Travels in Italy; the Alps and the Rhine

Preface

The accompanying Letters were not originally written with the intention of being published in a book, and very probably would have been worse written if they had been. In passing through Italy, one is constantly subjected to sudden and great transitions of feeling. The “ classic land” and the “ home of the Caesars,” have so long been a portion of the scholar’s dreams, and so brightly coloured with his own feelings, that the very matter-of-fact objects that stare him in the face, when he is expecting some hallowed monument of the past, will often quite upset his gravity, and compel him to laugh, where he thought to have been serious and reflective. It has been my effort in these Letters to give a faithful transcript of my feelings, in all these sudden transitions. To some there may often appear too much lightness and frivolity. For our¬ selves, we like to have a man give himself in his travels—we wish to hear him soliloquising—and we read his book not to learn that he can be, or is, a very serious and profound man, but to know how things struck him—that is, travel with him. Amid the new and exciting scenes that constantly meet travel¬ lers, in perhaps a hurried passage over a country, they cannot, and do not, have the views and feelings so often given, for appearance' sake, as their honest ones.

Our purpose has been to let others, if possible, look through our eyes; and whether we have succeeded or not, or whether they would have obtained a very interesting view if they did 3

PREFACE,

• • •

Vlll

we leave the reader to judge. Descriptions of galleries of art, paintings, &c., have been avoided, as possessing interest to those only who have travelled over the same ground, and be come familiar with the details necessary to make those descriptions clear. We have attempted, also, to give some idea of the condition of the inhabitants, especially of the lower classes, as they are topics seldom referred to in passing over the most classic land on the globe.

Contents

Page.

I. Voyage to Italy—Man Lost Overboard ... 13

II. Gibraltar—Approach to Genoa. 20

PART II Page

Introduction .223

I. Pass of the Simplon, Gorge of Gondo ... 225

II. Passes of the Forclaz and Col de Balme ... 231

III. Ascent of the Montanvert, Yale of Chamouni 236

IY. Pass of the T6te Noire . 241

Y. Baths of Leuk .244

YI. The Castle of Chillon—Geneva—Junction of the

Phone and Arve . 247

YII. Freybourg Organ and Bridges—Swiss Peculiari¬ ties ... ... ... ... ... 253

YIII. Interlachen—Pass of the Wengern Alp—Byron’s

Manfred 259

IX. The Grand Scheideck : an Avalanche ... 266

X. Yalley of Meyringen—Pass of Brunig ... 271

XI. Suwarrow’s Passage of the Pragel . 275

XII. Macdonald’s Pass of the Splugen ... 279

XIII. The Eighi Culm .288

XIY. Goldau—Fall of the Eossberg . 294

XY. Avalanches and Glaciers, their Formation and

Movement 299

XYI. Pasturages, Chalets, and Alpine Passes ... 302

XYII. A Farewell to Switzerland—Basle. 306

XYIII. Strasbourg—The Rhine—Frankfort ... 310

XIX. A Day in Wiesbaden 314

XX. Schwalbach and Schlagenbad ... ... 321

XII

CONTENTS

Pass.

XXI. Mavence—The Rhine ... . 325

XXII. The Castellated Rhine 328

XXIII. The Rhine from Coblentz to Cologne ... 334

XXIV. Rhine Wines—Cologne Cathedral—Louvain—

Brussels 339

XXV. Battle-Field of Waterloo . 343

TRAVELS IN

ITALY.

I

A Voyage to Italy. Sea-Sickness. Squalls. A Man Lost Overboard,

Peril of the Crew.

Dear, E.—Why not begin ray letter at sea ? It is now no more travel-worn than Arabia Petraea. I hate this skipping over the ocean as “ not worth mentioning” to burst on the reader from the middle of some Con¬ tinent.

