John L. Stoddard's Lectures, Vol. 01 (of 10) / Norway, Switzerland, Athens, Venice

But these comparisons do not affect the grandeur of the peaks themselves, when we behold them face to face, crowned with unmeasured miles of snow, girded with glaciers as with coats of mail, and towering up among the clouds as though to storm the very heights of Heaven. If it be true, as some have claimed, that travel blunts the edge of enjoyment, and renders one indifferent and blasé, it is true only of those artificial charms which form the attraction of great cities and the pleasure-haunts of men. These may at last grow wearisome. But Nature wears a freshness and a glory that can never fade. Continual worship at her shrine increases our desire for that happiness which only Nature gives, and adds to our capacity for its appreciation.

One of the most attractive gateways to this land of mountains is Interlaken. All tourists in Switzerland come hither, almost of necessity. No other point is quite so central for excursions. None is more easy of approach. As its name indicates, it lies between two famous lakes which rival one another in respect to beauty. Before it, also, are the charming vales of Lauterbrunnen and Grindelwald, which lead one into the very heart of the Bernese Oberland. Moreover, from sixty to eighty thousand people come here every year to render homage to the peerless sovereign who holds court at Interlaken. There is no need to name the peak to which I thus allude, for everywhere in Interlaken we discern the crowning glory of the place—beside which all others fade—the lovely Jungfrau, queen of Alpine heights. Her grand, resplendent form fills the entire space between the encircling peaks, and forms a dazzling centre-piece of ice and snow, nearly fourteen thousand feet in height. It is a never-ending pleasure to rest upon the broad piazzas of Interlaken's palatial hotels, and gaze upon this radiant mount. It sometimes looks like a great white cloud forever anchored in one place, but oftener sparkles as if covered with a robe of diamonds; mantled, as it is, with snows of virgin purity from base to heaven-piercing summit.

No tourist who has been at Interlaken on a pleasant evening can possibly forget the vision which presents itself as day reluctantly retires from the Jungfrau at the approach of night.

A little distance up the valley, we note its most remarkable feature, the Fall of the Staubbach, or "Dust-brook," which here leaps boldly over the brow of the mountain, nine hundred and eighty feet above us. Long before it reaches the ground, it is converted into a vast, diaphanous cloud of spray, which the breeze scatters into thousands of fantastic wreaths. Whenever the sunlight streams directly through this, the effect is marvelous. It then resembles a transparent veil of silvery lace, woven with all the colors of the rainbow, fluttering from the fir-clad rocks. Byron compared it to the tail of a white horse, streaming in the wind; but Goethe's description is best, when he exclaims:

Truly the visitor of a dozen years ago perceives amazing changes to-day among the Alps. Where, formerly, a man would hardly dare to go on foot, trains now ascend with myriads of travelers! Hotels and even railroad stations up among the clouds have driven from the lofty crags the eagle and the chamois. This to the genuine Alpine climber seems like sacrilege; but, after all, what contributors to the happiness of mankind these mountain railroads are! Without them, few would venture here; and all the pageantry of Nature in these upper regions would unfold itself through the revolving years with scarce an eye to note its beauty or voice to tell its glories to the world.

Yet here, to our astonishment, we find hotels, which somehow year by year outlive the horrors of the Alpine winter, and in the summer season welcome their hundreds of adventurous guests. But, after all, where in Switzerland is there not a hotel? Fast as the arteries of travel are extended, on every prominent point commanding a fine view is planted a hotel, a forerunner of the world of travel. This is, in fact, one of the charms of Switzerland. The Andes and Himalayas may possess higher peaks and grander glaciers; but there one cannot (as among the Alps) ride all day long on perfect roads, and in the evening sit down to a well-cooked dinner, hear music on a broad veranda, consult the latest newspapers, and sleep in a comfortable bed.

Even before the advent of the railroad, I was a thousandfold repaid for climbing up to Mürren; for here so closely do the Alpine Titans press on every side, that if Mohammed had ever found his way hither, he might well have believed that the mountains were coming to him, and not he to the mountains.

