03.15. Baden and Switzerland

Chapter 15 Badewn and Switzerland.

Railroad Speed in Europe -- Baden -- Switzerland -- Lake Geneva -- In the Alps.

It took nearly a whole day of steady traveling on the cars to get through one of these European States, or Kingdoms, that measures about one hundred miles long and fifteen wide. It required over two days’ travel to pass through the borders of three of these Empires, and yet one of them rejoices in the dimensions just given, and another is only half as large. Certainly if their languages were no greater than their lands, I would drop off the cars at one of these stations, master the tongue before lunch, and come on again in the afternoon train. And yet, we see, over two days were consumed in passing through three of these Rhode Islands of Europe.

How does such a thing happen? The reply is that the inhabitants of these countries, not willing that travelers should get over their borders before breakfast, and desirous, at the same time, of impressing the tourist with a sense of vastness as to the land, have adopted several happy expedients, all of which consume time, protract the journey, and give the idea of largeness to the country. One method is to change cars frequently. In the United States you can travel thousands of miles without leaving your seat, but in crossing the wide domains of Hesse, all of twenty-five miles in breadth, three distinct trains received my wearied body. Another method is slow running.

Again and again I have been forced to smile at the recollection of remarks made on the superior swiftness of Continental trains. A third method is many stoppages. Sometimes it seemed to me that the sight of a man’s hat or the smoke from a chimney was sufficient to make the train blow for a landing, and when it landed, so to speak, what a rushing about over nothing, what clamor and vociferation and tread of feet and protracted staying over an empty depot, or a platform in a country field. The fourth method is seen in the solemn, deliberate, and protracted departure of the train from the station. In America off we go, like a bird on the wing; but in the Empires I speak of you could almost write a preface to a book in the time they take to -- let me say -- launch a train.

First, after a greater and longer stir over a little baggage than you would see in one of our large central depots, the station-master rings a large bell; a little while after the conductor blows a shrill whistle three times; then the locomotive gives a loud scream; fourth, the station-master rings the bell again; fifth the conductor gives another twitter of his whistle, and as the train starts a railway official near the switch blows a horn. What else happens after that I do not know. Perhaps they keep it up until they hear we have reached the next station. However, it produce s solemn feelings in the breast of the traveler, as the deliberate and reluctant send-off is somewhat suggestive of doubts upon the part of the railway officials, as to whether we will ever be heard of again.

Anyhow, and above all, the idea of vastness and importance to these Rhenish realms is made to loom up before the mind of the American traveler. But if they are small, these countries are lovely. The State of Baden lingers as a beautiful picture in the mind. It lies a narrow slip of land between a range of mountains on the east and the river Rhine on the west. Between these two natural borders I traveled for an hundred miles in a plain or valley waving with harvests, sprinkled with orchards and vineyards, and alive with gleaners in their blue smocks, while wagons heaped high with golden grain stood in the fields or were driven along the tree-lined roads to the distant village. The people live in villages and spend the day in the fields. Often I saw the young babies near the roads and under trees while the mother and older children toiled near-by cutting down or binding up the grain. Everybody works in these lands, and no one labors harder than the women. Many a heart-pang did I feel as I saw them, in Scotland, France, Germany, and Switzerland, doing a work that only a man should do. The fields are laid off in strips twenty feet wide and sever al hundred long. No two lying side by side belong to the same man, although one man may own twenty of them scattered in different parts of the field. This fact gives an endless diversity to the crops and lends a peculiar charm to the field landscapes. In Switzerland my eye was constantly enchained and delighted. There is something about this land that constantly brings up the thought of Scotland. They certainly touch each other in a number of similar points. The people of both nations are hardy and industrious, they are both liberty-loving people -- the William Tell of one answers to the William Wallace of the other; both have beautiful lakes, and both magnificent mountains. But the mountains of Switzerland surpass those of the other country. The utterance of two names will at once convince, these names being Jura and the Alps. The houses of Switzerland are unique. They are generally two or three stories in height, while the roof first projects from the sides of the house and then comes down protectingly within a few feet of the ground. It reminds one forcibly of a motherly old hen extending her wings over her brood.

