The commerce of Lucerne consists mainly in gimcrackery of the souvenirsort; the shops are packed with Alpine crystals, photographs ofscenery, and wooden and ivory carvings. I will not conceal the fact thatminiature figures of the Lion of Lucerne are to be had in them. Millionsof them. But they are libels upon him, every one of them. There is asubtle something about the majestic pathos of the original which thecopyist cannot get. Even the sun fails to get it; both the photographerand the carver give you a dying lion, and that is all. The shape isright, the attitude is right, the proportions are right, but thatindescribable something which makes the Lion of Lucerne the mostmournful and moving piece of stone in the world, is wanting.
The Lion lies in his lair in the perpendicular face of a low cliff--forhe is carved from the living rock of the cliff. His size is colossal,his attitude is noble. His head is bowed, the broken spear is stickingin his shoulder, his protecting paw rests upon the lilies of France.Vines hang down the cliff and wave in the wind, and a clear streamtrickles from above and empties into a pond at the base, and in thesmooth surface of the pond the lion is mirrored, among the water-lilies.
Around about are green trees and grass. The place is a sheltered,reposeful woodland nook, remote from noise and stir and confusion--andall this is fitting, for lions do die in such places, and not on granitepedestals in public squares fenced with fancy iron railings. The Lion ofLucerne would be impressive anywhere, but nowhere so impressive as wherehe is.
Martyrdom is the luckiest fate that can befall some people. Louis XVIdid not die in his bed, consequently history is very gentle with him;she is charitable toward his failings, and she finds in him high virtueswhich are not usually considered to be virtues when they are lodged inkings. She makes him out to be a person with a meek and modest spirit,the heart of a female saint, and a wrong head. None of these qualitiesare kingly but the last. Taken together they make a character whichwould have fared harshly at the hands of history if its owner had hadthe ill luck to miss martyrdom. With the best intentions to do the rightthing, he always managed to do the wrong one. Moreover, nothing couldget the female saint out of him. He knew, well enough, that in nationalemergencies he must not consider how he ought to act, as a man, but howhe ought to act as a king; so he honestly tried to sink the man and bethe king--but it was a failure, he only succeeded in being the femalesaint. He was not instant in season, but out of season. He could not bepersuaded to do a thing while it could do any good--he was iron, he wasadamant in his stubbornness then--but as soon as the thing had reached apoint where it would be positively harmful to do it, do it he would, andnothing could stop him. He did not do it because it would be harmful,but because he hoped it was not yet too late to achieve by it the goodwhich it would have done if applied earlier. His comprehension wasalways a train or two behindhand. If a national toe required amputating,he could not see that it needed anything more than poulticing; whenothers saw that the mortification had reached the knee, he firstperceived that the toe needed cutting off--so he cut it off; and hesevered the leg at the knee when others saw that the disease had reachedthe thigh. He was good, and honest, and well meaning, in the matter ofchasing national diseases, but he never could overtake one. As a privateman, he would have been lovable; but viewed as a king, he was strictlycontemptible.
His was a most unroyal career, but the most pitiable spectacle in it washis sentimental treachery to his Swiss guard on that memorable 10th ofAugust, when he allowed those heroes to be massacred in his cause, andforbade them to shed the "sacred French blood" purporting to be flowingin the veins of the red-capped mob of miscreants that was raging aroundthe palace. He meant to be kingly, but he was only the female saint oncemore. Some of his biographers think that upon this occasion the spiritof Saint Louis had descended upon him. It must have found pretty crampedquarters. If Napoleon the First had stood in the shoes of Louis XVI thatday, instead of being merely a casual and unknown looker-on, there wouldbe no Lion of Lucerne, now, but there would be a well-stocked Communistgraveyard in Paris which would answer just as well to remember the 10thof August by.
Martyrdom made a saint of Mary Queen of Scots three hundred years ago,and she has hardly lost all of her saintship yet. Martyrdom made a saintof the trivial and foolish Marie Antoinette, and her biographersstill keep her fragrant with the odor of sanctity to this day, whileunconsciously proving upon almost every page they write that the onlycalamitous instinct which her husband lacked, she supplied--the instinctto root out and get rid of an honest, able, and loyal official, wherevershe found him. The hideous but beneficent French Revolution would havebeen deferred, or would have fallen short of completeness, or evenmight not have happened at all, if Marie Antoinette had made the unwisemistake of not being born. The world owes a great deal to the FrenchRevolution, and consequently to its two chief promoters, Louis the Poorin Spirit and his queen.