Never shall I forget the morning when I stood here waiting for the sunrise view. There was none of that crowd of jabbering tourists who often profane the summit of the Rigi, and seem to measure the extent of their pleasure by the noise they make. I was well-nigh alone. When I emerged from the hotel, a purple line was visible in the east, but clouds and mists half veiled the mountains from my sight. At length, however, noiselessly but steadily, a hidden hand seemed to draw back the misty curtain of the night. Slowly the giant forms molded themselves from darkness into light, until their foreheads first, and then each fold and outline of their dazzling shapes, stood forth in bold relief against the sky. The glaciers sparkled with the first bright beams like jeweled highways of the gods,—till, finally, as the sun's disk came fairly into view, the whole vast range glowed like a wall of tinted porcelain. It seemed as if a thousand sacred fires had been kindled on these mountain altars, in glad response to the triumphant greeting of the god of day.

On descending from Mürren, the tourist is attracted to another famous object, only a few miles from Interlaken,—the glacier of Grindelwald.

As I was picking my way safely, though shiveringly, through this huge refrigerator, I asked my guide to tell me about one of the clerical misfortunes which had made him suspicious of gentlemen of the cloth. He turned and looked at me curiously. "You know, of course, the fate of our pastor, M. Mouron?" he exclaimed. I confessed my ignorance. "Then come with me," he said. Accordingly, emerging from the cavern, we climbed for nearly an hour over great blocks of ice, until we came to a profound abyss. Suspended from the frozen parapet a mass of icicles pointed mysteriously down like ghostly fingers. Then all was dark. "It was by falling down this," said the guide, "that the pastor of Grindelwald lost his life. He was seeking one day to ascertain its depth by casting stones into its cavernous maw and counting till he heard the sound of their arrival at the bottom of the abyss. Once, in his eagerness, he placed his staff against the opposite edge, leaned over and listened. Suddenly the ice gave way, and he fell headlong into the crevasse. His guide ran breathless to the village and informed the people of their loss. But, to his horror, he found that he himself was looked upon with suspicion. In fact, some went so far as to say that he must have murdered their pastor, and robbed him of his watch and purse.

"The guides of Grindelwald, however, who felt themselves insulted at this accusation, united and agreed that one of their number (chosen by lot) should, at the peril of his life, descend into this crevasse to establish the innocence of the accused. The lot was drawn by one of the bravest of them all, a man named Bergenen. The whole village assembled on the flood of ice to witness the result of the search. After partaking of the sacrament, Bergenen fastened a rope around his waist and a lantern to his neck. In one hand he took a bell. In the other he grasped his iron-pointed staff to keep himself from the sharp edges. Four men then carefully lowered him down. Twice, on the point of suffocation, he rang the bell and was drawn up. Finally a heavier weight was felt upon the rope, and Bergenen reappeared, bringing the body of the pastor from a depth of seven hundred and fifty feet. A mighty shout went up from the guides and populace as well. The man was innocent. Both watch and purse were found upon the corpse!"

As we returned from Grindelwald to Interlaken, we often paused to note the peasants toiling in the fields. So far as their appearance was concerned, we might have supposed them laborers on a Vermont farm; but their low carts were quite unlike our country hayracks; and the appearance of a single ox, harnessed with ropes around his horns, presented an amusing contrast to the sturdy beasts which, bound together by the yoke, drag to our barns their loads of fragrant hay. Women, of course, were working with the men; but female laborers in Switzerland are not in the majority. In many instances the ratio is but one to three.

Filled with such thoughts, as we beheld the humble but well-kept and ever picturesque dwellings of the farmers of this valley, I called to mind, as a consoling antidote to one's first natural sympathy with poverty, the story of the sultan who, despite all his wealth and power, was always melancholy. He had been told by his physician that, if he would be cured of all his real or fancied ailments, he must exchange shirts with the first perfectly happy man he could find. Out went his officers in search of such a person.

From Interlaken, every tourist makes a short excursion to one of the best known of Alpine waterfalls,—the Giessbach. Set in a glorious framework of dark trees, it leaves the cliff, one thousand feet above, and in a series of cascades leaps downward to the lake. If this descending torrent were endowed with consciousness, I fancy it would be as wretched in its present state as a captive lion in a cage, continually stared at by a curious multitude. For never was a cascade so completely robbed of liberty and privacy as this. A pathway crosses it repeatedly by means of bridges, and seems to bind it to the mountain as with a winding chain. Behind it are numerous galleries where visitors may view it from the rear. Arbors and seats are also placed on either side; and thus, through every hour of the day, people to right of it, people to left of it, people in rear of it, people in front of it, look on and wonder. Even at night it has but little rest; for hardly have the shadows shrouded it, when it is torn from its obscurity by torches, calcium lights, and fireworks, which all along its course reveal it to the admiring crowd in a kaleidoscope of colors.

