Letters of Asa Gray; Vol. 1

by Asa Gray

Salzburg, June 10.

Arrived at Linz Friday noon, dined, looked a little about the town, which is remarkable for nothing except its agreeable situation on the Danube, and its unusual kind of fortification; and at half past one started for Gmünden, about thirty-five miles by railroad, in a car drawn by horses. This railroad, the oldest in Germany, is rather a primitive affair; we were jolted more than on the ordinary roads, which I have found everywhere excellent. The first part of the road was very uninteresting. I was seated in the middle of the car, with five or six inveterate German smokers around me, each equipped with a huge meerschaum pipe with a wooden stem nearly as long as your arm, which he replenished as often as it was exhausted, and all puffed away in concert as if they were locomotive engines and our progress depended upon their exertions. You are everywhere annoyed in the same way, but I have become accustomed to it so that it does not trouble me as at first. At length a fat military officer next me smoked himself to sleep; and I was amusing myself with the ridiculous pendulum-like motions he was making, his pipe still grasped by his mouth at one end and by his hand at the other, when he knocked his head against the window and pitched his hat into the road, to his great astonishment and our infinite amusement. We passed through Wels, and afterwards Lambach, a pretty place and most beautifully situated upon the Traun. In this part of the journey we had a fine view of the Salzburg Alps, which rise to their greatest height just where Austria proper and the provinces of Styria and Salzburg meet. From Lambach to the end of the journey, the country appeared completely American: finely wooded with fir and larch with here and there a clump of beech. We reached Gmünden just at twilight, a neat village on the very bank of the Gmündensee or Traunsee, for it is called by both names. The situation, close down upon the water and in the bosom of green undulating hills, is as lovely as can be conceived, and is in fine contrast with the upper extremity of the little lake, where the dark and lofty mountains rise abruptly from the very edge of the water, not leaving room enough even for a footpath. Their summits were still covered with patches of snow, but they are overtopped by the peaks of the Dachstein and other portions of these Alps which are crowned with perpetual snow. I found at the Goldenes Schiff neat rooms, and a most comfortable bed, which I was prepared fully to enjoy, having first made a supper on nice trout from the lake, with a few etceteras. At seven o’clock the next morning I was on board the little steamboat,—commanded by an Englishman, as most boats are in Austria,—which affords the only means of communication with the country beyond. The morning was pleasant, and I had a good opportunity of seeing the finest scenery I ever beheld; indeed I do not expect ever to see it surpassed. As we left the green slopes at Gmünden behind us, the mountains which inclose the upper portion of the lake gradually disclosed themselves more distinctly; halfway up, we were opposite the gigantic Traunstein, whose naked and weather-beaten summit had been full in view almost ever since we left Linz the day before. It is a huge mountain, appearing as if split from top to bottom and turned with the cloven side toward the lake, so that it presents a perpendicular wall of jagged rock nearly three thousand feet high! leaving just room sufficient between it and the water for one or two fishermen’s huts, which look the veriest pygmies. The mountains beyond this on the same side are equally picturesque, but not so high. They rise in sharp isolated peaks, leaving the wildest glens between, down which streams fed by the snows of the mountains in the background come leaping to the lake. On a promontory which seems from the lower part of the lake to form its southern extremity stands the little hamlet of Traunkirchen; the picturesque little church was founded by the Jesuits, who once had a small establishment here; a little nook is occupied with the wee bits of cabins belonging to the peasantry employed in the salt-works or in rowing the salt-barges down the lake; they are set down here and there, as room can be found, and add much to the beauty of the view. As the boat doubles this promontory, Gmünden and all the lower part of the lake is lost sight of, and you seem to be on another smaller but wilder lake, entirely shut in by the precipitous mountains; a few minutes more and we are landed at Ebensee, the little salt-village at the head, where the Traun enters, and you regret that the voyage is so short. I was strongly inclined to go back again with the boat, and return again in the afternoon; but knowing I had no time to lose, and that I might not readily find another convenient opportunity of going on to Ischl, I was obliged to bid farewell to Gmündensee. Loveliest, wildest of lakes, I shall not soon forget thee.

I had not time at Ebensee to look at the works where the brine is evaporated, which seem to be on a large scale. The brine is brought here in aqueducts, some fifteen or twenty-four miles, since fuel is more plenty here, and it is found more economical to bring the brine to the fuel than the fuel to the brine. The stellwagen was ready, and I took my seat. A ride of ten or eleven miles up the valley of the Traun, a narrow defile bordered by lofty mountains, brought us before noon to Ischl. It is a pretty village, lying in a green valley formed by the junction of the little river Ischl with the Traun; it contains extensive salt-works and is a favorite bathing-place, people of all degrees coming here in the summer to pickle themselves in the salt water. Three immense ridges of mountains come down almost into the village, leaving a triangular space for the village, with just three ways of getting in or out, viz., by ascending the river as we came, or by either the Ischl or the Traun as they enter the valley.

