Chapter V: Part 5

But then Mrs. Grundy would never have placed herself quite in our position, for she would not have been demeaning herself by peering into churns and kettles, tasting fresh butter, drinking cream from wooden ladles, and asking questions about cows, and indeed it is improbable that she would have allowed herself to even enter such a place; we will therefore leave Mrs. Grundy completely out of the question,--which is always a huge satisfaction,--and tell how we conducted ourselves under these unforeseen circumstances.

With outward calmness, with certain possible misgivings and inward shrinkings, we smilingly took the seat assigned in the circle of friendly young workmen, and dipped our spoon in the wooden soup-dish with all the other spoons. That we ate, really _ate_, much, I cannot say. Not only was suppressed amusement a hindrance to appetite, but the five young men with their rolled-up sleeves, their _patois_, their five spoons dipping together in unison and brotherly love, though interesting as a picture, with the cows lazily lying in the background, and the Tyrolean Alps seen through the open doors and windows, presented nevertheless certain obstacles to a thorough enjoyment of the rustic meal. To taste, according to our code, was obligatory; to eat was impossible. We tried to spur on that languid spoon to do its duty; we philosophized about human equality, but all in vain; and we ate not in a proper, true spirit, but like a hypocrite, or an actress, so strong are these silly prejudices that govern us.

But the men were quite satisfied, since their soup was pronounced excellent; and, having once accepted their hospitality, we had no difficulty in excusing ourselves when a second soup--_cheese_ being its principal ingredient--was offered us. Our one regret in the whole experience was, that we could not summon the primest woman of our acquaintance to suddenly stand in the doorway and gaze in, aghast, upon this convivial scene. That, had it been possible, would have been a joy forever in our remembrance.

This Schattwald certainly has great fascinations to offer the wanderer who seeks shelter here. Rough scrambles for Alpine flowers are followed by a long afternoon of novel enjoyment, listening to a chorus of hunters singing Tyrolean songs,--_real_ hunters, and we never saw their like before except on the stage! The one who played the zither was adorned with trophies of the chase,--a chamois beard on his dark-green hat, and, on his coat, buttons made from stag-antlers. He was rather a noble-looking man, with a straightforward, kindly expression in his eyes, and he sang the mountain songs with great spirit. They all sang with enjoyment, and there seemed to be an immense "swing" to the music. The songs expressed joy and pride in the freedom of the mountain life, and alluded in poetical language to their mountain maids. In several of them the singers gave the "Jodel," which we also heard repeatedly echoing among the mountains, and responded to from height to height.

On the prettiest cottage in the place is this inscription in verse. I give the literal translation:--

"I once came into a strange land;
On the wall was written,
'Be pious, and also reserved:
Let everything alone that is not thine.'"

The hunters sang with special delight one song which frequently asserted that "_Auf der Alm_ there is no sin." This impressed us as a delightful idea, though somewhat at variance with the theological doctrines in vogue in a less rarefied atmosphere. We did not presume to doubt anything they told us, however. We are rapidly becoming as credulous, as simple, as bucolic, as they. But, reclining one evening at sunset on a soft slope above the village, with the breath of the pines around us, and listening, in a lotus-eating mood, to the "drowsy tinklings" of the bells of the herds on the opposite heights, this problem occurred to us: How long will it be, at our present rapid rate of assimilation with things pastoral, and with the slight line of demarcation that exists in Schattwald between man and bird and beast, before we also contentedly eat grass, and go about with bells on our necks?

UP THE AIRY MOUNTAIN.

"Will you walk into my parlor?" said every innkeeper from Chur to St. Moritz, and our minds were half absorbed in contemplation of the scenery and half in resisting the allurements of these Swiss spiders, all of whom declared with many grimaces and shrugs that we could not accomplish the distance between the two places in one day.

"Does not the regular post go through in one day?" we inquire. "Then why not we by extra post?"

"You are too late, madame."

"We are not so heavy as the _diligence_. We can go faster."

"Impossible, madame."

"_Why_ impossible?"

"Not precisely impossible; but it would be better, ah, yes, madame, far better, to remain here,"--with the sweetest of smiles,--"and go on to St. Moritz to-morrow."

They knew this was nonsense. We knew it was nonsense. They knew that we knew that it was nonsense. We had borne all that it was fitting we should bear.

"But _why_?" we sternly demand.

"You will be more comfortable, madame."

"We do not wish to be comfortable."

"You will arrive at midnight."

"We like to arrive at midnight."

What then could the spiders do with flies who retorted in this unheard-of-way, who resisted advice, would telegraph for horses, cheer the postilions with absurdly frequent _Trink Geld_, and push steadily on to St. Moritz high in the upper Engadine?

