IF it were required of me to name the pleasantest day’s ride thus far of this summer’s tour in Switzerland, I should give the palm for beauty to the day that took me with two friends from Interlaken to Lucerne by way of Brienz and the Brunig Pass.
Interlaken, as its name implies, is between the lakes Thun and Brienz. Thun is a beautiful gem of a sea; Brienz is a little smaller, but fortified by formidable mountains and scarcely less lovely than her sister Thun. Our carriage-road, after leading us out from Interlaken,—that great English boarding establishment with a road running through it, and interesting only as a flat valley in sight of the Jungfrau, and so full of people all summer long that you can find no sense of quiet or retirement, though the hotels are good, and the rides pleasant, and the mountain scenery sublime,—our road led us along on the western shore of Lake Brienz, and is cut into the hill-side so far up that all the way along we were able to survey the whole lake. I looked back to the Abendberg, a mountain which I once climbed to visit the Institution for the Relief of Cretins, the idiots of Switzerland, which Dr. Guggenbulre established there. That remarkable philanthropist and physician, in whom and his labors I became intensely interested when here before, has since that time been removed by death, and no one being found to carry on his benevolent and self-denying work, it was suspended, and the building is now a hotel.
On the east side of the lake some of the finest mountains in the country are to be seen, and the flat summit of the Faulhorn is even more inviting than the Rigi, which now is visited by scarcely more tourists. Cascades are leaping frequently from lofty heights into the abyss below, and we have scarcely exclaimed at the beauty of one before another rushes into sight. By and by we come to one more imposing than all the rest; at first we catch but a single fall; as we advance it takes another plunge, and then another, and soon the whole reach and all the leaps of the Giesback are roaring and tumbling down the lofty precipices before us. I had been under it and around it, at its base, but had not before stood, as now, where its successive falls are all blended into one, and the white crystal flood pours more than a thousand feet, through the green fir-tree borders, into the lake. If you have a night to spare, when you come here, you may cross from Brienz and spend it at the Falls, which are illuminated with Bengal lights, producing a spectacle of enchanting and bewildering magnificence and beauty. But if you have not time, get some one who has just been there, and who knows that you have not been, to tell you about it, and you will get an idea from his description that will quite surpass the original!
After passing the little village of Brienz,—where the English-speaking landlord of the Bear (Ours) will entertain you well if you give him a call,—we soon began the ascent of the Brunig mountain. It gives you at once some conception of the immense expenditure of money, time, and science of engineering required to construct these Swiss roads. As smooth as those of Central Park, and as solid, they are made to wind around and about so as to render the ascent gradual. Sometimes we seem to be returning on our track, but always singing Excelsior, and yet so gradually that the strain is not severe on the horses, and you feel no sense of danger as you are borne along without jolting or fatigue. And what a lovely vale is every moment in view at the foot of the mountain! A rapid river sweeps through it, and by its side a white, smooth road: sweet Swiss homes in the midst of green farms dot the valley, that may well be the pride of the whole land. Now we are looking down into the Vale of Meyringen. For two or three hours we have seen in the distance a splendid cascade, and now that we have approached it, we find it the lower leap of the celebrated Reichenbach Falls, and into the valley so many are pouring constantly, that you are not surprised to learn the inhabitants have often suffered sadly from the swelling of these mountain torrents, which come down so rapidly and fearfully as to bear away every thing before them. A hundred years ago, almost the whole village of Meyringen was buried twenty feet deep in the sand and rocks and rubbish. A mark on one of the principal buildings shows the height to which the waters rose in that memorable deluge. And as we are wound along up the Brunig, we enter the clouds and find the rain descending, so that we are obliged to shut the carriage up till we pass through the cloud, and emerge as we come down into a sunnier region. At the foot, the village of Lungern offers us dinner, and we rest. One of my friends had been suffering all day with toothache, and had at last reached the reckless determination to have it out, if a dentist, or even a blacksmith, could be found in the place. I admired his courage more than his discretion, but probably had only a feeble sense of his suffering. The village doctor was summoned, a fine-looking, self-reliant, intelligent young man. The landlord stood with solemn face at the door of the room where the dread operation was to be performed. The landlady wrung her hands in sympathy. The head waiter held the sufferer’s head. I held my peace. In a moment it was done! And then the charge, it was one franc! twenty cents!! Think of that, ye man tormentors, who, with forceps dire, tear a tooth by the roots from one’s bleeding jaw and charge him two dollars, or five!
Lungern, where now lies the bone of one of my countrymen, stands by a lake of the same name, which was once much larger than it is now. But the people, more in need of land than water, at the cost of $25,000 dug a tunnel under a hill that held the lake, put 1000 pounds of gunpowder at the end of the hole and touched it off. Away it went, and away went the lake, and the village itself was nearly whelmed too. Down went the lake 120 feet, leaving several hundred acres of ground which is now tilled. But not enough to pay for the work. God has given the seas and the lakes their bounds, and man is a poor tinker when he tries to blow the world up and make it over. I sympathize with the poet who rejoices that the sun and moon are swung out of reach,
“Lest some reforming ass
Should take them down and light the world with gas.”
The whole region beyond is historic, and the quaint villages we pass through have their several stories of battles, sieges, and victories. Every step of the way presents a new picture of loveliness or sublimity. At last we are brought into sight and now are riding along the base of Mount Pilatus, his head as usual crowned with clouds and storm. The tradition is,—and you must believe in all the traditions of this country, or you lose half the interest of travel in it: even the life and exploits of William Tell are traditional rather than historic, yet who that lives here or travels here thinks William Tell a myth? If he does, he had better not tell anybody he doesn’t believe in Tell,—the tradition is that Pontius Pilate, after condemning the Saviour, wandered over the world with a conscience goading him to death; that finally he committed suicide on the top of this mountain, which is almost always, in consequence of this awful event, begirt with tempests. And the popular belief that these storms were of infernal origin was so prevalent, that for a long time it was forbidden by law to make the ascent. But the mountain is the first great barrier the clouds meet as they are marching southerly into the Alpine regions. There they break, and around the peak of Mount Pilate the thunder and lightning play with vengeance, when elsewhere it is “clear shining after the rain.” The carriage-path is now along the shore of Lake Lucerne and at the foot of the mountains,—ahead of us it seems as though we were coming to the sudden terminus of travel, but the narrow way opens as we advance, and we sweep securely under a frowning precipice, and over a solid rock for the bed of the road, and having made the circuit of the mountain we emerge upon a plain which lies between us and Lucerne.
Pilatus, Lake of Lucerne.