Lake Lucerne; beyond Lucerne, the whole canton is spread out to view, with a little river crinkling through it, like a strip of silver bullion thread; away off, at one side, the top of the Cathedral of Zurich catches the eye; down at our very feet, on the lake, is a little speck--Tell's Chapel; right around us rise the Righi group of mountains, green to their summits, and in contrast to the perpetual snow mantles of the distant Bernese. But the sun, which has been like a huge glittering and red, flashing shield, is now only showing a flaming edge of fire behind the apparently tallest peak, making it look like the flame bursting from a volcano; the landscape is deepening in huge shadows, which we can see are cast by the mountains, half obscuring it from view; the blaze is fainter--it is extinguished; a few moments of red, fiery glow where it sank, and anon a great, rushing group of clouds, and the blackness of night closes in, and the fierce rush of the Alpine wind is upon us.

We turned and groped our way back to the house, whose brightly-lighted windows spoke of comfort within; and round the board at the meal, which served alike for dinner and supper, we exhausted the vocabulary of terms of admiration over the grand spectacle we had just witnessed, which seemed worth a journey across the Atlantic to see.

At the supper table, we fraternize with other Americans from different parts of our country; and even the reserved and reticent Englishman finds it pleasant to converse, or address a few words to those he has not been introduced to, it is "so pleasant to talk one's own language, you know." Out in a little sanded sitting-room, where cigars and warming fluids were enjoyed before retiring, the attention of us Americans was attracted to an old and familiar friend, whose unlooked-for presence in this quarter was no less surprising than it was gratifying to our national pride. It was nothing more nor less than a print of Trumbull's well-known picture of the Battle of Bunker Hill, suspended over the mantelpiece. There were General Warren, falling into the arms of the shirt-sleeved soldier, and the British captain, pushing aside the bayonets that were thrust at his prostrate figure. There was Pitcairn, falling backwards from the redoubt, shot dead in the moment of victory by the colored soldier in the foreground. And there was old Putnam, waving his sword over his head at the advancing grenadiers--the very same old picture that every one of us had seen in our histories and geographies in school-boy days.

"The thing was neither rich nor rare, But how the devil it got there,"

away up at the top of one of the Alps, was the wonder.

However, it is not to be wondered at that, after its discovery, the toast of America and Switzerland was drank, with all the honors. Now that the night had come down, we could hear the mountain wind roaring around the house, as if it were clamoring for admittance; but the great dining-hall was full of light and cheerfulness; tourists of different nationalities recounted their adventures in little groups, and the Swiss carved work, which was brought out and spread upon the tables for sale, found many purchasers among those who desired to preserve a memento of their visit to the top of Mount Rhigi.

We were warned to retire early, as all would be roused at four A. M., next morning, to witness a sunrise, which we were a.s.sured was infinitely more grand than sunset.

It was easier for me to get to bed than to sleep. The fatigue of the climb, the bracing effect of the atmosphere, the remembrance of the superb panorama, and, besides this, the rush, roar, and whistle of the mountain breeze which rattled at the cas.e.m.e.nt, all served to banish sleep from my eyes till the time arrived when the horn should have sounded for sunrise; but it did not, because of the thick clouds, as I heard from the few restless ones who clattered through the corridors; and so, relieved of the expectancy of the call, I sank into slumber, broken only by morning's light, although thick clouds veiled the G.o.d of day from view.

There appeared no prospect of clear weather; and so, after a late breakfast, our horses were ordered, and we began the descent, which, for the first half hour, was damp and cheerless enough, and made the coats and water-proofs we had been thoughtful enough to bring comfortable accessories. But, as we were slowly winding down the mountain, the clouds began to break; the wind had changed; gap after gap was rent in the vapor, which was rolled off at one side in great heaps; the bright blue sky looked through the rifts, and the landscape began to come out in great patches below; away went the clouds; what had seemed a great, dull curtain was broken up into sheets of billowy mist and huge patches of vapor, slowly rolling away in the distance, or heaping up in silvery banks; and below once more came out the blue, quiet lakes, the white villages, and the lovely landscape, while above, even above the clouds themselves, would start great peaks, round which they clung like fleecy garlands.

The rain-drops sparkled on the gra.s.s and bushes as I sat on a projecting cliff gazing at the scene, and the train of my companions wound out of sight, their voices growing fainter and fainter, till lost in the distance, and all was silent. There was no song of bird, or chirp of insect--a mountain solitude of stillness unbroken, when just below me came up that peculiar and melodious cry of the Alpine shepherd, "Ye-o-eo-o-leo-leo-leo-ye-ho-le-o," echoing and winding among the mountains, clear and bell-like, as it floated away.

