LUCERNE, _July 18th, 1888_.
In going to the breakfast-room this morning I saw, in a pantry we
passed, some real cucumbers, green and fresh looking, as if they had
just been picked in a garden I am thinking of, not a hundred miles from
Boston. My mouth fairly watered for a few crisp slices. I had a
conversation with my table waiter about them, who thought it might be
possible to get some for me. I waited patiently with refreshing
anticipations, but when they came their crispness had departed: they
were soaked in oil. I longed to go into that kitchen and teach the cook
how to serve cucumbers. But making the most of the hard bread, which I
very much dislike, and it is the same all over the Continent--crust an
inch thick, and the passable beefsteak and poor coffee, we got through
our morning meal. We soon forgot our disappointment at breakfast in the
delight of getting letters. Oh how glad to read them, and no bad news.
Now we can go out sight-seeing, stronger and happier than ever.
Lucerne is beautifully situated on both banks of the river Reuss, with
the lake in front, and has many attractions, I think. The lake, this
clear morning, looked so luring that the first thing we enjoyed was a
sail to Fluellen, where we took carriage for Altorf, the village made
classic forever by the heroic deeds of William Tell. The spots of ground
where his son was placed and where Tell stood when he shot the apple
from the boy’s head were shown us. In our school days, Tell was ever one
of our favorite patriots, and we fear we always felt glad of that hidden
second arrow, which was to have shot the tyrant Gessler if the first had
killed his boy. On our return to Lucerne we saw the old castle of
Hapsburg, once the summer home of Wagner. The king of the sights of the
town is, however, the Lion of Lucerne. This piece of sculpture is, as
everybody knows, a monument to the brave Swiss guards of whom we thought
so much about at Versailles. The beast is twenty-eight feet long,
magnificent in proportions, and cut out in relief on the face of the
natural rock. He is wounded by a spear, and dying, but making a
desperate struggle, even in death, to protect the shield of France.
There is a pathetic expression in the expiring creature’s face that is
almost human. Ivy and running vines cover the sides of much of the huge
rock about him, and at its foot is a pond of clear water in which the
whole is reflected. The lion was designed by Thorwaldsen, the noted
Danish sculptor, who was born in Copenhagen, and whose Reliefs of the
Seasons, and his Day and Night, are familiar to you from the
photographs. ‘We cannot let our eagle scream here, F.,’ said I;
‘Cogswell fountains do not equal this.’
We went into the Glacier Garden and saw the bas-relief of Central
Switzerland, modelled from nature by General Pfyffer one hundred and
forty years ago; and were then driven to the old cathedral, where there
is a fine organ handled by a noted organist every evening. It is quite
the fashion for visitors in the place to flock there to hear the music
after dinner; but we, not liking the rooms given us at our hotel, ‘The
Swan,’ although undoubtedly they did for us the best they could, and as
we could not get into the Schweizerhof at all, the best hotel in the
place, have decided to leave this afternoon. Our last act of
sight-seeing was the old covered bridge, in which there are over a
hundred pictures, scenes of Switzerland’s history and pictures of
saints, although some of them did not look very saintly. There are four
bridges across the river,--two modern, and the other two very ancient
and curious.
Went to Vitzman by boat, then took front seats on a platform car to
ascend the Rigi. Only one car is sent up at a time, and that is driven
by steam power. The railway seems to be the same as any narrow-gauge
road, but between the outside rails are two other rails quite near each
other, in which a cogwheel, which is under the engine, runs or works. We
ascend slowly, leaving the lake and the towns far below us, and beyond
and above us are the mountain peaks. We go through a tunnel and across a
deep yawning ravine on an iron bridge; and the scenery is beautiful all
around us, which we can fully enjoy at our ease, as there are no
dangerous places and no frisky mules to distract one’s attention. We
pass many tourists, but the path must appear almost endless to them, for
it seems to us, even at our speed, that the top of the mountain grows
farther away. But at last we reach our hotel, the Rigi Kulm, above the
clouds. Would we could always rise above them so delightfully! It was
very cold, so we put on all the wraps we had, and started out for views
from the Rigi. Just imagine yourself on the very top of this high
mountain, which juts up towards the heavens like a ‘popover’ in a hot
oven. In the valley below we can count eight lakes, and the many towns
so far below us look like the little wooden villages made of blocks for
children to play with. Looking beyond in all directions, we see
mountains towering up to the sky--Rocky Pilatus, the snow-clad range of
the Bernese Alps, and the green Rigi group close about us. We see the
rugged heights of the Silberhorn, the three peaks of the Wetterhorn,
and, grandest of all, the Finsteraarhorn. What a personal interest we
have in these peaks of Switzerland as soon as we know them.