It was a beautiful day when we left New York, but it did seem cruel that you were not there to bid me good¬ bye. The laughter and mirth amid which my fancy

painted you, your wife, and cousin A-at Saratoga,

seemed a mockery of my grief, as I floated away from the shore on which my heart lay, and refused to come to me. But when the pilot-boat left us, and the last thread of communication was cut off between me and the land that never seemed so dear before, I thought perhaps after all it was better to part so. It was easier to fling you an adieu up the Hudson, than to squeeze your hand over the vessel’s side, when the tongue could not utter the farewell the heart spoke so loudly the while.

Our vessel was a beautiful Mobile Packet, and Mr. L., consul to Genoa, his wife, two children, myself, and a servant, constituted one family, and the entire

corps of passengers, with the exception of Mr. S-, of

New York, who, like myself, was in search of health. We sat grouped on deck, trying to laugh and appear in.- u

TRAVELS IN ITALY.

different, but it would not do. It was like boys whist¬ ling in the dark to keep off danger. But the over¬ whelming grief I expected to feel as I saw the last blue hill of my father-land sink into the western sky, never came. Nothing ever seemed to me more poetic or pathetic than Byron’s farewell to the land of his birth :

“ Adieu, adieu—my native land Fades o’er the waters blue,” Ac.

And as I saw the dim shores die away in the distance, I expected the thousand fond recollections of home and its quiet joys, perhaps to be mine no more forever—the deep yearning of heart toward the land I had trod from my infancy, and now left an invalid, together with the un¬ certainty and solitude of the sea, would quite unman me. But nothing could be farther from the truth. The sadness I had felt when drifting down the bay was fast disap¬ pearing ; and the slow, heavy rolling of the vessel, soon after we were fairly at sea, brought on that strange sen¬ sation in one’s head and stomach which entirely upsets his poetry—and by the time iVewer-sink began to sink beyond the waters, I cared for neither home nor country. Yet as the setting sun left his farewell on the waters, and the blue sky seemed to bend so lovingly over the land I loved, I thought it was quite too Pagan to feel no sadness. So I began to repeat to myself those sweet lines of Byron, but I made more rhymes than the illustrious poet himself. If uttered aloud they would have run:

“ Adieu, adieu—my native land (ugh, ugh,) Fades o’er the waters blue.” (ugh.)

I could get no farther, and even when the broad round moon rode up the gorgeous night-heavens, making the sea a floor of silver, the effort was no more successful. Not the sweet moon and sweeter stars, nor the broad heaving sea, nor fading Never-sink itself could whip up any sen¬ timent. I fully agreed with Plato for the time that the soul was located in the stomach—at least they sympa¬ thized like two brothers. For a whole week we were a most dolorous group. The ladies below sat around the cabin, pale and languid—the two gentlemen above lay rolled up like caterpillars, to die. Sometimes stretched

TRAVELS IN ITALY.

out in the jolly boat, sometimes on the rail, I would watch by the hour the passing clouds to escape the dizziness created by the rolling of the ship.

“ A life on the ocean wave” is a pleasant thing to sing about, especially if you are in a snug warm room and have Russell to sing, but those who try it find the chorus has never yet been written.

The sleeping, or rather not sleeping, in a miserable berth six feet by two, holding on to the one above you to prevent being thrown out—the eating like an Eastern devotee bowing over his sacrifice—the pitching and tossing of the ship against a head wind on the heavy breakers—the long, monotonous days, and often restless nights—the wearisome calms and fearful storms, and more than all the yearning after the green quiet earth, make a sea-voyage irksome and sickening. It is true there is some relief to this. There is a beauty at times in the ocean, in its changes and caprices, that break its otherwise insufferable tedium. I think I have never enjoyed mere life more keenly, than when sitting in a clear day far out on the flying jib-boom, I have careered with the careering vessel, and looking back a-down the keel, watched the waters part and foam away from the cleaving bows. Next to this I love, when the sea is “gently rough,” to sit on the topmost yard, and look abroad on the great solemn ocean, and catching the dim outlines of the vessels that are hovering on the edge of the horizon, send down “ Sail ho,” to the dreaming group on deck. It is pleasant also to lean over the taffrail and watch the rainbow-dolphin slowly swimming after the vessel, or the porpoises floundering ahead, while perhaps the black fin of a shark is combing the water in the distance. A clear evening on the quarter deck is sweet, when the moist south wind just fills the sails that are gently swelling in the light of the moon, and the bright sparkles here and there on the water seem the twinkling of the feet of fairies abroad on their nightly revels. There is a sense of freedom too at sea. The jostling multitude —the jar of wheels, and the clamours of money-mad men, are not around. The heart is not compelled to retire within itself lest its feelings should be detected, and its emotions mocked. There are also time and room enough to think. Everything seems at leisure—even the waves when most excited have a stately motion. But these

