Scenes in Switzerland by American Tract Society
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American Tract Society >> Scenes in Switzerland
[Illustration]
SCENES IN SWITZERLAND.
[Illustration]
PUBLISHED BY THE AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY, 150 NASSAU-STREET, NEW YORK.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by the
AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court
of the United States for the Southern District of New York.
Contents.
Gretchen PAGE 5
A Night in the Cathedral 28
The Glaciers of Savoy 45
The Bride of the Aar 63
A Sabbath in Lausanne 79
The Guide of Montanvert 96
Mont Blanc 127
From Berne to Basle 135
Scenes In Switzerland.
Gretchen.
Time flies swiftly when we are sightseeing; and it was late in the
autumn of 18-- when I reached Lindau. Lake Constance lay before me, a
pale, green sheet of water, hemmed in on the south by bold mountain
ranges, filling the interim between the Rhine valley and the long
undulating ridges of the Canton Thurgau. These heights, cleft at
intervals by green smiling valleys and deep ravines, are only the
front of table-land stretching away like an inclined plane, and dotted
with scattered houses and cloistering villages. The deep green of
forest and pasture land was beginning to show the touch of autumn's
pencil; the bright hues striking against gray, rocky walls; the
topmost edge of each successive elevation crowned with a sharp outline
of golden light, deepening the purple gloom of the shaded slopes.
Behind and over this region towers the Sentis, its brow of snow
bristling with spear points. It was altogether too late to think of
the Baths, or even to look at the little lake of Wallenstatt; and
still, I was unwilling to return without a friendly shake of the hand
of my old friend Spruner, who had perched himself in one of the upper
cantons. "You should have been here earlier," said the landlord; "in
summer we have plenty of visitors."
"I rather look upon the mountains in their parti-colored vests, than
when dressed in simple green," I replied.
"If you can stand the weather;" and he thrust his pipe deeper into
his mouth, and twirled the button of his coat.
Hastily making my adieus, the postillion cracked his whip, and we
started. "There is no danger of bad weather for a month," said the
driver, "and when we get up farther you will see what will pay you for
the trouble of coming:" a speech that promised well for the day, I
argued; and a certain share of respect leaped up for the man in his
laced coat and steeple-crowned hat. A good specimen of his class--and
once satisfied of this, I gave myself up to the present, without the
least foreboding with regard to the future.
Over us hung masses of gray cloud, stretching across the valley like a
curtain, and falling in voluminous folds almost to the level of Lake
Constance. As we passed through this belt, and came out, with cloud
and mist below us, I listened as the postillion related the popular
legends handed down from one generation to another, for the last six
hundred years. Reaching the crest of the topmost height, he stopped
suddenly.
"It is just the day to see the herdsmen;" and he threw down the reins,
and prepared to dismount. I stood up and looked around.
"The battle you know between the herdsmen and the monks, with Austria
to help. It was a hard battle, and the knights were whipped; and ever
since, on certain days, the herdsmen are seen armed with bows and
pikes," he continued. By this time I had taken in his meaning, and
turning my attention to the misty curtain rolling up into clouds about
the sides of the mountain, I had no difficulty in picturing the
discomfited Austrians flying from the pursuit of the hardy
mountaineers.
"It was a great battle, and they have never tried it since," and there
was a ring in the voice that sounded like the echo of Gruetli.
"No wonder, if your herdsmen are still ready to keep up the fight."
"You do not see them," and he made a gesture in the direction where my
eye still lingered.
"As plainly as any body can," and I tried hard not to smile.
"It is quite true this;" and he gathered up the reins.
"I do not doubt it."
As we passed on, the clouds rounded into islands, touched with silver
on the upper edges.
"This is the place for fine muslin and embroideries," said the
postillion in a changed tone.
"Where are they made?" I asked.
"Every house has a loom," he said.
A small way to manufacture muslins; but when the density of the
population and the incessant labor is taken into consideration, it is
not so strange. With regard to the houses I was greatly disappointed.
Not only are they so near that neighbors can converse freely, but they
are large, and even luxurious, in comparison with the same class in
other parts of Europe. Many of these houses are four stories, with
large, square rooms at the base; the upper ones narrowed by the high
steeple roof which projects several feet, forming balconies,
beautifully carved and highly ornamented. The outer walls are covered
with shingles from two to three inches broad, overlapping each other,
and rounded at the ends; reminding one of old roofs seen in the French
quarter. The lowest story is of stone, plastered, and whitewashed.