The yodlyn! and this was the first time I had ever heard it in Switzerland.

But listen!

Above where I stand comes a reply, clear and musical, mellowed by distance, the curious falsetto, the "yo-e-ho-o-leo," is returned, and scarcely ceases ere taken up, away across the valley, by an answering voice, so faint in the distance that it quavers like a flute on the ear.

And so the herdsmen in these solitudes call and answer one another during their journeyings, or their lonely hours in the mountains.

Now we wind down, through trees, herbage, and wild flowers. Here is an ocean of white and buff garden heliotropes, monkshood, handsome lilac candytuft, and a flower in abundance which very much resembles the Mexican ageratum. Now we come to a broad sort of open field, and a _chalet_, where we halted, and rested upon rustic seats at the door, while the horses were baited. While we sat here, the officious host branded our Alpine stocks with the names of Goldau and Righi, showing that we had pa.s.sed those points. At this place, the open field was rich in sweet red-clover, and pretty little flowers, like dwarfed sweet-peas.

As we rode on, the air was melodious with the tinkling of the bells of the mountain herds, and the woods and fields rich in wild white roses and numerous other flowers.

At length we reached Kusnacht, on Lake Lucerne; and, embarking on a little steamboat, we glided along past the beautiful slopes of the Righi range, having a fine view of the frowning peak of Pilatus, and some towering snow-clads in the distance. Finally we rounded a point, and there lay Lucerne, in a sort of natural amphitheatre, fronting on the blue lake, and between the Righi and Pilatus on either side. Upon the whole length of the long quay is a broad avenue of shady chestnut trees; then, strung along behind it, are the great hotels; and in the background, running over on the heights above the town, are the walls and watch-towers, the whole forming a most charming and picturesque scene.

The steamer glides up to the stone pier almost opposite to the great hotel, where our rooms had been engaged and luggage forwarded, and in a few minutes more the officious porters have us domiciled in fine apartments in the "Schweizerhoff," where we proceed to remove the stains of travel and mountain climbing, enjoy the luxury of a good bath, and in other ways prepare for the _table d'hote_.

The Schweizerhoff is a splendid hotel, and, with its dependencies, accommodates some three hundred or more guests. It is admirably kept, the rooms clean, well furnished, and airy, and the front commanding a superb view of the lake, Mount Pilatus, Righi, and a whole range of Alps, green hill-sides, rocky crags, or great snow-clads, running up five, six, seven, and eight thousand feet high. A picture it seemed we could never tire gazing at, as we sat at our windows looking at them, and the blue lake, with its steamboats coming and going, row-boats and pleasure sail-boats gliding hither and thither. In this house is a reading-room for ladies and gentlemen, with English, French, German, and Italian newspapers, books and magazines, a billiard-room, pretty garden, and great dining-room, with conservatory at one end of it, filled with plants and birds. A fountain in the room spouts and flashes merrily during the dinner hour, and a band of music plays. There are waiters and porters who speak French, German, Italian, and English, and hearing the latter spoken on every side so frequently, seeing so many Americans, and the ladies going through with the usual display of dress and flirtations as at home, it was difficult to imagine that we were not at some Saratoga, or Newport, and that a few hours by rail would not bear us to Boston or New York.

The sights in Lucerne are few and easily seen, the princ.i.p.al attraction being the loveliness of the situation. The River Reuss emerges from the lake at this point, and rushes off at a tremendous rate, and two of the curious old wooden bridges that span it are features of the place; they are roofed over and partially enclosed. In the inner triangular compartments of the roof of the longest are a series of over a hundred pictures, ill.u.s.trating scenes in the lives of saints and in the history of Switzerland; in the other the Dance of Death is quaintly and rudely depicted; picturesque old places these bridges, cool and shady for a summer afternoon's stroll.