It was in this land I saw one morning a dog hitched to a cart, and doing effective service. This is certainly a redemption of dogs. Think, ye, political economists of America, of the wasted dog-power that lies at your door snapping at fleas, or roaming the streets at night making the hours hideous. This working of dogs will settle more than one problem. It will certainly give rest to the sick and nervous; for if the dogs are put to hard labor in the day they will be too tired to "return in the evening and make a noise like a dog, and go round about the city." In this land I also saw a woman geared after a fashion to a hand cart. This I felt was not a redemption of woman. How this hard toil takes out the womanly graces and beauties of the sex! The very structure and form of her body shows that she was never made for war and laborious toil. May the Savior lift up these hard-worked daughters of the continent! On Friday morning I had my first view of the Alps. The Jura mountains on the right and the Alps far away to the left was a heart-stirring spectacle. An equally fascinating sight awaited me. For several hours the train had been sweeping along, when suddenly it came out of a tunnel and turned sharply to the right, the Lake of Geneva, thirty miles long, six miles wide, and three hundred feet below us, burst on the sight. There it was, looking like a picture, shut in by towering mountains, with cities gleaming in the sunshine on its banks, with its hill-sides covered with vineyards, with its waters as blue as the heavens, and with a single white sail on its bosom.

We ran along the northern bank for thirty miles, drinking in the unsurpassed beauties of this polished mirror of nature, that has for its frame the lofty Jura Mountains on one side, and the still loftier Alps on the other.

I stopped at Geneva beautiful for its situation on the southern end of the lake, and famous as the dwelling-place of Calvin and Rosseau, and more generally known as the city of watches and music-boxes.

Near the great stone bridge that spans the Rhone in Geneva I had my first view of Mont Blanc -- forty miles away. A silvery, wavy line just above the horizon, and coming to a shining peak or summit, was all that I could see of the monarch of mountains. Other mountains are clothed in blue, but Mont Blanc has lifted its head into the regions of eternal snow, and now surveys the kingdoms around through all the seasons and through all the centuries with a crown of glittering crystal and a robe of immaculate white. He never lays aside his crown, or changes the color of his royal garments. In approaching Italy through the western Alps I was reminded by the locality that through these defiles and over these mountain ranges Hannibal and Napoleon had marched with their armies. I complacently contrasted the different ways of approach to Italy -- the hard way they had, in blasting rock, bridging streams, wading snow-drifts, and avoiding avalanches; and the pleasant mode of transportation I enjoyed, seated in a cushioned compartment, with open windows, through which I could observe the scenery as the train sped along. A little while after these reflections and pleasing conclusions the news reached us by telegram that near Modan an avalanche had fallen, or landslip had taken place, and the road was torn up and washed away for half a mile. So it proved; and at three o’clock in the night we were all disembarked, or rather disentrained, in a wild mountain pass, and, luggage in hand, the passengers took up the line of march along the gorge by the side of a rushing mountain stream. The moon was almost overhead, the Alpine Mountains towered all around us, their summits and sides bathed in light, while their bases were in deep shadow. One lofty peak that shot from our feet far above us, and that had helped to do the work of destruction, looked under the moonbeams, which fell upon it, like a mountain of silver. As I glanced back at the straggling line of pedestrian travelers I saw that we were not so much unlike Napoleon and Hannibal after all. Our crowd by a stretch of fancy might have stood for one of the advanced lines, if not the skeleton of the army, in full retreat.

I shall not soon forget the night-walk of a mile amid the Alps. The winding and shadowy defile, the torrent leaping down the valley as if it heard the voice of the sea calling it, the snow-topped mountain peaks lifted high in air, and the moon flooding the scene with liquid silver, made a picture so fair that I framed it, and have hung it up on the walls of Memory, there to remain.

We were detained only a few hours, and next morning plunged into the Mt. Cenis tunnel, eight miles long; and then after twenty or thirty miles more of wild and beautiful mountain scenery we entered upon the fairy, sunny, and luxuriant plains of Italy.

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