Far happier, therefore, seems another waterfall of Switzerland,—the Reichenbach; for this is left comparatively undisturbed within its mountain solitude. Far off, upon a mountain crest, a blue lake, set like a sapphire amid surrounding glaciers, serves as a cradle for this new-born river. Thence it emerges, timidly at first, to make its way down to the outer world. With each descent, however, it gains fresh impetus and courage. Return is now impossible. The die is cast. Its fate is now decided. We almost wish that we could check its course amid this beautiful environment. It will not find a sweeter or a safer place. Too soon it will be forced to bear great burdens, turn countless wheels, and minister to thousands. Then, at the last, will come old Ocean's cold and passionless embrace, in which all its individuality will disappear.

Its hotels are among the finest in the world; the town itself is pretty and attractive; and in the foreground is a panorama too varied to become monotonous, too beautiful ever to lose its charm. Mount Pilate and the Rigi guard Lucerne like sentinels, the one on the east, the other on the west, like halting-places for the morning and the evening stars. Directly opposite, upon the southern boundary of the lake, miles upon miles of snow-capped mountains rise against the sky, as if to indicate the limit of the world.

One of the sentinels of Lucerne, as I have said, is Mount Pilate. Toward this the faces of all tourists turn, as to a huge barometer; for by its cap of clouds Pilate foretells the weather which excursionists must look for. There is hardly need to recall the popular derivation of the mountain's name. It was in olden times believed that Pontius Pilate, in his wanderings through the world, impelled at last by horror and remorse, committed suicide upon its summit. On this account the mountain was considered haunted. At one time the town authorities even forbade people to ascend it on a Friday! But now there is a hotel on the top, and every day in the week, Friday included, a railway train climbs resolutely to the summit, enabling thousands to enjoy every summer a view scarcely to be surpassed in grandeur or extent at any point among the Alps. No allusion to Lucerne would be complete without reference to that noble product of Thorwaldsen's genius, which, in more respects than one, is the lion of the place. It is difficult to imagine a more appropriate memorial than this, of the fidelity and valor exhibited one hundred years ago by the Swiss guard, who in defense of Louis XVI laid down their lives at the opening of the French Revolution. No view does justice to this famous statue. Within a monstrous niche, which has been hollowed out of a perpendicular cliff, reclines, as in some mountain cave, the prostrate figure of a lion, thirty feet in length. It is evident that the animal has received a mortal wound. The handle of a spear protrudes from his side. Yet even in the agony of death he guards the Bourbon shield and lily, which he has given his life to defend. One paw protects them; his drooping head caresses them, and gives to them a mute farewell. Beneath the figure, chiseled in the rock, are the names of the officers murdered by the mob; while above is the brief but eloquent inscription: "To the fidelity and bravery of the Swiss." In the whole world I do not know of a monument more simple yet impressive.

One of the greatest pleasures of the tourist in Lucerne is to sail out, as he may do at almost any hour of the day, upon its lovely lake. This, in respect to scenery, surpasses all its Alpine rivals. Twenty-three miles in length, it has the form of a gigantic cross, each arm of which (when looked upon in the glow of sunset from a neighboring height) seems like a plain of gold and lapis-lazuli set in a frame-work of majestic mountains. No tour in Switzerland is complete without a sail upon this fair expanse of water. Hence more than half a million travelers cross it every year during the summer months alone, and tiny steamers are continually visible, cutting their furrows on its smooth, transparent surface, as sharply as a diamond marks a pane of glass.

Moreover, when the boat glides inward toward the shore, one sees that other elements of beauty are not wanting here. Pretty chalets with overhanging roofs; rich pastures, orchards, and gardens,—all these, with numerous villages, succeed each other here for miles, between the lake and the bold cliffs that rise toward Heaven. Nor is this all. The villages possess a history, since these romantic shores were formerly the stage on which Swiss patriots performed those thrilling scenes immortalized by Schiller in his drama of "William Tell."

