Over the Ocean Part 33

Our road now lay through the Italian valley, and we pa.s.s Vogogna, Ornava.s.so, and other towns, and things begin to wear a decidedly Italian aspect--the grape trellises, with their cl.u.s.tering fruit; half-ruined dwellings, with stucco work peeling off them; the general greasy, lazy, half-brigandish look of the men; and the partiality for high colors in dress on the part of the peasant women. Fresh from the invigorating air of the Alpine pa.s.ses, we felt the full force of the Italian sun.

Although late in August, the weather is not hotter, apparently, than in Boston; but when the sun gets fairly at you in Italy, it seems to shine clear through, and come out on the other side. Fifteen minutes in its blaze, without the protection of one of the yellow, green-lined umbrellas, will almost wilt the vigor out of anybody but a native. It goes through the frame like a Boston east wind.

With this sun shining from a blue, cloudless, Italian sky, it may well be imagined how grateful was a beautiful portion of the country, where there were shady olive groves, chestnut and fig trees, and how luscious were our first grapes and fruit purchased of the peasant women at the roadside. We pa.s.sed, as we approached Lake Maggiore, a fine granite quarry, which seemed to have been laid under contribution to furnish posts for the telegraphic line. Think of that luxury, granite telegraph posts, fifteen feet high, of clear, handsome stone. We rode past them for miles and miles, and soon came in sight of the far-famed Maggiore.

It was beautiful as a picture; and as our carriage drove along its sh.o.r.e, the cool afternoon breeze came fresh and grateful to us, after our heated experiences. Across one corner of the lake in a ferry-boat, a short drive farther by the lake sh.o.r.e, and we whirled up to the splendid Hotel des Iles Borromees directly fronting the lake, with its beautiful flower-garden, with walks and fountains. We found the interior of this hotel delightfully cool and clean, the staircases and floors of stone, and the bedsteads of iron--advantages of construction in Italy the utility of which the traveller soon learns to appreciate.

The lake is as charming as poets have sung and travellers told, with its beautiful island and lovely blue waters. The Isola Bella, directly opposite my windows, with its splendid terraces, one above the other, rising a hundred feet above the lake, and rich with its graceful cypresses, lemon trees, magnolias, orange trees, with golden fruit, and sparkling fountains, statues, and pillars, peeping through the luxurious foliage, is charming to look upon. But when--my _siesta_ over, and as the sun was low in the west, with a cool air coming from the water, and the little pleasure-boats, with their striped awnings, were gliding hither and thither--I saw come down the road for his evening walk a brown-robed, barefooted, rope-girdled, shaven friar, and, from the opposite direction, a little dark-skinned Italian lad, with pointed hat, decorated with gay ribbons, rough leggings bound to his knee, and a mandolin in his hand, it seemed, in the soft, dreamy, hazy atmosphere, that I was looking upon an old oil painting. The effect was heightened when the boy struck his instrument, and began to sing--and beautifully he did sing, too. I have heard worse singing by some whose names were in large letters on the opera bills. The friar halted, and leaned on a gray rock at the road-side to listen, while he toyed absently with his rosary. Two or three peasant girls, in their bright costumes, and one with an earthen jar on her head, paused in a group, and a barelegged boatman, in a red cap, rested two tall oars upon the ground, the whole forming so picturesque a group as to look as if posed for a picture.

How pleasant is an evening sail on this lovely lake! how romantic are Isola Bella and its sister islands! how like a soft, dreamy picture is the whole scene! and how all the surroundings seemed exactly fitted to harmonize with it!--a purely Italian scene, the picturesque beauty of which will long linger in the memory.

We had a delightful sail from Stressa, along the sh.o.r.es of Maggiore to Sesto Calende, heard the sweet sound of convent bells come musically across its gla.s.sy tide, pa.s.sed Arona, behind which we could see the colossal bronze statue of San Carlo Borromeo, sixty-six feet high, placed upon a pedestal forty feet in height, looking like an immense giant, with its hand stretched out towards the lake from the hill on which it stands. From Sesto Calende the railway train conveyed us to Milan, where we were landed in a magnificent railway station, the waiting rooms large and lofty, the ceilings elegantly frescoed, and the walls painted with beautifully executed allegorical pictures and Italian landscapes, giving one the idea that he had arrived in a country where artistic painting was a drug in the market, so lavishly was it used in this manner in the railway stations.

