SCENES

IN

SWITZERLAND.

PUBLISHED BY THE

AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY,

150 NASSAU-STREET, NEW YORK.

Contents.

Gretchen 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