The truly remarkable feature of the expedition was, that when we left Chur in the morning it was only with a lazy consciousness that up among the mountains somewhere was a St. Moritz, which we at some indefinite time would reach.

Innkeeper No. 1 made us think we would like to go through in one day.

Innkeeper No. 2 strengthened the wish.

No. 3, by his efforts at discouragement, gave us, in place of the wish, a determination to go on.

No. 4 created in us a frantic resolve to reach St. Moritz that night, or perish in the attempt.

No banner with a strange device did we bear, yet as the shades of night were falling fast, and we stopped to change horses at a little inn in an Alpine village, and queer-looking men with lanterns walked about the wild place speaking in an unknown tongue (it was Romanisch, but then we did not know), and the road was steep before us, we gloried in resembling the immortal "youth" of the poem. We always have admired him from the time we learned him by heart, and repeated him in our first infant sing-song; but never before did we have the remotest idea _why_ his brow was sad, why his eye flashed like a falchion from its sheath, why he persisted in his eccentric career. Now it is clear as light before us. He was goaded on, as we were, by the Swiss innkeepers.

"O, stay!" said they.

"Excelsior!" cried we. And on we went, feeling that a mighty fate was impelling us, alluding grandly to "Sheridan's Ride," "How they brought the Good News," and all similar subjects that we could remember where people pushed on with high resolve, and being in the end grateful to the petty souls who had roused our obstinacy, ignorant that even the Alps are no obstacle to woman's will; for the latter part of the journey was by perfect moonlight, and therefore do we bless the innkeepers. Our obstinacy, do I say? Let the sneering world use that unpleasant term. We will say heroism, for who shall always tell where the line between the two is to be drawn?

Never shall we forget that wonderful white night, the gleams and glooms on the mountains, the silver radiance of the lakes, the vast glaciers outstretched before us, the mighty peaks towering to the skies, the impressive stillness broken only by the bells on our horses' necks, the sound of their hoofs on the hard road, the rumbling of our carriage, and the cracking of the whip. We, with our miserable jarring noises, were the only discordant element, and we well knew we ought to be suppressed. It seemed profane to intrude upon such grandeur, such majestic stillness.

In the full sunlight since, all is quite different; yet we close our eyes, and that glorious white, still night comes vividly before us, and always there will be to us a glamour about the Engadine on account of it.

The village of St. Moritz lies picturesquely on the hillside above a pretty lake of the same name. The St. Moritz baths are a mile farther on, where numerous hotels and _pensions_ stand on a grassy plateau between high mountains, whose sharp contour is wonderfully defined in this clear atmosphere against the peculiar deep-blue of the sky.

In a very interesting article about the Upper Engadine in the Fortnightly Review for March, the writer speaks with undisguised contempt of "the Germanized Kurhaus," "the damp Kurhaus," "the huge and hideous Kurhaus," even telling people to beware of it. Now, if it were not a shockingly audacious thing to dare to have any opinion at all in the presence of the Fortnightly Review, I would venture most humbly to state that I am at present staying at that object of British scorn, the Kurhaus, and like it.

It is ugly. It is immensely long and awkward. If your room is in one end and you have a friend in the other, you feel, walking through the interminable corridors, that the introduction of horse-cars and carriages would promote economy of time and strength. The Kurhaus certainly has its unamiable qualities. It is tyrannical. It puts out its lights at ten o'clock "sharp," leaving you in Egyptian darkness and not saying so much as "by your leave." [I have observed that men, whom I have believed to be faultlessly amiable, under these circumstances lose their composure and utter improper ejaculations, as they find themselves, in the midst of an interesting game of whist, unable to see the color of a card.] But after all, unless you are in the village proper, where we--again differing from the awful Fortnightly--would not prefer to be, it seems to be the best abiding-place, because everything centres in it. The people from the other hotels must all come here to drink the mineral waters and take the baths, to dance twice a week if they wish, to hear the music three times a day, to attend various entertainments given by marvellous prestidigitateurs from Paris and singers from Vienna; and though these things are very ignoble to talk about when one is among the grand mountains, yet there come nights and days when it rains in torrents, and when the most enthusiastic mountain-climber must condescend to be amused or bored under a sheltering roof. Then, the Kurhaus, being the largest hotel, the place where things of interest most do congregate, seems to us the most desirable abode. The Victoria, which the English frequent, has fresher paint and newer carpets and finer rooms. But we are true to the Kurhaus, notwithstanding. We are grateful to it for a few charming weeks, and in some way we don't like to see Albion's proud foot crushing it.