Such a house is very warm, very durable; and painted by the successive
changes of winter and summer, the external appearance is altogether
pleasing. Our ascent was gradual; with stately houses one after
another, and fruit-trees on the sheltered side. In the balconies, pots
of bright-hued flowers, and sometimes a face to greet us.
Towards sundown we halted at the little town where my friend had
deposited himself; and as my foot touched the wooden step of the
little hotel, whom should I meet but my old college chum; no longer
thin and pale as when I knew him, but round-faced as an alderman, and
merry as though his heart was full of new wine.
"You are not to stop here," as the landlord came out to receive me:
"My house is not far off, and GRETCHEN, you remember her? will be
glad to see you."
Of course I remembered Gretchen; but to meet her as my friend's wife
was quite another thing. A few steps brought us to the door of a
handsome establishment two centuries old, or more; the front frescoed,
and the interior neat and orderly as a New England housewife's. The
floor upon which we entered from the street was paved with a species
of marble, black and white, diamond shaped, but too suggestive of cold
to be altogether pleasing. A broad, wooden staircase of a peculiar
rich brown hue led to the parlor on the second floor. The windows
looking out into the mountain ranges were draped with ruby-colored
damask; the floor was covered with a richly tufted carpet bordered
with flowers, and sofas and easy chairs were temptingly arranged. On a
table in the centre of the room, and under an elaborately chased
lamp, were implements for letter-writing, magazines, and newspapers.
Through the folding-doors we caught a glimpse of well-filled
book-shelves, and a woman's voice came floating out to the rich,
mellow accompaniment of the piano. There was the rustle of a silk
dress. I turned my head.
"This is my ambition," said my friend, while a look of pride blended
with the manly expression of his handsome face.
There stood Gretchen--the Gretchen I had known ten years before; no
longer the slight blushing girl, but mature in her beauty, a happy
wife and mother; the same sweet smile on her lips, and her eye full of
gushing gladness as she welcomed me to her home.
The fire was blazing cheerily, and we three talking of the old times,
with hardly a thought of the broken links between.
"The college is still the same," said my friend, "with the high
cupola and long galleries. Gretchen and I visited it last summer;
there were few that we knew, and many of the professors have slipped
away. Gretchen's father was one of these. We missed him in his quiet
home, and above all, in the old church. A man with dark hair and black
flashing eyes stood in his place--a learned, man, but wanting in the
inward fire, the simple eloquence of the old man we used to love.
After service, I strolled past the college buildings, and tried to
trace the names we cut on the old beeches, but they were all
overgrown."
"I know nothing that brings home to the heart so quickly the
consciousness of increasing years, as to find those whom we used to
look upon as children grown to maturity, taking upon themselves the
care and responsibility of life. Here is Gretchen; a deeper bloom
upon her cheek, and her eye sparkling with a higher pride."
"Just as mid-day is brighter than the morning," said my friend.
Down the hall came the pattering of little feet, and the nurse entered
with two stout boys and a lovely girl, a second Gretchen, the same
roguish blue eyes, and golden hair rippling away from her white
forehead:
"These are my hopes," said the father, and a smile curled his lip,
amid, his eye filled with tenderness as he glanced at Gretchen's face.
Lingering over the tea-table where Gretchen presided with more than
youthful grace, we talked not only of the past, but of present work
and life.
"One," I continued, taking up the thread, "I met in Southern Italy,
dreaming; as I was dreaming, by the dark grotto of Pausilippo.
Meeting upon classic ground, it seemed strange to talk of old times,
but we did. And sitting down upon the promontory of Baiae, looking off
upon the blue sea, we told each other our respective stories; just as
ships will shift their course to come within speaking distance,
compare longitude, and exchange letters, and--part. I have not heard
from Eckerman since."
My dreams were pleasant that night, and the next morning there was
another surprise for me. Gretchen's brother was the pastor of a little
church just above them; I must not go without seeing him, Gretchen
said. How could I? Euler was my classmate; together we labored for
knowledge, and our first manly sympathies run in the same channel.