Our rooms at the Hotel Cavour look out on a handsome square and the public gardens. In the square stands a statue of Cavour, upon a pedestal placed at the top of a set of granite steps. Upon these steps, seated in the most natural position, is a bronze figure of the genius of fame or history (a female figure) represented in the act of inscribing Cavour's name with her pen upon the bronze pedestal. And so natural is this representation, that strangers who see the group in the evening for the first time, often fancy that some unauthorized person has got into the enclosure, and is defacing the statue.

The first sight to be seen in Milan is the cathedral; and before this magnificent architectural wonder, all cathedrals I have yet looked upon seem to sink into insignificance.

A forest of white marble pinnacles, a wilderness of elegant statues, an interminable maze, and never-ending ma.s.s of bewildering tracery, greets the beholder, who finds himself gaping at it in astonishment, and wondering where he will begin to look it over, or if it will be possible for him to see it all. The innumerable graceful pinnacles, surmounted by statues, the immense amount of luxurious carving prodigally displayed on every part of the exterior, strike the visitor with amazement. Its architecture is Gothic, and the form that of a Latin cross; and to give an idea of its size, I copy the following authentic figures of its dimensions: "The extreme length is four hundred and eighty-six feet, and the breadth two hundred and fifty-two feet; the length of the transept two hundred and eighty-eight feet, and the height inside, from pavement to roof, one hundred and fifty-three feet; height from pavement to top of the spire, three hundred and fifty-five feet."

After taking a walk around the exterior of this wonderful structure, and gazing upon the architectural beauties of the great white marble mountain, we prepared to ascend to the roof before visiting the interior.

This ascent is made by a broad white marble staircase of one hundred and fifty-eight steps, the end of which being reached, the visitor finds himself amid an endless variety of beautiful pinnacles, flying b.u.t.tresses, statues, carvings, and tracery. Here are regular walks laid out, terminating in or pa.s.sing handsome squares, in the centre of which are life-size statues by Canova, Michael Angelo, and other great sculptors. You come to points commanding extensive views of the elegant flying b.u.t.tresses, which are beautifully wrought, and present a vista of hundreds of feet of white marble tracery as elegant, elaborate, and bewildering as the tree frost-work of a New England winter.

Here is a place called the "Garden," where you are surrounded by pinnacles, richly ornamented Gothic arches, flying b.u.t.tresses, with representations of leaves, flowers, pomegranate heads, tracery, statuary, and ornaments in such prodigality as to fairly excite exclamation at the profuseness displayed. In every angle of the building the eye meets new and surprising beauties, magnificent galleries, graceful arcs, and carved parapets, pointed, needle-like pinnacles, Gothic arches, and cl.u.s.tered pillars.

We come to where the carvers and stone-cutters are at work. They have a regular stone-cutters' yard up here on the roof, with sheds for the workmen and stone-carvers, and their progress is marked on the building by the fresher hue of the work. These old cathedrals are never finished; their original plans are lost, and there always seems to be some great portion of the work that is yet to be carried out. We should have got lost in the maze of streets, squares, and pa.s.sages upon the roof, without a guide.

A total ascent of five hundred and twelve steps carries the visitor to the platform of the great cupola, from which a fine view of the city is obtained, the plains surrounding it bounded by the girdle of distant, snow-capped mountains. Directly beneath can be seen the cruciform shape of the great cathedral; and looking down, we find that one hundred and thirty-six spires and pinnacles rise from the roof, and that cl.u.s.tered on and about them is a population of over _thirty-five hundred_ statues.

Nearly a hundred are said to be added each year by the workmen. Amid this bewildering scene of architectural wonders, it is not surprising that two hours pa.s.sed ere we thought of descending; and even then we left no small portion of this aerial garden, this marble forest of enchantment, with but the briefest glance.

But if the roof was so beautiful, what must be the appearance of the interior of this great temple?

