From the Lakes of Killarney to the Golden Horn

But yet the impression is not one wholly of terror, or even of unmixed awe. There is beauty as well as wildness in the scene. Nothing can exceed the quiet and seclusion of these mountain paths, and there is something very sweet to the ear in which fill "the forest primeval" with their gentle sound. And when at evening one hears the tinkling cow-bells, as the herds return from the mountain pastures, there is a pastoral simplicity in the scene which is very touching, and we could understand how the Swiss air of the Ranz des Vaches (or the returning of the cows) should awaken such a feeling of homesickness in the soldier far from his native mountains, that bands have been prohibited from playing it in Swiss regiments enlisted in foreign armies.

"The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,"

When we came down from the Mer de Glace, it was not yet three o'clock, and before us on the opposite side of the valley rose another mountain, which we might ascend before night if we had strength left. We felt a little remorse at giving the guide another half-day's work; but he, foreseeing extra pay, said cheerfully that he could stand it; the mule said nothing, but pricked up his long ears as if he was thinking very hard, and if the miracle of Balaam could have been repeated, I think the poor dumb beast would have had a pretty decided opinion. But it being left to us, we declared for a fresh ascent, and once more set our faces skyward, and went climbing upward for two hours more.

We were well paid for the fatigue. The Flégère, facing Mont Blanc, commands a full view of the whole range, and as the clouds drifted off, we saw distinctly every peak.

Thus elated and jubilant we set out to return. Until now, we had kept along with the mule, alternating a ride and walk, as boys are accustomed to "ride and tie"; but now our eagerness could not be restrained, and we gave the reins to the guide to lead the patient creature down into the valley, while we, with unfettered limbs, strode joyous down the mountain side. It was seven o'clock when we reached our hotel. We had been steadily in motion – except a short rest for lunch at the Chapeau on the mountain – for eleven hours.

Here ends the journey of the day, but not the moral of it. I hope it is not merely a professional habit that leads me to wind up everything with an application; but I cannot look upon a grand scene of nature without gliding insensibly into religious reflections. Nature leads me directly to Nature's God. The late Prof. Albert Hopkins, of Williams College, of blessed memory, a man of science and yet of most devout spirit, who was as fond of the hills as a born mountaineer, and who loved nothing so much as to lead his Alpine Club over the mountains around Williamstown – was accustomed, when he had conducted them to some high, commanding prospect, to ask whether the sight of such great scenes made them feel great or small? I can answer for myself that the impression is a mixed one; that it both lifts me up and casts me down. Certainly the sight of such sublimity elevates the soul with a sense of the power and majesty of the Creator. While climbing to-day, I have often repeated to myself that old, majestic hymn:

I sing the mighty power of God,That made the mountains rise;

and another:

'Tis by thy strength the mountains stand,God of eternal power,The sea grows calm at thy command,And tempests cease to roar.

But in another view the sight of these great objects of nature is depressing. It makes one feel his own littleness and insignificance. I look up at Mont Blanc with a telescope, and can just see a party climbing near the Grands Mulets. How like creeping insects they look; and how like insects they are in the duration of their existence, compared with the everlasting forms of nature. The flying clouds that cast their shadows on the head of Mont Blanc are not more fleeting. They pass like a bird and are gone, while the mountains stand fast forever, and with their eternity seem to mock the fugitive existence of man upon the earth.

I confess the impression is very depressing. These terrible mountains crush me with their awful weight. They make me feel that I am but an atom in the universe; a moth whose ceasing to exist would be no more than the blowing out of a candle. And I am not surprised that men who live among the mountains, are sometimes so overwhelmed with the greatness of nature, that they are ready to acquiesce in their own annihilation, or absorption in the universal being.

