Let us pretend that we are sitting on a stool, a hassock, a rug, or the
floor, around the chair of grandmother Hess, to which place all young
folks are hereby invited. We shall go with her, in fancy, to the home
of the Swiss family Harby, for that was her maiden name, at Barren
Hill, in what the Swiss folks called “the Pennsylvanias.” For they
loved the forests and they knew that the name meant the groves or woods
of Penn. They kept always, in their minds, the idea of trees. It was
there that some of these fairy and other tales were first told.
It was long ago, during the Revolutionary war, when Washington, and
Lafayette, and Steuben, were comrades at Valley Forge. This place was
only a few miles away, and the great men rode often past the house and
farm of John Harby, who was grandma’s father.
When, in 1778, the Hessians and red coats could not capture Lafayette,
with his Continental soldiers, they stole the bread out of the oven and
drank up the milk from the spring house.
The little girls, Sarah, Hannah and Margaret, often heard from their
grandfather and grandmother about Switzerland, whence, following
William Penn, they had come. Their kinsfolk still lived in the old land
across the sea. When the Revolutionary war was over, their father, John
Harby, came to the Quaker City, and kept a hotel. There, when
Philadelphia was the national capital, he entertained members of
Congress and the refugee French noblemen.
When the story teller heard the once little maids talk about things
Swiss, and Hessian, and British, and Pennsylvanian, these three, two of
whom the Hessians had once scared into the garret, were dear old
ladies. Sitting up in bed, or in her chair, as straight as her
rheumatism and her bent fingers would allow, grandmother told us many a
tale of Swiss ancestral and Revolutionary times.
To the end of the years of her life, which lasted from 1770 to 1866,
her sister Hannah, our maiden aunt, sang the songs, played on the piano
the ditties, and danced the minuets and waltzes, which the French
officers and noblemen had taught her when the Quaker city, from 1790 to
1800, was the national capital.
We children, even when big girls and boys, and ready for college,
enjoyed the fun, the music, and the stories. It was from these dear old
ladies that the story teller learned to love the mountains, and to
climb them, in America and Japan, and, for weeks at a time, to tramp
among them in glorious Switzerland.
The ancestral Swiss home was in a valley of the Bernese Oberland, under
the shadow of a high mountain. In winter, which usually lasted seven
months or more, the people, the boys, and the girls, the cows, goats,
donkeys, horses, chickens, and all living things were shut in by heavy
snows. Quite often in winter, daddy and the boys had to climb out the
windows onto the snows that were piled, or drifted, many feet high
against the door. Even on May day, spoiling fun outdoors, there might
come a storm which left six or eight feet of snow.
Yet when the sun got up early in the morning, and the south wind blew
with a quiet force that did more in a day’s work than a million steam
shovels, the snow melted, and soon the green meadows were spangled with
red and blue, yellow and white flowers.
When June came, the big boys got ready, with their fathers and hired
men, to leave their village home, and go up to spend the whole summer
on the spicy pastures, that is, the Alps, high up on the mountains, to
stay until near October. There the bees would gather honey from the
nectar in the blossoms, and cows would feed on the sweet juices of the
grass. It was at this season that the milk, cream, butter and cheese,
were the very best of the year. Many a growing boy, counting on his
fingers the days, looked forward for months to life outdoors, on the
highlands, among the birds, the butterflies and the wild animals. As
for the cattle, they could sniff the sweet aroma of the flowery fields
and grasses at a distance and long before men could.
The day of the great cow parade, when the other four-footed animals,
dogs, goats, pigs, horses and donkeys, joining in, was the greatest of
the year. Then the leading cow, named Lady, or Queenie, or Cleopatra,
often carrying the milking stool on her head, between her horns, led
the procession. The girls were all out in their best clothes to deck
the hats of the daddies with wreaths and blossoms, and to say and wave
good-byes. Pretty nearly every one was decorated with flowers.
Then the music and the yodel songs, and the blowing of the pine wood
horns began. These awoke the echoes of the distant mountains. Then the
sounds, returning, seemed as sweet as the singing by a choir of the
heavenly host. No Swiss boy or girl, even when grown up, living in the
cities, or in a foreign land, ever forgot the yodel songs, or the hymns
his mother used to sing.
The Swiss chateau, home of the Harbys, before the year 1710, except the
first story, which was of stone, was entirely of wood. In winter, the
fireplace of brick roared with logs of fir, birch or oak. The great
white porcelain stove, eight feet high, banded with shining brass, in
which peat, or coal, was the fuel, stood at one end of the main room.
To get into the house, the door, in the front centre, opened into the
basement, but there were two stairways on the outside, which took one
up into the bedrooms. To let the heavy snow slide off easily, to the
ground, the eaves projected from the roof six feet beyond and over the
walls. Within the projecting front gable, between the sloping roof and
the second story, there was a balcony.
The whole front of the house was nearly hidden by vines and flowers
that invited the bees and birds, though there were hives and dovecotes
in the yard space, fronting the house. Cut into the corner columns, or
through the gable boards, was this Scripture sentence: “As for me and
my house, we will serve the Lord.”
