LAST DAYS IN SWITZERLAND.
Geneva.--Calvin and jewelry.--Up Lake
Leman.--Ouchy and Lausanne.--"Sweet
Clarens."--Chillon.--Freyburg.--Sight-seers.--The
Last Judgment.--Berne and its bears.--The town
like a story.--The Lake of
Thun.--Interlaken.--Over the Wengern Alp.--The
Falls of Giessbach.--The Brunig Pass.--Lucerne
again.
WE dashed up to the hotel upon one of the fine quays at Geneva, and
descended from the open diligence with all the appearance of travellers
who had crossed a sandy desert. There is an air of experienced travel
which only dust can impart.
The most charming sight in the city, to us, was our own names upon the
waiting letters here. In truth, there are no sights in Geneva. Tourists
visit the city because they have been or are going elsewhere, beyond. If
they pause, it is to rest or buy the jewelry so far-famed. To be sure
the view from almost any window opening upon the blue Rhone is pleasing,
crossed by various bridges as it is, one of which touches Rousseau's
Island. But our heads by this time were as full of views as that of a
Boston woman.
Calvinists and Arminians alike visit the Cathedral, and sit for a moment
in the old reformer's chair, or at least look upon the canopy of carved
wood from beneath which he used to preach. There are few monuments here.
The interior is bare, and boarded into the stiff pews, which belong by
right and the fitness of things, not to these grand, Gothic cathedrals,
but to the Puritan meeting-houses, where we gather less to breathe a
prayer than to sit solemnly apart and listen to a denunciation of each
other's sins.
It is a little remarkable that the city where Calvin made and enforced
such rigid laws against luxury and the vanities of the world should, in
these latter days, be noted for the manufacture of jewelry. But so it
is; and to walk the streets and gaze in at the shop windows would turn
the head of any but the strongest-minded woman. Two or three addresses
had been given us of manufactories where we could be served at more
reasonable rates than at the grand shops. We climbed flight after flight
of dingy stone stairs, in dingier buildings, to reach them, and found
ourselves at last in little dark rooms, almost filled by a counter, a
desk, and a safe or two. Certainly no one would think of looking for
beautiful things here! But we had become tolerably accustomed to such
places in Paris, and were not at all surprised when one shallow drawer
after another was produced from behind the counter, and a blaze of gems
and bewildering show of delicately executed gold work met our eyes. If
you care for a _souvenir_ only, there are pretty little finger-rings
encircled by blue forget-me-nots in enamel, which are a specialty of
Geneva. But if you possess the means and disposition, you may gratify
the most extravagant desires, and rival Solomon in magnificence.
Twice a day steamers leave Geneva to ascend the lake. It was a bright,
summer afternoon when we embarked from the pier beyond our hotel, and
steamed away past the villages that lie along its edge. Among them is
Coppet, the home of Madame de Stael, the towers of which rise up behind
the town. The deck of the steamer was alive with tourists. One party,
from meeting at every turn, rests even yet in memory; the ladies stout,
red-faced, and showily dressed, with immense "charms" pendent from their
_chatelaines_--shovels, tongs, and pokers, _life-size_--the result of a
sojourn at Geneva, doubtless.
For some time after leaving the city, we could look back upon Mont
Blanc, white and beautiful, rising above the dark mountains, and lying
close against the sky blue as the waters of the lake. The likeness of a
recumbent figure of Napoleon--the head and shoulders alone,--in the garb
of a grenadier was startling, haunting us even after it had changed
again to a snow-white mountain. As though the hero slept, like those in
German legends, until his country called him to awake and lead its hosts
to battle.
At Ouchy we leave the steamer, where the gardens of the grand hotel
Beaurivage come down to meet us. How delightful are these Swiss hotels!
with their pleasant gardens, many balconies, wide windows, and the
flying flags outside; and within, scrupulous neatness, and even elegant
appointments. The rooms vary in size rather than in degree of comfort,
there being none of the sudden leaps or plunges between luxury and utter
discomfort, found in so many hotels--elsewhere. The floors are bare, the
strips of wood forming squares or diamonds, waxed, and highly polished.