It was grand beyond description; the great nave over four hundred feet in length, the four aisles with their vistas of nearly the same length of cl.u.s.tered pillars--four complete ranges of them, fifty-two in all--supporting the magnificent vaulted arch one hundred and fifty feet above our heads. The vastness of the s.p.a.ce as you stand in it beside one of the great Gothic pillars, the base of which, even, towers up nearly as high as your head--the very vastness of the interior causes you to feel like a fly under the dome of St. Paul's. An idea of the size of this cathedral may be had from the fact, that while workmen with ladder, hammer, and tools were putting up a painting upon the walls at one end of the church, the priests were conducting a service with sixty or seventy worshippers at the other, undisturbed by the noise of hammer or metal tool, the blows of which, even if listened for, could scarce be heard beyond a faint click.

A good opera-gla.s.s is a necessity in these great cathedrals, a good guide-book is another; and I find the gla.s.s swung by its strap beneath one arm, and the tourist's satchel beneath the other, positive conveniences abroad, however sn.o.bbish they may appear at home.

There are five great doorways to the church, and the visitor's attention is always called by the guide to the two gigantic pillars near the largest door. These are single columns of polished red granite, thirty-five feet high and four feet in diameter at the base; they support a sort of balcony, upon which stand the colossal figures of two saints. All along the sides of the cathedral are chapels, elegant marble altars and altar tombs, interspersed with statues and pictures.

The capitals of many of the great columns have finely carved statues grouped about them; some have eight, and others more. The ceiling of the vaulted roof, which, from the pavement, appears to be sculptured stone-work, is only a clever imitation in painting; but the floor of the cathedral is laid out in mosaic of different colored marbles.

With what delight we wandered about this glorious interior! There was the great window, with its colored gla.s.s, representing the Virgin Mary's a.s.sumption, executed by Bertini. Here were the monument raised by Pius IV. to his brothers, cut from fine Carrara marble, except the statues, after Michael Angelo's designs; the pulpits, that are partly of bronze work, and elegantly ornamented with ba.s.s-reliefs which encircle two of the great pillars, and are themselves held up by huge caryatides; numerous monuments, among them the bright-red marble tomb of Ottone Visconti, who left his property to the Knights of St. John, who erected this monument; the beautiful carved stalls of the choir, the high altar and magnificent Gothic windows behind it.

In the south transept is the celebrated statue of St. Bartholomew, who was flayed alive, and who is represented as having undergone that operation and taking a walk, with his own skin thrown carelessly over one arm, after the manner of an overcoat which the weather has rendered oppressive to the wearer. But this statue can hardly fail to chain the spectator some moments to the spot, on account of the hideous accuracy with which every artery, muscle, and tendon appear to be represented. I had never thought before how a man might look when stripped of that excellent fitting garment, the _cutis vera_; but this statue gave me as correct an idea of it as I ever wish to obtain. It is said to have been executed by the great sculptor Phidias, and to be wonderfully correct in anatomical detail. The latter fact can hardly be doubted by any who look upon the marvellous skill which appears to have been exhausted upon every part of it. Shocking as it appeared, I found myself drawn, again and again, to look upon it; such is its effect as a wondrous work of art.

Now the guide leads to a crypt below the pavement. We are to visit the chapel where rests the good St. Charles Borromeo, who died nearly three centuries ago. We go down nine or ten steps, pa.s.s through a pa.s.sage lined with the richest marbles, a portal adorned with splendid columns, with their capitals and bases richly gilt, and stand in the sepulchral chapel of the saint. It is a small octagonal apartment, lighted by an opening from above, which is surrounded by a rail, so that the faithful may look down upon the sarcophagus below. The walls of this apartment are formed of eight ma.s.sive silver ba.s.s-reliefs, representing remarkable events in the saint's life. Then in the angles are eight caryatides of ma.s.sive silver, representing his virtues. The sarcophagus, which rests upon the altar, is a large bronze box mounted with silver. A douceur of five francs to the attendant priest, and he reverently crosses himself, and, bending at a crank, causes the bronze covers of the shrine to fold away, revealing to our view the dead body of the saint, in a splendid transparent coffin of pure rock crystal, bound with silver, and ornamented also with small silver statues, bearing the cipher of the royal donor, Philip IV. of Spain.

There lay the good bishop, who had preached humility all his life, arrayed in his episcopal garb, which was one blaze of precious stones.

