Scenes in Switzerland.
by American Tract Society.
Gretchen.
Time flies swiftly when we are sightseeing; and it was late in the autumn of 18-- when I reached Lindau. Lake Constance lay before me, a pale, green sheet of water, hemmed in on the south by bold mountain ranges, filling the interim between the Rhine valley and the long undulating ridges of the Canton Thurgau. These heights, cleft at intervals by green smiling valleys and deep ravines, are only the front of table-land stretching away like an inclined plane, and dotted with scattered houses and cloistering villages. The deep green of forest and pasture land was beginning to show the touch of autumn's pencil; the bright hues striking against gray, rocky walls; the topmost edge of each successive elevation crowned with a sharp outline of golden light, deepening the purple gloom of the shaded slopes.
Behind and over this region towers the Sentis, its brow of snow bristling with spear points. It was altogether too late to think of the Baths, or even to look at the little lake of Wallenstatt; and still, I was unwilling to return without a friendly shake of the hand of my old friend Spruner, who had perched himself in one of the upper cantons. "You should have been here earlier," said the landlord; "in summer we have plenty of visitors."
"I rather look upon the mountains in their parti-colored vests, than when dressed in simple green," I replied.
"If you can stand the weather;" and he thrust his pipe deeper into his mouth, and twirled the button of his coat.
Hastily making my adieus, the postillion cracked his whip, and we started. "There is no danger of bad weather for a month," said the driver, "and when we get up farther you will see what will pay you for the trouble of coming:" a speech that promised well for the day, I argued; and a certain share of respect leaped up for the man in his laced coat and steeple-crowned hat. A good specimen of his class--and once satisfied of this, I gave myself up to the present, without the least foreboding with regard to the future.
Over us hung masses of gray cloud, stretching across the valley like a curtain, and falling in voluminous folds almost to the level of Lake Constance. As we passed through this belt, and came out, with cloud and mist below us, I listened as the postillion related the popular legends handed down from one generation to another, for the last six hundred years. Reaching the crest of the topmost height, he stopped suddenly.
"It is just the day to see the herdsmen;" and he threw down the reins, and prepared to dismount. I stood up and looked around.
"The battle you know between the herdsmen and the monks, with Austria to help. It was a hard battle, and the knights were whipped; and ever since, on certain days, the herdsmen are seen armed with bows and pikes," he continued. By this time I had taken in his meaning, and turning my attention to the misty curtain rolling up into clouds about the sides of the mountain, I had no difficulty in picturing the discomfited Austrians flying from the pursuit of the hardy mountaineers.
"It was a great battle, and they have never tried it since," and there was a ring in the voice that sounded like the echo of Grutli.
"No wonder, if your herdsmen are still ready to keep up the fight."
"You do not see them," and he made a gesture in the direction where my eye still lingered.
"As plainly as any body can," and I tried hard not to smile.
"It is quite true this;" and he gathered up the reins.
"I do not doubt it."
As we passed on, the clouds rounded into islands, touched with silver on the upper edges.
"This is the place for fine muslin and embroideries," said the postillion in a changed tone.
"Where are they made?" I asked.
"Every house has a loom," he said.
A small way to manufacture muslins; but when the density of the population and the incessant labor is taken into consideration, it is not so strange. With regard to the houses I was greatly disappointed.
Not only are they so near that neighbors can converse freely, but they are large, and even luxurious, in comparison with the same class in other parts of Europe. Many of these houses are four stories, with large, square rooms at the base; the upper ones narrowed by the high steeple roof which projects several feet, forming balconies, beautifully carved and highly ornamented. The outer walls are covered with shingles from two to three inches broad, overlapping each other, and rounded at the ends; reminding one of old roofs seen in the French quarter. The lowest story is of stone, plastered, and whitewashed.
Such a house is very warm, very durable; and painted by the successive changes of winter and summer, the external appearance is altogether pleasing. Our ascent was gradual; with stately houses one after another, and fruit-trees on the sheltered side. In the balconies, pots of bright-hued flowers, and sometimes a face to greet us.