A rug here and there invites bare feet. A couple of neatly-spread beds
stand foot to foot upon one side of the room, sometimes with silk or
lace coverlets, but with always the _duvet_, or large down pillow, at
the foot. There is no stint of toilet arrangements. A lounge and
easy-chairs tempt to idleness and repose; and a round table, of generous
proportions, awaits the chocolate, rolls, fresh butter, and amber honey,
when the last curl is in order, the last ribbon knotted, and you have
rung for your breakfast. Of course the rooms vary in degree of
ornamentation. The walls are often beautifully tinted or frescoed, and
the furniture elegant; but the neatness and comfort among these summer
hotels are almost universal. Sometimes, in one corner, or built into the
wall, stands the high, white porcelain stove, so like a stray monument
that has forgotten its inscription, and is sacred to many memories; and
the long, plate-glass windows, swinging back, open often upon a balcony
and a charming view. No wonder that half the hotels in Switzerland are
named _Bellevue_.
An omnibus bears you from Ouchy, which is simply the port of Lausanne,
back into the city, past pretty country residences, walled in, over the
gates of which the owners have placed suggestive names: "My Rest;"
"Heart's Desire;" "Good Luck;" "Beautiful Situation;" anything which
fancy or individual taste may dictate. Of Lausanne I recall little but
an endless mounting and descending of stairs. The city is built upon a
hill, intersected by ravines, which accounts for this peculiar method of
gaining many streets from others above and below. We made but a hurried
visit. It was market day, and ugly women, old and young, were sitting
upon the sidewalks in the narrow streets, knitting, with the yarn held
over the fore-finger of the left hand, and selling fruits and vegetables
between times. In the honey market the air fairly buzzed and swarmed;
yet still these women knit, and gossiped, and bargained complacently,
unmindful of the bees in their bonnets. From Ouchy we made an excursion
to the head of the lake. It is a short voyage of two hours to
Villeneuve, the last town. Clouds hid the distant mountains; but those
lesser and nearer, upon our right, as we went on, were bare, and broken,
and rocky, contrasting strangely with the gently swelling slopes upon
the other side, covered with vineyards, and with quiet little villages
at their feet. Each of these villages has its romantic association; or,
failing in that, a grand hotel to attract summer visitors. Vevay boasts
the largest hotel, but nothing more. Just beyond Vevay is "Clarens,
sweet Clarens," the willows of which dip into the lake. Here, if
Rousseau and Byron are to be believed, Love was born; possibly in some
one of the mean little houses which border the narrow streets.
Soon after leaving Clarens, the gray, stained tower of Chillon rises
from the water, near enough to the shore to be reached by a bridge. With
the "little isle" and its three tall trees marked by the prisoner as he
paced his lonely cell, ends the romance of the lake. Poets have sung its
beauties, but Lucerne had stolen away our hearts, and we gazed upon the
rocks, and vineyards, and villages, with cold, critical eyes. It was
only later, when the summer twilight fell as we lingered upon the
balcony before our windows at Ouchy that we acknowledged its charm. The
witching sound of music came up from the garden below. Upon the silver
lake before us, the lateen sails, like the white wings of great
sea-birds, gleamed out from the darkness; the tiny wavelets rippled and
plashed softly against the breakwater; and where the clouds had parted
overhead, a horned moon hung low in the sky, while the mountains
resolved themselves into shadows or other waiting clouds.
There was a little church between Ouchy and Lausanne, gained by crossing
the fields, where we remembered the Sabbath day, and joined in the
church service led by an English clergyman. These Sabbaths are like
green spots now in memory,--restful, cool, refreshing, and pleasant to
recall,--when the world, and all haste and perplexity of strange sights,
and sounds, and ways, were rolled off like a heavy burden, while we
gathered, a little company of strangers in a strange land, yet of one
family, to unite in the familiar prayers, and hymns, and grand old
chants.
Monday morning the "American cars" bore us away from Lausanne to
Freyburg. But such a caricature are they upon our railway carriages,
that we were inclined to resent the appellation. Low, bare, box-like,
with only three or four seats upon each side, they hardly suggested the
original.
We had chosen the route through Freyburg that we might visit the
suspension bridge, and hear the celebrated organ. The city clings to the
sides of a ravine after the perverse manner of cities, instead of
spreading itself out comfortably upon level land. So steep is the
declivity that the roofs of some of the houses form the pavement for
the street above. At the foot of the ravine flows a river crossed by
bridges, and the towns-people have for centuries descended from the
summit on one side to climb to that upon the other, until some humane
individual planned and perfected this suspension bridge,--the longest in
the world save one,--which is thrown across the chasm. In order to test
its strength, when completed, the inhabitants of the city, or a portion
of them, gathered in a mass, with artillery and horses, _and stood upon
it_! Then they marched over it, preceded by a band of music, with all
the dignitaries of the town at the head of the column. Since it did not
bend or break beneath their weight, it is deemed entirely safe.