TRAVELS IN ITALY.

Vj

pleasures are all transient, and then comes the long pining after the fresh earth.

The pleasure of our passage was much marred by the loss of a man overboard. When within a few hundred miles of the Azores, we were overtaken by a succession of severe squalls. Forming almost instantaneously on the horizon, they moved down like phantoms on the ship. For a few moments after one struck us, we would be buried in foam and spray, and then heavily rolling on a heavy sea. We, however, prepared ourselves, and soon got everything snug. The light sails were all in—the jibs, top-gallants and spanker furled close—the main-sail clewed up, and we were crashing along under close reefed topsails alone, when a man, who was coming down from the last reef, slipped as he stepped on the bulwarks, and went over backwards into the waves. In a moment that most terrific of all cries at sea, “ A man overboard! a man overboard!” flew like lightning over the ship. I sprung upon the quarter deck just as the poor fellow, with his “ fearful human face,” riding the top of a billow, fled past. In an instant all was commotion : plank after plank was cast over for him to seize and sustain himself on, till the ship could be put about and the boat lowered. The first mate, a bold, fiery fellow, leaped into the boat that hung on the side of the quarter deck, and in a voice so sharp and stern I seem to hear it yet, shouted, “ in men—in men!” But the poor sailors hung back—the sea was too wild. The second mate sprung to the side of the first, and the men, ashamed to leave both their officers alone, followed. “ Cut away the lashings,” exclaimed the officer—the knife glanced around the ropes—the boat fell to the water—rose on a huge wave far over the deck, and drifted rapidly astern. I thought it could not live a moment in such a sea, but the officer who held the helm was a skillful seaman. Twice in his life he had been wrecked, and for a moment I forgot the danger in ad¬ miration of his cool self-possession. He stood erect—the helm in his hand—his flashing eye embracing the whole peril in a single glance, and his hand bringing the head of the gallant little boat on each high sea that otherwise would have swamped her. I watched them till nearly two miles astern, when they lay-to to look for the lost sailor. Just then I turned my eye to the Southern horizon and saw a squall blacker and heavier than any we had

TRAVELS IN ITALY.

before encountered rushing down upon us. The Captain also saw it, and was terribly excited. He afterwards told me that in all his sea life he never was more so. He called for a flag, and, springing into the shrouds, waved it tor their return. The gallant fellows obeyed the signal and pulled for the ship. But it was slow work, for the head of the boat had to be laid on to almost every wave. It was now growing dark, and if the squall should strike the boat before it reached the vessel, there was no hope for it. It would either go down at once, or drift away into the surrounding darkness, to struggle out the night as it could. I shall never forget that scene. All along the southern horizon between the black water and the blacker heavens was a white streak of tossing foam. Nearer and clearer every moment it boiled and roared on its track. Between it and us appeared at intervals that little boat like a black speck on the crest of the billows, and then sunk away apparently engulfed for ever. One moment the squall would seem to gain on it beyond the power of escape, and then delay its progress. As I stood and watched them both, and yet could not tell which would reach us first, the excitement amounted to perfect agony. Seconds seemed lengthened into hours. I could not look steadily on that gallant little crew now settling the question of life and death to themselves and perhaps to us, who would be left almost unmanned in the middle of the Atlantic, and encompassed by a storm. The sea was making fast, and yet that frail thing rode it like a duck. Every time she sunk away she carried my heart down with her, and when she remained a longer time than usual, I would think it was all over, and cover my eyes in horror—the next moment she would appear between us and the black rolling cloud literally covered with foam and spray. The Captain knew, as he said afterwards, that a few minutes more would decide the fate of his officers and crew. He called for his trumpet, and spring¬ ing up the rattlings, shouted out over the roar of the blast and waves, *• Pull away , my brave bullies , the squall is coming—give way my hearties /” and the bold fellows did ie give way ” with a will. I could see their ashen oars quiver as they rose from the water, while the life-like boat sprung to their strokes down the billows, like a panther on the leap. On she came, and on came the B

