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Page 25
Climbing up to the loft, we were told the story of a former organist,
a famous musician, somewhat independent, and yet sensitive and quick
to feel. Under the papal power Louis Steinway incurred the displeasure
of one of the dignitaries of the church, and his position as organist
was taken from him. Overcome with sorrow he at once proceeded to the
house of the bishop to make an explanation. Trembling with excitement
he so poorly explained the misunderstanding, as to give the prelate
even a worse idea of it than he had at first: the consequence was that
hard words were added to the burden already laid upon him. The poor
organist went home and was immediately taken down with severe illness,
and a few days afterward eluded his attendants and flew along the
streets to the cathedral, from which the people soon heard tones of
the organ issuing majestic and ravishing but unspeakably sad. As soon
as the wife knew of her husband's absence, she went to the cathedral.
Her husband was in his old place, his hands upon the keys, as if in
the act of playing, his head bent forward and drooping. He was dead!
From Berne the road climbs a hill immediately on leaving the gates of
the city, and passes between rows of trees, with a gentle slope on
either hand, covered with a soft fresh green and smooth as the finest
lawn. The glimpses of the city through the trees, with the windings of
the Aar, were extremely interesting. But a far nobler scene was
unfolded to the south, where an immense chain of Alps appeared like
the boundaries of some new world, to which their fearful precipices,
glittering peaks, and summits of untrodden snow for ever barred the
approach of man. The purity of the atmosphere gave them peculiar
distinctness of outline, while the beams of the setting sun gilded
their lofty brightness, that seemed to have more of heaven in it than
earth. Oh! if natural scenes can appear so lovely, what must that
purity and lustre be of which they are only the shadowy emblems?
We slept, and set out again at an early hour. Our route lay through
the finest portion of Switzerland. The land is chiefly pasturage, and
the meadows are extremely rich. Traversing a rocky pass, we came to
the castle of Kluss. Issuing from the pass we entered a smiling
valley, the hills gently rising to the right, clothed with forests of
fir; while on the left, rocks towered to an amazing altitude. On the
summit of what seemed to be an inaccessible crag, perched the ruins of
Falkenstein, and a few miles on, those of Wallenberg.
Soon after stopping to lunch, we came in sight of the Rhine, with the
dark woods of the Black Forest forming a background, and also the
frontier of the Austrian territory. Weary and still delighted with the
day, I was glad to hear the guides exclaim that Basle was before us.
The Rhine divides the city into two parts. Crossing the bridge, we
proceeded at once to the University. Bonnevard was there, and in the
society of my friend I forgot for the time every other consideration.
It was two weeks before I left, and in that time I had learned many
things, attending lectures with my friend, and enjoying the society of
some of the most illustrious names in literature and science.
After the lectures, Bonnevard was to go to Fribourg; and it was with a
view to accompanying him that I remained in Basle. Passing over the
bridge and through the little city, we left the canton, and entered
Germany by the territories of the grand duke of Baden. The Rhine was
on our left, the Black Forest, covering a series of rugged hills, at
some distance on our right; and we found a rich and beautiful
landscape at every step. Climbing the brow of a hill about twelve
miles from Basle, we obtained a charming view of the windings of the
river--the broad valley through which it passes, the dark undulations
of the forest, the towers and spires of the distant city, and the long
line of Alps in the background, rising in inexpressible grandeur and
glittering in the beams of the morning sun.
This was our last of the Rhine; our road taking the direction of the
Black Forest, and skirting it all the way to Fribourg. On the way,
Bonnevard gave me many sketches of real life, one of which, from
having seen the person in Basle, interested me deeply. The Black
Forest was formerly, and is now at certain seasons, greatly infested
by wolves. It so happened that a government officer, passing to
Vienna, was pursued by a ravenous pack of these animals; the
postilion spurred his horses until they began to flag, and the wolves
were gaining upon them. The officer feeling assured that all was lost,
was about giving himself up to be devoured, when a woodcutter and his
son emerged from the forest, armed only with knives or short daggers.
The hungry pack were diverted, and in the struggle that followed, the
postilion whipped up his horses and escaped. On reaching Vienna, the
officer sent back to see what had been the fate of the woodcutter. A
desperate battle had been fought; the father killed five of the
largest wolves, and then, seeing that escape was impossible, implored
the boy to fly, saving the life of his son by the sacrifice of his
own. In admiration for this deed, the people placed the family of the
woodcutter beyond want; and the lad showing a rare aptitude to learn,
and expressing only a wish to study, was sent to Basle, where he soon
distinguished himself as a scholar, and bids fair to become a man of
mark.
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