CANTON APPENZELL—SWISS CUSTOMS.
[Illustration: PEASANTS OF EASTERN SWITZERLAND.]
You have never been in Trogen. You have never heard of Trogen. You do
not know where on the map to look for Trogen, and you probably would not
find it, if you looked for Trogen.
Trogen is one of the little villages in Canton Appenzell, in
Switzerland. It is reached by carriage from St. Gall, a large town on
the railroad from Zurich to Constance. As soon as you leave the line of
the rail, you begin to ascend, and it is all the way up, up, up, till
you get here. We passed a convent about half the way up, inhabited by
nuns, who were once expelled from St. Gall. They have now a rich
establishment, very secluded, and perfectly impenetrable in its interior
mysteries. You can see the reception rooms and the chapel, and the
grating that separates the nuns from you and all the world: that’s
all,—no, not quite all; in the chapel they will show you a human
skeleton, decked with magnificent jewelry, enough to adorn a princess;
and this may teach you that the pomps and vanities of the world are
wasted on one who is soon to be a bundle of bones.
When you reach the summit of the hill, a scene of extraordinary grandeur
and loveliness lies around and below you. As far as the eye reaches, it
is a succession of green, cultured, and peopled hills, often crowned
with villages, but mostly marked by scattered dwellings in the midst of
beautiful farms, white roads winding around and over the hills, and in
the distance, through an opening, lies the lake of Constance, a picture
of silver in a fair setting of emerald. Trogen is the largest of the
villages; but there are three more in sight, Speicher, Wald, and
Rechdobell, each with its single church tower; for the people are all
Protestants, and all Lutherans. In this village and Speicher, close by,
there is not one Roman Catholic family, and I believe that is a very
unusual fact in this country, where there are nearly as many of the one
as the other, and they are mingled closely in many of the cantons.
Here there is only one church, and that German. Service is held on
Sunday at _nine_ o’clock in the morning. The church is a well-built
edifice of stone, about one hundred years old, with frescoed ceilings,
representing the Ascension, Christ blessing the children, and other
scenes not intelligible to me. The women sat by themselves and made
three-fourths of the congregation. As each one came in, he or she stood
in silent prayer, reverently bending; the women then sat down, the men
remained standing. They stood patiently till the minister came in and
opened the services, and they did not take their seats until the sermon
was begun. On this occasion there was an unusual number of children
present, as in one of the large schools there had been during the week
past the death of a scholar, and now all the pupils came in procession,
and took their seats together. All the men, who were relatives of the
deceased, wore black bombazine gowns, swinging loosely on their backs, a
badge of mourning. The service opened with a voluntary hymn by the
children in the gallery, well sung. Then the pastor read a psalm, which
was sung by the entire congregation,—there was no organ. I should think
every one in the house had a voice, and used it with the spirit and the
understanding also. Prayers were then read by the pastor, all the people
standing. At the close, the minister announced his subject, and then the
people—the men for the first time—sat down.
He was a young man, clothed in a black gown, with a blue silk or woollen
ruffle about his neck. He read his text, “On earth peace, good-will
toward men,” and, shutting the book, delivered his discourse without
notes, with great ease, fluency, animation, and much eloquence. His
manner was good, and the attention of the congregation was kept closely
fixed. His leading idea was that _peace_ is to be found only by union
with God through Jesus Christ. And he pursued this thought beyond the
experience of the individual to the wants of the community and the
nation, insisting with great earnestness that wars come from the want of
Christian love, that good-will which Christ came to bring, and he warned
his people and the people of Switzerland, that now, as in ages past,
their only hope for national unity and peace was in union with God, on
whom alone they could depend.