TRAVELS IN ITALY.

blast. It was the wildest struggle I ever gazed on, but the gallant little boat conquered. Oh, how my heart leaped when she at length shot round the stern, and rising on a wave far above our lee quarter shook water from her drenched head as if in delight to find he

^The^S were fastened, and I never pulled with such right good will on a rope as on the one that brought that boat UP the vessel’s side. As the heads of the crew ap¬ peared over the bulwarks, I could have hugged the brave fellows in transport. As they stepped on deoek, not a question was asked—no report given—but Foiward, men!” broke from the Captain’s lips. The vessel was trimmed to meet the blast, and we were again bounding on our way. If that squall had pursued the course of all the former ones, we must have lost our crew, but when nearest the boat (and it seemed to me the foam was break¬ ing not a hundred rods off) the wind suddenly veered, and held the cloud in check, so that it swung round close to our bows. The poor sailor was gone ; he came not back again. It was his birth-day (he was 25 years old), and alas, it was his death-day. Whether, a bold swimmei, he saw at a distance his companions hunting hopelessly for him, and finally with his heart growing cold with des¬ pair, beheld them turn back to the ship, and the ship it¬ self toss its spars away from him for ever, or whether the sea soon took him under, we know not. YV e saw him no more—and a gloom fell on the whole ship. There were but few of u s in all, and we felt his loss. It was a wild and dark night; death had been among us, and had left us with sad and serious hearts. And as I walked to the stern, and looked back on the foam and tumult of the vessel’s wake, in which the poor sailor had disappeared,

I instinctively murmured the mariner’s hymn, closing with the sincere prayer—

« Oh sailor boy, sailor boy ! peace to thy soul IP

At length the winds lulled, the clouds broke away, and a large space of blue sky and bright stars appeared over¬ head. The dark storm-cloud hung along the distant horizon, over which the lightning still played, while e distant thunder broke at intervals over the deep. The black ocean moaned on in its heavy sobbings, the drenched and staggering ship rolled heavily on its restless bosom,

TRAVELS IN ITALY.

and the great night encompassed all. This was solitude so deep and awful that my heart seemed to throb au¬ dibly in my bosom. My eye ached with the effort to pierce the surrounding darkness, and find something to relieve the loneliness of the scene. At length the rising moon showed its bright disc over a cloud, tinging its black edge with silver, and pouring a sea of light on a sea of darkness, till the waves gleamed and sparkled as if just awakened to life and hope. The moon never looked so lovely before; it seemed to have come out in the heavens on purpose to bless and to cheer us.

In a few days more we made the Azores, and then came long, wearisome calms, that were infinitely worse to bear than the storms. After lying for several days “ a painted ship on a painted ocean,” pining for action, or at least motion, I went in perfect despair to the fore¬ castle, and begged the sailors to give me some work. I would saw wood, turn grindstone, do anything, to break the dreadful apathy that had settled on the ship. I ground up every old axe and knife and tool that was on board. I was amply repaid, not only by the elasticity of feeling I gained, but in the knowledge I acquired of sailors’ character. There was one tall, lank, regular Yankee among the crew, with a roguish twinkle to his small, half concealed eye, that told of many a sly trick. Whenever he left the wheel to go forward and I was on the quarter-deck, he would invariably, as he passed me, roll an enormous quid of tobacco from his mouth into one hand, and, fetching it a box with the other, send it far over the rail into the sea, and, at the same time, thrust his tongue into the vacant place, and toss me one of the drollest winks that ever set a theatre in a roar. One day I saw him making mats for the yards out of the ends of old ropes. “ Well,” said I, “ George, so yon keep to work.” <( Yes,” he replied, iC there is no rest for poor Jack; if he can’t play the Jarman flute he must whistle ”—i. e., if he can’t do one thing, he must another. Poor Jack ! his lot is a hard one.