Not far away was the barn and yard for the cows and chickens, ducks and
geese. Near by, the purling of a running brook, fed from the mountain
with water, cold, and clear as crystal, was like the singing of a sweet
song. As neat as a new pin was this Spring House. Here upon shelves,
only a little higher than the stream, and on the stone surbase that ran
across one side of the low room, or floating in the cold water, were
shallow pans for the milk. In a corner stood the big jar, to hold the
cream, which was daily skimmed from the milk in the pans. The caldron
and utensils for cheesemaking were kept in another corner. It was from
cheese chiefly that the family lived, especially in winter.
On the walls of the sleeping chambers, parlor, and living room, besides
the well-mounted antlers of the wild mountain goat, and the chamois,
there were framed pictures of the great men of the Fatherland. Here
looked down the face of the holy saint Fridolin, or the reformer
Zwinglius, or the heroes, William Tell and Arnold von Winkelried. In
some houses, one could see a picture of Calvin, or a view of Geneva, or
the seal of the canton in which they lived. In a glass-covered case
were dried Alpine flowers, rock roses, violets and anemones, with their
colors kept wonderfully fresh, even in winter. When first plucked, they
were put in hot sand—not too hot—and covered for a time.
For breakfast, the Harbys had honey, bread, milk and eggs. On the wall,
resting on pegs, was the father’s gun, for hunting. It was a real
rifle, and few men in the world, except the Swiss and the Jäger, or
hunters, then knew of this wonderful weapon.
For dinner, they often had chamois or ibex, and, occasionally, bear
meat, for John Harby was a dead shot with the rifle. Beef, with greens,
was common, though the chief staple of food was cheese, or cream cooked
in many wonderful ways, with cheese-cake, or pie, though buttermilk was
in daily demand.
What the young folks liked, best of all, was the weekly treat of
“schnitzel.” This was made of boiled ham, dumplings of wheat flour,
dried apples and spices, and was served on the table with molasses.
When nicely cooked, and, as mother knew how to make it, nothing tasted
better. It was enjoyed until the waist belts of youngsters began to
tighten.
Every morning, the doors of the clock, set in a box or house on the
wall, flew open, and the cuckoo chirped its song and then retired
inside from view. The wooden bird thus gave notice that it was time to
get up and make ready for school.
At night, before the children went to sleep, Mother, and sometimes
Daddy, told them fairy or wonder tales, or of the heroes that had made
Switzerland free, or the Bible stories, till they knew these by heart,
and, when they grew up, told them to their children.
With the young men of the village, it was not always work—in winter
with the cows and goats, in the dairy at home; or, in summer the
driving of the flock up to the mountain pastures, with the cheesemaking
there. Tired of the monotony of country life, the sturdy lads welcomed
the advent of the soldiers, in bright, gay uniforms, with a band of
music, and the recruiting officer at their head.
With their flags and banners, these strangers came from the great world
outside, to enlist young men for military service, in France or
Germany, or for the Scotch Brigade in the Netherlands, or, to serve the
King of England, in America. All the village folk turned out and the
mothers and maidens were as eager as the fathers, to see how it was
done, before their sons, brothers and sweethearts marched away. Not
least among these Swiss, who gained fame, was General Henry Bouquet,
who, in the British service, and as comrade of Washington, won
Pittsburg for the King.
For these were the gala days of monarchs and of the soldier of fortune,
that is, of the brave young man, who left his home and country to fight
for any one who paid him well. He enlisted, more for love of adventure,
than for love of the ruler whose splendid uniform he wore. Yet his
loyalty and honor were steadfast. Faithful and brave, he lived in camps
and barracks, fought battles, and died in the hospital, or on the
field.
When the king’s officer raised his banner aloft, in the public square
of the Swiss village, the fifer and drummer, or trumpeter, sounded the
call. On one side of the broad table, well furnished, and with a
foaming pitcher and cups to drink the king’s health, sat the notary.
Then up came the stalwart young fellows, in their working clothes, to
have their names enrolled, to take the oath of allegiance, and to
exchange their pitchforks for muskets, bayonets and cartridge boxes.
Then they took their places with the others, and soon wore gay soldier
clothes, with shining buttons, and frontlets of brass on their helmets.
Often it was hard, not only for parents and sisters, but for the pet
dogs, to leave the dear masters. Many were the tears shed, and lively
the gossip among the women at and around the well curb, when the
village had again resumed its quiet life.
Greater yet was the glory, when the lad, who had left in peasant
homespun, returned, in the royal uniform, to tell of camps, and
battles, and sieges; yes, even of palaces and the splendor of the great
cities, far away. Buttons were a new fashion, then, and the Swiss
soldier came back home, in cocked hat, a coat very much dotted with
shining brass, and opened to show the vest and facings, and with
leggings reaching from ankle to knee. A high private, in those days,
looked as gay as a tropical bird, and as handsome as a prince.