It is "Germanized." That is enough, to be sure, in the opinion of many English and Americans, to condemn it; they often like a hotel exclusively for themselves, and dislike the foreign element even in a foreign land. But to many of us it is infinitely more amusing to live in exactly such a place, where we meet Italians and Spaniards, French, Germans, Swiss, Dutch, Russians, people from South America and islands in the far seas,--in fact, from every land and nation,--than to establish a little English or American corner somewhere, wrap ourselves in our national prejudices, and neither for love nor money abandon one or the other.

To the Paracelsus Spring at the Kurhaus come all the people every morning to drink the mineral water, and walk up and down while the band plays in the pavilion, but very few have an invalid air. Some drink because the water is prescribed by their physicians; some, because it is the fashion; some, because it is not unpleasant, and drinking gives them an opportunity to inspect the other drinkers. The mighty names written over the glasses fill us with amazement. You may be plain Miss Smith from Jonesville, U. S. A., and beside your humble name is written that of the Countess Alfieri di Sostegno, and the name of a marquis, and even that of a princess; but when they all come to the spring and glance at you over their glasses, just as you glance at them over yours, and you see them face to face, you don't much care if you are only Miss Smith. It is astonishing what an ordinary appearance people often have whose great-great-grandfathers were doges of Venice.

It seems positive stupidity here not to speak at least five languages fluently. To hear small children talking with ease in a variety of tongues is something that, after the first astonishment, can be borne; but it never ceases to be exasperating and humiliating when common servants pass without the least difficulty from one language to another and another. Yet we Americans should perhaps have patience with ourselves in this respect, and remember that the ability to speak half a dozen languages well, which at first seems like pure genius, is often more a matter of opportunity or necessity than actual talent, though it certainly is a great convenience, and gives its possessor a superior air. "It's nonsense to learn languages, or to try to speak anything but good, honest English," says a young gentleman here,--an American recently graduated from one of the colleges. "You can make your way round with it, and everything that's worth two straws is translated." So he brandishes his mother-tongue proudly in people's faces, and is always immensely disgusted and incensed at their stupidity when he is not understood.

An Englishwoman the other day bought a picture of Alpine flowers, and tried to make a man understand that she also wished a stick upon which the cardboard could be rolled and safely carried in her trunk. He knew no English; she, no German. First she spoke very loud, with emphatic distinctness, as if he were deaf. Whereupon he made a remark in German, which, though an excellent remark, in itself a highly reasonable statement, had not the least relation to her request. She then spoke slowly, gently, in an endearing manner, as if coaxing a child, or endeavoring to influence a person whose understanding was feeble and who must not be frightened. He responded in German,--again sensible, but widely inappropriate. So they went on, each continuing his own line of thought, as much at cross-purposes as if they were insane, until a bystander, taking pity on them, came to the rescue. The lady was, however, not indignant that her "good, honest English" was not understood; she was simply despairing. It is singular that it never occurs to some minds that other languages, and even the people who speak them, may also be good and honest.

Here in the Engadine the dialect is Romanisch, but the people also speak German, French, Italian, and often tolerable English. The houses are solidly built, with very thick walls, curious iron knockers, deep-sunken windows, with massive iron gratings over them. The object of the gratings is doubtful. Some say they are to guard against robbers; some say they are an invention of jealous husbands; some, that they are so constructed in order to allow a maiden and her lover to converse without danger of an elopement. Arched, wide doors on the ground-floor, directly in the front of the house, are large enough to admit carts and horses into the basements, which serve as carriage-houses and stables.

Is it really summer? Is it possible that in our beloved America people are suffering from heat, that Philadelphia is suffocating? Here ladies wear furs and velvet mornings and nights, and men wrap themselves in ulsters and shawls. The air is the most bracing,--the coolest, dryest, purest imaginable. It is considered admirable for nervous disorders, and this one can readily believe. But though it is the fashion to order consumptives here, many eminent physicians say more invalids with lung complaints are sent to the Engadine than should properly come. It certainly seems as if this immensely bracing air would speedily kill if it did not cure. "Nine months winter and three months cold" is the popular saying here about the climate. Delicate persons are often so enervated at first by the peculiar atmosphere that they cannot eat or sleep or rest in any way.--Indeed, with certain constitutions this air never agrees.--This condition, however, usually passes off in a few days; they feel able to move mountains, and accomplish wonders in the way of climbing; while people who are well in ordinary climates come here and forget that they are mortal. There is something in the air that gives one giant strength and endurance,--something inexpressibly delightful, buoyant, and inspiring,--something that clears away all cobwebs from the brain.