At the close of the sermon he read prayers again, the people all
standing. Then he proclaimed the names of certain parties intending
marriage, and also he mentioned the names of any who had died during the
past week. After a hymn had been sung, he descended from the pulpit. The
people, still standing, bowed their heads reverently in silent prayer
for a moment, and just then a man in the body of the church cried out an
advertisement of an auction sale to take place in the neighborhood. The
women now left the house, not a man sitting down, or moving from his
place, till all the females, old and young, had reached the door. The
minister next walked out, and the men followed. The service was over in
one hour and a half. An hour-glass stood on the pulpit, but was not in
use, as the large clock was in full sight, and the bell clanged every
quarter of an hour, as it does day and night.
It was a kind and beautiful providence that turned my weary footsteps to
this remote and unfrequented canton of Switzerland. Harper’s Hand-book,
an invaluable guide for American travellers in Europe, has not even the
name of the place in its index. Murray’s Hand-book, which all the
English go by, says “it is but little visited by English travellers.” To
get into it by any other than the easy road through the north-eastern
passage, you must cross the high Alps and glaciers which bound it, and
add as much to its picturesque beauty as they take from the comfort of
travelling. But if you visit Constance,—where John Huss was tried and
condemned and burnt at the stake,—it is easy to come to Appenzell.
And speaking of Constance leads me to that memorable spot, on the border
of the lake that for a week past has been always under my eye, a spot
that deserves a monument, a beacon to warn the church of the guilt and
shame of religious bigotry and intolerance. It is almost like a judgment
that the city itself, which for four years harbored the ecclesiastical
council that murdered John Huss and Jerome of Prague, has now but
one-fifth of the population that once inhabited it. As I stood on the
place where it is said the martyr’s stake was planted, and remembered
the glorious truths which he witnessed in the flames, I thought how
little is the world improved even to this day, where the civil and
ecclesiastical powers are still in the same hands. For as we travel in
these European countries, the line that divides the Protestant from the
Roman Catholic canton, or part of a canton, is just as clear as if a
wall of adamant, high as the sky, were set up between. Even Murray’s
Guide-book, which does not pretend to any religious opinions, speaking
of the two parts of Canton Appenzell, says:
“A remarkable change greets the traveller on entering Roman Catholic
Inner Rhoden, from Protestant Outer Rhoden. He exchanges cleanliness and
industry for filth and beggary. What may be the cause of this is not a
subject suitable for discussion here.”
Yet the moral philosopher, the philanthropist, the patriot, above all
the Christian, even a Christian traveller, wishes to consider “the
cause,” whether it is proper or not for a guide-book to discuss it. As
travelling tends to promote liberality of sentiment, to enlarge one’s
charity, and to convince even a strict adherent to his hereditary faith,
that many, far from his way of thinking, are just as sure of heaven as
he is, so travelling opens one’s eyes to the effect of the different
systems of religion upon the social, temporal, political, as well as
moral condition of men. And I have been amazed to find how powerful is
this effect upon mere men of the world, men who have never given a
thought before to the influence of one religion rather than another on
the face of society. Even the guide-books call attention to the shameful
fact that “filth and beggary” are the distinguishing features of a part
of one country that differs from the rest _only_ in being Roman
Catholic. The same laws, the same climate, the same facilities for
acquiring the means of living, and just as much soap and water in one as
the other, but the thrift and the neatness of one are in brilliant
contrast with the poverty and nastiness of its neighbor.
[Illustration: FEMALE COSTUMES IN APPENZELL.]
The customs of the canton are somewhat peculiar. I was informed that
they still adhere to the use of the pillory for the punishment of petty
offences, and the machine stands by the wayside, with a hole for the
neck, a padlock, and a chain. But I did not see any thing of the kind.
Nor did I see the _bone-house_, in any churchyard, where it is said the
bones are deposited of those who have been buried a certain number of
years, and who must then give place to others. Their bones are taken up,
properly labelled and laid away on shelves in the bone-house, so that
their friends can get them, or any part of them, when wanted. As the
graveyards are usually small, and no attention is paid to the
relationship of the parties buried side by side, it is quite likely
that, after the lapse of thirty or forty years, there would be no
objection to this arrangement, which strikes us as exceedingly
unpleasant, if not positively revolting.
