Our ride of thirty miles has been delightful. There is no railroad, of
course, from Chamouni to this place. We passed many pedestrians of both
sexes, with their bags and waterproofs strapped across their backs,
following in a line like a row of ants, apparently having a jolly time
seeing Switzerland on foot; also passed parties on mules. The scenery
was glorious all the way. We looked back to take our last view of Mt.
Blanc and the Mt. Blanc range and the lovely valley below. Our road was
good, but in some places so narrow, and the ravines so deep on the one
side and the mountains so high on the other, that it gave us a little
anxiety; but our driver was very cautious, and soon inspired us with
confidence. Up and down we went, constantly seeing new and wonderful
views--deep gorges, waterfalls, and the green-clad mountains; and at
last, through a tunnel cut through a solid rocky point of the mountain
that blocked the road, we came to Tête Noire, where we stopped to
refresh man and beast.
Upon going in to dinner we were surprised to see there two ladies whom
we met at Chamouni the day before, and who were travelling alone like
ourselves. They told us they left at eight o’clock, after being assured
that no others at the hotel desired to come with them, as far as was
known; so they had a carriage to themselves as we did, when we should
all have been glad to have made the trip together. Was that a mistake
also? After dinner we continued our journey, with four other carriage
loads in our train, which made the trip seem very social and jolly. We
passed through a beautiful forest, and then into an opening past houses
far apart, pasture lands, and fields of pretty wild flowers. Here we saw
pansies growing wild in great profusion, and the lovely pink, and
crimson yarrow. In our descent of the Col de Forclag we had a fine viem
of the Rhone valley, and at about six P.M. reached Martigny. Switzerland
is indeed mighty; and its great mountains, its lakes and valleys, make
us cry out, in truth, ‘Great is Thy firmament, O Lord, and wonderful the
works of Thy hand!’ Martigny is a small village in the valley, where we
are to spend the night.
_Thursday, July 12th, 1888._--We can see, in the distance, St. Bernard
covered with snow, and would like to see the celebrated hospice, the
self-sacrificing brothers and their noble dogs, but shall not take the
time this season, but hope to, some time. Of the two great gifts, memory
and hope, I know not which gives us the most satisfaction. There is but
little of interest at Martigny--a good place to rest; and feeling
entirely refreshed we left at nine A.M. for Interlaken in steam-cars,
which seem quite a novelty to us now. I think I was rather glad to get
out of the mountain region for a little while: one’s eyes grow weary
with the looking up and the looking down, and the mind tired in the
appreciating of so much sublimity at once. The country we came over was
charming; fields of wild flowers of every color looking as if arranged
by an artistic hand, and the hillsides covered with vineyards. Our road,
for a long distance, kept near Lake Geneva; the water looked as deeply
blue as a sapphire, and the sail-boats and steamers passing each other
made a pleasing scene.
At Chillon we stopped to see the ‘Castle of Chillon.’ It is a
picturesque old building, with turrets and towers, standing on a point
of rock that extends out into the lake. The ring of iron to which
Bonnivard was chained is still there; and the path which his feet wore
in the stone floor, in the weary, solitary six years’ march back and
forth over those few stones, is plainly visible.
‘Chillon! thy prison is a holy place,
And thy sad floor an altar, for ’twas trod,
Until his very steps have left a trace
Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod,
By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface;
For they appeal from tyranny to God.’
It would be almost impossible for one to keep from quoting Byron’s lines
here, for everything we see brings them to mind, and on one of the
pillars is his name, cut by his own hand. To look at the dungeons and
cells makes one’s blood run cold, and even worse is the deep, deep hole
down which prisoners, untried, were thrown to fall upon pointed iron
stakes. And while these terrible horrors were being perpetrated below,
above it all, Duke Victor Amadeus and his Duchess ate, slept, and
enjoyed themselves. Could they have been human? We saw many implements
of torture, which made our heads swim with pain even to look at them,
and be told for what they had been used, and we gladly turned our backs
upon it all and walked out into God’s sunshine, thanking Him, as never
before, that we live in an age when such things are kept only as ancient
curiosities. This portion of ‘clear, placid Leman’ and the country
around it bring forcibly to mind many portions of Childe Harold’s
pilgrimage.