Talking with Father Hyacinthe the other evening (as we sat on the terrace of the Hotel Beau Rivage at Geneva, overlooking the lake), he spoke of the alarming spread of unbelief in Europe, and quoted a distinguished professor of Zurich, of whom he spoke with great respect, as a man of learning and of excellent character, who had frankly confessed to him that he did not believe in the immortality of the soul; and when Father Hyacinthe replied in amazement, "If I believed thus I would go and throw myself into the Lake of Zurich," the professor answered with the utmost seriousness, "That is not a just religious feeling; if you believe in God as an infinite Creator you ought to be willing to cease to exist, feeling that God is the only Being who is worthy to live eternally."

Marvellous as this may seem, yet something of this feeling comes to thoughtful and serious minds from the long and steadfast contemplation of nature. One is so little in the presence of the works of God, that he feels that he is absolutely nothing; and it seems of small moment whether he should exist hereafter or not; and he could almost be willing that his life should expire, like a lamp that has burned itself out; that he should indeed cease to exist, with all things that live; that God might be God alone. If shut up in these mountains, as in a prison from which I could not escape, I could easily sink into this gloom and despondency.

Pascal has tried to break the force of this overwhelming impression of the awfulness of nature in one of his most striking thoughts, when, speaking of the greatness and the littleness of man, he says: "It is not necessary for the whole universe to arm itself to destroy him: a drop of water, a breath of air, is sufficient to kill him. And yet even in death man is greater than the universe, for he knows that he is dying, while the universe knows not anything." This is finely expressed, but it does not lighten the depth of our despair. For that we must turn to one greater than Pascal, who has said, "Not a sparrow falleth to the ground without your Father; be of good cheer therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows." Nature is great, but God is greater.

In riding through the Alps – especially through deep passes, where walls of rock on either hand almost touch the sky – it seems as if the whole world were a realm of Death, and this the universal tomb. But even here I see erected on almost every hilltop a cross (for the Savoyards are a very religious people), and this sign of our salvation, standing on every high place, amid the lightning and storm, and amid the winter snows, seems to be a protest against that law of death which reigns on every side. Great indeed is the realm of Death, but greater still is the realm of Life; and though God only hath immortality, and is indeed "the only Being worthy to live forever," yet joined to Him, we shall have a part in His own eternity, and shall live when even the everlasting mountains, and the great globe itself, shall have passed away.

CHAPTER XI.

SWITZERLAND

Lucerne, July 22d.

To know Switzerland well, one should spend weeks and months among its lakes and mountains. He should not merely pay a formal visit to Nature, but take up his abode with her. One can never "exhaust" such a country. Professor Tyndall has been for years in the habit of spending his summer vacation here, and always finds new mountains to climb, and new passes to explore. But this would hardly suit Americans, who are in the habit of "rushing things," and who wish in a first visit to Europe, to get at least a general impression of the Continent. But even a few days in Switzerland are not lost. In that time one may see sights that will be fixed in his brain while life lasts, and receive impressions that will never depart from him.

We left the Vale of Chamouni with the feeling of sadness with which one always comes down from the mount, where he has had an immortal vision. Slowly we rode up the valley, often turning to take a last lingering look at the white head of Mont Blanc, and then, like Pilgrim, we "went on our way and saw him no more."

But we did not come out of Chamouni as we went into it, on the top of a diligence, with six horses, "rolling forward with impetuous speed" over a magnificent highway. We had now nothing before us but a common mountain-road, and our chariot was only a rude wagon, made with low wheels to go up and down steep ascents. It was only for us two, which suited us the better, as we had Nature all to ourselves, and could indulge our pleasure and our admiration, without restraint. Thus mounted, we went creeping up the pass of the Tête Noire. Nature is a wise economist, and, after showing the traveller Mont Blanc, lets him down gradually. If we had not come from those more awful heights and abysses, we should consider this day's ride unsurpassed in savage grandeur. Great mountains tower up on either hand, their lower sides dark with pines, and their crests capped with snow. Here by the roadside a cross marks the spot where an avalanche, falling from yonder peak, buried two travellers. At some seasons of the year the road is almost impassable. All along are heaps of stones to mark its track where the winter drifts are piled so high in these gorges that all trace of a path is lost. Even now in mid-summer the pass is wild enough to satisfy the most romantic tastes. The day was in harmony with the scene. Our fine weather was all gone. Clouds darkened the sky, and angry gusts of wind and rain swept in our faces. But what could check one's spirits let loose in such a scene? Often we got out and walked, to work off our excitement, stopping at every turn in the road that opened some new view, or sheltering ourselves under a rock from the rain, and listening with delight to hear the pines murmur and the torrents roar.