Every evening at half-past eight o’clock the church bell is rung, and
all the children must immediately go home. If they are abroad after
that, they are taken into custody by the patrol of the streets, and
either delivered to their parents, or, if frequent offenders, they are
kept in durance overnight. This is an admirable regulation, which I
commend to imitation in free America. It is adopted here in a pure
democracy, and works admirably well. In the cities it would be a great
moral life preserver, worth millions of dollars and as many souls, that
would be saved by the plan.
At eleven o’clock the watchman sings a set of phrases in a clear, loud
voice, which often disturbs me as he shouts, just under my window, “Put
out lights, cover up your fires, lock your doors, say your prayers, and
go to bed.”
I learned here a bridal custom of this region, so sensible and proper,
that I shall mention it for the benefit of the young folks. The custom
of making gifts to the bride prevails here, as everywhere, but it is
better regulated. The bride makes out a written list of things that she
will require in beginning to keep house, especially those things that
are over and above what would naturally be furnished by her parents.
This list is taken by her friends, and one of them says, “I will give
her this,” and marks that as provided for; another will give her that,
and sometimes two or three or more will combine and furnish a more
expensive present than any one would give alone. After the wedding, the
couple usually start off on an excursion, and on their return they find
their dwelling filled with these presents, each marked with the giver’s
name.
These people are very fond of athletic sports and exercises, games that
call forth prodigious strength, and make the inhabitants of this canton
famous for their skill and power. Every holiday, and many a Sunday, is
given up to wrestling and boxing. They are like the Scotch in hurling a
heavy weight. They will throw a stone of 50 or 100 pounds. A man some
fifty years ago threw a stone ten feet that weighed 184 pounds. But
their great sport is shooting for a prize. They are splendid shots.
Shooting matches are held every year in the villages, and sometimes they
are matches between the people of the whole canton, and again of the
whole country. As we travel we see the targets standing at the foot of a
hill, and buildings that are put up for the purpose of accommodating the
companies that are formed for the encouragement of this national
accomplishment.
So ignorant was I of the forms of government existing in this part of
the world, I did not know that six out of the twenty-two cantons, or
states, of Switzerland are purely democratic in their government. It is
true that this is modified, in a measure, by their confederation with
the others, and that they have delegated to their general government the
power of declaring war, coining money, and regulating a system of mails.
And, by the way, postage is cheap in Switzerland: five centimes, or one
cent of our money, conveying a letter anywhere within the country, and,
in all the villages and cities, delivering it at the residence of the
receiver. These several cantons are, in other matters, independent of
each other; and, in times long past, have had fearfully bloody wars
among themselves. They are at peace now, but from father to son is
handed down the story of the wars.
This canton, containing a population of about 50,000, is a simple
democracy, and as primitive and pure as ever could have existed in the
earliest days of Greece or Rome, before an oligarchy or a monarchy was
known. Here the people, all the males over eighteen years old, actually
assemble, personally, and in one place, to choose the necessary
officers, and to make their own laws. This popular meeting is held
annually, in April, and on _Sunday_ always.
On that day there is no preaching in any church in the canton, except
the one where the election is held. All the ministers come with the
people. At the close of the morning service, the election is opened by
prayer, and then the people proceed to the discharge of this serious
duty, the act of their individual sovereignty. Every man wears a sword
by his side, a token of his being a _freeman_; for, centuries ago, when
serfdom prevailed, only _freemen_ could vote, and they wore swords. Now,
all wear swords on election day, for all are free.
The canton is not so large but that they can all come and return on the
same day, and, for the most part, they come on foot. It is expected that
they will all come. And where the power of voting is equally distributed
in this way, and every man feels that he is an equal part of the
government, there is little danger of any one’s staying away who is
physically able to come. They meet sometimes in one place, and sometimes
in another, but mostly in this village of Trogen, on the public square.