Yours, &c.

TRAVELS IN ITALY.

II

The Straits and Rock of Gibraltar—Gulf of Genoa, &e.

Genoa, October, IS42.

One morning we were awakened by the cry of land, and as I stepped out of the cabin, the ragged mountains of Africa, the shores of Spain, the Straits of Gibraltar, and over all the glorious rising Sun burst on the sight, me steady current was setting rapidly for the Mediterranean, and all was silent around save the low crushing sound a heavy tide makes in its passage. The smoke that rose from burning timber on the hill tops and along the shore, gently inclined towards the Straits as if inviting us to enter, while over all was that dreamy haze which smoothes even the roughest scenery into a quiet aspect. Our keel cut the waters where rode the keels ot Lord Nelson’s fleet before the battle of Trafalgar. Land was for a moment forgotten as my fancy painted the line-ofbattle ships slowly moving to the conflict. I saw, or thought I saw the long row of banners floating in the breeze, the cloud of smoke as broadside after broadside thundered over the sea. There were the broken and shivered masts dangling amid the ropes, the cries of men, the roll of the drum, and the confused noise of battle. The mountains were alive with fearful echoes, and the waves ran blood. The cheerful voice of Mrs. L. beside me called back my erring fancy, and the quietness of a summer morning rested on all the scene. Whether it was owing to the fresh view of land, or the beauty of the day, or the scene itself, I know not, but that day was one of enchantment to me. Its remembrance is more like a rich dream than a past experience. There was a combination of scenery, a succession of sensations fol¬ lowed by rapid associations that bore me away for a time like a child. I surrendered my heart to its impulses and let it regulate its own beatings. Distant mountains burying their heads in the smoky sky; towers, fortresses, abrupt rocks, smiling villages; vineyards in which

TRAVELS IN ITALY.

nestled white cottages; a continent on either hand and the blue Mediterranean before me ; all coming or passing on my sight, and shifting every moment, made it seem like a wizard land. At length Gibraltar—that grey old solitary rock—stood before me. Lying somewhat diagonal to the straits, and apparently isolated from the main land, it rose almost perpendicularly 1470 feet above me, cutting with its thin naked ridge the air in an irregular waving line.

As we passed it, the booming of cannon came over the water and died away on the shore of Africa. That rock was to me for a while the centre of association. Grand and gloomy it stood and had stood while ages had slowly rolled away—itself alone unchanged. It once looked down on the Roman galleys and on the vessel that bore Caesar and his fortunes on. It had seen the pride of nations come and go with the same haughty in¬ difference. It took no note of time, for time left not its mark upon it.

Its stern gravity had not changed with changing em¬ pires. It had felt the shock of cannon, and the hot meeting of foes had made its sides red with the blood of men, and yet it retained its old composure. As I looked on its grey top, it seemed conscious of its own greatness, and to utter a silent mockery on the pride of man.

The night came, and with the full moon over our heads, on her way to the mountains of Grenada, we fled over the blue waters of the Mediterranean. Islands came and went—days and nights vanished away, till, with the mountains of Piedmont on our left, we slowly passed up the gulf of Genoa. One morning found us within a few miles of the city, and the approach to it fully sustained the character it had borne. The rising sun glided the tops of the Apennines before us, and threw its light on the snowclad summits of the Alps on our left, that lay pale, and white, and silent far up in the heavens.—The shores on either hand that bent up to the city were lined with villages—the back-ground of hills was belted with vine¬ yards, and dotted with white churches and palaces; while far away before us mountain interlocked mountain, each naked ridge crowned with a fortress, and receding away till a sea of summits flowed along the distant sky. At the base was Genoa, i la superba? throned like a queen

