Besides I Do Not Think He Will Like The St.
Gothard Scenery Very Much.
It is a pity there is no mental microscope to show us our likes and
dislikes while they are yet too vague to be made out easily.
We
are so apt to let imaginary likings run away with us, as a person
at the far end of Cannon Street railway platform, if he expects a
friend to join him, will see that friend in half the impossible
people who are coming through the wicket. I once began an essay on
"The Art of Knowing what gives one Pleasure," but soon found myself
out of the diatonic with it, in all manner of strange keys, amid a
maze of metaphysical accidentals and double and treble flats, so I
left it alone as a question not worth the trouble it seemed likely
to take in answering. It is like everything else, if we much want
to know our own mind on any particular point, we may be trusted to
develop the faculty which will reveal it to us, and if we do not
greatly care about knowing, it does not much matter if we remain in
ignorance. But in few cases can we get at our permanent liking
without at least as much experience as a fishmonger must have had
before he can choose at once the best bloater out of twenty which,
to inexperienced eyes, seem one as good as the other. Lord
Beaconsfield was a thorough Erasmus Darwinian when he said so well
in "Endymion": "There is nothing like will; everybody can do
exactly what they like in this world, provided they really like it.
Sometimes they think they do, but in general it's a mistake." {1}
If this is as true as I believe it to be, "the longing after
immortality," though not indeed much of an argument in favour of
our being immortal at the present moment, is perfectly sound as a
reason for concluding that we shall one day develop immortality, if
our desire is deep enough and lasting enough. As for knowing
whether or not one likes a picture, which under the present
aesthetic reign of terror is de rigueur, I once heard a man say the
only test was to ask one's self whether one would care to look at
it if one was quite sure that one was alone; I have never been able
to get beyond this test with the St. Gothard scenery, and applying
it to the Devil's Bridge, I should say a stay of about thirty
seconds would be enough for me. I daresay Mendelssohn would have
stayed at least two hours at the Devil's Bridge, but then he did
stay such a long while before things.
The coming out from the short tunnel on to the plain of Andermatt
does certainly give the pleasure of a surprise. I shall never
forget coming out of this tunnel one day late in November, and
finding the whole Andermatt valley in brilliant sunshine, though
from Fluelen up to the Devil's Bridge the clouds had hung heavy and
low. It was one of the most striking transformation scenes
imaginable. The top of the pass is good, and the Hotel Prosa a
comfortable inn to stay at. I do not know whether this house will
be discontinued when the railway is opened, but understand that the
proprietor has taken the large hotel at Piora, which I will speak
of later on. The descent on the Italian side is impressive, and so
is the point where sight is first caught of the valley below
Airolo, but on the whole I cannot see that the St. Gothard is
better than the S. Bernardino on the Italian side, or the
Lukmanier, near the top, on the German; this last is one of the
most beautiful things imaginable, but it should be seen by one who
is travelling towards German Switzerland, and in a fine summer's
evening light. I was never more impressed by the St. Gothard than
on the occasion already referred to when I crossed it in winter.
We went in sledges from Hospenthal to Airolo, and I remember
thinking what splendid fellows the postillions and guards and men
who helped to shift the luggage on to the sledges, looked; they
were so ruddy and strong and full of health, as indeed they might
well be - living an active outdoor life in such an air; besides,
they were picked men, for the passage in winter is never without
possible dangers. It was delightful travelling in the sledge. The
sky was of a deep blue; there was not a single cloud either in sky
or on mountain, but the snow was already deep, and had covered
everything beneath its smooth and heaving bosom. There was no
breath of air, but the cold was intense; presently the sun set upon
all except the higher peaks, and the broad shadows stole upwards.
Then there was a rich crimson flush upon the mountain tops, and
after this a pallor cold and ghastly as death. If he is fortunate
in his day, I do not think any one will be sorry to have crossed
the St. Gothard in mid-winter; but one pass will do as well as
another.
Airolo, at the foot of the pass on the Italian side, was, till
lately, a quiet and beautiful village, rising from among great
green slopes, which in early summer are covered with innumerable
flowers. The place, however, is now quite changed. The railway
has turned the whole Val Leventina topsy-turvy, and altered it
almost beyond recognition. When the line is finished and the
workmen have gone elsewhere, things will get right again; but just
now there is an explosiveness about the valley which puzzles one
who has been familiar with its former quietness. Airolo has been
especially revolutionised, being the headquarters for the works
upon the Italian side of the great St. Gothard tunnel, as Goschenen
is for those on the German side; besides this, it was burnt down
two or three years ago, hardly one of the houses being left
standing, so that it is now a new town, and has lost its former
picturesqueness, but it will be not a bad place to stay at as soon
as the bustle of the works has subsided, and there is a good hotel-
-the Hotel Airolo.
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