Diamonds of the purest water flashed back their colored light to the glare of the altar candles; rubies, like drops of blood, glowed in fiery splendor, and emeralds shone green as sea-waves in the sunlight. The saint held in his left hand a golden pastoral staff, fairly crusted with precious stones. A splendid cross of emeralds and diamonds is suspended above him within the shrine; it is the gift of Maria Theresa, and about the head is a magnificent golden crown, rich with the workmanship of that wonderful artificer, Benvenuto Cellini, the gift of the Elector of Bavaria. But there, amid all these flashing jewels, that which the rich habiliments failed to conceal, was the grinning skull, covered with the shrivelled skin black with age, the sunken eye-sockets, and all bearing the dread signet-stamp of Death; making it seem a hideous mockery to trick out these crumbling remains with senseless trappings, now so useless to the once mortal habitation of an immortal soul. We leave the saint to sleep in his costly mausoleum, his narrow, eight-sided chamber, and its riches, representing one hundred and sixty thousand pounds sterling, and follow our guide to view more of the wealth of the church.

Here we are in the sacristy, and the custodian shows us two huge statues of St. Charles and St. Ambrose of solid silver, and their sacerdotal robes thickly studded with jewels; magnificent silver busts, life-size, of other bishops; elegant gold candelabra; goblets and altar furniture of rare and exquisite workmanship; silver lamps, censers, chalices, &c., of those rare, delicate, and beautiful old patterns that were a charm to look upon; missals studded with precious stones; rich embroideries, rare altar-pieces, and one solid ornamental piece of silver-work, weighing over one hundred pounds. All these riches locked up, useless here, save as a sight to the wonder-seeking tourist; while poor, ragged worshippers of the church of Rome are prostrating themselves without, before the great altar, from which they rise and waylay him as he pa.s.ses out, to beseech him--the heretic--for a few coppers, for the love of G.o.d, to keep them from starvation. I can well imagine what rich plunder old Cromwell's bluff Round-heads must have found in the Roman Catholic cathedrals of England, although I have more than once mentally anathematized their vandalism, which was shown in defacing and destroying some of the most beautiful specimens of art of the middle ages.

The old Church of St. Ambrosio is an interesting edifice to visit, with its curious relics, tombs, altars, and inscriptions. The princ.i.p.al altar here is remarkable for its richness; its sides are completely enclosed in a strong iron-bound and padlocked sheathing, which, however, the silver key unlocked, and we found the front to be sheathed in solid gold, elegantly enamelled and ornamented, the back and sides being of solid silver; all about the border, corners, and edges were set every species of precious stones, cameos, and rich jewels. The rubies, amethysts, topazes, &c., were in the rough, uncut; but the goldsmith's work, carving and chasing, was elaborate, and the dirty friar who exhibited the sight, with small candles, about the size of pen-holders, stuck between his fingers, took much pride in pointing out the beauties of the work, and holding his little candles so that their light might be the more effectual to display them. The back was all covered with representations of the princ.i.p.al events in the life of St. Ambrose, separated from each other by enamelled borders.

We next went to the refectory of the Church of Santa Maria delle Grazie, and saw Leonardo da Vinci's celebrated painting of the Last Supper, the picture that we are all familiar with from childhood, from having seen it in Bibles, story-books, and engravings. In fact, it is _the_ picture of the Last Supper always referred to when the representation is spoken of. I could not go into raptures over this half-defaced fresco, which has had a door cut through one portion of it, has sustained the damage incidental to the refectory, being used as a cavalry stable, and has twice been nearly all painted over by bad artists since the great painter left it; and he, in his preparation of the wall for the painting, used a process which proved a failure, causing it to fade and flake off. Although this is the great original, from which so many copies are taken,--and it is something to have seen the original,--we think we have seen more than one copy far more striking, and more beautiful in its finish.

A ramble through Victor Emmanuel's palace gave us an opportunity of seeing some fine pictures, the great state ball-room, elegantly-frescoed ceilings, and the rich furniture and tapestry, that one ere long begins to find are in some degree, when no historical a.s.sociation is connected with them, so much alike in all palaces. The celebrated La Scala Theatre was closed for the season during our visit to Milan; but the custodians have an eye to business. They keep the lower row of gas-lights burning, turned low, and for a consideration turn on the gas, and light up the vast interior sufficiently for visitors to get something of an idea of it.

