"The Lake of the Four Forest Cantons, apparelled
In light, and lingering like a village maiden
Hid in the bosom of her native mountains,
Then pouring all her life into another's,
Changing her name and being,"--
how lovely it is! Roaming there at sunset was an ever-memorable
delight:--the happy-looking people under the chestnut-trees on the
shore, the little boats dancing lightly about everywhere, the pleasant
dip of the oars, the chiming of evening bells; on one side, the city,
with its old watchtowers and slender spires; over the water, the
piled-up purple mountains, with the warm opaline sunset lights playing
about them; behind, the long range of pure-white peaks, catching the
last rays of the sun, glistening and gleaming gloriously, while the
lower world sinks into gloom, and even they at last grow dim and vague,
and still we float on in drowsy indolence.
The narrow covered bridges, the one where the faded old paintings
represent scenes from Swiss history, and the Muehlenbruecke with the
"Dance of Death" picture described in the "Golden Legend," were both
interesting. Prince Henry and Elsie seemed to go by with all the stream
of life,--the soldiers, and peasant-girls, and monks, and workingmen in
blouses, and children with baskets on their backs; and queer old women
we met as we stood by the little shrine in the middle of the bridge,
peered in and saw the candles and flowers and crucifixes, or looked out
through the small windows upon the swift waters beneath. So faint and
obscure are many of the paintings, yet we found the ones we sought, and
saw the
"Young man singing to a nun
Who kneels at her devotions, but in kneeling
Turns round to look at him; and Death, meanwhile,
Is putting out the candles on the altar."
The old church with the celebrated organ, which may be heard every
afternoon, has some carved wood and stained glass that people go to see.
Its churchyard, so little, so old, so pitifully crowded, is a sad place,
like all the cemeteries I have yet seen here. With their colored
ornaments and tinsel, their graves crowding one against another, and the
multitude of sad, black, attenuated little crosses that have such a
skeleton air, they are positively heartbreaking: they seem infinitely
more mournful and oppressive than ours at home, with their broad alleys,
stately trees, and the peace and beauty of their surroundings. There are
two new-made graves in the pavement here. You can't help feeling sorry
they are so very crowded. They are covered with exquisite fresh flowers,
which the passer-by sprinkles from a font that stands near, thus giving
a blessing to the dead. We have had ample opportunity to observe all the
old monuments and epitaphs without voluntarily making a study of the
churchyard, for the way to and from our chalet led through it. To one
very ancient stone we felt positively grateful because its inscription
was funny:--
"Here lies in Christ Jesus
Josepha Dub
Jungfrau
Aged 91."
We were glad to have Miss Dub's somewhat prolonged life of
single-blessedness to smile over, so heavy otherwise was the atmosphere
of that little churchyard.
The celebrated Lion of Lucerne we found even more beautiful than we had
anticipated. It was larger and grander, and the photographs fail to
convey a true idea of it, and of the exact effect of the mass of rock
above it. It all comes before you suddenly,--the high perpendicular
sandstone rock, the grotto in which the dying Lion lies, pierced through
by a broken lance, his paw sheltering the Bourbon lily; the trees and
creeping plants on the very top of the cliff, at its base the deep dark
pool surrounded by trees and shrubs. The Lion is cut out of the natural
rock, a simple and impressive memorial in honor of the officers and
soldiers of the Swiss Guard who fell in defence of the Tuileries in
1792. They exhibit Thorwaldsen's model in the little shop there, which
is one of the beguiling carved wood-ivory-amethyst places where, I
suppose, strong-souled people are never tempted, but we, invariably.
There are lovely heads of Thorwaldsen here, by the way, the most
satisfactory I have seen.
We live in a _pension_, a chalet on the banks of the lake. It has, like
most things, its advantages and disadvantages. From our balcony we look
out over shrubs and little trees upon the lovely lake and the mountains.
The establishment boasts numerous retainers, mostly maids of all work;
but our attention is drawn exclusively to a small, pale girl, whom we
call the "Marchioness," and a small, pale boy, whom we call "Buttons."
Why need such mites work so hard? Buttons is only fourteen, and he drags
heavy trunks about and moves furniture and does the work of two men,
besides running on all the errands, and blacking all the boots, and
waiting at the table.
If you ask him if things are not too heavy he smiles brightly and says,
"No, indeed!" with the air of a Hercules, so brave a heart has the
little man. So he goes about lifting and pulling and staggering under
heavy loads, and breathing hard, and he has a hollow cough that it makes
the heart ache to hear from such a child; and it does not require much
wisdom to know what is going to happen to _him_ before long,--poor
little Buttons!