Here a platform is erected, and the officers chosen last year conduct
the proceedings. The landeman, or chief, presides, and the clerk
announces the name of any one nominated for public office. All in favor
hold up their right hands. All opposed then do the same. If there is any
doubt, a count would be resorted to, but that is never necessary. Office
is not sought with any great rapacity, and the people are not divided
into parties fighting for the spoils. The several officers thus elected
are charged with the execution of the laws. A council is appointed,
which meets from time to time, in the state-house here, and consults in
regard to the internal affairs of the canton. If any new legislation is
necessary, they frame the law, put it into print, and a copy of it is
then placed in every house in the entire canton. It is not yet a law; it
is thus distributed that the people, who are the law-makers, may examine
it, talk it over among themselves, and make up their minds as to its
expediency. If it is of importance sufficiently pressing to require
immediate action, a meeting of the people may be held four weeks after
the law has been proposed; but generally this is avoided by having the
measures submitted to the annual assembly in April. Then the law is
submitted to the mass meeting, and they vote for or against it, by the
uplifted hand. As ample time has been given to the people to discuss the
matter, there is no call for long speeches, nor would they be tolerated
by an assembly that was bound to break up and get home the same night.
And the laws thus adopted are put in force by the magistrates appointed
by the popular vote, and often at the same time that the laws themselves
are adopted.
Among the principal cares of such officers must be the construction and
repairs of the highways. Oh that our American people would send a
commissioner of their country pathmasters over here! Within the last
four years two of these cantons have built a road along the eastern side
of Lake Lucerne that would do honor to Napoleon in the days of his
mightiest power. For miles it is cut into the edge of solid rock, which
makes the bed of the road, and a parapet; sometimes it is a tunnel, and
once a tunnel with windows looking out on the lake. All are made by the
voluntary, self-imposed taxation of a hard-working people. And so far as
I can judge or learn, this community, so governed, is as orderly and
happy as any other. Whatever good government can do for a people is done
for this, and the people do it for themselves. Switzerland is an
enlightened country, and probably as moral a people as any other. By law
every child is required to attend school from three to four hours every
day till he is twelve years old, and a certain number of hours every
week afterwards till he is sixteen. This makes education a necessity,
unless the children are incompetent to learn. And there is an enthusiasm
on the subject of education surprising even to an American. The various
grades of schools meet the wants of all, and fit the young for any
department of life’s great work. In this village the cantonal college,
or high school, is located. Any parent may send his son here from any
part of the canton, and he is educated at a trifling expense. Young men
go from this school, at once, into mercantile employment in Asia, in
France, England and America. And there are pupils in it from India, from
Smyrna, from South America, Mexico, and New York. I heard a tramping in
the street last evening, and, looking out of my window, saw a host of
boys marching by. I learned, by inquiry, that they were a school of one
hundred and twenty, making a pedestrian tour through a part of their
native country, Switzerland. Accompanied by their teachers, they thus
walk day after day, getting health and knowledge and fun, for they make
play of it as they go. Early this morning I was awakened by hearing them
again. They had been lodged, how I know not, at the inns in the village,
and now at three o’clock, A.M. (for I looked at my watch), they were up
and off. Just then they struck up one of their merry songs, and
serenaded the sleeping villagers as they took their leave. And even now,
while I am writing these lines, I am called to the window to look out
again, and here is a large school of girls, some of them small, and
others young ladies grown, making a pedestrian tour. Both of these
companies are three or four days’ journey from their homes. They will be
absent, perhaps, a week or a fortnight. And they will be wiser,
healthier, and happier for the little tour.
I mention these pleasant incidents to show the interest which teachers,
parents, and pupils must take in the business of education, when the
school is thus made a part of the pleasure, as well as the labor, of the
young. Nor is the moral culture of the young neglected. Far, very far
from it. These schools are not godless schools. Religious instruction is
not legislated out of education in this country. In this canton they are
nearly all Protestants. But in St. Gall, where they are nearly equally
divided, the Romanists have their own schools, and the Protestants have
theirs, both supported by the same system, and working harmoniously, so
far as any co-operation is required, but kept distinct in the matter of
instruction.