The mountain was covered with travellers, like ourselves, enjoying the
views and anticipating a gorgeous sunset, as there was scarcely a cloud
to be seen. I sat on the grass near the edge of the mountain wondering
at the extent of this magnificent panorama, when I felt a weight on my
shoulder; turning quickly a cow raised her head from the resting place
she had chosen and looked at me in a way that said, ‘Why did you move?’
A little later we met Mr. W., of New York, and his handsome German
doctor, who added greatly to our pleasure during the rest of our stay
here. Seeing a boy with some freshly picked wild flowers, and an
edelweiss among them, I asked where he found it, and wandered off in the
direction indicated, anxious to pick for myself one of these blossoms.
We had bought them fresh, we had bought them dried, and the semblance
of them in all sorts of ornaments, but not one had I seen growing. I
clambered down the steep and rocky path, and was rewarded after a long
search by finding two of these flowers which the Swiss love so well, and
I victoriously exhibited them to my friends as I met them coming in
search of me. We grouped ourselves on a high platform, built on the
summit, which was already well crowded, to see the sun go down. But why
do we get up here? we were high enough before. Because it is the thing
to do, and here is glass of every color to look through. But I only wish
to see it all in its natural colors. How the wind blows, and how cold it
is! There goes the Doctor’s hat. No use to try to recover it; it is
dashing on to see where the sun goes to. Put this wrap over your head,
Doctor.
Look, look! The great ball of fire was sinking to the edge of the
horizon, which was streaked gorgeously with crimson and gold. Golden
tints fell far and near, upon valley, lakes, and mountains, and the
white robes of the snow-clad peaks, were changed to rose. All voices
were hushed, for a spectacle so sublime awakened in every one emotions
too deep for words. Lower and lower, until only a great gold shield
remained, and soon all light was gone, and the shadows covered us.
‘These are Thy works also, O God, for Thou didst make the heavens and
the earth.’
Stiff with cold, we hurried to our hotel, whose lights twinkled
cheerfully for us in the distance, and a good dinner, with warm drinks,
soon thawed us into a comfortable condition. After dinner we tried to
find a room heated sufficiently for us to remain in and not freeze, but
there was none. Large, handsome parlors and corridors, but all as cold
as ice-caves. The proprietors of this house make a great mistake in not
providing fires for the comfort of their guests; and for the very lack
of this necessity to one’s health, we decided to leave as early as
possible in the morning. After a brisk promenade through the hall with
our friends, we bade them good-night, promising to rise at the sound of
the alpine horn and meet them in the parlor, to go out and see the
rising of the sun, which they assured us would be far more wonderful
than its setting. ‘Now you will be sure to be on hand,’ said Mr. W. ‘I
would not have you miss it for anything. I have a fur coat here which I
will unpack to put about you; you will have to rise at three o’clock,
you know.’ ‘O yes, I will surely be ready. We have come far to see the
sun rise on the Rigi, and I must not miss it. Good-night,’ and off we go
to our room at the very top of the house. Just hear the wind roar.
Our chamber was cold, our chambermaid colder, and upon our asking her
for more bed covering she undoubtedly reached the freezing-point
somewhere, for she disappeared and we saw her not again. After prolonged
and vigorous ringings of our bell, a petrified-looking boy appeared, but
he manifested some signs of life as our money touched his palm, and we
succeeded in coaxing him to bring us an extra feather bed. That bed was
warm, and as our own was cold and clammy, I felt pretty sure the boy
gave us his own bed. But I was grateful, and he was satisfied with the
bargain.
‘Get up, and dress as soon as you can,’ said F., holding a ghostly
candle in front of my face. ‘Up! why I had just got to sleep.’ ‘The
alpine horn has sounded, and you must see the sun rise.’ ‘No, I am just
beginning to get warm; what does it rise at this unheard-of time for?’
‘There, Mr. W. is calling us outside our door; do come, hurry.’ ‘No!’
The horn tooted most unmusically. I was too tired and sleepy, with a bad
cold thrown in, to care whether the sun ever rose or not. I had had too
hard work to get a comfortable resting place, to have no benefit from
it, so off F. went, and I knew no more until seven o’clock, when she
exasperatingly informed me of what a delightful time they had, that the
sun setting was not to be compared in glory to its rising, that it was a
wonderful revelation, and that I had persistently refused to enjoy it. O
dear! why will people always tell you that the sights you do not see are
those the best worth seeing.