Our next stopping place was at Lausanne, and at the station we met some
Boston friends, seeing them just long enough for an affectionate
greeting and to say good-by, every one of us
‘All kind o’ smily round the lips,
An’ teary round the lashes,’
for home faces are sweet to look upon, and our own language sweet to
hear, in this far-away land. Here we changed cars for Berne, and of all
the queer-looking towns, this is the queerest. Having but a few hours
here, we are inclined to give the most of it to the bears. The city’s
coat of arms is a bear, and pictures, carvings of, and stuffed bears
meet one’s gaze everywhere, on clocks, fountains, towers, houses, and
public buildings; and at a restaurant where we called for ice cream
Bruin’s figure was served to us in chocolate. There is also a den
containing about twenty live bears, who are sacredly cared for by the
city government, and they walk about and climb poles with more dignity
than common bears, as if fully realizing that they are ‘monarchs of all
they survey.’ We were driven through the principal streets and thought
the homes of the people looked very comfortable, with the outside
balconies at the windows, and the red-covered cushions on them, as if
inviting travellers to stop and rest. It happened to be cheese market
day; and in the middle of a square were long tables covered with piles
of cheese, of all shapes and colors, enough to provide the citizens of
the whole world, for the rest of their lives, ‘cheese for their
doughnuts.’ But the odor! It was not to us ‘of Araby blest.’ There is a
great deal of beautiful carved woodwork here, and how we want to buy
everything odd and pretty, but oh, those ‘duties’ to come. We went into
the cathedral, which is a handsome one, and walked on its terrace, from
which we had a fine view of the river Aar and distant mountain peaks. We
then hastened to the old clock tower, to be there at just the time to
hear and see the curious old clock strike the hour of six. A cock steps
out and flaps his wings, an ogre eats a child, and has his pockets full
of children in reserve to be similarly disposed of, a troop of bears
march across the tower, and a man strikes the number of the hour on a
big bell with a hammer. These, you understand, are all statues carved
of wood, and move correctly every hour. A bearded man also turns an
hourglass and counts the number of the hour by raising a sceptre and
opening his mouth as if speaking. One needs to look very closely to see
all the movements, and the whole is wonderfully ingenious, and it is
indeed an ‘old clock,’ as it was built in the year 1191.
After leaving Berne, we changed cars twice before reaching the lake. I
cannot understand why the railroad officials of Switzerland do not
arrange matters to dispense with so much changing from one car to
another, and also to shorten the delays, unless they are desirous of
accommodating the women they employ, in giving them ample time to finish
whatever they may be doing ere they blow that horn, which sounded like a
‘Swampscott fish horn,’ and which at several stations has seemed to be
the order for us to move. At one station I saw a woman come through a
gate with a horn or trumpet, or whatever it may be called, and partly
raise it to her mouth as if to sound the signal for us to start, but
suddenly, seeing a dog scratching up the earth in her garden, ran and
beat the dog first, then returned and tooted loudly, and off we started.
A short sail on Lake Thun, which seemed weird and lonely, as it was by
this time quite dark, another car ride, and we see the lights of
Interlaken, which speak to us of rest, for we are weary.
_Interlaken, July 14th._--This is cheerful. Everything at our hotel, the
Victoria, looked delightfully pleasant to us this morning as we tripped
down stairs as good as new. ‘What a pretty front yard, and do see all of
these huge hotels in a row; do you suppose they are all full?’ said F.
