Chapter 1

Produced by Bethanne M. Simms, Christine D and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. (www.pgdp.net)

SCENES IN SWITZERLAND.

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 Grütli.

"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 Baiæ, 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.

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."