We did not buy any wooden images of the Lion, nor any ivory or ebonyor marble or chalk or sugar or chocolate ones, or even any photographicslanders of him. The truth is, these copies were so common, souniversal, in the shops and everywhere, that they presently became asintolerable to the wearied eye as the latest popular melody usuallybecomes to the harassed ear. In Lucerne, too, the wood carvings ofother sorts, which had been so pleasant to look upon when one saw themoccasionally at home, soon began to fatigue us. We grew very tiredof seeing wooden quails and chickens picking and strutting aroundclock-faces, and still more tired of seeing wooden images of the allegedchamois skipping about wooden rocks, or lying upon them in familygroups, or peering alertly up from behind them. The first day, I wouldhave bought a hundred and fifty of these clocks if I had the money--andI did buy three--but on the third day the disease had run its course,I had convalesced, and was in the market once more--trying to sell.However, I had no luck; which was just as well, for the things will bepretty enough, no doubt, when I get them home.
For years my pet aversion had been the cuckoo clock; now here I was, atlast, right in the creature's home; so wherever I went that distressing"HOO'hoo! HOO'hoo! HOO'hoo!" was always in my ears. For a nervous man,this was a fine state of things. Some sounds are hatefuler than others,but no sound is quite so inane, and silly, and aggravating as the"HOO'hoo" of a cuckoo clock, I think. I bought one, and am carrying ithome to a certain person; for I have always said that if the opportunityever happened, I would do that man an ill turn.
What I meant, was, that I would break one of his legs, or something ofthat sort; but in Lucerne I instantly saw that I could impair his mind.That would be more lasting, and more satisfactory every way. So I boughtthe cuckoo clock; and if I ever get home with it, he is "my meat," asthey say in the mines. I thought of another candidate--a book-reviewerwhom I could name if I wanted to--but after thinking it over, I didn'tbuy him a clock. I couldn't injure his mind.
We visited the two long, covered wooden bridges which span the green andbrilliant Reuss just below where it goes plunging and hurrahing outof the lake. These rambling, sway-backed tunnels are very attractivethings, with their alcoved outlooks upon the lovely and inspiritingwater. They contain two or three hundred queer old pictures, by oldSwiss masters--old boss sign-painters, who flourished before thedecadence of art.
The lake is alive with fishes, plainly visible to the eye, for the wateris very clear. The parapets in front of the hotels were usually fringedwith fishers of all ages. One day I thought I would stop and see afish caught. The result brought back to my mind, very forcibly, acircumstance which I had not thought of before for twelve years. Thisone:
THE MAN WHO PUT UP AT GADSBY'S
When my odd friend Riley and I were newspaper correspondents inWashington, in the winter of '67, we were coming down PennsylvaniaAvenue one night, near midnight, in a driving storm of snow, when theflash of a street-lamp fell upon a man who was eagerly tearing along inthe opposite direction. "This is lucky! You are Mr. Riley, ain't you?"
Riley was the most self-possessed and solemnly deliberate person in therepublic. He stopped, looked his m
an over from head to foot, and finallysaid:
"I am Mr. Riley. Did you happen to be looking for me?"
"That's just what I was doing," said the man, joyously, "and it's thebiggest luck in the world that I've found you. My name is Lykins. I'mone of the teachers of the high school--San Francisco. As soon as Iheard the San Francisco postmastership was vacant, I made up my mind toget it--and here I am."
"Yes," said Riley, slowly, "as you have remarked ... Mr. Lykins ... hereyou are. And have you got it?"
"Well, not exactly GOT it, but the next thing to it. I've brought apetition, signed by the Superintendent of Public Instruction, and allthe teachers, and by more than two hundred other people. Now I want you,if you'll be so good, to go around with me to the Pacific delegation,for I want to rush this thing through and get along home."