_Thursday, July 19th, 1888._--Although we ordered our breakfast last
night, it was not ready for us when we went to the dining-room. ‘Very
sorry, some mistake,’ said the waiter; but that did not give us our
breakfast, and it was nearly time for the car to leave. We choked down
some cold bread and half-made coffee, and rushed, meeting a waiter just
bringing our hot rolls and chops, which we had paid for when we settled
our bill the night before. I took out a clean napkin from my bag, and
took from him our breakfast, wrapped it in my napkin, and said
good-morning to the half-dazed man, who ejaculated just one word, which
sounded like ‘whew.’ Our friends were at the car to see us off, and
tried to exchange their tickets for some that would take them our route,
but could not, so good-bys were said, and off we pushed to descend the
Rigi. We have been unusually fortunate in having such perfect weather
for this mountain trip. This morning is lovely. We move cautiously down
a road, on the opposite side from the one we went up, so all views are
new to us. We soon reached Lake Zug. Our car conductor gracefully
saluted us as we left his care to take the boat. These Swiss conductors
have a pretty custom of always saluting each other when they meet, also.
We crossed the lake to the city of Zug. Had two hours to wait there, so
walked about the queer little town. Wandered into a church where were
several good pictures. On our way back to the station we stepped into a
neat-looking wayside inn and called for a bottle of wine to go with our
Rigi spoils for a luncheon. The proprietress and her fair daughter
seemed much interested in us. We spread out our luncheon on a clean
tablecloth, were served with delicious butter and honey, and enjoyed it
at our leisure. With the curiosity of the sex, these women wondered who
and what we were. Our dress was strange to them, and our language
stranger. We told them we were from America, and were travelling to see
their country. ‘Wo ist der Herr,’ asked the woman. ‘We have none,’ we
answered. ‘Mein Gott!’ said she. We hear no more French spoken now; all
German.
Our next stopping place was Zurich, where we had a good table d’hôte
dinner, and then pushed on to Schaffhausen, where we alight for the
Falls of the Rhine, and ride in a carriage about two miles to our hotel,
‘The Schweizerhoff.’ This house, with all its appointments, is the best
we have yet seen in all Europe. It is situated in the midst of
beautiful grounds, on the bank of the Rhine, with the falls in full
sight. Our room was not only comfortable, but approached elegance, and
the long windows opened on to a veranda where stood two large, soft
easy-chairs, as if waiting to welcome us, and give us the best pictures
of the country about. Making a hasty toilette, we went down stairs and
out on to the piazza, where sat at their ease a distinguished-appearing
company to see the falls, which our guidebook had told us were the
largest in Europe.
In front of us, at the foot of the garden, ran the river, and a little
to the right was a small rapid, apparently about as high as the fall of
water that I used to see running a saw-mill on the East Taunton road,
but not for an instant did we suppose that those were ‘the falls.’ ‘Will
you please tell me where the Falls of the Rhine are?’ I asked a lady
near me. The woman looked dazed, and turned toward me to see if I was
blind, but politely answered, ‘Why, there they are!’ Impulsively, with a
disgusted tone, I exclaimed, so disappointed was I, ‘Those the Rhine
Falls! Well, just think of Niagara.’ ‘Sh--sh,’ said F., ‘you are forever
waving the stars and stripes.’ If the house and place had not given us
so much pleasure we should have felt our time wasted in coming here, but
these exceed our expectations. The cuisine was simply perfect, and at
table we were served by pretty, rosy-cheeked Swiss maids, dressed in
white skirts, full-sleeved white waists and black velvet bodices, and
looking as fresh and sweet as pinks. They moved, as if one person, to
the sound of a bell, doing entirely away with long waits between
courses, and every dish brought to us was most delicious.
_Friday, July 20th._--We had our breakfast served on the broad piazza,
fronting the Rhine, by our pleasant Swiss girl this morning, and the
fragrance from the sweet flowers about us brought memories of the orange
groves in Florida where we stood only a few months ago. Time and steam
do wonders. Hoping to consider the falls a less disappointment on a
closer approach to them, we decided to go to their very centre in a
boat. About in the middle of them stands a rock, on which has been
erected a pavilion, and to which boatmen are ready to take passengers
at all times. We reached the landing safely, through currents and
whirlpools, and the rapids themselves did appear of much greater
magnitude on closer proximity, but I doubt their being the largest in
Europe. The town of Schaffhausen is very ancient, with its queer old
houses, gateways, and walls. On the old bell of the cathedral is an
inscription, which translated means, ‘I call the living: I mourn the
dead: I break the thunder;’ which it is said, prompted Schiller to write
the exquisite verses of ‘The Song of the Bell.’
_Saturday, July 21st._--Yes, the Schweizerhoff is a haven of rest, and
had we time, we should like to tarry longer. We are close to Germany
now, and must see something of it, but I fear the majestic scenery of
Switzerland has spoiled us for any scenery of less beauty. The
proprietors of these Swiss hotels have a custom of giving to each
departing lady guest a bouquet. Mine this morning was unusually
beautiful, and when I said to the giver, ‘We have really been charmed
with your house,’ a pretty picture of the place was added to the first
offering. To the omnibus in which we rode to the station from the
hotel, was harnessed, as our leader, an immense cream-colored bull, a
handsome creature, truly huge in his proportions. I doubt if I shall
admire Paul Potter’s as much.