I took a hasty dinner, and left the hotel at one o’clock, determined to enjoy the satisfaction of climbing a real mountain. The Zeimitz, the highest in the neighborhood, is said to command the finest prospect, and it looked as if I could ascend it in an hour or two with the greatest ease, although the guide-book says that ten to twelve hours are necessary for going and returning. I have accomplished the task; I climbed the mountain, 5000 feet high, traveled over the snow from one to the other of its four peaks at considerable distance from each other; enjoyed the most magnificent prospect; filled my portfolio with alpine plants, descended the steepest side, picking my difficult way down the rocks and sliding down immense snowbanks, until I was past the alpine portion; then making a turn to a subalpine pasture, where cows and goats are driven to pass the summer, I struck an old path, and ran with all speed to the gorge at the base, where the stream that I had traced from its source as it trickled from a snowbank, and down a succession of little cataracts, was now a foaming and rushing torrent. It was then just twilight, and a quiet walk of an hour brought me back to the hotel at nine o’clock, quite proud of my feat and delighted with the fine view I had obtained. But I have paid well for it. In the morning I could scarcely stir for the aches and pains in my bones, and even now the extensor muscles of my legs are sore to the touch and bear woeful testimony to the hard service they have been obliged to perform. “I shall think about it,” as Mr. Davis says, before I ascend another mountain.

And yet I feel myself well repaid for all my fatigue. To say nothing of the prospect opening out wider and grander as I ascended, I had from the summit a magnificent mountain panorama which it was well worth the labor to see; the summits of more than one peak white and brilliant with perpetual snow and ice. The most stupendous of all is the Thorstein or Dachstein, which closes the view to the south, with its immense glaciers of the most dazzling whiteness, from which numerous steep pinnacles rise like spires, towering high above all surrounding objects, illuminated by the rays of the setting sun long after all other objects are left in the shade. The dark lake of Hallstadt was distinctly seen, appearing to reach up to its very base. I could not distinguish the village which is hidden under the cliffs at that end of the lake, where from November to February the inhabitants do not see the sun, they are so shut in by high mountains. Four other lakes were in full view, two of them lying almost beneath my feet.

And then imagine my pleasure at collecting alpine plants for the first time, some of them in full blossom under the very edge of a snowbank. I filled my portfolio with Soldanella, Rhododendron, Primula Auricula, Ranunculus Thora, and another with white flowers, etc., etc. I am sorry to say that in my eagerness I have left my knife, last relic of the Expedition, and so long my trusty companion, somewhere on the top of the mountain. Sunday was at least a day of bodily rest, for I did not rise until past ten o’clock, and hobbled out but once beyond the limits of my hotel. I was obliged to leave, however, late in the evening, about half past ten, when the eilwagen, which comes but twice a week, arrived from Gratz on its way to Salzburg; and here I found myself at six o’clock this morning; a rainy day, and a very dull town, with nothing but its fortress and its exceedingly beautiful and romantic situation to make it interesting. There are many objects of great interest in the neighborhood, but this rainy day prevents any distant excursion; my place is taken for Munich for to-morrow morning, and not even the inducements of “the most beautiful region in all Germany,” as it is called, not even the sublimities of the Berchtesgaden and the Königsee, which are but fifteen miles off, shall detain me longer. I begin to look with expectation toward the end of my journey, and have already in my plans shortened it a little. I have looked about the old churches and buildings of this town, and am waiting now for it to clear up that I may climb the Mönchsberg, and enjoy the prospect that is said to be so fine. At midday I had hopes of a pleasant afternoon, but it is now raining harder than ever.

In this region, as in the retired parts of Styria, through which I passed to Vienna, you are charmed with the kind-hearted simplicity of the people. If you meet them in walking, they always give you some word of greeting, and commonly take off their hats and bow to you; yet there seems to be nothing servile or cringing in it. You get a porter to carry your baggage, who, instead of asking for more when you have given him already more than he expected to receive, takes off his hat, makes you a low bow, and thanks you most heartily, though without any palaver. So with the servants, who never ask anything, and I suppose would not if you were to forget them altogether; I doubt if they would ever remind you; you give them about a third part of what an English servant would expect, and you have them all most heartily wishing you bon voyage or glückliche reise, according to the language they speak. In some places they say the chambermaid kisses your hand, but this has not happened to me yet. The women, when not rendered wholly masculine in appearance by performing the labor of men, which is very common, are almost universally good-looking, and in such vigorous health. I do not admire their head-dress, which is ordinarily a black silk thing tied closely around the head and tied in rather fantastic bows behind. The women of Linz and all this part of the Danube wear, when in full dress, a cap of tinsel or gold lace, shaped exactly like the Roman helmet, which fits close to the top of the head. But fashions never leave this world; when you ladies throw aside some mode, it is picked up and perpetuated in some out-of-the-way part of the world. Thus, for example, all the young fraus of Ischl wear balloon sleeves, after the most approved fashion some three or four years ago. I assure you it looked quite natural to see them again, even upon the buxom damsels of the Salzkammergut (there’s a name for you).