The ride over the Tête Noire takes a whole day. The road zigzags in every direction, winding here and there to get a foothold – now hugging the side of the mountain, creeping along the edge of a precipice, where it makes one dizzy to look down; now rounding a point which seems to hang over some awful depth, or seeking a safer path by a tunnel through the rocks. Up and down, hither and thither we go, but still everywhere encompassed with mountains, till at last one long climb – a hard pull for the horses – brings us to a height from which we descry in the distance the roofs and spires of a town, and begin to descend. But we are still more than an hour winding our way through the gentle slopes and among the Swiss chalets, till we rattle through the stony streets of Martigny, a place of some importance, from being at the foot of the Alps, and the point from which to make the ascent of the Great Saint Bernard. It was by this route that Napoleon in 1800 led his daring soldiers over the Alps; the long lines of infantry and artillery passed up this valley, and climbed yonder mountain side, a hundred men being harnessed to a single cannon, and dragging it upward by sheer strength of muscle. Of all the host that made that stupendous march, perhaps not one survives; but the mountains are still here, as the proof and the monument of their great achievement. And the same Hospice, where the monks gave bread and wine to the passing soldiers, is on the summit still, and the good monks with their faithful dogs, watch to rescue lost travellers. Attached to it is a monastery here in Martigny, to which the old monks, when worn out with years of exposure and hardship in living above the clouds, can retire to die in peace.

At Martigny we take our leave of mountain roads and mountain transport, as we here touch a railroad, and are once more within the limits of civilization. We step from our little wagon (which we do not despise, since it has carried us safely over an Alpine pass) into a luxurious railway carriage, and reclining at our ease, are whirled swiftly down the Valley of the Rhone to the Lake of Geneva.

Of course all romantic tourists stop at Villeneuve, to visit the Castle of Chillon, which Byron has made so famous. I had been under its arches and in its vaulted chambers years ago, and was surprised at the fresh interest which I had in revisiting the spot. It is at once "a palace and a prison." We went down into the dungeon in which Bonnivard was confined, and saw the pillar to which he was chained for so many years that his feet wore holes in the stone floor. The pillar is now covered with names of pilgrims that have visited his prison as "a holy place." We were shown, also, the Chamber of Question, (adjoining what was called, as if in mockery, the Hall of Justice!) where prisoners were put to the torture, with the post still standing to which they were bound, with the marks upon it of the hot irons which were applied to their writhing limbs. Under this is the dungeon where the condemned passed their last night before execution, chained to a sloping rock, above which, dimly seen in the gloom, is the cross-beam to which they were hung, and near the floor is an opening in the wall, through which their bodies were cast into the lake. In another part of the castle is shown the oubliette– a pit or well, into which the victim was thrown, and fell into some unknown depth, and was seen no more. Such are some of the remains of an age of "chivalry." One cannot look at these instruments of torture without a shudder at "man's inhumanity to man," and rejoicing that such things are past, since in no country of Europe – not even in Spain, the land of the Inquisition – could such barbarities be permitted now. Surely civilization has made some progress since those ages of cruelty and blood.

Leaving these gloomy dungeons, we come up into air and sunshine, and skim along the Lake of Geneva by the railway, which, lying "between sea and shore," presents a succession of charming views. On one side all the slopes are covered with vines, which are placed on this southern exposure to ripen in the sun; on the other is the lake, with the mountains beyond.

At Lausanne I had hoped to meet an old friend, Prof. J. F. Astié, once pastor of the French church in New York, and now Professor in the Theological Seminary here, but he was taking his vacation in the country. We drove, however, to his house, which is on high ground, in the rear of the town, and commands a lovely view of the lake, with the mountains in the distance as a background for the picture.