On Sabbath I saw my friend in the pulpit. "How like his father," I
whispered to Gretchen; the poetry in him warming his soul into a
burst of fervid eloquence, and his face glowing with the beautiful
truths he was unfolding to his hearers. An uncouth church of rough
stone, with quaint windows and curious carvings, the ceiling arched,
with a blue ground on which blazed innumerable stars. Strange and
novel as it was, my eye never wandered from the speaker; the voice and
expression so like the kind and generous man who had presided over the
college, and who carried with him the affections of each succeeding
class. This seems to me more of a triumph now, than it did then. A
cultivated mind may challenge respect, but there is need of a noble
one to win affection.
It was a week before I could think of leaving, and then the clouds
twisted through and around the severed pyramids of the Alps, and the
rain began. In such weather the scenery is not only shrouded, but the
people are shut up in their homes. Pastor Euler had an ample study
however, and here we read and wrote, and talked; with his wife, a
pleasant-voiced woman, to enliven the pauses with music, and children
dashing into the study giving abrupt and sudden turnings to our
dreaming. Christmas was near, and I was easily persuaded to see more
of a people, shut in as they were from the noise and commotion of the
lower world, and still not so far as to be unknowing of all that was
taking place, whether in deliberative bodies, state policies, or the
lighter chit-chat of the day.
"You will have an opportunity to see more of my parish than you can
possibly see on a Sabbath occasion. I visit them as often as I can, and
twice a year I receive them at my own house. The 'Weihnachtsgeschenk'
is looked forward to with great pleasure, and the meeting of the
Landsgemeinde in April is sure to bring my people together."
Gretchen and her husband were clamorous for me to remain, and there
was no resisting the pleading tones of the children, their little
clinging fingers stronger than bands of iron.
All night the rain beat against my chamber window, and in the morning
the lower slopes of the mountain were white with new snow. Dark clouds
lay heavily on the Alpine peaks, the air was raw and chilly--still it
was Christmas. I was aroused at daybreak by the chiming of village
bells, and then a procession of choral singers went through the
streets, pausing under the window of each house, and singing Christmas
hymns. As they passed on, the children caught up the refrain, and
joining hands made the halls resound with their gleeful voices.
Before breakfast a huge bowl was passed around with a foaming drink,
not unlike egg-nog in appearance, but differing in taste materially.
"May your Christmas be a merry one," as it passed from lip to lip;
"and a profitable one," was always responded.
Church was open an hour earlier than on ordinary occasions, "so that
the people may have ample time for dinner," said the pastor. Religion
with these mountain worshippers was not a form. The birthday of the
blessed Redeemer was to them a reality. They believed that he was born
and that he died; and it was to commemorate his nativity that hymns
were sung and garlands wound. At an early hour they began to gather,
and before the time of service the house was closely packed. There
were no chains of evergreen, but small fir-trees were occasionally
placed. These were covered with garlands and crowns of bright-hued
flowers, giving a novel and striking appearance, as of some floral
temple or mosque, set in a great pavilion. The high pulpit was draped
in white, and a voluminous white curtain covered the background. The
effect was charming.
And as the pastor began the service, the melody of his voice broke
away into tenderness as he touched upon the love of God in giving his
Son to be the propitiation for sin: holding up the picture so vividly,
and telling the simple story with a pathos and a power that little
children even could not fail to see and to appreciate. How much better
than studied and elaborate essays, diving into metaphysics and
technicalities so deeply that beauty is lost, and the mind diverted by
the difficulty of following the intricate windings.
First did he impress his hearers with the fact that God loved the
world, and through the fulness of that love the Son came down to
suffer and to die: secondly, that the natural heart is at enmity with
God, not willing that God should rule. Thus a change must be effected;
a reconciliation made. This could only be wrought by sacrifice; and
Christ was offered once for all; his blood cleanseth from all sin. A
plain, simple statement, and it sunk into the hearts of his hearers
with a power sure to tell upon their future lives.
After the blessing, each remained silently upon his knees for a few
moments. Then all was greeting and congratulation; all were friends;
the idea never entered their heads that a stranger could be among them
at that season.