It is now half past seven; and it is still raining most obstinately, so ascending the Mönchsberg is not to be thought of; and I must make up my mind to leave Salzburg without this view. My trunk is sent to the office of the brief-post-eilwagen, all ready for starting at six o’clock in the morning, and to-morrow evening at eleven I hope (D. V.) to be in Munich, seventy-eight miles. I owe Bentham a letter, and have not written him or any one else since I left Paris. I will take this convenient opportunity and write forthwith.

Munich, 12th June.

I arrived in this capital of Bavaria last evening at eleven o’clock, after a tedious, though not uninteresting ride of seventeen hours. The day proved a fine one, and after leaving Salzburg through the curious tunnel that penetrates the Mönchsberg we came abruptly into the open country; and as the mists gradually rose from the sides of the mountains and we ascended some small hills, I obtained some most beautiful and picturesque views of the surrounding mountains. The Stauffenberg, which stood between us and Berchtesgaden, a magnificent mountain, was for a long time the most prominent object; backed by the more distant central portions of the Salzburg Alps, all white with snow. It was only as I left this place that I could appreciate the beauty of its situation, and I felt a momentary regret that I had not stayed a day longer and visited Berchtesgaden. These fine mountains and those of the Tyrol (the more western portion of the same chain) were in full view during the whole journey, filling the southern horizon, while we journeyed through a rather level country; for the whole of Bavaria south of the Danube is a great plain, stretching from that river to these mountains that skirt its southern border. It is an inclined plain, since Munich, though in a perfectly flat region, is about sixteen hundred feet above the level of the sea. We crossed the frontier in an hour after we started, where our baggage was slightly and very civilly examined, and our passports viséd by the Bavarian police. We passed two pretty lakes, but no place of interest except Wasserburg, situated in a picturesque dell on the river Inn. For companions I had a Dane, who spoke a little English surprisingly well, and was very agreeable; a German, who spoke a little French; and a Frenchman, who had come up the Danube from Constantinople, and who tired us all with the continual clack of his very disagreeable voice. I took up my abode at the Schwarzer Adler, a very comfortable and quite cheap hotel; slept pretty well; rose early this morning to take a look at the town, which within these last twenty years has become a magnificent capital; saw many of the public buildings,—that is, their exterior,—churches, and squares; went to the office of the police and obtained the required permission de séjour; and then went to the Royal Cabinet to find Martius, for whom I had three letters of introduction. He is a small man, not so tall as I, quite thin, but rather good-looking, apparently fifty years old, but his hair may be prematurely gray. He seems to have his hands very full of business, but he received me with cordiality; took me to the library and the cabinet of natural history, which are in the same building, told me to amuse myself till one (the universal dinner hour), and meet him at the Botanic Garden at three, and afterwards spend the evening at his house. The cabinets here are in an old, rather inconvenient building, once a Jesuits’ college, which now contains them all, as well as the library, the lecture-rooms of the university, etc., but in a year or so all will be removed to very fine buildings the king is erecting for their reception. Excepting the Brazilian collections, which are large and good, there is nothing worth particular notice in the zoölogical and mineralogical cabinets; they make no great show after that of Vienna. The library is immense, this and the one at Paris being the two largest in the world; the books fill a great number of rooms, none of them magnificent but very convenient; the whole is soon to be transferred to other quarters. I was introduced to one of the librarians, who was at the moment showing the curiosities of the collection, very old and rich manuscripts,—the earliest attempts at wood-engraving, etc.,—to a party of English. When he had done with them I told him he must have been bored quite sufficiently for once, and that I would not trouble him any further just then, but that I wished to acquire some useful information about the plan and arrangement of the library, rather than to see its curiosities. So he fixed upon Friday morning, when he would be quite disengaged, and would gladly afford me all the information I desired. Shortly after dinner I went down to the Botanic Garden; found Martius, who, having an unexpected engagement, consigned me to the head gardener, and I was very kindly shown over the whole establishment, which is much larger and better than I had supposed, and in excellent condition.