From the Lakes of Killarney to the Golden Horn

If Lucerne presents such beautiful scenes in nature, it has also one work of art, which impresses me as much as anything of the kind in Europe. I refer to the lion of Thorwaldsen, intended to commemorate the courage and fidelity of the Swiss regiment who were the guards of the King Louis XVI., and who, in attempting to defend him, were massacred in Paris on the fatal 10th of August, 1792. Never was a great act of courage more simply, yet more grandly illustrated. The size is colossal, the work being cut in the side of a rock. The lion is twenty-eight feet long. Nothing can be more majestic than his attitude. The noble beast is dying, he has exhausted his strength in battle, but even as he sinks in death, he stretches out one huge paw over the shield which bears on it the lilies of France, the emblem of that royal power which he has vainly endeavored to protect. There is something almost human in the face, in the deep-set eyes, and the drooping mouth. It is not only the death agony, but the greater agony of defeat, which is expressed in every line of that leonine countenance. Nothing in ancient sculpture, not even the Dying Gladiator, gives more of mournful dignity in death. I could hardly tear myself away from it, and when we turned to leave, kept looking back at it. It shows the wonderful genius of Thorwaldsen. When one compares it with the lions around the monument of Nelson in Trafalgar Square in London, one sees the difference between a work of genius, and that of mere imitation. Sir Edwin Landseer, though a great painter of animals, was not so eminent as a sculptor; and was at work for years on his model, and finally copied, it is said, as nearly as he could, an old lion in the Zoological Gardens; and then had the four cast from one mould, so that all are just alike. How differently would Thorwaldsen have executed such a work!

With such attractions of art and nature, Lucerne seems indeed one of the most beautiful spots on the face of the earth. Sometimes a peculiar state of the atmosphere, or sunset or moonlight, gives peculiar effects to scenes so wonderful. Last night, as we were sitting in front of the Hotel, our attention was attracted by what seemed a conflagration lighting up the horizon. Wider and wider it spread, and higher and higher it rose on the evening sky. All were eager as to the cause of this illumination, when the mystery was explained by the full moon rising above the horizon, and casting a flood of light over lake and mountain. Who could but feel that God was near at such an hour, in such a blending of the earth and sky?

CHAPTER XII.

ON THE RHINE

Cologne, July 26th.

He that goeth up into a high mountain, must needs come down. We have been these many days among the Alps, passing from Chamouni to the Bernese Oberland, and now we must descend into the plains. The change is a pleasant one after so much excitement and fatigue. One cannot bear too much exaltation. After having dwelt awhile among the sublimities of Nature, it is a relief to come down to her more common and familiar aspects; the sunshine is doubly grateful after the gloom of Alpine passes; meadows and groves are more pleasant to the eye than snow-clad peaks; and more sweet to the ear than the roar of mountain torrents, is the murmur of softly-flowing streams. From Lucerne, our way lies over that undulating country which we had surveyed the day before from the summit of the Righi, winding around the Lake of Zug, and ending at the Lake of Zurich.

The position of Zurich is very much like that of Lucerne, at the end of a lake, and surrounded by hills. A ride around the town shows many beautiful points of view, on one of which stands the University, which has an European reputation. Zurich has long been a literary centre of some importance, not only for Switzerland, but for Germany, as it is on the border of both. The University gathers students from different countries, even from Russia. We ended the day with a sail on the water, which at evening is alive with boats, glancing here and there in the twilight. Then rows of lamps are lighted all along the shore, which are reflected in the water; the summer gardens are thronged, and bands fill the air with music. The gayety of such a scene I enjoy most from a little distance; but there are few more exquisite pleasures than to lie motionless, floating, and listening to music that comes stealing over the water. Then the boatman dipped his oar gently, as if fearing to break the charm, and rowed us back to our hotel; but the music continued to a late hour, and lulled us to sleep.