At dinner I was introduced to the landamman and two other members of
the council, and from them gathered brief notes with reference to the
little democracy won, and held intact for so many years. The dessert
was hardly removed before they began to come: first the old men in
black coats and high hats, and women with white, pointed caps and wide
ruffles; then the middle-aged, fathers and mothers, bringing little
children, all with the same conscientious expression on their faces,
the same "Happy Christmas," while the pastor's "God bless you," was a
benediction that carried happiness to the hearts of those who heard
it.
Lastly came the youths; maidens with eyes full of a childlike
innocence, the quick color coming and going as they greeted the pastor
and his friends, and received his blessing in return. Gretchen and her
husband were with us, and Gretchen number two was my especial escort,
leading me through the rooms, and introducing me in her naive manner,
"Mamma's friend, and papa's, and uncle Euler's."
Christmas festivities were kept up during the week; and before that
elapsed, I was won to add a month, and then another, it being quite
impossible to slip away from the kind friends with whom I had so much
in common; the fascination only the more potent as we listened to the
beating winds, and looked out into the slippery paths leading down
into the cantons beneath.
Spring had come when it was "fit to travel," as Gretchen said. The
green of the landscape was brilliant and uniform; the turf sown with
primrose, violet, anemone, veronica, and buttercups. It was time for
me to leave; neither could I be persuaded to stay till the meeting of
the Landsgemeinde. It was sad to leave them, and the little Gretchen
was only pacified by my assurance that, if possible, I would return at
no distant day. My friend Spruner had business at Herisau, and
spending one more evening together, our prayers mingling for the last
time, we parted.
Our way led through the valley of the Sitter, a stream fed by the
Sentis Alps, and spanned by a bridge hundreds of feet above the water.
The same smooth carpet of velvet green was spread everywhere.
"There is no greener land," said Spruner; "the grass is so rich that
the inhabitants cannot even spare enough for vegetable gardens. Our
tables are supplied from the lower vallies."
"In our country we should not dream of making hay in the month of
April," I remarked, seeing several stout men already in the field.
"With suitable care they can mow the same field every six weeks,"
responded my friend. "And it is no doubt this peculiar process that
gives such sweetness and splendor of color, seen nowhere else, not
even between the hedgerows of England."
The day proved to be neither clear nor rainy: a steel blue sky brought
out the broken peaks of Kasten, while the white shoulders of the
Sentis were veiled with a thin, gray suit.
"A month later and we should see the herdsmen," remarked Spruner. "The
leader of the herd marches in front with a large bell suspended from
his neck by a handsome leathern band; the others follow, some with
garlands of flowers and straps of embroidered leather, with milking
pails suspended between the horns."
Before nightfall, occasional streaks of sunshine shot across the
mountain. It did not last, however, and when we reached our
stopping-place, it was raining below and snowing above us.
The next morning our road dropped into a ravine, bringing something to
admire at every turn. Leaving our course, we visited the Cascade of
Horsfall, the beauty of which amply repaid us for the delay it cost.
That night we slept at Herisau, the largest town in the Canton, and
here I was to part with Spruner. There was no difficulty in reaching
the lower valley. With many shakes of the hand, and "May God's
blessing be upon you,'" we parted: one to take the railroad to Zurich,
the other back to his household charms, and the work he had chosen.
A Night In The Cathedral.
Franz Hoffner's father was kappelmeister; and the old cathedral with
its grained arches and cloistered aisles resounded with rare music, as
the organist took his seat, and run his fingers over the keys with the
careless ease of one who knows not only to control, but to infuse
something of his own spirit into the otherwise senseless machine
before him. Under his inspiration it became a living, breathing form;
lifting the hearts of worshippers, and giving them glimpses of what is
hereafter to be obtained.
Herr Hoffner was a rare musician; but, alas, musicians are no
exception to the rule: the wheel is always turning; one goes up and
another goes down. A new star had risen. Court belles and beauties
grew enthusiastic. The elector's heart was touched; his influence was
asked. "Herr Hoffner has been here long enough," it was said. There
was a twinge of the electoral conscience.
Herr Hoffner went to his house a ruined man; and the new favorite,
Carl Von Stein, played upon the keys so dear to the heart of the old
organist.