When I was in Switzerland twenty seven years ago, such a thing as a railroad was unknown. Now they are everywhere, and though it may seem very prosaic to travel among the mountains by steam, still it is a great convenience, in getting from one point to another. Of course, when it comes to climbing the Alps, one must take to mules or to his feet.

The railroad from Lausanne to Berne, after reaching the heights around the former city, lingers long, as if reluctant to quit the enchanting scenery around the lake, but at length plunging through a tunnel, it leaves all that glory behind, to turn to other landscapes in the heart of Switzerland. For a few leagues, the country, though not mountainous, is undulating, and richly cultivated. At Fribourg the two suspension bridges are the things to see, and the great organ the thing to hear, which being done, one may pass on to Berne, the capital of Switzerland, a compact and prosperous town of some 35,000 inhabitants. The environs are very beautiful, comprising several parks and long avenues of trees. But what one may see in Berne, is nothing to what one may see from it, which is the whole chain of the Bernese Oberland. We were favored with only a momentary sight, but even that we shall never forget. As we were riding out of the town, the sun, which was setting, burst through the clouds, and lighted up a long range of snowy peaks. This was the Alpine afterglow. It was like a vision of the heavenly battlements, with all their pinnacles and towers shining resplendent in the light of setting day. We gazed in silent awe till the dazzling radiance crept to the last mountain top, and faded into night.

A few miles from Berne, we crossed the Lake of Thun, a sheet of water, which, like Loch Lomond and other Scotch lakes, derives its chief beauty from reflecting in its placid bosom the forms of giant mountains. Between Thun and Brienz lies the little village fitly called from its position Interlachen (between the lakes). This is the heart of the Bernese Oberland. The weather on Saturday permitted no excursions. But we were content to remain indoors after so much climbing, and here we passed a quiet and most restful Sunday. There is but one building for religious services – an old Schloss, but it receives into its hospitable walls three companies of worshippers. In one part is a chapel fitted up for the Catholics; in another the Church of England gathers a large number of those travellers from Britain, who to their honor carry their religious observances with them. Besides these I found in the same building a smaller room, where the Scotch Presbyterians meet for worship, and where a minister of the Free Church was holding forth with all that ingenium perfervidum Scotorum for which his countrymen are celebrated. It was a great pleasure and comfort to meet with this little congregation, and to listen to songs and prayers which brought back so many tender memories of home.

While enjoying this rest, we had mourned the absence of the sun. Interlachen lies in the very lap of the mountains. But though so near, our eyes were holden that we could not see them, and we thought we should have to leave without even a sight of the Jungfrau. But Monday morning, as we rose early to depart, the clouds were gone – and there it stood revealed to us in all its splendor, a pyramid of snow, only a little less lofty than Mont Blanc himself. Having this glorious vision vouchsafed to us, we departed in peace.

Sailing over the Lake of Brienz, as we had over that of Thun, we came again to a mountain pass, which had to be crossed by diligence; and here, as before, mounted in the front seat beside the postilion, we feasted our eyes on all the glory of Alpine scenery. For nearly two hours we were ascending at the side of the Vale of Meyringen, from which, as we climbed higher and higher, we looked down to a greater depth, and often at a turn of the road could see back to the Lake of Brienz, which lay far behind us, and thus in one view took in all the beauties of lake and valley and mountain. While slowly moving upward, boys ran along by the diligence, singing snatches from the Ranz des Vaches, the wild airs of these mountain regions. If it was so exciting to go up, it was hardly less so to come down. The road is not like that over the Tête Noire, but is smooth and even like that from Geneva to Chamouni, and we were able to trot rapidly down the slope, and as the road turns here and there to get an easy grade, we had a hundred lovely views down the valley which was opening before us. Thus we came to the Lake of the Four Cantons, over which a steamer brought us to Lucerne.

My friend Dr. Holland has spoken of the place where I now write as "the spot on earth which seemed to him nearest to heaven," and surely there are few where one feels so much like saying, "This is my rest, and here will I dwell." The great mountains shut out the world with all its noises, and the lake, so peaceful itself, invites to repose.