Towards sundown we halted at the little town where my friend had deposited himself; and as my foot touched the wooden step of the little hotel, whom should I meet but my old college chum; no longer thin and pale as when I knew him, but round-faced as an alderman, and merry as though his heart was full of new wine.
"You are not to stop here," as the landlord came out to receive me: "My house is not far off, and GRETCHEN, you remember her? will be glad to see you."
Of course I remembered Gretchen; but to meet her as my friend's wife was quite another thing. A few steps brought us to the door of a handsome establishment two centuries old, or more; the front frescoed, and the interior neat and orderly as a New England housewife's. The floor upon which we entered from the street was paved with a species of marble, black and white, diamond shaped, but too suggestive of cold to be altogether pleasing. A broad, wooden staircase of a peculiar rich brown hue led to the parlor on the second floor. The windows looking out into the mountain ranges were draped with ruby-colored damask; the floor was covered with a richly tufted carpet bordered with flowers, and sofas and easy chairs were temptingly arranged. On a table in the centre of the room, and under an elaborately chased lamp, were implements for letter-writing, magazines, and newspapers.
Through the folding-doors we caught a glimpse of well-filled book-shelves, and a woman's voice came floating out to the rich, mellow accompaniment of the piano. There was the rustle of a silk dress. I turned my head.
"This is my ambition," said my friend, while a look of pride blended with the manly expression of his handsome face.
There stood Gretchen--the Gretchen I had known ten years before; no longer the slight blushing girl, but mature in her beauty, a happy wife and mother; the same sweet smile on her lips, and her eye full of gushing gladness as she welcomed me to her home.
The fire was blazing cheerily, and we three talking of the old times, with hardly a thought of the broken links between.
"The college is still the same," said my friend, "with the high cupola and long galleries. Gretchen and I visited it last summer; there were few that we knew, and many of the professors have slipped away. Gretchen's father was one of these. We missed him in his quiet home, and above all, in the old church. A man with dark hair and black flashing eyes stood in his place--a learned, man, but wanting in the inward fire, the simple eloquence of the old man we used to love.
After service, I strolled past the college buildings, and tried to trace the names we cut on the old beeches, but they were all overgrown."
"I know nothing that brings home to the heart so quickly the consciousness of increasing years, as to find those whom we used to look upon as children grown to maturity, taking upon themselves the care and responsibility of life. Here is Gretchen; a deeper bloom upon her cheek, and her eye sparkling with a higher pride."
"Just as mid-day is brighter than the morning," said my friend.
Down the hall came the pattering of little feet, and the nurse entered with two stout boys and a lovely girl, a second Gretchen, the same roguish blue eyes, and golden hair rippling away from her white forehead:
"These are my hopes," said the father, and a smile curled his lip, amid, his eye filled with tenderness as he glanced at Gretchen's face.
Lingering over the tea-table where Gretchen presided with more than youthful grace, we talked not only of the past, but of present work and life.
"One," I continued, taking up the thread, "I met in Southern Italy, dreaming; as I was dreaming, by the dark grotto of Pausilippo.
Meeting upon classic ground, it seemed strange to talk of old times, but we did. And sitting down upon the promontory of Baiae, looking off upon the blue sea, we told each other our respective stories; just as ships will shift their course to come within speaking distance, compare longitude, and exchange letters, and--part. I have not heard from Eckerman since."
My dreams were pleasant that night, and the next morning there was another surprise for me. Gretchen's brother was the pastor of a little church just above them; I must not go without seeing him, Gretchen said. How could I? Euler was my classmate; together we labored for knowledge, and our first manly sympathies run in the same channel.
On Sabbath I saw my friend in the pulpit. "How like his father," I whispered to Gretchen; the poetry in him warming his soul into a burst of fervid eloquence, and his face glowing with the beautiful truths he was unfolding to his hearers. An uncouth church of rough stone, with quaint windows and curious carvings, the ceiling arched, with a blue ground on which blazed innumerable stars. Strange and novel as it was, my eye never wandered from the speaker; the voice and expression so like the kind and generous man who had presided over the college, and who carried with him the affections of each succeeding class. This seems to me more of a triumph now, than it did then. A cultivated mind may challenge respect, but there is need of a noble one to win affection.