The boys left their hoops, and the girls their dolls, to run and
welcome the returning hero. Old and young listened to his war stories,
and even the dogs and pigeons seemed to share in the joy. The
imagination of the youngsters was fired, and often maidens followed
their lovers to distant countries. Who has not read, in the pages of
Froissart, or Macaulay, of “Appenzell’s stout infantry,” or of the
valor and devotion of the Swiss Guard, in the Tuilleries at Paris, who
“died to defend their master.” In their everlasting honor, one sees at
Luzerne, sculptured out of the solid rock, the dying lion. This
splendid work of art symbolizes the loyalty and valor of the seven
hundred and eighty-six victims, of the French mob, in 1793.
While the young men had opportunity to see the great world, beyond the
mountains, most of the girls stayed at home in the valleys. Yet all the
time, they thought of their brothers, lovers and kinsmen. They, too,
longed to see a real prince, and to look on a military pageant, and
gaze on the splendor of courts and palaces. At times, it was hard to
restrain the maidens from roaming off, down the Rhine, to the rich and
gay city of Amsterdam, or to the brilliancy of Paris.
It was not alone in Europe that the absentees from the Swiss villages
started. Already, late in the eighteenth century, men of the Grisons
and Oberland were hearing of the “Pennsylvanias.” The William Penn
country was luring the stalwarts away, for reports came across seas, as
sweet in sound as yodel songs, or as Alpine echoes, of fertile soil,
which was dirt cheap. The kind ruler, of the Forests of Penn, hated war
and treated even the wild men, or Indians, kindly. He bought their land
and paid them for it, even though his King, Charles, called it his
own—which his friend Roger Williams denied.
Sometimes a Swiss mother, left a widow, because her husband had been
killed in some prince’s battle, resolved not to let her boy die for a
king. So she strapped her baby on her back, and skated down the Rhine
to Rotterdam, and reached America. One of these, well known, married
again, and in Philadelphia reared a fine family of splendid boys and
girls. Such a romantic incident happened more than once.
Hardly had the Harbys begun even to talk about Penn’s land, when a
terrible calamity befell them, which drove them out of their nest-like
home, even as the mother-eagle pushes out her fledgelings, while the
wonderful opportunity offered them, in Penn’s Groves, lured them to
even greater ease and comforts. Across the Atlantic, there would be
less of toil, than in their mountain home, with its long months of
winter and its short weeks of summer.
The story would take too much time to tell, if we tried to note every
detail. For a week previous, the snow had fallen continuously. It
darkened the air, and covered the earth with many feet of solid
whiteness. One old man was full of forebodings of calamity. On the edge
of a cliff, far up on the mountain side, mighty masses of snow piled
up, stood like a lofty tower, in terrible menace, likely soon to fall.
All were hoping for the Föhn, or south wind, to blow and “eat up” the
snow.
Unsuspecting a storm, a hunter had, some days before, gone among the
heights, taking his provisions and blanket, hoping to stalk an ibex, or
at least a chamois. Caught in the sudden, blinding, whirling snow, and
unable to find the path homeward, he built a rude shelter at the edge
of the forest. This was opposite an overhanging rock, under this snow
tower, which was steadily rising in height. Having enough rations in
his wallet to last him four days, he waited till sunshine should come,
hoping to see a troop of chamois, making their way down over the narrow
ledge of rock, in search of moss for food. Fortunately for him, but
calamitously for the village, his rifle shot brought down a fat buck.
Yet immediately upon that shock of the air, following the gunfire and
report, fell tons upon tons of snow and ice. The mass, rolling down
with lightning speed, increased in size at every yard. It fell on the
village, overwhelming houses, barns, stables and gardens. Where
yesterday were happy homes were now many human victims. Today, the
mouldering stones in the church yard witness to the awful catastrophe.
Pathetic is a similar record, made ten years later, in another village.
“Dear God! What sorrow! Eighty-eight in a single tomb.”
Happily the Harby home, being on the edge of the avalanche’s track,
though flattened out, like a sheet of mussed-up paper, had no human
dead within its walls; though in the barn every living animal was
smothered by the weight of white.
Digging out a few necessary things, including the trusty rifle,
unharmed, they packed them up, because they would be very necessary in
the new home, or because they were linked with affectionate memories.
They were happy in finding the stocking full of coin, which had been
hidden behind a loose stone in the fireplace. Then the family made its
way to Basle, on the Rhine. There they took boat, down the river to
Rotterdam; where, with hundreds of other Swiss folks, they were
sheltered, helped and kindly treated by the Dutch ministers and people.
Getting on board the ship “Arms of Rotterdam,” under the tricolor flag,
red, white and blue of the Republic, they crossed the Atlantic and in
Penn’s “Holy Experiment,” where thousands of Swiss folk had arrived
before them, they reached safely the city of Brotherly Love. It was
then little larger than a village. When the people from Wales, England,
Holland and Germany first came and were building their houses, they had
lived in caves, on the banks of the Delaware river, where now is Front
Street; but when Harbys arrived there were hundreds of completed
houses, some in brick, or stone, but mostly in wood. Yet even from the
beginning, the land was properly surveyed, and laid out in squares,
and, with four large parks, and planted with trees, while some of the
streets were paved. In truth, for order, and beauty, and liberal ideas,
this was the queen city of America.