Through the most closely-built portion of the city runs the old city
wall, with its high, cone-capped watch-towers, and the narrow, crooked,
and often steep streets are very quaint. The sense of satisfaction which
returns with the memory of these streets is perhaps partly due to the
fact, that the girls of the party surveyed them from above great squares
of gingerbread bought at a _patisserie_ near the station, and ate as
they strolled through the town over the pavings of these crooked ways.
The bread of dependence is said to be exceedingly bitter; but the
gingerbread of Freyburg is uncommonly sweet, in memory.
When the suspension bridge has been crossed and commented upon, every
one strikes a bee-line to the Cathedral, which rises conspicuously above
its surroundings. It would be very amusing to watch the professional
sight-seers at all these places, if one did not belong to the
fraternity, which makes of it quite another affair. There is no air of
pleasuring about them; no placid expression of content and
sweet-to-do-nothing. They seldom are found meandering along the tortuous
streets, the milk of human kindness moistening every feature, beams of
satisfaction irradiating every countenance. They never spend long hours
wandering among the cloisters of old cathedrals, or dream away days by
storied shrines, as friends at home, who read of these places, fondly
imagine. By no means. The sight-seer is a man of business. He has
undertaken a certain amount of work, to be done in a given time. He will
do or die. And since it is a serious matter, involving doubt, he wears
an appropriately solemn and preoccupied expression of countenance. He
darts from point to point. He climbs stairs as though impatient Fame
waited for him at the top. His emotions of wonder, admiration, or
delight, must bestir themselves. He drives to the first point of
interest, strikes a bee-line to the second, cuts every corner between
that and the third, and then, consulting his watch, desires to know if
there is anything more, and experiences his only moment of satisfaction
when the reply is in the negative. And the most remarkable part of all
is, that he goes abroad to enjoy himself.
But even if one is less ambitious, if you are so fortunate as to be
naturally indolent, and to delight to dwell in the shadow of dreams, you
will shake off dull sloth here. You live and move in a bustling crowd.
Every storied spot is thronged with visitors. Far from musing by
yourself, you can at best but follow in the wake of the crowd, with the
drone of an endless story from the lips of a stupid guide in your ears,
bringing only confusion and weariness.
A notice upon the door of the Cathedral informed us that the organ would
not be played until evening. We held a council of war, and decided to go
on. Just over our heads, as we stood before the entrance, was a
representation of the Last Judgment, cut in the stone, in which the
good, very scantily attired, and of most self-satisfied countenances,
trotted off after St. Peter, who carried the father of all keys, to the
door of a castle representing heaven, while the poor wicked were borne
away in a Swiss basket, strapped upon the back of a pig-headed devil, to
a great pot over a blazing fire, which a little imp was vigorously
blowing up with a pair of bellows. The wicked seeming to outnumber the
good (this was designed many centuries ago), and the pot not being large
enough to hold them all, the surplus were thrust into the jaws of a
patient crocodile near by. Seated in an arm-chair, above all this, the
devil looked down with an expression of entire satisfaction.
The interior of the Cathedral was in no way remarkable. In the choir
(which you know, perhaps, is not a place where girls stand in their best
bonnets to sing on Sundays, but the corner of these great cathedrals in
which the church service is held) were some fine stained glass windows;
but even here, horrible monkeys and hideous animal figures, life-size,
were cut from the wood, and made to stand or crouch above the stalls
where the priests sit. Those old ecclesiastic artists must have believed
in a personal devil, who assumed many forms.
A threatened shower hastened our steps to the station some time before
the arrival of the train, which seemed to come and go without regard to
the hour appointed. While waiting, we read the advertisements framed and
hanging upon the walls, of hotels, shops, &c. One of the latter, in a
triumph of English, ran,--
WOOD CARWINGS;
CHOOSE AS NOWHERE ELSE.
We reached Berne before night, and drove to the Hotel ----. If it could
by some happy chance have been turned inside out, how comfortable we
might have been! The exterior was most inviting. A German waiter of
Irish face, who had a polyglot manner of speech, difficult to be
understood, showed us to our rooms; and the _table d'hote_, to which we
descended an hour later, was made up of an uncommon array of
prim-visaged individuals. Dickens's Mr. Chadband, in a very stiff, white
neckcloth, was my _vis-a-vis_. I looked every moment for his lips to
open, and--"Wherefore air we gathered here, my friends?" to issue forth.
