“Now, is there nothing I can do for you?” he said, as I was about to take my leave. “Thank you, Mr. Alcott,” I answered, “and yet it would be a pleasure if I could have the honor of meeting your daughter.”
“Bless me,” he cried, jumping up; “don’t you know Louise? Louise!” he called out at the top of his voice, “Louise, come in here.” There was no answer. “Come on,” he said; “we’ll hunt her up,” and away we started through the rooms of the house on a chase for the famous woman.
We found her in morning gown, with carpet sweeper in hand, dusting one of the chambers. She was as kindly and simple as her father. She could not hear well, but she was very vivacious and full of fun. She asked me to go with her all about the house, looking at this souvenir and that, as if she herself were not at that moment the greatest sight of all. She dwelt especially on some pictures on the wall that a sister had painted in Paris. My stay abroad must have fitted me to know about paintings, she insisted. These were indeed interesting and good.
As we were talking, two young fellows ran over the stile and out into the street. Mr. Alcott gleefully nudged me on the arm, and said, “Look, the ‘little men.’” We all looked. Miss Alcott smiled and said, “Yes, they are the boys.”
The train was just starting as I reached it at the station, and there I had a glimpse of a tall, intellectual-looking man crossing the platform, apparently looking for some other train. He carried a little hand bag. I heard a passenger next me say, “There is Mr. Emerson.”
*****
Mr. Allen took me to Newton Center, to see the famous Dr. Smith, author of the song “America.” It was dark when we called. His daughter went to fetch matches, and was no little surprised on coming back to find the gas burning brightly. Mr. A. had lighted a match on his shoe and found the gas lamp. Shortly, Dr. Smith came in. Though old and partially deaf, his face was kind and his eyes bright. He liked to talk with us about his past, and told us much concerning the origin of his famous song. I thought his home old and dingy for so famous a man. The people of America could well afford to give him a palace. His song has done more to preserve the American Union than any army ever did. He was interested about music in Switzerland, and asked me to tell him what effect the mountains have on the Swiss character. I told him to judge by their songs. No country in the world has so many music festivals, so many singing clubs. “And the songs they sing?” inquired the doctor. “They are mostly about their country, their mountains, their lakes, their rivers,” I answered. At a great musical contest last year, attended by ten thousand people, forty-six songs were sung in chorus. Nineteen of these were about the Alps, or hymns to nature. Seven were about Switzerland, two or three about the Rhine, and ten were love songs.
It was a Sunday evening and we feared to prolong our visit.
*****
After I had reached my post at Zurich, a New Yorker wrote me to send him a book printed in the Swiss language. I had seen but few. There is a Swiss language, all the uneducated speak it; so do many of the cultivated, when among themselves, but not among strangers. It is also spoken much in the family circle. It has many dialects, and some of them are older than the German language itself. An occasional newspaper is printed in these dialects, but books rarely.