THE ENGADINE.

They say that Auerbach has thought and written much in the beautiful Engadine,--that many of his mountain descriptions are from this grand country. Somewhere here a seat is shown where he sits and plans and dreams. Whether it is due to "ozone," or whatever it may be, the heart and lungs do unusual work here, and the brain too. It would seem that here, if anywhere, would come inspiration. And yet, when we remember that Schiller wrote his "Wilhelm Tell" without ever seeing Switzerland, it teaches us that wide, free genius can soar in a narrow room, and only petty, mediocre talent is really dependent upon its surroundings.

They who view the Alps with a critic's eye say that the contours in the Engadine are too sharply defined, the rocks too bold and rugged, the snow too glaring white, the air too clear, the whole effect too hard and unmanageable,--all lacking the slight haze that is necessary to a perfect mountain view. This makes me feel very ignorant and small, for I have not yet learned to speak with condescending approval of one landscape, and with dignified, discriminating censure of another. And yet I don't believe these lofty critics could have made a grander, nobler Engadine if they had had the fashioning of it; and if Nature is lovely in her soft, smiling scenes, in her hazes and mists and tender lights, so is she also magnificent in her strength and rugged grandeur, sublime in her stillness, her frozen heights, as in the Engadine. Most unutterably impressive is she here.

And who shall say that here she does not also show us loveliness? The Maloja Pass, for instance, that leads, in its remarkable steep, zigzag down, down through fragrant woods, where vines and moss droop over the rocks, till it reaches a milder temperature, and the warm breath of Italy seems to touch your cheek. You stand high on the cliff and look down into the valley, following every curious winding of the road till it meets the plain, and goes off towards Chiavenna far away. When we saw the Maloja, a group of men who looked like bandits were gathered round a fire and a kettle where _polenta_ was cooking. The people here live on _polenta_. It isn't at all bad. We know, because we've tasted it. We taste everything. There is a pretty lake and a pretty waterfall here, concealed, and well worth finding; but the particular "sight," the especial thing you must do, is to stand on the cliff opposite the inn, and watch the _diligence_ as it descends a thousand feet in twenty minutes.

Behind the Kurhaus is a hill with shady seats among the trees, where you can sit by one of those impatient, impetuous little mountain brooks that come rushing down from the glaciers, and that act so young and excited about everything; and while it talks to you and tells you its wild stories and eager hopes, you say to it, "Wait till you've seen a little more of the world, my dear, and you'll take things more quietly." And the water tumbles and foams over the rocks, and sings strange things in your ears, and you look off upon three peaks with their heads close together like Michael Angelo's "Three Fates." You learn to love them very much, and to watch their different expressions. One is greener, softer, milder than the others. One is sharp, cruel, inflexible rock. On one, great snow-masses forever lie in stillness, solemnity, and peace.

A little winding path by the water's edge leads to Crestalta. Here surely it is not grand, but lovely, every inch of the way. The Inn, which seems like an old friend now, so often has it met us in the Tyrol days, we visit here at its birthplace, and hear its baby name, the _Sela_, for it is not the Inn till it leaves the Lake of St. Moritz. A coquettish, wayward, merry stream it is in its youth,--bubbling and laughing in little falls,--stopping to rest in clear enchanted lakes, whose depths reflect the skies and clouds and soft green banks and Alpine cedars, then rushing on, frolicking and singing boldly as it goes.

These are small things to do. They are for the first day, before one is accustomed to the air here. They are for invalids who must not work for their enjoyment. But for the strong, for the blessed ones with clear heads and tireless feet, what is there _not_ to see that is grand and inspiring!

O, these mountains, these magical, giant mountains! How their silence, their vastness, their terrible beauty, speak to our restless hearts! I can well believe that mountain races are, as it is said, deeply superstitious, for there are times when the effect of the mighty, stern heights is simply crushing. Old heathenish fancies, without comfort, without hope, come to us in spite of ourselves. What are we, our poor little life-stories, our hopes, and our heart-breakings, our wild storms, and short, sweet, sunny days, before these cold, eternal hills? Above their purple sublimity are cruel pagan gods, who do not hear though we cry to them in agony. Our feet bleed. Our hearts are faint. The chasms swallow us. Rocks crush us. Nature is a cruel, mighty tyrant, and our enemy.