"If the matter is so pressing, you will prefer that we visit thedelegation tonight," said Riley, in a voice which had nothing mocking init--to an unaccustomed ear.
"Oh, tonight, by all means! I haven't got any time to fool around. Iwant their promise before I go to bed--I ain't the talking kind, I'm theDOING kind!"
"Yes ... you've come to the right place for that. When did you arrive?"
"Just an hour ago."
"When are you intending to leave?"
"For New York tomorrow evening--for San Francisco next morning."
"Just so.... What are you going to do tomorrow?"
"DO! Why, I've got to go to the President with the petition and thedelegation, and get the appointment, haven't I?"
"Yes ... very true ... that is correct. And then what?"
"Executive session of the Senate at 2 P.M.--got to get the appointmentconfirmed--I reckon you'll grant that?"
"Yes ... yes," said Riley, meditatively, "you are right again. Thenyou take the train for New York in the evening, and the steamer for SanFrancisco next morning?"
"That's it--that's the way I map it out!"
Riley considered a while, and then said:
"You couldn't stay ... a day ... well, say two days longer?"
"Bless your soul, no! It's not my style. I ain't a man to go foolingaround--I'm a man that DOES things, I tell you."
The storm was raging, the thick snow blowing in gusts. Riley stoodsilent, apparently deep in a reverie, during a minute or more, then helooked up and said:
"Have you ever heard about that man who put up at Gadsby's, once? ...But I see you haven't."
He backed Mr. Lykins against an iron fence, buttonholed him, fastenedhim with his eye, like the Ancient Mariner, and proceeded to unfoldhis narrative as placidly and peacefully as if we were all stretchedcomfortably in a blossomy summer meadow instead of being persecuted by awintry midnight tempest:
"I will tell you about that man. It was in Jackson's time. Gadsby's wasthe principal hotel, then. Well, this man arrived from Tennesseeabout nine o'clock, one morning, with a black coachman and a splendidfour-horse carriage and an elegant dog, which he was evidently fondof and proud of; he drove up before Gadsby's, and the clerk and thelandlord and everybody rushed out to take charge of him, but he said,'Never mind,' and jumped out and told the coachman to wait--
said he hadn't time to take anything to eat, he only had a little claimagainst the government to collect, would run across the way, tothe Treasury, and fetch the money, and then get right along back toTennessee, for he was in considerable of a hurry.
"Well, about eleven o'clock that night he came back and ordered a bedand told them to put the horses up--said he would collect the claim inthe morning. This was in January, you understand--January, 1834--the 3dof January--Wednesday.
"Well, on the 5th of February, he sold the fine carriage, and boughta cheap second-hand one--said it would answer just as well to take themoney home in, and he didn't care for style.
"On the 11th of August he sold a pair of the fine horses--said he'doften thought a pair was better than four, to go over the rough mountainroads with where a body had to be careful about his driving--and therewasn't so much of his claim but he could lug the money home with a paireasy enough.
"On the 13th of December he sold another horse--said two warn'tnecessary to drag that old light vehicle with--in fact, one could snatchit along faster than was absolutely necessary, now that it was goodsolid winter weather and the roads in splendid condition.
"On the 17th of February, 1835, he sold the old carriage and bought acheap second-hand buggy--said a buggy was just the trick to skim alongmushy, slushy early spring roads with, and he had always wanted to try abuggy on those mountain roads, anyway.
"On the 1st August he sold the buggy and bought the remains of an oldsulky--said he just wanted to see those green Tennesseans stare and gawkwhen they saw him come a-ripping along in a sulky--didn't believe they'dever heard of a sulky in their lives.
"Well, on the 29th of August he sold his colored coachman--said hedidn't need a coachman for a sulky--wouldn't be room enough for two init anyway--and, besides, it wasn't every day that Providence sent a mana fool who was willing to pay nine hundred dollars for such a third-ratenegro as that--been wanting to get rid of the creature for years, butdidn't like to THROW him away.
"Eighteen months later--that is to say, on the 15th of February,1837--he sold the sulky and bought a saddle--said horseback-riding waswhat the doctor had always recommended HIM to take, and dog'd if hewanted to risk HIS neck going over those mountain roads on wheels in thedead of winter, not if he knew himself.