The great attraction in the old cathedral in Lucerne is the fine organ, which all visitors go to hear played; and we strolled in on a quiet summer's evening, after dinner, to listen to it. The slanting beams of the sun gleamed through the stained-gla.s.s windows, and lighted up some of the old carved wood reliefs of the stalls in the church, as we took our seats, with some fifty or sixty other tourists, here and there in the body of the house; and soon the music began. First there were two or three hymns, whose pure, simple melody was given with a grace and delicacy that seemed to carry their sacred sentiment to the very heart; from these the performer burst into one of the grandest performances of Mendelssohn's Wedding March I ever listened to. There was the full band, with hautboy, flute, clarinet, and trumpet accompaniment, introducing perfect solo obligatos, and closing with the full, grand sweep of melody, in which, amid the blending of all in one grand harmonious whole, the strains of each were distinguishable, perfect, pure, and faultless. The liquid ripple of the flute, the blare of the trumpet, and the mellow murmur of the clarinet, till the march arose in one grand volume of harmony that made the vaulted arches of the old cathedral ring again, and it seemed as if every nook and corner was filled with exultant melody. It was a glorious performance, and I felt like leaping to my feet, swinging my hat, and shouting, Bravo! when it was finished.

But, if this was glorious, the last piece, which represented a thunder storm amid the Alps, was little short of marvellous, and may be regarded as a masterpiece of organ-playing. It commenced with a beautiful pastoral introduction; this was succeeded by the muttering of distant thunder, the fitful gusts of a gradually rising tempest, the sharp _shirr_ of the wind, and the very rattling and trickling of the rain drops; mountain streams could be heard, rushing, swollen into torrents; the mutter of the tempest increased to a gradual and rising roar of wind; a resistless rush of rain was heard, that made the spectator look anxiously towards church windows, and feel nervous that he had no umbrella. Finally the tremendous tempest of the Alps seemed to shake the great cathedral, the winds howled and shrieked, the rain beat, rushed, and came down in torrents; the roar of the swollen mountain streams was heard between the terrific peals of thunder that reverberated among the mountains, awaking a hundred echoes, and one of those sharp, terrible rattles, that betokens the falling bolt, made more than one lady sit closer to her protector, with an involuntary shudder.

But anon the thunder peals grew less and less frequent, and rolled slowly and grandly off among the mountains, with heavy reverberations, between which the rush of the mountain streams and the rattle of the brooks were heard, till finally the peals of heaven's artillery died away entirely, the streams rushed less fiercely, and the brooks purled over the pebbles. Then, amid the subsiding of the tempest, the notes of a little organ, which had been heard only at intervals during the war of elements, became more clear and distinct: now, as the thunder ceased and the rush of rain was over, you heard it as in some distant convent or chapel among the mountains, and there arose a chant so sweet, so clear, so heavenly as to seem hardly of this earth--a chant of nuns before their altar; anon it increased in volume as tenor, alto, and even the full ba.s.s of monkish chant joined, and the whole choir burst into a glorious hymn of praise.

The audience were breathless as they listened to the chant of this invisible choir, whose voices they could distinguish in sweet accord as they arose and blended into a great anthem, and then gradually faded in the distance, as though the meek sisterhood were gliding away amid their cloisters, and the voices of the procession of hooded monks ceased one after the other, as they sought the quiet of their cells. The chant dropped away, voice by voice, into silence; all ceased but the little chapel organ accompaniment, which lingered and quavered, till, like a last trembling seraph breath, it faded away in the still twilight, and--the performance was over.

There was full a moment's spell-bound hush among the listeners after its conclusion, and then followed one universal burst of admiration and applause in half a dozen different languages. Some of the ladies of our party, not dreaming of the wonders of the vox humana stop, desired to see the choir that sang so sweetly; and to gratify them we ascended to the organ gallery, where, to their surprise, we met the sole performer on the wonderful instrument to which they had listened, in the person of an old German, with scattered gray hairs peeping out beneath his velvet skull-cap, wearing black knee-breeches and silk stockings, and shoes with broad buckles--a perfect old virtuoso in appearance, and a genuine musical enthusiast, trembling with pleasure at our praise, and his eyes glistening with tears at our admiration of his marvellous skill.

The lion of Lucerne is, in fact, literally the lion; that is, the celebrated lion sculptured out of the natural rock by the celebrated Danish sculptor Thorwaldsen, in memory of the Swiss guard that were ma.s.sacred in defence of the Tuileries in 1792. The figure is in a beautiful grotto, a sheet of water, which is fed by springs that trickle out from the stone that it is carved from, separating it from the spectator.

The reclining figure of this dying lion, so familiar to all from pictorial representations, is twenty-eight feet in length, and, as it lies transfixed with the broken lance, and in the agonies of death, sheltering the French shield and _fleur de lis_ with its great paws, forms a most appropriate monument, and one not easily forgotten.