From Zurich, a morning ride brought us to Schaffhausen, where we stopped a few hours to see the Falls of the Rhine, which are set down in the guide-books as "the most considerable waterfall in Europe." Of course it is a very small affair compared with Niagara. And yet I do not like to hear Americans speak of it, as they are apt to do, with contempt. A little good sense would teach us to enjoy whatever is set before us in nature, without boastful comparisons with something in our own country. It is certainly very beautiful.

From Schaffhausen a new railway has recently been opened through the Black Forest – a region which may well attract the readers of romance, since it has been the scene of many of the legends which abound in German literature, and may be said to be haunted with the heroes of fiction, as Scott has peopled the glens of Scotland. In the Forest itself there is nothing imposing. It is spread over a large tract of country, like the woods of Northern New York. The most remarkable thing in it now is the railroad itself, which is indeed a wonderful piece of engineering. It was constructed by the same engineer who pierced the Alps by a tunnel under the Mont Cenis, nearly eight miles long, through which now pours the great volume of travel from France to Italy. Here he had a different, but perhaps not less difficult, task. The formation of the country offers great obstacles to the passage of a railroad. If it were only one high mountain, it could be tunnelled, but instead of a single chain which has to be crossed, the Forest is broken up into innumerable hills, detached from each other, and offering few points of contact as a natural bridge for a road to pass over. The object, of course, is to make the ascents and descents without too abrupt a grade, but for this it is necessary to wind about in the most extraordinary manner. The road turns and twists in endless convolutions. Often we could see it at three different points at the same time, above us and below us, winding hither and thither in a perfect labyrinth; so that it was impossible to tell which way we were going. We counted thirty-seven tunnels within a very short distance. It required little imagination to consider our engine, that went whirling about at such a rate, puffing and screaming with excitement, as a wild beast caught in the mountains, and rushing in every direction, and even thrusting his head into the earth, to escape his pursuers. At length the haunted fugitive plunges through the side of a mountain, and escapes down the valley.

And now we are in a land of streams, where mighty rivers begin their courses. See you that little brook by the roadside, which any barefooted boy would wade across, and an athletic leaper would almost clear at a single bound? That is the beginning of the longest river in Europe, which, rising here among the hills of the Black Forest, takes its way south and east till it sweeps with majestic flow past the Austrian capital, as "the dark-rolling Danube," and bears the commerce of an empire to the Black Sea.

Our fellow-travellers now begin to diverge to the watering places along the Rhine – to Baden and Homburg and Ems – where so much of the fashion of the Continent gathers every summer. But we had another place in view which had more interest to me, though a sad and mournful one – Strasburg, the capital of ill-fated Alsace – which, since I saw it before, had sustained one of the most terrible sieges in history. We crossed the Rhine from Kehl, where the Germans planted their batteries, and were soon passing through the walls and moats which girdle the ancient town, and made it one of the most strongly fortified places in Europe, and were supposed to render it a Gibraltar, that could not be taken. But no walls can stand before modern artillery. The Germans planted their guns at two and three miles distance, and threw their shells into the heart of the city. One cannot enter the gates without perceiving on every side the traces of that terrible bombardment. For weeks, day and night, a rain of fire poured on the devoted town. Shells were continually bursting in the streets; the darkness of midnight was lighted up with the flames of burning dwellings. The people fled to their cellars, and to every underground place, for safety. But it was like fleeing at the last judgment to dens and caves, and calling on rocks to cover them from the inevitable destruction. At length, after a prolonged and heroic resistance, when all means of defence were gone, and the city must have been utterly destroyed, it surrendered.

And now what do we see? Of course, the traces of the siege have been removed, so far as possible. But still, after five years, there are large public buildings of which only blackened walls remain. Others show huge gaps and rents made by the shot of the besiegers, and, worst of all, everywhere are the hated German soldiers in the streets. Strasburg is a conquered city. It has been torn from France and transferred to Germany, without the consent of its own people; and though the conquerors try to make things pleasant, and to soften as much as may be the bitterness of subjugation, they cannot succeed in doing the impossible. The people feel that they have been conquered, and the iron has entered into their souls. One can see it in a silent, sullen look, which is not natural to Frenchmen. This is the more strange, because a large part of the population of Alsace are Germans by race and language. In the markets, among the men and women who bring their produce for sale, I heard little else than the guttural sounds so familiar on the other side of the Rhine. But no matter for this; for two hundred years the country has belonged to France, and the people are French in their traditions – they are proud of the French glory; and if it were left to them, they would vote to-morrow, by an overwhelming majority, to be re-annexed to France.