"On the 9th of April he sold the saddle--said he wasn't going to riskHIS life with any perishable saddle-girth that ever was made, over arainy, miry April road, while he could ride bareback and know and feelhe was safe--always HAD despised to ride on a saddle, anyway.
"On the 24th of April he sold his horse--said 'I'm just fifty-seventoday, hale and hearty--it would be a PRETTY howdy-do for me to bewasting such a trip as that and such weather as this, on a horse, whenthere ain't anything in the world so splendid as a tramp on foot throughthe fresh spring woods and over the cheery mountains, to a man that ISa man--and I can make my dog carry my claim in a little bundle, anyway,when it's collected. So tomorrow I'll be up bright and early, make mylittle old collection, and mosey off to Tennessee, on my own hind legs,with a rousing good-by to Gadsby's.'
"On the 22d of June he sold his dog--said 'Dern a dog, anyway, whereyou're just starting off on a rattling bully pleasure tramp through thesummer woods and hills--perfect nuisance--chases the squirrels, barksat everything, goes a-capering and splattering around in the fords--mancan't get any chance to reflect and enjoy nature--and I'd a blamed sightruther carry the claim myself, it's a mighty sight safer; a dog'smighty uncertain in a financial way--always noticed it--well, GOOD-by,boys--last call--I'm off for Tennessee with a good leg and a gay heart,early in the morning.'"
There was a pause and a silence--except the noise of the wind and thepelting snow. Mr. Lykins said, impatiently:
"Well?"
Riley said:
"Well,--that was thirty years ago."
"Very well, very well--what of it?"
"I'm great friends with that old patriarch. He comes every evening totell me good-by. I saw him an hour ago--he's off for Tennessee earlytomorrow morning--as usual; said he calculated to get his claim throughand be off before night-owls like me have turned out of bed. The tearswere in his eyes, he was so glad he was going to see his old Tennesseeand his friends once more."
Another silent pause. The stranger broke it:
"Is that all?"
"That is all."
"Well, for the TIME of night, and the KIND of night, it seems to me thestory was full long enough. But what's it all FOR?"
"Oh, nothing in particular."
"Well, where's the point of it?"
"Oh, there isn't any particular point to it. Only, if you are not inTOO much of a hurry to rush off to San Francisco with that post-officeappointment, Mr. Lykins, I'd advise you to 'PUT UP AT GADSBY'S' for aspell, and take it easy. Good-by. GOD bless you!"
&n
bsp; So saying, Riley blandly turned on his heel and left the astonishedschool-teacher standing there, a musing and motionless snow imageshining in the broad glow of the street-lamp.
He never got that post-office.
To go back to Lucerne and its fishers, I concluded, after aboutnine hours' waiting, that the man who proposes to tarry till he seessomething hook one of those well-fed and experienced fishes will findit wisdom to "put up at Gadsby's" and take it easy. It is likely thata fish has not been caught on that lake pier for forty years; but nomatter, the patient fisher watches his cork there all the day long, justthe same, and seems to enjoy it. One may see the fisher-loafers just asthick and contented and happy and patient all along the Seine at Paris,but tradition says that the only thing ever caught there in modern timesis a thing they don't fish for at all--the recent dog and the translatedcat.
CHAPTER XXVII
[I Spare an Awful Bore]
Close by the Lion of Lucerne is what they call the "Glacier Garden"--andit is the only one in the world. It is on high ground. Four or fiveyears ago, some workmen who were digging foundations for a house cameupon this interesting relic of a long-departed age. Scientific menperceived in it a confirmation of their theories concerning the glacialperiod; so through their persuasions the little tract of ground wasbought and permanently protected against being built upon. The soil wasremoved, and there lay the rasped and guttered track which the ancientglacier had made as it moved along upon its slow and tedious journey.This track was perforated by huge pot-shaped holes in the bed-rock,formed by the furious washing-around in them of boulders by theturbulent torrent which flows beneath all glaciers. These huge roundboulders still remain in the holes; they and the walls of the holes areworn smooth by the long-continued chafing which they gave each other inthose old days.