Notwithstanding its vast size, the excellence of its internal arrangements for seeing and hearing is remarkable. Standing upon the stage, we delivered a Shakespearian extract to an extremely select but discriminating audience, whose applause was liberally, and, need we add, deservedly bestowed. I know not how it may be when the house is filled with an audience, but it appeared to us that its acoustic properties were remarkable, for a "stage whisper" could be distinctly heard at the extreme rear of the centre of the first row of boxes, while the echo of the voice seemed to return to the speaker on the stage, as from a sounding-board above his head, with marvellous distinctness. This house will hold an audience of thirty-six hundred persons. The distance from the centre box to the curtain is ninety-six feet; width of the stage, fifty-four feet; and depth of the stage behind the curtain, one hundred and fifty feet--room enough for the most ambitious scenic display.

The form of the house is the usual semicircle, there being forty-one boxes in each row. Many of those in the first row have small withdrawing-rooms. One--the Duke Somebody's--has a supper room, in which his highness and friends partake of a _pet.i.t souper_ between the acts, there being cooking conveniences for the preparation of the same below.

The brevity of our visit to Milan causes the day that was devoted to the wonderful library, the Biblioteca Ambrosiana, with its grand halls, its one hundred and fifty thousand volumes, and eight thousand ma.n.u.scripts, rare autographic and literary treasures, and the great halls of paintings, where the works of Guido, Paul Veronese, Raphael, Da Vinci, and Rubens adorn the walls, to seem like a wondrous dream; and our general rule being to see thoroughly what we saw, we regretted that we had even attempted these two interesting galleries--places which, to any one having any taste whatever for art or literature, it is little less than an aggravation to be hurried through.

By rail from Milan we came to a place about a mile from Como, where omnibuses conveyed us through that hot, vilesmelling, filthy Italian town to the pier on the lake, where the steamer was waiting our arrival, and which we were right glad to have paddle out into the lake from the vile odors that surrounded us. But once out upon the blue waters, and free from the offence to our nostrils, how charming was the scene! The dirty city that we had left was picturesque on the undulating sh.o.r.e, with its old tower, spires, and quaint houses. As we sailed along, beautiful villas were seen on the sh.o.r.e, their fronts with marble pillars, their gardens with terraces rich in beautiful flowers, and adorned with statues, vases, and fountains; marble steps, with huge carved bal.u.s.ters, ran down to the very water's edge, where awning-covered pleasure-boats were in waiting--just such scenes as you see on the act-drop at the theatre, and believe to be mere flights of artistic fancy, but which now are found to exist in reality.

At a point where Lake Como divides into two arms, one extending to Como and the other to Lecco, we pa.s.sed Bellaggio, one of the most beautiful spots ever seen. It is on a high promontory at this point, commanding extensive views of the lake and surrounding country. The promontory is covered with the elegant villas of wealthy people.

There is something luxurious and charming in a sail upon this lovely lake, with the beautiful villas upon its sh.o.r.es, the vine-clad hills, with the broad-hatted peasant women seen among the grape-vines, white turreted churches, brown, distant convents, from which the faint music of the bell came softened over the water, the long reaches of beautiful landscape view between the hills, the soft, blue sky, and the delicious, dreamy atmosphere. A charming lake is Como, but with many objects, "'tis distance lends enchantment to the view."

A boat put off from a romantic little cove for the steamer, which paused for its arrival. Its occupants were a stalwart rower, in blue shirt, red cap, and black slashed breeches, a sort of Ma.s.saniello-looking fellow, who bent to the oars with a will, and a friar, with shaven crown and brown cowl, with cross and rosary at his waist. Soon after we saw the holy man on board; and certainly he did not believe cleanliness was next to G.o.dliness, for all that was visible of his person was filthy, and evidently not on frequent visiting acquaintance with soap and water, while the vile odor of garlic formed a halo of nearly three feet in circ.u.mference about his person--an odor of sanct.i.ty requiring the possession of a stomach not easily disturbed to enable one to endure it.

I once saw one of these friars at a railway station, whose curious blending of the mediaeval and modern together in his costume and occupation struck me as so irresistibly comical that I could not resist a laugh, much to his amazement. But fancy seeing a friar, or monk, in the sandals, brown robe, and corded waist, just such as you have seen in engravings, and whom you naturally a.s.sociate with Gothic cathedrals, cloistered convents, as bearing a crosier, or engaged in some ecclesiastical occupation--fancy seeing a monk in this well-known costume, near a railway station, his head surmounted with a modern straw hat, a sort of market-basket in his hand, and smoking a cigarette with great nonchalance as he watched the train!