If the treatment of women, of the higher or lower order of creation, is
a fair test of the civilization of a country, this Switzerland will rank
very low. Good roads are considered an evidence of a high standard of
civilization, and very justly; yet there must be some exceptions, for
here in Switzerland, where they harness the cows and make them draw
heavy loads, the roads are first-rate, smooth as a floor, and solid in
all weathers.
Probably this glorious land that I am now rejoicing in, can find some
excuse for the sin and shame of making the cows and women do so much of
the hard and heavy work; and they may pretend that the women like it,
and the cows are all the better for it. But it strikes me that nature
has required certain duties of the gentler sex, that are so incompatible
with the severer labors of the country, that they may be fairly excused
from a service that requires the greater strength which God has given to
men and oxen. In the beautiful city of Zurich, the most enlightened,
cultivated, and refined city in the interior of Switzerland, where the
most learned of her sons are educated, the city of Zuingle and Lavater
and Pestalozzi,—and that boasts a monument to Nagel, a university, and
polytechnic institute,—in that fair city I met a team, composed of a
horse and cow, harnessed side by side, drawing a heavy load, the driver
walking by the side of the cow, whose side was in welts, raised by the
stout whip which he carried, and used mainly on her to make her keep up
with the horse. It is more common still to see a single cow in harness
drawing a load, and a yoke of oxen is a sight that I have very rarely
seen in travelling here. Whether the males are more generally sold for
beef or not I cannot learn; but it does not appear to any one here that
it is out of the way to make this use of the cows. And I was rather
pleased than otherwise, in conversation with a great and good
_philanthropist_ and reformer, to find that he professed to be ignorant
of the fact that cows were put to such service, and when I assured him
that I saw one in harness going by his door that day, he said it must
have been an ox!
And to understand why it is that women work so much in the fields, we
must see what is the principal employment of the people. I have seen
forty women at work in the same field here, and not a man among them. No
sort of work on the farm is considered too heavy for the women. How
could it be, when at Boulogne we had crossed the British Channel, and
landed in France, women rushed on board the steamer to carry our baggage
ashore! And here the women dig the fields, when a plough would do the
work far better and more quickly. They carry out manure, or drive a cow
that drags a load of it, and spread it on the soil. They mow. They rake
and pitch hay. They plant and sow, and reap and pull, and manage the
farm as they would do if the men were all off at war. And where are the
men?
They are not idle, nor dissipated, nor away from home. They are at work,
and in the house, not tending the baby, nor baking the bread, nor
washing the clothes; but they are industrious, and what are they at? The
Swiss are a frugal, saving, thriving people. The amount of arable land
is not enough to meet their wants. They are a manufacturing, not an
agricultural people, though they export cattle, butter, and cheese.
Watches, jewelry, muslins, embroidery, and carved wood-work, are the
principal articles of manufacture for export, and these, with a few
other branches, employ the most of the men; for the work is done in the
country very largely. The city of Geneva sells 75,000 watches yearly;
but as you are riding in a _diligence_ among the mountains, a man will
step out from a little cottage and hand a neat, small package to the
postilion, who puts it carefully into a place prepared for such
deposits. It is the works of watches, or some jewelry, which the man has
made in his own house, and is now sending to his employer in Geneva. In
the retired village where I am now writing, so secluded that if a man
should commit a murder and come here to live, the New York detectives
would never find him, even here the cellars of small houses are filled
with machinery to weave Swiss muslins, and to embroider it exquisitely.
The buyers from the Broadway stores have learned where to come, and
boxes are lying in front of my window directed to Stewart, and to Arnold
and others in New York. The places where this delicate work is done are
damp and unhealthy; but unless it is done in a damp room the gossamer
thread becomes so brittle that it breaks in weaving.
