A Bundle of Letters from over the Sea

by Louise B. Robinson

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.

LETTER VIII.

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.