TRAVELS IN ITALY.

upon her hills and looking down upon the sea. The city lies in the form of a half circle, and rises away from the shore like an amphitheatre. There is no plain, and it is but a short distance from the shore to the base of the hills. These are cultivated to their very tops, and literally covered with terraced gardens and palaces. As we drew near the fragrance that fell down to the water was like the mingling of all sweet scents. This may seem almost a fancy sketch, but the first impressions, after a six weeks’ voyage, of one of the lovelist scenes the sun ever shone upon, must be vivid but not necessarily over¬ wrought. It was a holiday when we entered port, and added to all this beauty and sweetness, the chime of a hundred bells came merrily down to the bay.

Yours, &c.

III

First Impressions. An Italian Woman. Lunatics.

Genoa, October.

Dear E.—I cannot convey to you the strange feelings with which I first stepped on a foreign shore, and that shore, Italy. When one goes to Europe through England, he is gradually prepared lor the strong contrast between his own country and the countries he visits. But I had no preparation ; the last thousand miles of sea were just like the first thousand, and I had simply taken one step, and had passed from New York, with its English lan¬ guage and home habits, into Genoa, with its queer cus¬ toms and unintelligible jaron. Everything was changed so suddenly, that I wandered about like one in a dream. Now a tall moustached officer, wrapped in his long mili¬ tary cloak, would meet me, and eye me askance as he passed; and now a black-robed priest shuffled by, not deigning me even a look as he went. How many times during the day have I stopped and questioned my own identity!

The other day I was leaning over the balcony of our window at the hotel, watching the motley groups that

TRAVELS IN ITALY.

passed and repassed, and listening to the strange Genoese jargon that every one seemed to understand but myself, when my attention was attracted by an elegantly dressed woman who was sauntering leisurely along up the street that my window faced. As she came near, her eye fell on me, and, her curiosity apparently excited by my foreign look, she steadily scrutinized me as she approach¬ ed. My appearance might have been somewhat outre but still I did not think it was worth such a particular scrutiny, especially from a lady. But she had not the slightest concern about my thoughts on the matter. She wished simply to gratify her own curiosity; so when she had got within the most convenient reconnoitering dis¬ tance, she deliberately paused, and lilting her quizzing-glass to her eye, coolly scanned me from head to foot. When she had finished, she quietly replaced her glass in her belt, and with a smile of self-satisfaction on her face, walked on.

Yesterday I visited the Lunatic Asylum, which stands in a valley between the outer and inner walls of the city. In this part of the city, the inner walls seems to have been built against a high bank, on the top of which the houses stand. This is fortified, and the space left on the top furnishes a beautiful carriage way and promenade, carrying you out to where the wall rises directly out of the Mediterranean, and giving you a view of the whole of the Ligurian Bay. From this promenade you can look down into the area of the Asylum. The building itself you will understand by comparing it to a wheel; the centre building, oval in form, is the hub, from which radiate on every side, like spokes, six long build¬ ings. Around the extremities of these, passes a circular wall, making, of course, between these radiating wings, six triangular areas. In each of these areas a certain class of lunatics are allowed to range: the mild are put together, and the violent kept by themselves. If any one ’ becomes fractions, the strait-jacket is clapped on him, and he is turned loose again, with nothing but his tongue and feet free. Nothing can present the contrast of life stronger, than a stroll along this elevated promenade of a bright evening. The bright Mediterranean is sleeping like a summer lake as far as the eye can reach, and the feelings are lulled by the scene and the hour into tran¬ quillity, when suddenly the sabbath stillness of the soul

TRAVELS IN ITALY.

is broken by the scream of a maniac, raving below you. Leaning over the low parapet that guards this high wall, I often watch of an evening the laughing groups that fill the winding promenade before me, while shouts of mirth and bursts of music, coming at intervals on the night air, furnish straDge interludes to the wild and confused ac¬ cents that fill the valley at my feet.