There were myriads of rainbows in the spray. On one side was brilliant sunshine flashing on soft fields and vine-covered hills; on the other, as a most effective background, against which the whiteness of the foam shone out, low black thunderclouds. It was a singular picture, with its strongly contrasting hues. We could not help being glad that we had never seen Niagara, we found so much here to delight in.
But, friends, a word of advice that comes from depths of sad experience. See Niagara before you come here. At least, read up Niagara. Be perfectly able to answer all questions as to Niagara's height, breadth, and volume, and the character of the emotions created in an appreciative soul by seeing Niagara. If you cannot, you will suffer. Somebody will ask you a Niagara question suddenly at a dinner-party, and you will either reply with shame that you do not know, or with the courage of despair you will make an utterly wild guess, and say something that cannot possibly be true. There are a great many people in Germany—extremely intelligent, and to whom it is a delight to listen—who are wonders of information and appreciation when they talk about German literature and German art; are also on easy terms with the ancient Greeks, and possibly with Sanscrit; but when they approach America it is as if that beloved land were an undiscovered country,—an “unsuspected isle in far-off seas.” The one thing they positively know is that it has a Niagara. Therefore arm yourselves with formidable statistics, and pass unscathed and victorious through the inevitable volley of questions. Personally, I feel that I owe Niagara a never-dying grudge; for, since the harrowing examinations of school committees in my youthful days, never have I been subjected to catechisms so pertinacious and embarrassing as this pride of our land has caused me. I have succeeded at last in fixing the main figures in my memory, but am always more or less nervous when the examination threatens to embrace the adjacent country. If it advances like heavy battalions, I can calmly meet it. But when it comes like light cavalry, is brilliant and inclined to skirmish, I tremble.
It is also well—may I add, for the benefit of young women contemplating a sojourn in Europe?—to know the population of your native town, its area, its distance from the coast, the length of the river upon which it is situated,—above all, its latitude and longitude. This last is of incalculable importance. It is safe to assume that the elderly German who doesn't instantly embark upon Niagara will eagerly plunge into latitude and longitude. Perhaps you think you know all these things; others equally confident have been rudely torn from their false security. Of course it is what we all learned in the primary schools, and we are expected to know it still; but it is astonishing what clouds of uncertainty envelop the understanding when you are suddenly asked in a foreign tongue, before eight or ten strangers, for the very simplest facts. Men are so stupid about such things, you know! They never ask where the May-flowers grow, where the prettiest walks are, where you like to drive at sunset, from what point the light and shade on the hills over the river is loveliest,—in fact, anything of real importance; but always they demand these dreary statistics. Was there never a great man who hated arithmetic?
At the Falls of the Rhine people, I regret to say, make money too palpably. You buy a ticket of a young woman in a pavilion, and she says it will take you over the foaming billows and back again. A man rows you across,—or, rather, propels the boat in a remarkable manner to the opposite shore,—when another man demands some more francs for allowing you to stand on his platform, get very wet and very enthusiastic. You ascend to Schloss Laufen, and pay a franc for looking at the Falls from that point of view. Eager to see them from every possible place, you come down and tell your ferryman to take you to the great rock, that looks so tempting, so hazardous, so altogether enticing, with the foam dashing against it. The boat, as it makes this passage, is the most agitated object imaginable. You survey the Falls from the rock, and at last are content. You gather a few leaves and some of the common flowers that grow upon it, and you almost, from force of habit, give it also a franc. Then the boat, with convulsive lurches and dippings and bobbings, plunges through the rough waters, and finally you reach your original point of embarkation. The ferryman, an innocent-looking blond,—your innocent-looking blonds are invariably the worst kind of people to deal with,—smilingly demands a fabulous number of francs, not alone because he has taken you to the rock, which you knew was an extra, but for the whole trip, for which you have already paid. You are afraid of losing your train. Your friends are high on the bank, wildly beckoning, and waving frantic handkerchiefs from afar. There is no time for expostulation, and already fresh victims are filling the boat. You mutter,—
“Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee,”
which would be a greater comfort if he understood English as well as he does extortion, and then you climb the steep bank and hurry after the retreating figures. You depart impressed with the magnitude of the Falls of the Rhine, and quite conscious of a not insignificant fall of francs in your purse.
[pg!175]
DOWN FROM THE HIGH ALPS.
It is not wise to visit what are called the High Alps first and then make the tour of the Swiss cities. This order should be reversed. From loveliness we should ascend to grandeur, and not come down from Engadine heights, and space and air, to cities, pretty lakes, purplish hills, and white peaks in the background. If we were to see Switzerland again for the first time—isn't this a tolerably good Irishism?—and knew as much about it as we do now,—which doesn't by any means imply that we couldn't easily know more,—we would certainly not do as we have done, especially if, as at present, we were expected to chronicle our emotions. The fact is, when you come down from the heights there is a palpable ebb in your impressions. How can it be otherwise? You glide in well-oiled grooves over the regular routes of travel. You see what you have seen in pictures and read of in books all your life. It is perfectly familiar, and how can you have the audacity to be very diffuse about it? Experiences in well-conducted hotels are not so suggestive as in the rougher mountain life. It is all very comfortable, very lovely. Strange—is it not?—that there come moments when one tires of the comfort and is impatient with the loveliness, and longs for something different,—for grand heights, even if the rocks towering to the skies are fierce and cruel looking; for the depth of the gloomy ravines; for the loneliness and cold of the gray, barren peaks; for the sense of space, immensity, even when harshness goes with it!
We have, then, left the High Alps. We are now in the region of fine hotels, brilliantly lighted rooms, flirtations on the piazza, and long trains. We go where all the world goes, see what all the world sees, fare sumptuously every day, and, whether we are arrayed in purple and fine linen or not, at least we see other people so clothed upon.