But not only thus do the mountains speak. So many voices have they! So many songs and poems and mysteries and tragedies and glories do they tell you! So many strong, sweet chords do they strike in your soul! Did they crush you yesterday? Ah, how they lift you up to-day, and heal the wounds they themselves have made, and comfort you with a sweet and noble comfort! They tell you how little you are, but they give you a great patience with your own littleness. They bid you look up, as they do, to the heavens above; to stand firm, as they stand firm; to take to yourself the beauty and the grace of passing sunshine, of bird and flower and tree, and song of brook; to take it and rejoice and be glad in it, though the gray, sad cliffs are not concealed, and the sorrowful wind moans in the pines. They whisper unutterable things to you of this mystery we call life,--things which you never, never felt before. They fill you with infinite patience and tenderness, and send you forth to meet your fate with the heart of a hero. Ah, what a pity it is that we must ever leave the mountains; and what a pity it is that, if we should remain, the mountains might leave us,--might speak less to us, sustain and elevate us less! And yet it does not seem as if a heart that had a spark of reverence in it could ever grow too familiar with such majesty.

From St. Moritz it is not easy to say what excursion or mountain tramp is the most enjoyable, but, if I were positively obliged to give my opinion, I think it would be in favor of the Bernina Pass and Palue Glacier. You go first to Pontresina,--a place, by the way, especially liked and frequented by the English. With the mountains crowding round it, and its glimpse of the Roseg Glacier, it is certainly very beautiful. Samaden, Pontresina, and St. Moritz have rival claims and rival champions. St. Moritz is, however, to us indisputably superior. Not that we love Pontresina less, but that we love St. Moritz more.

On this road the superb Morteratsch Glacier greets you, imbedded between Piz Chalchang and Mont Pers, and you see the whole Bernina group. The Morteratsch Glacier has beautiful blue ice-caves, real ones, not artificial as in Interlaken.

From Pontresina you go higher and higher to the Bernina hospice, two thousand feet above St. Moritz. Here, side by side, are two small lakes, the Lago Nero and the Lago Bianco. The "white" lake, coming from the glaciers, is the lightest possible grayish-green, and the dark one is spring water, and looks purplish-blue beside it. It is strange to think how far apart the waters of the sister lakes flow,--the Lago Nero into the Inn, so to the Danube and Black Sea, while the Lago Bianco, through the Adda, finds its way to the Adriatic.

To the hospice you can ride, but after that you must walk over rough rocks and snow, and past pools where feathery white flowers stand up straight on tall, slight, stiff stalks, like proud, shy girls, and at last you are at the Alp Gruem, where wonderful things lie before your eyes. The magnificent Palue Glacier is separated from you only by a narrow valley. You stand before it as the sun pours down on its vast whiteness, and on the mountain range in which it lies. Far below in the ravine the road goes winding away to Italy, past the villages of Poschiavo and Le Prese: above, the eternal snows; below, the soft, blooming valley, lovely as a smile of Spring, and in the distance even a hint of sunny Italy, for you gaze afar off upon its mountains wistfully, and feel like Moses looking into the Promised Land.

Everywhere are the brave little Alpine flowers. They are very dear, and one learns to feel a peculiar tenderness towards them, as well as to be astonished at their variety and abundance. There are many tiny ones whose names I do not know, but their little star-faces smile at you from amazingly rough, high places.

About the Edelweiss much fiction has been written. It is true that it often grows in rather inaccessible spots, but it is not at all necessary to peril one's life in order to pluck it; and we must regretfully abandon the pretty, old legend that the bold mountaineer, when he brings the flower to his sweetheart, gives her also the proof of his valor and devotion, and his willingness to risk all for her dear sake. It is interesting and exciting to find these flowers,--they do grow at a noble height,--and here in the Engadine, at this season, and in this vicinity, they are rare. But, sweethearts, of all ages, sexes, and conditions, who will shortly receive from me Edelweiss in letters, do not be disappointed to hear that, though my hands were full to overflowing, I plucked them in gay security, with my feet on firm ground; and there was only one single place where it wasn't pleasant to look down, or, to be more impressive, where a yawning abyss threatened to ingulf me.

The Edelweiss is certainly very good to find and send home in a letter, it is so suggestive of dangerous cliffs, horrible ravines, and immense daring, as well as telling very sweetly its little story of blooming in lonely beauty on the high Alps; but that any especial valor is required to obtain it, is, if the truth be told, a mere fable.

And the last grain of romance vanishes when we hear that shrewd guides bring the flowers down from their own heights, and set them in the path of enthusiastic but not high-climbing ladies, who in their delight are wildly lavish of fees. The Devil can quote Scripture for his purpose, and the pure, precious little flower can be used as a trap by mercenary man.

RAGATZ.