Herr Hoffner had a wife and two lovely children; and one would suppose
that he could live in the beautiful cottage the elector had given him,
independent of the favorite. But no; deprived of his old instrument
all else was lost to him. For hours would he sit before his humble
door, heedless of his wife's entreaties or the childish prattle of
Franz and Nanette; his eye riveted on the old cathedral, and his hands
playing nervously, as though cheating himself with the idea he was
still at the organ. Then roused by a sudden inspiration, he would rush
to the piano and play till his hands dropped from mere exhaustion.
Franz and Nanette loved music, and they could play skilfully, but they
were all too young to be of service; and thus they lived cut off from
all outward influences befitting their age; loving music above
everything else, and yearning for the time when they could go out and
win for their father, as he had once done for them.
Years passed. Franz Hoffner was a tall, slight boy, and his father was
blind. Sitting at his cottage door he could no longer see the tall
towers of the old cathedral, but he could hear the chime of stately
bells--and his fingers played on: while Franz and Nanette not
unfrequently climbed up the winding stairs, just to beg Herr Von
Stein to let them touch the keys their father used to love.
[Illustration]
It happened one day the organist went out and left the key in the
lock. Franz entered with the evening worshippers. A nameless feeling
seized him. Urged on by the sudden impulse, he mounted the stairs. He
did not dream of playing, he only thought of the organ as his father's
friend; and to seat himself on the stool where his father had so often
sat was all he aimed to do. A moment, and he spied the key; would
there be any harm in raising the lid and playing himself? Herr Von
Stein had never denied him. He grew courageous. A few chords and Franz
forgot that his father would be expecting him; piece after piece was
played till his memory could serve him no longer, and then he began to
improvise.
All at once heavy shadows were cast over the keys: he looked down
into the church, it was dark and still. A strange awe seized him, he
felt that it was night; and the great doors locked. Hastily as his
trembling limbs would allow, he crept down the stairs. Darkness
shrouded the aisles. He reached the doors, they were barred and
bolted. What would his father say? and Nanette, would she think where
he was, and rouse the old door-keeper?
High up through the tower-window he caught sight of a star; and the
moon poured her silver radiance full on the face of the organ.
Creeping up the stairs, he once more opened the instrument. Surely
some one would hear him if he played, and Nanette he knew would not
leave him to stay in the old cathedral alone.
Hours passed: the full moon cast her splendor on a sweet child-face
bent over the keys in the organ-loft of the old cathedral, a smile
still played about his lips, and his light brown hair lay in rings on
his broad, white forehead. Franz was asleep, and while asleep he
dreamed.
* * * * *
A beautiful lady, he thought, came to the cottage; she had a sweet,
lovely face, but so sad that Franz wondered what sorrow could have
come to one so rich and beautiful. The lady caught the expression of
his eye, and slipping her arm around him, drew him still nearer.
"You think because I am rich that I must be happy. Learn then, my
child, that wealth does not bring happiness; neither does beauty win
lasting favor. To be good is to be rich, and it also makes us
beautiful. The power that we have in ourselves is far superior to the
outward circumstances that surround us."
"My father had this power," replied Franz. "You see it did not profit
him; for when he thought himself secure as kappelmeister, the elector
gave his place to another, and now he is growing old and blind."
"Is this so?" exclaimed the lady, a warm light flashing into her gray
eye. "Did the elector give his place to another?"
"Indeed, he did; and it broke my father's heart," replied Franz.
"Since then, we have neither of us known pleasure; only when we go to
the cathedral, Nanette and me; and when we return, our father never
tires of asking questions."
"This must not always be," replied the lady. "Will you come with me,
my child, and it is possible we can show you a way whereby you can do
something for a father whom you so much love."
"I will go with you," replied Franz; "but I must not be gone long,
for my father will miss me when he wakes."
Then Franz gave his hand to the beautiful lady, and she led him by a
smooth way through the most lovely wood; tall trees, filled with
singing birds, skirted the banks of clear, running streams, while
flowering shrubs and vines flung their perfume to the air. At length
she came to a gate so strong and high Franz thought it would be
impossible to open it. But as they approached, it seemed to swing back
noiselessly on its hinges. Franz saw there was a lodge there, with a
gray-haired man, and little children playing before the door, and as
the lady passed all bowed to her.