Meanwhile the German Government is using every effort to "make over" the people from Frenchmen into Germans. It has introduced the German language into the schools. It has even renamed the streets. It looked strange indeed to see on all the corners German names in place of the old familiar French ones. This is oppression carried to absurdity. If the new rulers had chosen to translate the French names into German, for the convenience of the new military occupants, that might have been well, and the two might have stood side by side. But no; the old names are taken down, and Rue is turned into Strasse on every street corner in Strasburg. Was ever anything more ridiculous? They might as well compel the people to change their names. The consequence of all this petty and constant oppression is that great numbers emigrate. And even those who remain do not take to their new masters. The elements do not mix. The French do not become Germans. A country is not so easily denationalized. The conquerors occupy the town, but in their social relations they are alone. We were told that if a German officer entered a public café or restaurant, the French instantly arose and left. It is the same thing which I saw at Venice and at Milan in the days of the old Austrian occupation. That was a most unnatural possession by an alien race, which had to be driven out with battle and slaughter before things could come into their natural and rightful relations. And so I fear it will have to be here. This annexation of Alsace to Germany may seem to some a wonderful stroke of political sagacity, or a military necessity, the gaining of a great strategic point, but to our poor American judgment it seems both a blunder and a crime, that will yet have to be atoned for with blood. It is a perpetual humiliation and irritation to France; a constant defiance to another and far more terrible war.

The ancient cathedral suffered greatly during the bombardment. It is said the Germans tried to spare it, and aimed their guns away from it; but as it was the most prominent object in the town, towering up far above everything else, it could not but be hit many times. Cannon balls struck its majestic spire, the loftiest in the world; arches and pinnacles were broken; numbers of shells crashed through the roof, and burst on the marble floor. Many of the windows, with their old stained glass, which no modern art can equal, were fatally shattered. It is a wonder that the whole edifice was not destroyed. But its foundations were very solid, and it stood the shock. Since the siege, of course, everything has been done to cover up the rents and gaps, and to restore it to its former beauty. And what a beauty it has, with outlines so simple and majestic. How enormous are the columns along the nave, which support the roof, and yet how they seem to spring towards heaven, soaring upwards like overarching elms, till the eye aches to look up to the vaulted roof, that seems only like a lower sky. Except one other cathedral – that of Cologne (under the very shadow of which I am now writing) – it is the grandest specimen of Gothic architecture which the Middle Ages have left to us.

There is one other feature of Strasburg that has been unaffected by political changes. One set of inhabitants have not emigrated, but remain in spite of the German occupation —the storks. Was anything ever so queer as to see these long-legged, long-necked birds, sitting so tranquilly on the roofs of the houses, flapping their lazy wings over the dwellings of a populous city, and actually building their nests on the tops of the chimneys? Anything so different from the ordinary habits of birds, I had never seen before, and would hardly have believed it now if I had not seen it. It makes one feel as if everything was turned upside down, and the very course of nature reversed, in this strange country.

Another sign that we are getting out of our latitude, and coming farther North, is the change of language. We found that even in Switzerland. Around the Lake of Geneva, French is universally spoken; but at Berne everybody addressed us in German. In the Swiss Parliament speeches are made in three languages – German, French, and Italian – since all are spoken in some of the Cantons. As we did not understand German, though familiar with French, we had many ludicrous adventures with coachmen and railway employés, which, though sometimes vexatious, gave us a good deal of merriment. Of course there was nothing to do but to take it good-naturedly. Generally when the adventure was over, we had a hearty laugh at our own expense, though inwardly thinking this was a heathen country, since they did not know the language of Canaan, which, of course, is French or English. In short, we have become fully satisfied that English was the language spoken by Adam and Eve in Paradise, and which ought to be spoken by all their descendants.

