We went down into the vale of Chamouni, and at evening saw the stars like diamonds sparkling in the crown of the monarch, and then the moonbeams fell all cold upon his crest. We rose the next morning early, and saw the summit of Mont Blanc in a blaze of glory long before the dwellers in the vale had seen the rays of the rising sun.
And then we left Switzerland.
| [1] | The preceding letters were originally addressed to the New York Observer. This chapter, embracing a general view of the country, with pictures of scenes already noticed, was contributed to Harper’s Monthly Magazine. |
CHAPTER XIV.
SAXON SWYTZ.
A model guide—The Bastei—Banditti of old—A cataract to order—Scaling a Rampart—Konigstein—the Kuhstall—the Great Winterberg—Prebisch Thor—Looking Back.
In a corner of Saxony is a miniature Switzerland. They call it Saxon Switzerland; perhaps the name is not well chosen, for it has one feature only of Swiss scenery—exceeding beauty. Only three days are required to see it, and two will give a good traveller all the more prominent points, in a series of views, the romantic loveliness of which will linger a lifetime in the memory of one who has seen them. The Elbe is now navigated by little steamboats, which English enterprise introduced, but a better way to reach Saxon Swytz, if you are pressed for time, is to go with us by rail to Rathen, and there strike off into the mountains. A local guide must be had at once, before you take a step. It was now the height of the travelling season, and on a fine morning in July we found ourselves at a small tavern on the banks of the Elbe, with half a dozen men about us pressing their claims to be employed as guides among the mountains. “Do you speak English?” we inquired of one: to which he answered “Yes,” and this with the frequent exclamation “look here” proved to be the Alpha and Omega of our German’s knowledge of English. He had a book of certificates which former travellers had given him, and as they were sure he could not read one of them, they had very freely commended him as ignorant, stupid, temperate and faithful, acquainted with the country, and probably no worse a guide than the rest. He was our man. We could get out of him all that was necessary, and as he pleaded hard for employment, and knew three words of English more than the rest, we took him, and in five minutes he took us into a small boat to pull us over the Elbe. Instantly the bewitching scenery began to surround us. The river was here so winding that we could see a little way only, either up or down, but the lofty banks rose so abruptly from the water and the rocks, in the midst of which evergreens were growing, hung so fearfully above us, that we seemed to be suddenly borne into a land of enchantment. We landed on the other side, a “house of refreshment,” where German ladies and gentlemen were recruiting themselves with beer, which like an overflowing stream appears to come from some exhaustless fountain. Now we are to decide between a pedestrian tour and mules. We were not long in making up our minds, and soon we were off on the beasts; sorry beasts they were; better men than Balaam might have wished for a sword, or some more fitting weapon to make them go. They were indifferent to all minor arguments, such as words and kicks, and only conscious of the a posteriori mode of reasoning, to which the muleteer in the rear continually resorted. We left the common road, and by a narrow path commenced the ascent to one of the most celebrated and splendid points of observation, the Bastei. On either side of us as we are ascending, huge precipices frown and deep grottoes in which the fairy spirits of these forests may be supposed to dwell, invite us to rest as weary of the upward way. Now a waterfall, beautiful as water in motion always is, and picturesque as a cascade in the green woods must be, tempts us to linger and take the spray on our heated brows. Through dense shades of evergreen forests, by a path so steep, at times, that it is difficult to keep your seat in the saddle, we toil on, and in the course of an hour have triumphed over the hardships of the hill, and have reached the summit of the loftiest bastion in the world. It is as perpendicular as a wall that has been reared for defence. The rock on which we were standing projects from the front of the precipice, and we are hanging six hundred feet above the Elbe. The river winds round the base of the mountain, and both up and down the stream for many miles the eye rests on similar heights on the same side that we are standing. Behind us, Ossa upon Pelion seems to be piled. Giant rocks stand up there in solemn and solitary grandeur, as if by some great convulsion of nature the earth had been torn from their sides, and they were left to brave earthquakes and thunderbolts with their naked heads and sides exposed to perpetual storms. Yet the bravery of man has bridged the horrid chasms that yawn between these separated cliffs, and they have in times past, been the hiding places of banditti, who from these heights could watch the Elbe, and make their descent upon the hapless navigator of the peaceful stream. On one of the rocks is a huge boulder so evenly balanced on the very pinnacle that it has been called “Napoleon’s Crown,” and another from a fancied resemblance, “the Turk’s head,” and all of them have titles more or less fitting. Across the river, and in front of us, the plain spreads wide and rises as it recedes from the shore till it meets a range of wooded mountains. From the midst of this plain there rise immense cones, suddenly and remarkably, strange formations, a study for the geologist, probably left there when all the surrounding masses were worn away by the Elbe in making its way through this mountainous region. The country is full of legends connected with each and all of these strange columns, the summits of which are sometimes crowned with castles, and one of them, the Lilienstein, is so perpendicular and lofty, that the Elector of Saxony and King of Poland, when he had scaled its heights, left a record of his memorable exploit. In the hiding places of this wild and rugged rock, the spirits of the woods are supposed to hover over concealed treasures. “A holy nun miraculously transported from the irregularities of her convent to the summit of the Normenstein, that she might spend her days in prayer and purity in its caverns, is commemorated in the name of the rock, and the ‘Jungfernsprung,’ or leap of the Virgin, perpetuates the memory of the Saxon maid who when pursued by a brutal lustling threw herself from the brink of its hideous precipice to die unpolluted.”—Russell.