In our car we had as our only travelling companions two priests, with
their long, flowing gowns and big hats. They continually prayed and
crossed themselves for a while, and we feared that they did not realize
that we were also two human beings and Christians, so entirely did they
ignore us. But after a time they looked up, and we found an occasion to
make a remark to them, which opened the way for a conversation, although
a limited one, as they could not understand one word of English, and we
stumbled much in German, but they were very bright, and looked over with
us our German conversation book, and we made quite a merry party. Our
route was through and over the Black Forest mountains, said to be the
most picturesque of all mountains. We passed through numerous tunnels,
some very long ones, and in utter darkness, as they did not light the
cars at all, giving one a good chance to think of all the terrible
accidents one ever heard of, and making one feel all the time as if
something dreadful might happen. I never did like to be in the dark,
unless as a tired child with my mother’s arms close about me. When not
underground, which seemed but little of the time, the scenery we saw was
bold and memorable. The whole region of this Black Forest is full of
traditional stories, and we stretched our necks as we turned precipitous
corners, hoping to get a glimpse of the ‘Black Huntsman’ dashing down
the dizzy heights back of us or in the green valleys below. We saw two
castles, and a huge monastery, ‘built on a rock’ on a high elevation.
And now, being in the mood, I think I will tell you of something we saw
later,--a cavern which is called ‘The Noble Lady’s Grave,’ and this is
the story which shows why so named, as told to us, or at least the main
points: ‘The husband of the lady left her alone in their home in the
Black Forest, with only her attendants for society, and, of course, she
being of noble birth, could not ‘chum’ much with her servants. He left
her thus to join the Crusades. She pleaded with all a loving wife’s
earnestness for him to remain with her, but without avail. It looks as
if the knight cared more for glory than for his better half, but may be,
let us be charitable, ‘he had business she could not understand,’ or
perhaps ‘he had to meet a man,’ as many of the self-sacrificing husbands
of our own time are obliged to do, greatly to their own discomfort, but
‘duty is duty, you know.’ At any rate he tore himself away from her
clinging arms, in spite of tears and entreaties, undoubtedly hoping to
cover himself with glory in the holy city. Perhaps he had wearied of the
gloom, dismalness, and monotony of life in the Black Forest, and ‘needed
a change.’ His wife, of course, had more resources for pleasure; she
could do the mending of the family, tell the cook what to have for
dinner, and go to church and give thanks for so brave a husband, and
offer prayers for his welfare. The lonely, noble lady did all of these
things most faithfully for a while, but they soon ceased to be
entertaining, and life itself grew wearisome. There was no mail to be
expected in those days, no letters to answer, no progressive euchre
parties, no Browning clubs, no sewing circles, no amateur theatricals,
and not even a neighbor to talk about, and no one to talk about the
neighbors with. Poor forlorn woman! Worn and weary with the watching and
the waiting, ‘He cometh not,’ she said. Her crusader most selfishly
tarried too long. But one fine day somebody’s else crusader came along,
and just as the noble lady was packing her ‘Saratoga’ to fly with him to
the lands where loneliness and the ‘blues’ were unknown, her own lawful
crusader appeared, killed her would-be rescuer, and shut the poor,
out-of-patience wife up in this cave in the hillside, which was her
prison living and her grave when dead.
After the descent of the Black Forest range was made, we struck into
pretty, green valleys, where women, young girls, and children were
making hay,--Gretchens and Maud Müllers. Oxen and cows were used instead
of horses, and I saw two women _harnessed_ into a hay-cart, which was
loaded with hay, and a man riding comfortably on top, smoking his pipe.
I would have liked to have seen him fall off, but I was told that men at
home, in this part of the world, are so few, that the women give them
the easy places, and work for them, and coddle and pet them to their
hearts’ content. The large majority of the men are away at the barracks.
The homes of the working people, just here, look as if intended to
illustrate a revised edition of ‘the happy family.’ Human beings, both
sexes, of several generations, judging from the very old looking women
and the few old men, and the little babies we see, with horses, cattle,
sheep, pigs, and hens, all live under one outside upper roof, having
perhaps the choice of apartments inside. The door-yards look neat, but
without exception, every house has somewhere near the never-to-be-missed
fertilizer pile, often higher than the house, and generally the bigger
the house the bigger the pile. Stocks up, they sell; stocks down, they
buy. Financial excitements, you see, are necessary even here. The houses
are never painted, and the roofs are covered with straw. At one station
where we changed cars we saw a group of Alsatian women with the genuine
Alsatian bows on their heads instead of bonnets. The bows were made of
some black material, and I think must have measured fully one yard from
one end to the other.
[Illustration: decorative bar]