But no harsh and guttural sounds, and no gloomy political events, can destroy the pleasure of a journey along the Rhine. The next day we resumed our course through the grand duchy of Baden. At one of the stations a gentleman looking out of a carriage window called me by name, and introduced himself as Dr. Evans, of Paris – a countryman of ours, well known to all who have visited the French capital, where he has lived for a quarter of a century, and made for himself a most honorable position in his profession, in both the American and foreign community. I had known him when he first came to Paris, just after the revolution of 1848. He was then a young man, in the beginning of his successful career. He has been yet more honorably distinguished as the gallant American who saved the Empress in 1870. The story is too well known to be repeated at length. The substance may be given in a few sentences. When the news of the surrender at Sedan of the Emperor and his whole army reached Paris, it caused a sudden revolution – the Empire was declared to have fallen, and the excited populace were ready to burst into the palace, and the Empress might have been sacrificed to their fury. She fled through the Louvre, and calling a cab in the street, drove to the house of Dr. Evans, whom she had long known. Here she was concealed for the night, and the next day he took her in his own carriage, hiding her from observation, and travelling rapidly, but in a way to attract no attention, to the sea-coast, and did not leave her till he had seen her safe in England. Connected with this escape were many thrilling details, which cannot be repeated here. I am very proud that she owed her safety to one of my countrymen. It was pleasant to be remembered by him after so many years. We got into the same carriage, and talked of the past, till we separated at Carlsruhe, from which he was going to Kissingen, while we went to Stuttgart, to visit an American family who came to Europe under my care in the Great Eastern in 1867, and have continued to reside abroad ever since for the education of their children. For such a purpose, Stuttgart is admirably fitted. Though the capital of the Kingdom of Würtemberg, it is a very quiet city. Young people in search of gayety might think it dull, but that is its recommendation for those who seek profit rather than amusement. The schools are said to be excellent; and for persons who wish to spend a few years abroad, pursuing their studies, it would be hard to find a better place.

To make this visit we were obliged to travel by night to get back to the Rhine. We left Stuttgart at midnight. Night riding on European railways, where there are no sleeping-cars, is not very agreeable. However, in the first class carriages one can make a sort of half couch by pulling out the cushioned seats, and thus bestowed we managed to pass the night, which was not very long, as daybreak comes early in this latitude, and at this season of the year.

But fatigues vanish when at Mayence we go on board the steamer, and are at last afloat on the Rhine – "the exulting and abounding river." We forget the discomforts of the way as we drop down this enchanted stream, past all the ruined castles, "famed in story," which hang on the crests of the hills. Every picturesque ruin has its legend, which clings to it like vines to the mouldering wall. All day long we are floating in the past, and in a romantic past. Tourists sit on deck, with their guide-books in hand, marking every old wall covered with ivy, and every crumbling tower, connected with some tradition of the Middle Ages. Even prosaic individuals go about repeating poetry. The best of guide-books is Childe Harold. Byron has seized the spirit of the scene in a few picturesque and animated stanzas, which bring the whole panorama before us. How musical are the lines beginning,

The castled crag of Drachenfels,Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,Whose breast of waters broadly swellsBetween the banks which bear the vine,And hills all rich with blossomed trees,And fields which promise corn and wine,And scattered cities crowning these,Whose far white walls along them shine.

Thus floating onward as in a dream, we reached Cologne at five o'clock Saturday afternoon, and found at the Hôtel du Nord a very spacious and attractive hostelry, which made us well content to stay quietly for two or three days.

Cologne has got an ill name from Coleridge's ill-favored compliment, which implied that its streets had not always the fragrance of that Cologne water which it exports to all countries. But I think he has done it injustice for the sake of a witty epigram. If he has not, the place has much improved since his day, and if not yet quite a flower garden, is at least as clean and decent as most of the Continental cities. It has received a great impulse from the extension of railroads, of which it is a centre, being in the direct line of travel from England to the Rhine and Switzerland, and to the German watering-places, and indeed to every part of Central Europe. Hence it has grown rapidly, and become a large and prosperous city.