Lake Lucerne, the Lake of the Four Cantons, is the most beautiful in Switzerland, and the grandeur and beauty of the scenery on every side are heightened by the historical a.s.sociations connected with the country bordering on its waters; for these cantons are the birthplace of Switzerland's freedom, and the scenes of the struggles of William Tell and his brave a.s.sociates. It was a beautiful summer's morning when we embarked on board one of the little steamers that leave Lucerne four or five times a day, and steamed out from the pier, leaving the long string of hotels, the range of hills above them, with the curious walls and watch-towers, behind us, and grim old Mount Pilatus with his necklace of clouds standing guard over the whole.

We again pa.s.s the green slopes of the Righi, and in the distance the great Alpine peaks begin to appear, printed against the sky. Soon we come to Burgenstock, a great forest-clad hill that rises abruptly from the very lake to the height of over three thousand four hundred feet; we pa.s.s beautiful slopes rimmed with a background of lofty mountain peaks; here is the picturesque little village of Waggis, from which many make the ascent of the Righi; next we pa.s.s a beautiful little crescent-shaped village, and then come in sight two great barren, rocky-looking peaks named Mythen, nearly six thousand feet high; and the boat rounds up to the pier of Brunnen, a lovely situation, where many tourists disembark and others come on board. Shortly after leaving here, we pa.s.s a perpendicular rock, nearly a hundred feet high, on which is inscribed, in huge gilt letters, an inscription signifying it is to "Frederick Schiller, the Bard of Tell." Just beyond this a pa.s.senger directs our view to a green field, and a few scattered chalets. That is Rutli, what little we can see of it, and where the founders of Swiss liberty met, and bound themselves by oath to free the land from the invader.

The steamer glides close to the sh.o.r.e, and gives us an opportunity of seeing Tell's Chapel, situated upon a rock on the sh.o.r.e, and marking the place where Tell sprang out of Gessler's boat, as is told in the stories of the Swiss hero. Leaving this behind, we soon come in sight of Fluelen, our point of destination, situated in the midst of a surrounding of grand Alpine scenery. Between two great peaks, in full view, we can see a glacier, with its white snow and blue ice, and a great peak, with castle-shaped summit, looms up seventy-five hundred feet, while behind Fluelen rise two other peaks nearly ten thousand feet. We are circled by great Alps, with their snowy crowns and glaciers gleaming in the sunlight.

Landing at Fluelen, we engaged for our party of five a private open carriage, for the journey through St. Gothard Pa.s.s, instead of taking the great c.u.mbrous ark of a diligence that was in waiting. By this means we secured a vehicle very much like an open barouche, roomy, comfortable, and specially designed for the journey, with privilege, of course, of stopping when and where we liked, driving fast or slow; in fact, travelling at our own convenience. This is by far the pleasantest way of travelling the mountain pa.s.ses accessible to carriages, and where a party can be made up of four or five, the expense per head is but a small advance on that charged in the diligence, a dusty, dirty, crowded vehicle, with but few positions commanding the view, which is what the tourist comes to see.

Crack, crack, crack! went the driver's whip, like a succession of pistol-shots, as we rattled out of Fluelen, and, after a pleasant ride of half an hour, rolled into the romantic little village of Altorf, embosomed in a lovely valley, with the huge mountains rising all about it.

Altorf! William Tell! "Men of Altorf!"

Yes; this was the place embalmed in school-boy memories with all that was bold, heroic, brave, and romantic. Here was where William Tell defied Gessler, dashed down his cap from the pole, and appealed to the men of Altorf.

Pleasant little Swiss town. We ride through a narrow street, which widens out into a sort of market-place, at one end of which stands a huge plaster statue of the Swiss liberator, which is said to occupy the very spot that he stood upon when he performed his wondrous feat of archery, and one hundred and fifty paces distant a fountain marks the spot where his son Albert stood awaiting the arrow from his father's bow, though some of the Swiss insist that Albert's position was thirty paces farther, where a tower now stands, upon which some half-obliterated frescoes, representing scenes in Tell's life, are painted.

We descended from our carriage, walked over the s.p.a.ce of the arrow flight, and called to each other from the opposite points; pictured to ourselves the crowd of villagers, the fierce soldiery that pressed them back, the anxiety of the father, the tw.a.n.g of the bow, distinctly heard in the awe-struck hush of the a.s.semblage as the arrow sped on its flight, and then the shout that went up as the apple was cleft, and the boy, unhurt, ran to his father's arms.