And all through the mountainous parts the carving of wood is the great
business of the people. Saw-mills are run to cut up the trees to be made
into ornamental articles for sale, and these extend from mantel clock
cases worth $1,000 to some gimcrack not worth a cent. The centre tables
and chairs, the game pieces and desks, knives and forks, and whatnots,
are far too numerous to mention; but they display a degree of skill and
taste in execution that would do no discredit to Greece or Italy in the
days when sculpture was their glory. And all this mechanical work is
done by men, and men only.
The tendency of things is always to extremes, and here in the
working-classes, and nearly all are in those classes in Switzerland, the
men have pushed the women too largely out of doors, usurping employments
that women might follow with success, while the men should take upon
themselves the labors that are too heavy for their wives. But
Switzerland itself is an exceptional country. It has no fair chance in
the world as a nation; and so large a part of its surface is
impracticable for the use of man, and it has become so great a resort
for foreign tourists, they are expected to spend all the money they can
afford in the works of art which the natives produce.
Walking out with a young German friend, who did not understand a word of
the English language, I saw at a little distance an enclosure, neat
gravel walks and shrubbery, with flowers showing through the iron
railing that surrounded it. I asked what the enclosure was, and the
answer, in German, struck me pleasingly: “GOTTESACKER.”
I had never heard the word for graveyard before in German, though the
English of it, “GOD’S ACRE,” is familiar, and has often been the theme
of poetry and prose. GOTTES ACKER is the acre or piece of ground that
belongs not to man of all the land in the earth that he claims as his
own, but is the Lord’s. And why is it his? The earth is the Lord’s, and
the fulness. The mountains and the valleys, the plains also, and all
that are therein. Why is this small enclosure, a petty piece of ground
in the midst of a wide, magnificent domain, alone called God’s?
Yes, it is his, because all who inhabit this place have gone to him. We
walked into the sacred enclosure, for the gate was open, inviting the
passer-by to come in. The paths were neatly gravelled, and the plots
surrounded with flowering shrubs, and the graves not raised above the
ground as ours often are, but levelled, and each grave bordered with
boxwood and planted with flowers. Few were marked with a headstone, but
most of them had a staff set up in form of a cross, and on it a plate
with a brief inscription. The centre of the graveyard was laid off in a
circle, planted with trees and furnished with seats, where friends could
sit in the shade, and meditate among the graves of departed friends.
“And is Gottesacker the only word for this place in your German tongue?”
I asked.
“It is also called FRIEDHOF.”
_Fried_ means peace, and _Hof_ is the yard or a court of a house, and
Friedhof is “the Court of Peace.” This was another beautiful and fitting
name. It speaks for itself, and sweetly expresses the feeling of this
place. It is peace, all peace here. The battles of life are fought, and
there is no strife in this court of peace. The struggles, cares,
anxieties, rivalries, jealousies, fears, all that disquiet, harass,
fret, and annoy, all, all are buried here. The tramp of a million men in
arms awakens no sleeper here. The church itself may be rent and torn and
shaken to its base, but its members in this court of peace are not
distressed. These hearts that once panted, burned, and bled in the race,
the stripes and sorrows of the world, are all at peace now. Blessed is
the rest that cannot be broken till the trumpet calls.
“That is a beautiful word,” I said; “and does your language furnish any
other than these two, Gottesacker and Friedhof.”
“Yes, we sometimes speak of it as TODTENGARTEN.”
The GARDEN OF THE DEAD! And so they plant flowers among the graves, and
along the walks, and make the rural village graveyard an attractive, not
a repulsive spot, a garden where friends, members of the same family,
are at rest. Jesus was laid in a garden when he was dead. His members
slept with him, and will blossom in the Paradise above, where the
flowers never fade.
Long before Abraham asked a burying-place to put his dead out of sight,
the living had their funeral rites and ceremonies. And it is wonderful
how widely they differ, in different parts of the world. There is,
doubtless, a great difference in the customs of the various cantons of
Switzerland, for though the whole twenty-two of them would not make a
state larger than New Jersey, they have a _costume_, or dress, peculiar
to each, and many of their habits are equally singular. If the weather
will permit, it is customary here to defer the funeral until Sunday,
even if the person dies on Monday; and thus it often occurs that there
are two or three on the same day, and sometimes more. In a population of
three thousand, all belonging to one church, and the funerals being held
in it, the number is frequently more than one or two at the same hour.