But to the traveller in search of sights, every object in Cologne "hides its diminished head" in presence of one, the cathedral, the most magnificent Gothic structure ever reared by human hands. Begun six hundred years ago, it is not finished yet. For four hundred years the work was suspended, and the huge crane that stood on one of its towers, as it hung in air, was a sad token of the great, but unfinished design. But lately the German Government, with that vigor which characterizes everything in the new empire, has undertaken its completion. Already it has expended two millions of dollars upon it, and holds out a hope that it may be finished during this generation. To convey any idea of this marvellous structure by a description, is impossible. It is a forest in stone. Looking through its long nave and aisles, one is more reminded of the avenues of New Haven elms, than of any work of man. We ascended by the stone steps to the roof, at least to the first roof, and then began to get some idea of the vastness of the whole. Passing into the interior at this height, we made the circuit of the gallery, from which men looked very small who were walking about on the pavement of the cathedral. The sacristan who had conducted us thus far, told us we had now ascended one hundred steps, and that, if we chose to mount a hundred more, we could get to the main roof – the highest present accessible point – for the towers are not yet finished, which are further to be surmounted by lofty spires. When complete, the crosses which they lift into the air will be more than five hundred feet above the earth!

The Cathedral boasts great treasures and holy relics – such as the bones of the Magi, the three Kings of the East, who came to see the Saviour at his birth, which, whoso can believe, is welcome to his faith. But the one thing which all must believe, since it stands before their eyes, is the magnificence of this temple of the Almighty. I am surprised to see the numbers of people who attend the services, and with an appearance of devotion, joining in the singing with heart and voice. The Cathedral is our constant resort, as it is close to our hotel, and we can go in at all hours, morning, noon, and night. There we love to sit especially at twilight, when the priests are chanting vespers, and listen to their songs, and think of the absent and the dead. We may wander far, and see many lofty structures reared to the Most High, but nowhere do we expect to bow our heads in a nobler temple, till we join with the worshippers before the Throne.

CHAPTER XIII.

BELGIUM AND HOLLAND

Amsterdam, July 30th.

If any of my readers should follow our route upon the map, he will see that we take a somewhat zigzag course, flying off here and there to see whatever most attracts attention. The facilities of travel in Europe are so great, that one can at any time be transported in a few hours into a new country. The junior partner in this travelling company of two has lately been reading Motley's histories, and been filled with enthusiasm for the Netherlands, which fought so bravely against Spain, and nothing would do but to turn aside to see these Low Countries. So, instead of going east from Cologne into the heart of Germany, we turned west to make a short detour into Belgium and Holland. And indeed these countries deserve a visit, as they are quite unique in appearance and in character, and furnish a study by themselves. They lie in a corner of the Continent, looking out upon the North Sea, and seem to form a kind of eddy, unaffected by the great current of the political life of Europe. They do not belong to the number of the Great Powers, and do not have to pay for "glory" by large standing armies and perpetual wars.

Belgium – which we first enter in coming from the Rhine – is one of the smaller kingdoms still left on the map of Europe not yet swallowed up by the great devourers of nations; and which, if it has less glory, has more liberty and more real happiness than some of its more powerful neighbors. If it has not the form of a republic, yet it has all the liberty which any reasonable man could desire. Its standing army is small – but forty or fifty thousand men; though in case of war, it could put a hundred thousand under arms. But this would be a mere mouthful for some of the great German armies. Its security, therefore, lies not in its ability to resist attack, but in the fact that from its very smallness it does not excite the envy or the fear or the covetousness of its neighbors, and that, between them all, it is very convenient to have this strip of neutral territory. During the late war between France and Germany it prospered greatly; the danger to business enterprises elsewhere led many to look upon this little country, as in the days of the Flood people might have looked upon some point of land that had not yet been reached by the waters that covered the earth, to which they could flee for safety. Hence the disasters of others gave a great impulse to its commercial affairs.