There are two ways to enjoy a beautiful sheet of water – one from its shores, and the other from its surface. We have tried both. The first evening we took a boat and spent a couple of hours on the lake. How it recalled the moonlight evenings at Venice, when we floated in our gondola! Indeed the boatmen here are not unlike the gondoliers. They have the same way of standing, instead of sitting, in the boat and pushing, instead of pulling, the oars. They manage their little crafts with great skill, and cause them to glide very swiftly through the water. We took a row of several miles to call on a friend, who was at a villa on the lake. She had left for Zurich, but the villa was occupied. A day or two before it had been taken by a lady, who, though she came with a retinue large enough to fill all the rooms, wished to be incognita. She proved to be the Queen of Saxony, who, like all the rest of the world, was glad to have a little retirement, and to escape from the stiffness of court life in her palace at Dresden, to enjoy herself on these quiet shores. While we were in the grounds, she came out, and walked under the trees, in most simple dress: a woman whom it was pleasant to look upon, a fair-haired daughter of the North, (she is a Swedish princess,) who won the hearts of the Saxon people by her care for the wounded in the Franco-German war. She shows her good sense and quiet tastes to seek seclusion and repose in such a spot as this, (instead of going off to fashionable watering-places,) where she can sit quietly by these tranquil waters, under the shadow of these great mountains.

All travellers who go to Lucerne must make an excursion to the Righi, a mountain a few miles from the town, which is exalted above other mountains of Switzerland, not because it is higher – for, in fact, it is much lower than many of them – but that it stands alone, apart from a chain, and so commands a view on all sides – a view of vast extent and of infinite variety. I had been on the Righi-Culm before, but the impression had somewhat faded, and I was glad to go again, when all my enthusiasm was renewed. The mountain is easier of access now. Then I walked up, as most tourists did; now there is a railroad to the very top, which of itself is worth a visit, as a remarkable piece of engineering, mounting a very steep grade – in many places one foot in every four! This is a terrible climb, and is only overcome by peculiar machinery. The engine is behind, and pushes the car up the ascent. Of course if any accident were to happen by which the train were to break loose, it would descend with tremendous velocity. But this is guarded against by a central rail, into which a wheel fits with cogs; so that, in case of any accident to the engine, by shutting down the brakes, the whole could be held fast, as in a vice, and be immovable. The convenience of the road is certainly very great, but the sensation is peculiar – of being literally "boosted" up into the clouds.

But once there, we are sensible that we are raised into a higher region; we breathe a purer air. The eye ranges over the fairest portion of Switzerland. Seen from such a height, the country seems almost a plain; and yet viewed more closely, we see hills and valleys, diversified with meadows and forests. We can count a dozen lakes. On the horizon stretches the great chain of the Alps, covered with snow, and when the sun breaks through the clouds, it gleams with unearthly brightness. But it is impossible to describe all that is comprised in that one grand panorama. Surely, I thought, these must be the Delectable Mountains from which Bunyan's Pilgrim caught a sight of the Celestial City; and it seemed as if, in the natural order of things, when one is travelling over the earth, he ought to come here last (as Moses went up into Mount Nebo to catch a glimpse of the Promised Land, and die), so that from this most elevated point of his pilgrimage he might step into heaven.

But at last we had to come down from the mount, and quieted our excited imaginations by a sail up the lake. Fluellen, at the end of the lake, was associated in my mind with a sad memory, and as soon as we reached it, I went to the principal hotel, and asked if an American gentleman had not died there two years since? They answered Yes, and took me at once to the very room where Judge Chapman, the Chief Justice of Massachusetts, breathed his last. He was a good man, and as true a friend as we ever had. The night before he sailed we spent with him at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. He came abroad for his health, but did not live to return; and a few months after our parting, it was our sad privilege to follow him to the grave in Springfield, where all the judges of the Supreme Court of Massachusetts, and great numbers of the Bar, stood around his bier.