The guide-book had informed us that the greatest attraction of Berne to
strangers was the fine view of the Bernese Alps to be gained from here;
but a curtain of cloud hung before them during all our stay. Still we
were interested in the queer old city, with the second story of the
houses, through many of the streets, projecting over the sidewalk,
forming gloomy arcades, and bright red cushions in the window seats,
where pretty girls sat and sewed, and watched the passers down below. I
remember it rained, and there was a market held out in the square before
the hotel windows in the early morning, where the umbrellas made every
old woman to dwell in her own tent for the time. When it was over, and
the rain had ceased to fall, we waited in front of the old clock-tower
before driving out through the pleasant suburbs, with market women,
baskets on their arms, stray children, idle loungers, and alert
tourists, for the feeble puppet-show heralded by the asthmatic crow of a
rheumatic cock. Of course it was a procession of bears. Everything in
Berne is, or has to do with, a bear, since the city was founded upon the
spot where somebody killed a bear. Bears surmount most of the stone
fountains in the streets; they ornament the monuments erected to heroes.
Cut from wood, they are offered for sale as _souvenirs_; stuffed, they
are exhibited at the zoological gardens; and, to crown all, government
supports in luxury a whole family of bruins. We left the carriage upon
the Nydeck bridge, to look down into the immense circular basin where
they are kept. It must be a dull life, even for a bear. They are ugly
creatures, with reddish fur, and spend their time climbing a leafless
semblance of a tree, with no object but to descend again, or in sitting
up to beg for biscuits of visitors. So universal has the custom of
begging become in Switzerland, that even the bears take to it quite
naturally.
The mountains obstinately refusing to appear, we left Berne for Thun,
passing through a lovely country. Only occasionally did a road appear;
then it would seem to extend for long miles, bordered by immense,
close-planted trees. Neither fences nor hedges were there to divide the
fields; but patches of grain were thrown down anywhere and at any angle.
Potatoes were sown like grass instead of being planted in hills, and
were devoured this year by rot--the worst feature in the landscape. All
through the early summer we had seen hemp growing everywhere. Now it was
cut, and lying outspread upon the ground in odd regularity, an
occasional head only being left to run to seed.
There was nothing to visit in Thun. But the whole town is like a story.
Not an elegant, high-toned story, to be sure, though a picturesque old
castle and church lifted themselves aristocratically above the more
humble town. The streets are narrow, and as picturesque as they are
dirty, with a sidewalk sometimes above the first, low, projecting story
of the houses.
It is a mile from the town to the lake of the same name. Close by the
steamer landing, where we were to embark for Newhaus, is the hotel
Bellevue. Within the garden enclosure were several little _chalets_; one
to serve as reading-room, another as _salle a manger_, while a third,
beyond the pond, where swan were sailing, displayed Swiss wares for
sale. Here we lunched and rested for an hour, before going up the lake.
It is a voyage of an hour and a half to its head, past beautiful villas
upon one side, and precipitous rocks upon the other. Once landed at
Newhaus,--where there was not a _new house_ that we could see, but only
a scanty collection of little huts,--we searched about, with the mud
ankle deep, among the crowd of waiting vehicles, for the omnibus which
was to bear us the two miles and a half to Interlaken and the hotel Jung
Frau. If you recall your geography lessons, you will perhaps know that
the two lakes, Thun and Brienz, are separated by a strip of land, upon
which is this village of Interlaken. It is hardly more than one long
street, with green fields and a row of trees upon one side, and a line
of houses standing back upon the other. In full view from the windows of
these summer hotels, when the sky is clear, rises the Jung Frau, between
two great mountain peaks. This is the only _sight_ in Interlaken, and
yet the town throngs with visitors. It must be intolerably hot here at
times, lying low among the mountains as does this valley. In the fields,
behind the grand hotels, is a long, low Kursaal, a rustic affair, with a
wide piazza. You may lunch, and read the newspapers; but government has
prohibited the gambling. There are delightful excursions to be made from
here, which accounts, perhaps, for the crowded hotels. And there are
several fine shops, where you may buy all or any of the curiosities for
which the country is well known.