It was a week before I could think of leaving, and then the clouds twisted through and around the severed pyramids of the Alps, and the rain began. In such weather the scenery is not only shrouded, but the people are shut up in their homes. Pastor Euler had an ample study however, and here we read and wrote, and talked; with his wife, a pleasant-voiced woman, to enliven the pauses with music, and children dashing into the study giving abrupt and sudden turnings to our dreaming. Christmas was near, and I was easily persuaded to see more of a people, shut in as they were from the noise and commotion of the lower world, and still not so far as to be unknowing of all that was taking place, whether in deliberative bodies, state policies, or the lighter chit-chat of the day.
"You will have an opportunity to see more of my parish than you can possibly see on a Sabbath occasion. I visit them as often as I can, and twice a year I receive them at my own house. The 'Weihnachtsgeschenk'
is looked forward to with great pleasure, and the meeting of the Landsgemeinde in April is sure to bring my people together."
Gretchen and her husband were clamorous for me to remain, and there was no resisting the pleading tones of the children, their little clinging fingers stronger than bands of iron.
All night the rain beat against my chamber window, and in the morning the lower slopes of the mountain were white with new snow. Dark clouds lay heavily on the Alpine peaks, the air was raw and chilly--still it was Christmas. I was aroused at daybreak by the chiming of village bells, and then a procession of choral singers went through the streets, pausing under the window of each house, and singing Christmas hymns. As they passed on, the children caught up the refrain, and joining hands made the halls resound with their gleeful voices.
Before breakfast a huge bowl was passed around with a foaming drink, not unlike egg-nog in appearance, but differing in taste materially.
"May your Christmas be a merry one," as it passed from lip to lip; "and a profitable one," was always responded.
Church was open an hour earlier than on ordinary occasions, "so that the people may have ample time for dinner," said the pastor. Religion with these mountain worshippers was not a form. The birthday of the blessed Redeemer was to them a reality. They believed that he was born and that he died; and it was to commemorate his nativity that hymns were sung and garlands wound. At an early hour they began to gather, and before the time of service the house was closely packed. There were no chains of evergreen, but small fir-trees were occasionally placed. These were covered with garlands and crowns of bright-hued flowers, giving a novel and striking appearance, as of some floral temple or mosque, set in a great pavilion. The high pulpit was draped in white, and a voluminous white curtain covered the background. The effect was charming.
And as the pastor began the service, the melody of his voice broke away into tenderness as he touched upon the love of God in giving his Son to be the propitiation for sin: holding up the picture so vividly, and telling the simple story with a pathos and a power that little children even could not fail to see and to appreciate. How much better than studied and elaborate essays, diving into metaphysics and technicalities so deeply that beauty is lost, and the mind diverted by the difficulty of following the intricate windings.
First did he impress his hearers with the fact that God loved the world, and through the fulness of that love the Son came down to suffer and to die: secondly, that the natural heart is at enmity with God, not willing that God should rule. Thus a change must be effected; a reconciliation made. This could only be wrought by sacrifice; and Christ was offered once for all; his blood cleanseth from all sin. A plain, simple statement, and it sunk into the hearts of his hearers with a power sure to tell upon their future lives.
After the blessing, each remained silently upon his knees for a few moments. Then all was greeting and congratulation; all were friends; the idea never entered their heads that a stranger could be among them at that season.
At dinner I was introduced to the landamman and two other members of the council, and from them gathered brief notes with reference to the little democracy won, and held intact for so many years. The dessert was hardly removed before they began to come: first the old men in black coats and high hats, and women with white, pointed caps and wide ruffles; then the middle-aged, fathers and mothers, bringing little children, all with the same conscientious expression on their faces, the same "Happy Christmas," while the pastor's "God bless you," was a benediction that carried happiness to the hearts of those who heard it.