The average number of deaths is about ninety in a year. Last Sunday
there were three funerals here. The friends of the several deceased met
in front of the respective houses where the dead were lying. None but
the relatives enter the house. The three funerals were to be attended at
the village church, and all at the same hour, as early as nine in the
morning. The body is placed in a plain deal coffin, sometimes, but
rarely, painted. And the custom of the country forbids the rich to have
a coffin more elegant than the poor; the idea being that death abolishes
all distinctions, and a plain coffin is good enough to be hid away in
the ground. At the hour, the coffin with the dead is brought out of the
house, and on a bier is borne on the shoulders of the nearest male
relatives or friends. One of these funerals was that of an aged mother.
She left eight sons and two daughters; six of the sons were grown men,
and they bore their mother on their shoulders to the grave. The three
processions met near the church, and the three coffins were then borne
in the order of the ages of the deceased, to the church, but not into
it. The body is never taken into the church. But when the relatives and
friends have entered, the body is carried by the bearers immediately
into the Gottesacker, God’s Acre, the graveyard, which usually adjoins
the church. It is there buried, while none are present except those who
do the work. I stood at a little distance while this melancholy service
was performed. It was not pleasing to me that the dead should be thus
put away unwept. And another custom was equally unpleasant to me. The
graves are arranged in regular order, without any distinction of
families, and as each person in the place dies, he is buried in the
grave next to the one who was buried before him. It may have been a
neighbor with whom he was at enmity, but now in death they sleep side by
side, and know it not. Families are separated by the grave, as well as
by death, and no two of them, unless they die together, may be laid
together in the grave. This is surprising when we notice the remarkable
attention they bestow on the Garden of the Dead. For when the dead are
buried, the friends come, day after day, and adorn the grave with
flowers, and surround it with a border of green, and water it with their
tears of love.
While the body is thus cared for by the bearers, the funeral service is
proceeding in the church. This is similar to the service in our own
country, the prayers and selections of Scripture being read, and a
sermon preached, the same discourse answering, of course, for all who
are buried on the same day. At the funeral, all the men in attendance
wear a black mantle, of bombazine or serge, which they may get, for a
trifle, of the undertaker, who keeps them for hire. Persons of property
have them of their own, to wear only on funeral occasions, but the most
of the people hire them when wanted, and thus every man at the funeral
appears as a mourner. All the women dress in black when attending a
funeral, and they never go to church in any other than a black dress.
This is a very peculiar custom, but is invariably followed by all the
people of this country. Not a light-colored dress appears in the great
congregation on the Sabbath-day, or at a funeral.
If I have not already spoken to you of the cultivation, refinement, and
manners of the intelligent, wealthy, and “upper” classes of the people,
I say that a very erroneous and unjust opinion has been formed on this
point, by travellers whose observations have been confined to hotels and
highways, their only intercourse with men who make it their business to
get as much as possible out of all who fall into their hands. It has
been my pleasure this summer to meet in social life among the Swiss some
of the pleasantest, most intelligent, and agreeable women and men that
will be found in any country. Their manners and minds, as well as their
persons, would grace any assembly, and they appeared to be only the
fitting representatives of the best circles of society in this
remarkable land. They admire their own country. Patriotism burns as
brightly among these mountains as on our own shores. And when it was
mentioned that I might write a book on Switzerland, a beautiful and
accomplished lady bade me be careful, or she would make another and set
me right if I failed to do justice to her beloved Switzerland. I could
only say to her, in reply, that the threat was a temptation to error.
But any one who becomes familiar with the inner life of this people,
will find as much to admire and esteem as in any European country.
[Illustration: Drawing of a hunt]