Well, Interlaken does seem to have hotels enough to take in all the
tourists of the world, but they are all well filled at this season. The
shops are attractive, and the pretty girls in them, dressed in their
native costumes, are very polite and seem perfectly willing to show
their wares without urging one to buy. But the beautiful embroideries
are temptation enough for one to spend money, without any words. We saw
in every shop handkerchiefs more beautiful than in the last we entered,
although we declared those there, when we looked at them, were the
loveliest that could be made. And the exquisite embroidered soft white
laces almost make one want to be a bride to wear them. Girls and women
are sitting in the stores, on the steps, in their door yards, and in the
parks, all busy embroidering. We have a good view of the Jungfrau from
our hotel piazza. We have taken long walks in and about the town, and
very pleasant ones. We wandered into a church and found that one half of
the building was used by the Presbyterians and the other half by the
Catholics. We were pleased to meet some friends from Boston here, who
added much to the pleasure of our stay.
_July 16th._--F. has been with Mr. F., one of our home friends, over the
Wengern Alp to Grindelwald and Lauterbrunnen to see the glaciers and the
ice-caves. I declined, not caring for another mule ride. They report
having had a fine time, repaid fully by the sights they enjoyed, and
rode horses instead of mules,--and horses do have some consideration for
their riders. Evenings we have had ‘hops’ at our hotel and fine music,
and after table d’hôte are always entertained by the orchestrian and
the bright-looking little wooden man that wields the baton.
_Lucerne, July 17th._--A short ride from Interlaken this morning early
brought us to Lake Brienz, which we sailed across, stopping for a short
time at Giessbach to see the falls, which are formed from numerous
cascades. Their reputation is the greater part of them. We left the
steamer at Brienz and took steam cars to travel over the Brunig Pass.
Until this summer, travellers have been obliged to make this journey by
carriage or mules. The new railroad is narrow, and the sides of the
little cars are of glass, so that the scenery all about us can be easily
seen. We crept cautiously, slowly along, up the zigzag road, higher and
higher, through jagged rocks and under them, clasping each other’s hands
and almost holding our breath, so fearfully grand did it all seem. The
lovely Meiringen valley below, lying peacefully dotted with pretty
villages and protected by high mountains on each side, seemed very far
from us, and the river running through its centre looked like yards of
silver ribbon unfurled to beautify some one’s bridal day. But when the
descent is safely made we almost want to go back again, it was all so
beautiful. The last two hours of our day’s travel was on Lake Lucerne,
the loveliest bit of water in all Europe. A tall, gaunt,
masculine-looking German woman happened to sit near us on the boat, and
seemed to look upon us as ‘curiosities,’ and to feel it her duty on her
native soil to give us some information. This woman had been all day at
work in the mountains, but at what we could not understand. Coarse and
repulsive-looking as she was, she had a good bit of the poetic
temperament in her nature, and knew every mountain peak and bit of
scenery in sight and the traditions connected with them. The peasant
women of Switzerland, owing to their toilsome lives, wear a look of
anxiety and hardness in their faces that a woman’s face ought never to
have. And yet there is no country in the world, excepting our own, where
women have done so much for the progression, education, and good of
their sex. In Protestant Switzerland there is but little begging; in
Catholic Switzerland beggars waylay you at every turn. It was nearly
sundown when we crossed the lake, and Mt. Pilatus showed off well and
did not disappoint us. The old German woman assured us that Pontius
Pilate fled there from Jerusalem, heart-broken, and ended his life by
throwing himself into the lake: ‘See, right in that spot,’ she said, ‘he
threw himself!’ Then as if reflecting, added, ‘But Pilate did what
was--what he had to do.’ All this she spoke in German, and I have given
you the literal translation. Who shall say that woman was not a
philosopher? Pointing in another direction she said, ‘That is where
Kriss Kringle was born. Does he come down the chimneys in America? It is
well for children to know him.’ And this woman of sentiment and feeling
worked daily out of doors. The scenery from Lake Lucerne is indeed
beautiful and is full of glorious associations, for it was about here
that the struggle was made for the liberty and freedom of Switzerland
and her people. The mountains all about us, the stately chateaux, the
pretty chalets, old watch towers, castle ruins, and the green foliage
about them, the beautiful lake, and the steamers going and coming, make
a peaceful, restful scene. The sun sinks almost out of sight, and all at
once, as a surprise, we turn, and are at the city of Lucerne.
[Illustration: decorative bar]