The little building is certainly well calculated to awaken patriotism. Appropriate frescoes, representing exploits ascribed to William Tell, adorn the walls; while opposite the doorway is an altar at which religious services are held. How solemn and impressive must the ceremony be, when religious rites are performed in such a historic and picturesque locality in the presence of a reverent multitude! At such a time this tiny shrine may be considered part of the sublime cathedral of the mountains, whose columns are majestic trees, whose stained glass is autumnal foliage, whose anthems are the songs of birds, whose requiems are the moaning of the pines, and whose grand roof is the stupendous arch of the unmeasured sky, beneath which the snow-clad mountains rise like jeweled altars, lighted at night, as if with lofty tapers, by the glittering stars.

But to appreciate the beauty of this sheet of water, one should behold it when its surface is unruffled by a breeze. Enamoured of their own beauty, the mountains then look down into the lake as into an incomparable mirror. It is an inverted world. The water is as transparent as the sky. The very breezes hold their breath, lest they should mar the exquisite reflection. The neighboring peaks display their rugged features in this limpid flood, as if unconscious of the wrinkles which betray their age. The pine trees stand so motionless upon the shore that they appear like slender ferns. Instinctively we call to mind those graceful lines, supposed to be addressed by such a lake to an adjoining mountain:

Above this lake itself extends for miles the famous Axenstrasse,—a splendid specimen of engineering skill, cut in the solid rock, hundreds of feet above the waves. Yet this is no exceptional thing in Switzerland, and nothing stamps itself more forcibly upon the tourist's mind within this region of the Alps than man's triumphant victory over obstacles, in the formation of its roads. Despite their great cost of construction these prove profitable investments; for the better the roads, the more people will travel over them. Referring to them, some one has prettily said, that by such means the Swiss transform the silver of their mountain peaks into five franc pieces, and change the golden glow of their sunrises and sunsets into napoleons.

The Axenstrasse may be said to form a part of that magnificent route from Switzerland to Italy, known as the St. Gotthard. It is, in truth, the king of Alpine roads; resembling a mighty chain which man, the victor, has imposed upon the vanquished Alps,—one end sunk deep in the Italian Lakes, the other guarded by the Lion of Lucerne,—and all the intervening links kept burnished brightly by the hands of trade. True, within the last few years, the carriage-road across the St. Gotthard has been comparatively neglected, since the longest tunnel in the world has to a great extent replaced it. Tranquil enough this tunnel frequently appears, but I have seen it when great clouds of smoke were pouring out of its huge throat, as from the crater of a great volcano. A strong wind blowing from the south was then, no doubt, clearing this subterranean flue; and I was glad that I had not to breathe its stifling atmosphere, but, on the contrary, seated in a carriage, could lose no portion of the glorious scenery, while drinking in great draughts of the pure mountain air.

Still, whether we travel by the railroad of the St. Gotthard or not, we must not underrate its usefulness, nor belittle the great engineering triumphs here displayed. Its length, too, amazes one, for not only is the principal tunnel nine and a half miles long, but there are fifty-five others on the line, the total length of which, cut inch by inch out of the solid granite, is more than twenty-five miles. When one drives over the mountain by the carriage-road, hour after hour, bewildered by its cliffs and gorges, it seems impossible that the engineer's calculations could have been made so perfectly as to enable labor on the tunnel to be carried on from both ends of it at the same time. Yet all was planned so well that, on the 28th of February, 1880, the Italian workmen and the Swiss both met at the designated spot, six thousand feet below the summit, and there pierced the last thin barrier that remained between the north and south.

Here man's triumph over nature is complete. How puny seems at first his strength when measured with the wind and avalanche! But mind has proved superior to matter. The ax was made, and at its sturdy stroke the forest yielded up its tribute for the construction of this pathway. The caverns of the earth were also forced to surrender the iron treasured there for ages, and rails were made, along whose glittering lines a crowded train now glides as smoothly as a boat upon the waves. And yet these awful cliffs still scowl so savagely on either side, that the steel rail, which rests upon their shelves of rock, seems often like a thread of fate, by which a thousand lives are held suspended over the abyss.