We landed at Colico, at the end of the lake--a filthy place, where dirt was trumps, and garlic and grease were triumphant. We attempted a meal at the hotel while the diligence was getting ready; but on coming to the board, notwithstanding it was with sharpened appet.i.tes, the dirt and odor were too much for us, and we retreated in good order, at the expense of five francs for the landlord's trouble and unsuccessful attempt. A diligence ride of eighteen miles brought us to Chiavenna at eight o'clock P.M. Here the hotel was tolerable, the landlord and head waiter spoke English, and, late as it was, we ordered dinner, for we were famished; and a very delectable one we had, and comfortable rooms for the night. Chiavenna is a dull old place, with the ruins of the former residences and strongholds of the old dukes of Milan scattered about it. One old shattered castle was directly opposite our hotel.

We now prepared for a journey from here over another Alpine pa.s.s, the Splugen. This pa.s.s was constructed by the Austrians, in 1821, in order to preserve for themselves a good pa.s.sage over to Lombardy. We engaged our post carriage as usual, with a fair _written_ contract with the driver,--necessary when agreeing with an Italian, to prevent _mistakes_,--and preliminaries being settled, started off with the usual rattle of whip-cracks, rode through pleasant scenery of vineyards, mountain slopes, and chestnut trees, and soon began to wind on our way upwards. Pa.s.sing the custom-house in the little village of Campo Dolcino, thirty-three hundred feet above the level of the sea, we are again upon the beautifully engineered road of an Alpine pa.s.s, and at one point the zigzags were so sharp and frequent that the granite posts protecting the edge of the road presented the appearance of a straight row directly in front of us, rising at an angle of forty-five degrees, although the real ascent by the numerous windings is comparatively easy and apparently slight.

As we went winding up, back and forth, we came in sight of the beautiful Madesimo Waterfall, seen from various angles of the road pouring down from far above us to the valley below. Each turn gave us a different view. It was a succession of pictures of valley and cascade, until we finally pa.s.sed through a covered gallery, and our road led us past the cliff over which the level stream took its leap for its downward career.

Leaving the carriage, we walked to a small projecting table rock directly overhanging the ravine,--a portion of the rock over which the stream falls,--where, leaning over the iron railing,--grasped, we confess, with a firm clutch,--we looked down to the frothy foam of the waterfall, seven hundred feet below. It was a fine point of view--an exciting position to feel one's self so near a terribly dangerous place, and yet be safe, to defy danger, enjoy the beauty of the cascade, and measure with the eye the great distance of its leap.

After leaving here, we begin to enter a wild, and in winter a dangerous, portion of the pa.s.s. This is the Cardinell Gorge. Not only are the zigzags sharp and frequent, but we come to great covered galleries, made of solid masonry, with sloping roofs, to cause avalanches, that are constantly precipitated from above, to slide off, and thus protect travellers and the road itself. The galleries are wonderful pieces of workmanship. One of them is six hundred and fifty, another seven hundred, and a third fifteen hundred and thirty feet in length. They are lighted by openings at the sides. We have fine views of the lofty mountains all around, and the deep gorges torn by countless avalanches; and now we reach one of the houses of refuge. We stand fifty-eight hundred and sixty feet above the level of the sea. The air is cold, and overcoats are comfortable. On we go, and at length shiver in the glacier's breath at the boundary line between Switzerland and Italy--the summit of the pa.s.s six thousand eight hundred and eighty feet above the sea.

CHAPTER XI.

Once more we are in sight of the familiar snow-clads and ice-fields; the glaciers are in sight in every direction; there are the mountain peaks, the names all terminating with "horn." Our old friend, the Schneehorn, shoots his peak ten thousand feet into the air, and the Surettahorn lifts its ma.s.s of ice nine thousand three hundred feet high into the clear sunlight, and we are again amid the grand Alpine scenery I have so often described. Now we begin our descent, zigzag, as usual, through wild mountain scenery, till at last we whirl through a long gallery, and, with a salute of whip-snappings, enter the village of Splugen; through this, and out again into another grand Alpine landscape, taking in a view of the peaks of the Zapporthorn and Einshorn, each over nine thousand feet high, and away off in the distance, the chalets of a Swiss village, perched in among the mountains. Down we go, at full trot, through the beautiful Roffla Ravine, picturesque in the twilight, with its rocky walls, and its rattling cascades of the River Rhine dashing over the rocky bed. There is one place where there is barely room for the Rhine and the road to pa.s.s through the rocky gateway of the pa.s.s.