Over the Albula Pass we came from St. Moritz to Chur, and when we went, it was by the Julia. How grand we feel going over these great mountain-passes, where Roman and German emperors, with all their vast armies, their high hopes and ambitions, have trod, it is quite impossible to express. The emperors are dead and gone, and we, an insignificant but merry little party, ride demurely over the selfsame route. Blessed thought that the mountains are meant for us as much as they were for the emperors; that the beauty and grandeur and loveliness of nature, everywhere, is our own to enjoy; that it has been waiting through the ages, even for us, to this day! It is our own. No king or conqueror has a larger claim.

This was one of the tranquil, joyous days that have so much in them,--a day of clear thoughts, unwearying feet, unspeakable appreciation of nature, and good-will towards humanity. There was a long, bright flood of sunshine, with beautiful flakes of clouds floating before a fresh mountain wind. The great mountains looked solemnly at us, and the happy laugh of a little child-friend echoed through the sombre ravines.

We passed queer old villages; small dun cattle with antelope eyes and fragrant breath; wise-looking goats; pastures that stretched out their vivid green carpets on the mountain-side; and, above all, the great snow-slopes.

We got some supper in a very grave little village. The woman who waited upon us looked as if she had never smiled. This made us want somebody to be funny. The other travellers were matter-of-fact Englishmen, some heavy Jews, and particularly _eagle_-looking Americans. The little woman gave us good coffee, sweet black-bread and sweeter butter, and eggs so rich and fresh we felt that they would instantly transform our famishing selves into Samsons. These eggs had chocolate-colored shells. The Englishmen, the Eagles, and the Jews ate solemnly, as if they had eaten brown eggs from their cradles. But we, with that curiosity which, whatever it may be to others, is in our opinion our most invaluable travelling companion,--of more profit and importance than all the guide-books and maps, often more really helpful than friends who have made what they call "the tour of Europe" three times,--inquired:--

"_Why_, do Swiss hens lay brown eggs?"

To this innocent inquiry the little woman with sombre mien replied that she had boiled the eggs in our coffee. "Water was scarce, and she always did it."

Not discouraged, we remarked we would like to buy the hen that could lay such rich, delicate eggs, and take her away in our travelling-bag. The fire and the coffee-pot we might be able to establish elsewhere, but that hen was a _rara avis_. This small pleasantry caused a little cold ghost of a smile to flit over her lips, but it was gone in an instant, and she was counting francs in her coffee-colored palm.

A night in Chur, then the next morning a short ride by rail, and we are in Ragatz. Do you know what Ragatz is? It is, in the first place, to us at least, a surprise; its name is so harsh and ugly, and the place is so soft, pretty, and alluring. And coming from that wonderful, electrifying St. Moritz air directly here, is like dropping from the North Pole to the heart of the tropics. It is said the change should not be made too suddenly, that one should stay a day or two on the route, which seems reasonable. Happily our strength is not impaired by the new atmosphere, but we feel very much amazed. We cannot at once recover ourselves. There, it was, as somebody says, "always early morning." Here, it is "always afternoon." There, we had broad outlooks, stern, rough lines, and vast snow-fields. Here, we are in a lovely garden, luxuriant with flowers. Grapes hang, rich and heavy, on the trellises. Shade-trees droop over enticing walks and rustic seats. Oleanders and pomegranate-trees, with their flame-colored tropical blossoms, stand in long rows by the lawns. Children paddle about in tiny boats on little lakes. Rustic bridges cross the stream here and there. A young English girl, with golden hair so long and luxuriant that it rather unpleasantly suggests Magdalen as it falls in great waves to the ground, sits sketching, and wears a thin blue jaconet gown,--wonderful sight is that blue jaconet! Only yesterday we left the region of sealskin sacques, breakfast-shawls, and shivers.

The hotel is most charmingly situated. Did I ever recommend a hotel in my life? It is a rash thing to do, but I feel impelled to advise people to come here to the Quellenhof. _We_ live, not in the hotel proper, but in one of the "dependencies," the Hermitage, a kind of chalet. It is delightful to live in a Hermitage, let me tell you. Fuchsias and asters and scarlet geraniums make a glory about our door. Our windows and balconies look on the lake just below. Great trees bend over us, and green mountain slopes come down to meet us on the other side. Our Hermitage is a quiet, restful nest. The people occupying the different rooms go softly in and out. We never meet them. Marie, with her white cap and white apron, opens the door for us as we stand under the fuchsia-covered porch. We hear no hurrying steps, no waiters and bells, or any hotel noises. Every moment we like our Hermitage better, and we really think we own it. It is all very sweet and soft and lotus-eating here, with balmy odors, and drowsy hum of bees, and mellow, golden lights on the mountains. We feel as if a magician had touched us with his wand, and whirled us off into another planet. No one can say that we as a party have not a goodly share of the wisdom that takes things as they come,--but Ragatz after St. Moritz!

