From the Lakes of Killarney to the Golden Horn

by Henry M. Field

But once there, we are sensible that we are raised into a higher region; we breathe a purer air. The eye ranges over the fairest portion of Switzerland. Seen from such a height, the country seems almost a plain; and yet viewed more closely, we see hills and valleys, diversified with meadows and forests. We can count a dozen lakes. On the horizon stretches the great chain of the Alps, covered with snow, and when the sun breaks through the clouds, it gleams with unearthly brightness. But it is impossible to describe all that is comprised in that one grand panorama. Surely, I thought, these must be the Delectable Mountains from which Bunyan's Pilgrim caught a sight of the Celestial City; and it seemed as if, in the natural order of things, when one is travelling over the earth, he ought to come here last (as Moses went up into Mount Nebo to catch a glimpse of the Promised Land, and die), so that from this most elevated point of his pilgrimage he might step into heaven.

But at last we had to come down from the mount, and quieted our excited imaginations by a sail up the lake. Fluellen, at the end of the lake, was associated in my mind with a sad memory, and as soon as we reached it, I went to the principal hotel, and asked if an American gentleman had not died there two years since? They answered Yes, and took me at once to the very room where Judge Chapman, the Chief Justice of Massachusetts, breathed his last. He was a good man, and as true a friend as we ever had. The night before he sailed we spent with him at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. He came abroad for his health, but did not live to return; and a few months after our parting, it was our sad privilege to follow him to the grave in Springfield, where all the judges of the Supreme Court of Massachusetts, and great numbers of the Bar, stood around his bier.

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.