The scenery is wild, but at the same time there were trees, with luxuriant foliage, that were pleasant to the eye; beautiful larches, black spruces, and other trees of that kind, softened the rough aspect of the mountains.

We were not sorry to draw rein at dusk at the village of Andeer, where we had only a tolerable lodging, and a very bad breakfast; after which we were once more on the road, and soon reached the valley of six streams, which glide down the mountains, on either side, to the green valley below, with its pretty farm-houses and green pastures. Soon after leaving this, we enter upon the celebrated Via Mala.

This narrow pa.s.s seems like a great cleft, cut by a giant's knife, into a huge loaf; the pathway through it, until 1822, was only four feet wide. The carriage-road and the river now seem as if squeezed into the gap, that might at any moment snap together and crush them. Huge perpendicular rocky walls rise to the height of fifteen hundred feet on either side; the River Rhine runs through the gorge three hundred feet below the road, which crosses and recrosses it three or four times by means of bridges; the great walls of rock, in some places, seem almost to meet above, and shut out the full light of day, the s.p.a.ce is so narrow; for the river forces its way through a cleft, only fifteen feet wide between the rock, and at one place there is a gallery, two hundred feet long, cut through the solid rock. Although the river is three hundred feet below the road, yet the cleft between the mountain is so narrow that spring freshets will raise it a hundred feet or more. A woman, who, at the highest bridge, drops stones down to the tide below, for tourists to count ten before they strike the water, points out a mark upon one of the bridges, noting a remarkable rise of the river in 1834, when it came up nearly two hundred and fifty feet, to the arch of this bridge, and then solicits a few sous for her services.

This wild, dark, and gloomy gorge, with its huge overhanging curtains of solid rock, the pathway clinging to its sides, the roaring torrent under foot, arched bridges crossing its chasms, and tunnels piercing its granite barricades, is literally a pathway wrenched through the mountain's everlasting wall. It cannot fail to make a profound impression by its gloomy grandeur and wild beauty, especially at one point, where the eye can sweep away through the gorge, as if looking through a vast rocky tube, and rest upon green, sunny slopes, and pleasant, smiling scenery beyond.

We reach the pleasant village of Thusis, where the river Nolla flows into the Rhine; and there is, from the bridge that spans it, a beautiful view of the valley in a ring of mountains and an old castle, the oldest in Switzerland, perched on a crag, high above the river. Here, at the Hotel Adler, rest and an excellent lunch were both obtained, after which the whip cracked good by, and we rattled on, through villages, and now and then over arched bridges, and past picturesque water-wheels, or little Roman Catholic churches, till at last we come to one great bridge of a single arch, crossing the Rhine near Reicehnau--a bridge eighty feet above the river, and two hundred and thirty-seven feet long. We pa.s.s the pretty village of Ems, and next reach Coire, where our carriage journey ends, the driver is paid, and we enjoy the novelty of half an hour's ride by rail to Ragatz.

Here, while enjoying a rest at sunset, we had from the hotel balcony a glorious view of a long line of mountains, and a huge, flat wall of rock, upon which the setting sun strikes after streaming between two great mountains, and makes it look like a huge sheet of light bronze--one of those novel had indescribable effects that you see only in the Alps.

The great wonder here, and, in fact, one of the greatest wonders of Switzerland, is the Tamina Gorge and Pfaffers Baths, which next morning we rode to see. A drive of two miles, through a wild, romantic gorge,--the road, a part of the distance, hewn out of the solid ledge, and the river tearing along over its jagged bed of rocks below,--brought us to the hotel of the bath establishment (or, rather, it is the hotel and bath establishment combined), excellently kept and managed, and planted here between two great walls of rock on either side, six hundred feet high. The water is conveyed down to it from the hot springs in the gorge, about a quarter of a mile above, in pipes.

Leaving the hotel, we ascend on foot up through this wonderful crack in the mountains. It is a cleft, ranging in width from twenty to forty feet, the pathway a plank walk, five feet wide, affixed by staples to one side of the solid rock.