That which drew us here is what draws everybody to Ragatz,--that is, everybody who is not sent by a physician to drink the water and take the baths,--the celebrated Pfaffer's Gorge. It is well worth a long journey and much fatigue and trouble. From Ragatz you walk through the little village, then along a narrow road between immense limestone cliffs, where the Tamina, that most audacious of mountain streams, hurls itself angrily by you. The cliffs are in some places eight hundred feet high, and the Gorge is often extremely narrow. You pass beneath the vast overhanging rocks, the two sides leaning so far towards each other that they almost meet in a natural bridge. It is cold, damp, and in gloom where you are. You look up and see the trees and sunlight far, far above you,--the rocks, at times, shut out the sky,--and the Tamina acts like a mad thing that has broken loose, as it sweeps through the sombre Gorge.

After the walk,--I had no ideas of time or distance in regard to it; everything else was so impressive these trifles were banished from my mind,--we reached the hot springs, did what other people did, and were greatly astonished.

A man had insisted upon putting shawls upon all the ladies of the party. Another man now insists upon removing them. There is a cavern before you which looks very black and Mephistophelian. Everybody slowly walks in,--you too. It is dark where your feet tread. There are one or two men with uncertain, wavering lights that seem designed to deceive the very elect. You begin to dread snares and pitfalls. The atmosphere grows hotter, more oppressive, and more suggestive every instant. You are certain that you smell brimstone, and expect to see cloven hoofs. You go but two or three steps, and remain but a few seconds, the temperature of the cavern is so high, but you feel as if you were in the bowels of the earth. A man with a light passes you a glass, and you fancy you are going to drink molten lead or lava, or something appropriate to the scene, and are rather disappointed to find it tastes uncommonly like hot water, pure and simple.

Then you turn and go into the light of day, and everybody has a boiled look, every face is covered with moisture; and the outer air sends such a chill to your very soul, you bless the man whom a few moments before you had scorned when he hung the ugly brown shawl on your shoulders. You seize it with thankfulness, and back again you go between the massive rocky walls with the Tamina shouting boisterously in your ears.

There is a bath-house near the Gorge for people who wish to take the waters near their source. The sunlight touches it in the height of summer only between ten and four. People go there and stay, why, I cannot imagine, unless they have lost, or wish to lose, their senses. The guide-books speak respectfully of its accommodations, but it is the dreariest house I ever saw, with a monastic, or rather, prison look, that is appalling; and the girl who brings you bread-and-butter and wine looks at you with a reproving gloom in her eyes, as if all days _must_ be "dark and dreary." We felt quite frivolous and out of place, lost our appetite, grew somewhat frightened, and ran away as soon as possible.

The baths at the Quellenhof are pleasant, and the water, though conveyed through a conduit two miles and a half long, loses very little of its heat. It is perfectly clear, free from taste or smell, and resembles, they say, the waters of Wildbad and Gastein. An eminent German physician told us something the other day in regard to the efficacy of these crowded baths here, there, and elsewhere in this part of the world,--something that was both funny and unpleasant to believe. Although it is not my theory but his plainly expressed opinion, I shall only venture to whisper it for fear of offending somebody. He says it is not by the peculiar efficacy of any particular kind of water that the bathers in general are benefited, but by the simple virtue of pure water freely used; that many people at home do not bathe habitually; and when a daily bath for five or six weeks, in a place where they live simply and breathe pure air, has invigorated them, they gratefully ascribe their improvement to sulphur or iron or carbonic acid or some other agent, which is really quite innocent of special interposition in their case.

Beside the baths and the Gorge and its ways of pleasantness in general, Ragatz has many pretty walks along the hills between houses and gardens, and up steep, zigzag forest-paths to the ruins of Freudenberg and Wartenstein. A broad, sunny landscape lies before you,--the valley of the Rhine, Falknis in the background, green pastures and still waters. Blessed are the eyes that see what we see.

A FLYING TRIP TO THE RHINE FALLS.

There was the rock upon which the Lorelei used to sit and comb her golden hair, and sing her wondrous melodies, and lure men to destruction? Near St. Graz, there have been and are, I suppose, Loreleis enough in the world besides the famous maiden of the poem. We found an admirable place for one, yesterday, on the top of the great rock that stands quivering in the Falls of the Rhine. We had sent our heavy luggage on to Zurich, with that wisdom which often characterizes us, and, free as air except for hand-bags, went to see the Rhine Falls.