A rainy day crowded these shops and the hotel parlors, and made a busy
scene the length of the street, which is very like a country road. But
the second morning after our arrival, we rose early, to prepare for an
excursion over the Wengern Alp. The Jung Frau, hidden the day before,
appeared in full view with the rolling away of the clouds, and we
desired to approach nearer to the shy maiden. All the listlessness of
the day before was past. As we stepped out of the little _chalet_, in
the hotel garden, where--the hotel being full--we had slept in a room
only vacated for the night, with a pair of immense red slippers behind
the door, and Madame's gowns hanging from pegs on the wall, everybody
was astir. More than one party was sipping their scalding coffee as we
entered the hotel breakfast-room, while, under the great trees outside,
guides and saddled horses waited impatiently.
When we had tied on our wide-rimmed hats, and gathered our shawls, we
found a roomy carriage, an open landau, waiting for us at the side-door
of the hotel. We drove quickly out of the town, followed by and
following other carriages, until we formed a long procession by the time
we had reached the valley of Lauterbrunnen and began the ascent. It is a
deep, dark valley, shut in by innumerable overhanging rocks, from which
thread-like waterfalls hang suspended in air, or are lost in spray.
Hardly does the sun seem to penetrate its depth, and an indescribable
gloom, as well as chill, pervades the place. From a few scattered
cottages women and children emerged to follow the carriages, begging
mutely or offering fruits, while at one point a man awaited our approach
to awake the echoes with an Alpine horn.
After an hour we reach Lauterbrunnen, and leave the carriage at the door
of an inn, where a crowd bargains and waits for guides and horses. We
swell the number. When we are served, we mount to our places, and file
out of the straggling village, turning before we reach the Staubach
Falls--a stream of silvery spray that never touches earth, but swings
and waves in mid-air. The ascent grows more and more steep. The recent
rain has added to the icy streams, which filter constantly from snows
above, and the horses sink in the mire, or slide and slip in a way by no
means reassuring. Often the path is mounted by steps of slippery logs;
when added to this is a precipice upon one side, we hold our breath--and
pass in safety. We commend each other as we perform feats of valor and
intrepidity which would make our fortune in the ring, we fancy. The
guides, insolent and careless, stroll on in advance, leaving the most
timid to their own devices. Presently, as we enter a perfect slough of
despond, we see a man before us scraping the mire with a hoe vigorously,
as we come in sight.
"You should give this poor man something," says one of the guides. "He
keeps the road in order." I wish you might have seen the _orderly_ road!
Suddenly we gain a point where the land spreads out into green knolls
before us and on either side--a strip of almost level verdure, with, on
one hand, peak on peak, rising till they touch heaven; upon the other,
the Jung Frau, draped in snow. It seems so near, so very near,--though
the land drops between us and it into a deep ravine, and the snow-clad
peaks and needles are a mile away,--I almost thought I might guide my
horse to the verge of the chasm, and reaching out, gather the snow in my
hand. Across the summit, the clouds, white as itself, drifted
constantly, hiding it completely at times. It had been a tiresome climb
of two hours and a half, and we were glad to rest an hour before
descending. As we turned the corner of the Jung Frau inn, having
dismounted from our horses, we were met by our ubiquitous, stout friends
of Lake Leman memory, to whom, I presume, we seemed equally omnipresent.
_Table d'hote_ was served here, one party following another, until the
long table was full. Occasionally the noise of an avalanche, like the
sound of distant thunder, aroused and startled us, and caused us to
vacate every seat. But though the mountain appeared to be so near, these
avalanches, which sweep with tremendous force, carrying tons of ice and
snow, seen from this distance, seemed like nothing more than tiny
mountain streams let loose.
From the inn, we mounted and went on half a mile, before reaching the
summit and beginning the uncomfortable descent. We thought every bad
place must be the worst, as the horses slid down the slippery stones, or
descended the log steps with a peculiar jerky motion, suggesting
imminent and unpleasant possibilities. But, after fording torrents
swollen by the rain, crossing narrow, treacherous bridges, sliding down
inclined planes, and whole flights of stairs, the guides informed us
that we should reach a _dangerous place_ presently!
When, finally, we came to it, we were quite willing to dismount, and
make our way down over the rocks for a mile, trusting to our own feet,
and beset continually by women and children, who appeared most
unexpectedly at every turn, to thrust little baskets of fruit or flowers
into our hands. The very youngest child toddled after us with a withered
field-flower, if nothing more. So early do they begin to learn the trade
of a lifetime.