Konigstein, nearly a thousand feet high, with its impregnable fortress, we shall attempt this afternoon, and enter it with a flag of truce, as it was never taken by force. We came up here for the sake of view, and fully repaid for the toil of the ride, we are now prepared to descend by another route, when we are told for the first time that the mules are not for us to ride down, we must foot it, and the mules be driven by the same road they came up. Through the wildest of all wild gorges our winding way led us, at the base of jagged rocks of fearful height, out of the broken breasts of which huge trees were growing, threatening to fall, yet clinging for life to the crevices in which their roots were fastened. Now and then a scared eagle would scream and soar away from his nest, but rarely did a sound except the murmur of water, and the sighing of the air through the narrow defile disturb the deep stillness of that solitude. That projecting rock, with its adjacent pillars of stone, is called the Devil’s Pulpit, and that, the Throne, and so other points of peculiar configuration have names more or less fanciful, which a lively imagination has given them. Suddenly, we came upon a family of peasants, who have a hut under the shelter of the rocks, and a few articles of refreshment for weary travellers; sweet milk, and bread and cheese, and a bottle or two of liquor—but they are chiefly and decidedly in the cold water line; they are in the cataract business! The little stream that takes this gorge in its way to the Elbe, at this point would make a leap of some twenty feet among the rocks. With an economy that would do honor to American foresight, these people have made a dam across the rivulet before it falls, and thus accumulating the waters, have them ready for a grand splurge, when a party come along who are willing to pay a few pence for the pleasure of seeing the performance. One of our people gave the word of command in German, of which a free translation would be “Let her slide,” and down came the young Niagara. But for the ludicrous idea of an artificial cataract in the mountains, the sight would have been very pretty. The gorge hitherto had been so narrow and deep, that the sun never shines to the bottom, and no flowers ever cheer its gloom; but now the sun lighted up the falling drops, making them like great diamonds, as we from behind the sheet looked out upon the extempore waterfall. It was a walk of four or five miles, through such scenes, to the place from which we had started, and here we awaited the coming of a little steamer which was creeping along the banks to pick up passengers. It picked us up, and dropped us in a few minutes at Konigstein, or the King’s Stone. The little town with a thousand people in it, would not deserve a call, but it is in our way to the fortress on the summit of the rocky height behind. The road is paved all the way with large square stones, making a carriage path, up which enormous guns are dragged for its defence. To this day it boasts of never having fallen into the hands of the enemy. Napoleon, with incredible toil, carried some of his heaviest pieces of ordnance to the top of Lilienstein, but could not reach it with his balls. Much of the distance up which we toiled, the road is cut through a living rock, which rises a solid wall on either side, and winds around the hill, till we come to a wooden bridge over an awful chasm, which separates the passage from the cliff on which the fortress stands, on a platform two miles in circuit, inaccessible except to friends, or to foes with wings. One portcullis passed, and we have only come to the gate. Iron spikes projecting from the stonework threaten us as we approach. At the gate, soldiers are looking through the port-holes, and challenge us to stand. They take our cards and passports to the commander, and soon return with permission for us to enter. But once admitted within the massive gate, we have still a long bridge across the moat to pass, and then by a covered passage at an angle of forty-five degrees, over a stone road, up which cannon are drawn by a windlass, we come out on the summit of the hill to a scene of transcendent beauty, and of the richest historic interest. The ground is neatly laid out in walks and gardens; there are fields of pasture for herds of cattle and of grain raised for the support of the garrison. Their unfailing supply of water is drawn from a well eighteen hundred feet deep! We held a mirror to the sun, and sent the reflected light away down into that mysterious depth, and watched it sporting on the waters. Then we poured a glass of water into the well, and in thirty seconds by the watch, the sound returned to our listening ears. Sound travels eleven hundred and forty-two feet in a second, and would therefore be less than two seconds in coming up; so that if our measure of time was correct, it must have taken the water nearly half a minute to travel down to the surface from which it had been drawn. We drank of that well and found the water cool and delightful. Standing on the ramparts, which are defended by enormous guns, we overlooked the plains on one hand, the river and the romantic hills of Saxon Switzerland on the other. Again the columnal rocks arrested our attention, more peculiar now that we are nearer. Far, very far higher than the loftiest cathedral spire, and not broader at the base, they rise in solitary grandeur, where the Great Architect of the earth first placed them, and where they will stand till all the cathedrals and fortresses and pyramids of man’s building have crumbled into dust.
We bought a few pieces of Bohemian glass ware as souvenirs of this visit, and then reluctantly turning away from the scene, which seemed more beautiful the longer we dwelt upon it—so it is with beauty ever—we reluctantly came down.