And first we saw Schaffhausen, which has a pretty, picturesque, mediaeval air, as it lies among the hills and vineyards on the banks of the Rhine. It has its old cathedral, with the celebrated bell cast in 1486, which bears the inscription that suggested to Schiller--as everybody knows--his "Song of the Bell,"--"Vivas voco, mortuos plango, fulgura frango"; but besides this there is not much to see except the tranquil landscape, and that, fortunately, one does not lose by going farther.

Most people are, I presume, disappointed in the Falls of the Rhine. At least, I know that many of my own countrymen pronounce them not worth seeing "after Niagara." But--dare I make this mortifying confession?--what if it is not, "after Niagara"? What if Niagara is still to you in the indefinite distance? It ought not to be, of course. (We all know very well "nobody should go to Europe who has not seen Niagara.") But what if it _is_? Under such circumstances may not one find beauty here?

And even with the remembrance of Niagara clear in your mind, I do not know why the Rhine Falls, so utterly different in character, may not still be lovely.

Their height is estimated, including the rapids and whirlpools and all, at about one hundred feet, which must be very generous measurement, and they are three hundred and eighty feet broad. It may have been in part owing to the exquisite atmosphere of the day we visited them, it may be we expected too little on account of the tales our friends had told us, but certainly we found them very lovely, and Nature seems to have given their surroundings a peculiar grace. The shores are so extremely pretty,--the high, bold cliff on one side, the soft green slopes on the other; the row of tall, stiff poplars, that look as prim as the typical New England housekeeper, and give the landscape that curiously neat appearance, as if everything were swept and dusted. Then the rocks, clothed with vines and moss and shrubs and little trees, rise with so fine an effect in the midst of the white foaming waters.

We saw the falls from every point,--from above on the cliff; [what a pity there isn't a fine old, tumble-down, "ivy-mantled tower" there, instead of the painted, restaurant-looking Schloss Laufen!] from the little pavilion and platform at the side, where the foam dashes all over you, and you are deafened by the roar; from the top of the central rock in the falls; and from the Neuhausen side.

To go from shore to shore, just below the falls, is really quite an adventure. Your funny flat-boat careens about in the most eccentric and inconsequent manner; the spray envelops you; it all looks very dangerous, and is not in the least. Still more eventful is a voyage to the central rock, after which our boatman fastens his skiff--which is a broad-bottomed scow, to be exact, but skiff sounds more poetical--securely. You alight on the wet stones, ascend the rough steps cut in the rock, and feel that you are doing a novel and interesting thing. On the top, amid the shrubs and vines, where the Lorelei ought to be, is only an upright iron rod. From here we thought the falls were seen to the best advantage, and it was a delightful experience to be so near and yet so far,--to stand so securely amid the foaming, seething mass, to be actually in the deafening roar. Mother Nature was in a complacent mood when she placed those rocks in the midst of the mighty waters. But no,--she placed the rocks there long ago, and merely brought Father Rhine towards them in later days. So say the wise.

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.

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.

Zurich, the busy, flourishing, learned Swiss town on its pretty lake, we have just left, with its two rivers running up through the heart of it; with its bridges and its pleasure-boats; the villages and orchards and vineyards on the fertile banks of the lake as far as the eye can reach; the lovely views of the Alps,--the perpendicular Reisettstock; the Drusberg, "like a winding staircase"; the Kammlisstock; great horns in the Rorstock chain; the pyramidal Bristenstock, which is on the St. Gothard route; and many, many others, if the day be clear. Beautiful views of land and lake you can get from different points here. It certainly could have been nothing less than lack of amiability or lack of taste that made us dissatisfied. Had we seen it first, we might have been beside ourselves with delight. "Yes, it is very beautiful," we say, quite calmly, and it is; but--

Zurich was in short, to us, agreeable, but not fascinating. We liked it, but left it without a regret. Our emotions were not largely called into play by anything. Perhaps our liveliest sensation was occasioned by the discovery that at that excellent hotel, the Baur au Lac, we were formally requested to fee no one, a reasonable amount for service being charged daily in the bill. This was a relief indeed. Often one would gladly pay double the sum he gives in fees merely to escape the hungry eyes and ever-ready palms. Another sensation was seeing Count Arnim. He is quite gray, and looks delicate.

The people in the hotels are often a source of amusement to us. We consider them fair game, when they are very comical, because--who knows?--perhaps we also are amusing to them. Some faces, however, look too bored and miserable to be amused by anything. It is very inelegant never to be bored,--to like so many different people, ways, thoughts, things. We often feel mortified that we are so much amused, but the fault is ineradicable.