We entered Grindelwald late in the afternoon. The shadows of night,
which fall earlier in these valleys than elsewhere, were already
gathering. The few, scattered cottages, walled in by the everlasting
hills, with the snow-covered Wetterhorn in full view, and the glacier
behind it, wore a cheerless and gloomy air in the quick-coming twilight.
Train after train of tourists, upon horses and mules, or dragging weary
feet, descended from among the mountains, to find carriages here and
hasten away. Only these arrivals and departures gave a momentary life to
the spot. What must it be when the summer sun and the last visitor have
left it?
We, too, sought out our waiting carriage, and rolled away in the summer
twilight, down the beautiful road, wide and smooth enough to lead to
more dreadful places than the pleasant valley of Interlaken, where, for
a day at least, was our home.
The next afternoon, instead of spending the Sabbath here, we decided to
go on to Giessbach, on the Lake of Brienz, to visit the celebrated
falls. We had rested comfortably in the hope of a quiet day in the
little _chalet_, where more permanent arrangements had been made for our
disposal. But the enterprising member of the party, to whom we owed not
a little, in a happy moment of leisure, gave herself to the study of the
guide-book, the result of which was--Giessbach. We gathered our personal
effects together, under the pressure of great excitement and limited
time, reached the little steamer, fairly breathless, and then sat and
waited half an hour for it to move. It was not, however, a tedious time;
for there occurred an incident which engaged our attention.
"What do you suppose they're going to do with that calf?" asked the boy
of the party, who, like all boys, was of an inquiring turn of mind.
"They've got him into the water, and are poking him with sticks."
Upon this we all became immensely interested. A calf had fallen into the
water, between the pier and the steamer; but the fruitless efforts made
by everybody, interested or disinterested, were to rescue, not drown,
the creature, as a bystander would have inferred. Suddenly, as his own
struggles carried him away from the wharf and he was about to sink, a
white, delicate hand, bound with rings, and an arm daintily draped, were
thrust out from one of the cabin windows, seized upon the head
disappearing in a final _bob_, and held on until assistance came, when
the poor animal, half dead with fright, was drawn from the water.
At last the steamer moved away from the wharf, and in an hour or less
the little pier at Giessbach received us. There is a tiny valley, one
hotel, and a series of pretty cascades here. But all these are reached
by a smooth road, winding back upon itself continually, and so steep
that carriages do not ascend it. You must walk, or rather climb it, for
twenty minutes, or accept the disagreeable alternative of being carried
up by two men in a chair, resting on poles. The day was warm; our arms
were weighed down with satchels, &c.; but we pressed on, while,
commenting upon our personal peculiarities in dress, gait, and general
air, as they looked down upon us from the height we almost despaired of
gaining, were the complacent, comfortable souls, who always reach these
desirable places the day before any one else, and, in the freshest
possible toilets, sit, like Mordecai, in the gates.
It may have been droll to them; it was a most serious matter to us. It
was Saturday afternoon, and each one felt and acted upon the realized
necessity of outstripping his neighbor, in order to secure rooms.
Finally the gentlemen hastened on, our ambition failing with our
strength, and we were happy in finding comfortable quarters awaiting us
when we had gained the hotel at last.
It was the most delightful little nook imaginable when we were rested
and refreshed. Until then it possessed no charms in our eyes. It is a
little valley, high above the lake, towards which it opens, but shut in
on three sides by precipitous hills. Down the face of one the cascades
fall. Back against another the hotel is built, facing the lake; its
_dependance_, and the inevitable shops for the sale of Swiss
wood-carving and crystals, being ranged along the third side. The whole
place is not larger than a flower-garden of moderate size.
We were served at our meals by pretty, red-cheeked girls, in charming
Swiss costumes; and when we had been out after dark to see the falls
illuminated in different colors, while the rustic bridges, which span
the cascades at various heights, were crossed by these picturesque
figures, I felt as if we were all part of a travelling show, for whom
this dear little level spot was the stage, and that a vast audience
waited outside, where the walls of hills opened upon the lake, for the
curtain to fall. It was like the Happy Valley of Rasselas, which we left
with regret when the peaceful Sabbath was over.
Across the lake, at Brienz, Monday morning, a carriage waited to bear us
on, over the Brunig Pass, into the clouds and out again; then down,
down, past village, and lake, and towering hills, resting again at
Sarnen, then on to Lucerne, into which we swept, with tinkling bells and
cracking whip, to find the city gay with streaming flags and flowery
arches, erected for some singing _fete_, but which to us were all signs
of a happy welcoming.