1858. 



NEW ENGLAND FARMER. 



87 



For the New England Farmer. 

 SWITZERLAND. 

 LETTER FROM MR. FRENCn. 



My Dear Brown :— If I had the least idea 

 here I am, my letter should commence with the 

 usual date, but probably no map contains the 

 name of the "Hotel de Tours," up by the north 

 side of the Gemmi Pass in Switzerland. The 

 place that has a name, through which we last 

 passed in coming here from Interlaker, is Kander- 

 steg, a mile or so from this Hotel of the Bear. 

 We have all heard of the corners of the earth, 

 and people sometimes speak of the end of the 

 road, but I never fully realized the force of the 

 terms until now. We drove horses until we found 

 no passage farther. We got into the gorge of 

 the mountains' till a carriage could proceed no 

 longer, till the road ended at this same house, 

 and now when it stops raining, we are to mount 

 those gallant animals called mules, and cross the 

 mountain pass, where there is room enough to 

 ride, and where there is but a step of three feet 

 width on the face of the precipice, we are advised 

 to walk. AVhen it stops raining, "Ay, there's 

 the rub !" Here it is the 9th day of August, and 

 the weather just now is such that I am sitting 

 with my hat and a large shawl on, shivering with 

 cold, in a house where there are no stoves or fire- 

 places, except one in the kitchen. I can look 

 out at the window and see the mountain tops 

 white with snow, and I can imagine you and the 

 rest of New England sweltering in an August 

 sun; but Shakespeare or somebody intimates that 

 a man cannot wallow comfortably in December's 

 snows "by thinking on the genial summer's heat." 



For comfort, a man's home is the best place, 

 but if his object is to see Switzerland, propably 

 my present position is preferable to old Exeter. 

 Yes, here is Switzerland, with her mountains 

 piled Alps upon Alps till the snow lies basking 

 in the sun all the summer long, and finds in her 

 cold bosom no answering thrill of warmth to all 

 his ardent wooing. And close past the door rush- 

 es a foaming mountain torrent, cold from the gla- 

 ciers this very morning, roaring, and leaping from 

 precipice to precipice, in haste to find the fair, 

 warm valley below. Strawberries are just in sea- 

 son here, grown on the wild hillsides. Abundance 

 of trout find their way from their native element 

 to our table, taken from the stream which never 

 dries, but increases more and more by summer's 

 sun. 



Yes, Switzerland is here, out at my window, 

 where the mountains rise almost to the clouds ; 

 almost did I say ? — at this moment while I write, 

 as I turn my glance towards them, their heads 

 are veiled by the white clouds that have been just 

 thrown over them by their servants, the winged 

 winds. Last night I sought, as I always do, when 



far from home, for the constellations which from 

 youth to manhood I have watched at evening, for 

 the stars, which of all things created change not, 

 which look kindly and peacefully down upon our 

 upturned faces in age as in youth, which when a 

 thousand leagues are between u« and our loved 

 ones, are to us and them alike, when we Avatch 

 them from the steamer's deck in the midst of the 

 pathless sea, or from the mountain peaks of the 

 Alps, the same now as when they sang together for 

 joy at the first creation. Last night I sought to 

 bid them good-night from this valley, but the walls 

 of rock which guard the mountain stream rose up 

 almost to the zenith on the East, and the West 

 was hidden by the mountain peaks. The Great 

 Bear and the North Star, however, were in their 

 places in view, and the Cross was overhead, and 

 so satisfied that the great landmarks of the Uni- 

 verse had not been removed, and feeling that the 

 same Heaven was above me and my friends in my 

 native land, I sought and found repose. 



There is much of poetry still about Switzer- 

 land, with more of sober prose. A glance at her 

 mountain fastnesses, and at her cottages scattered 

 upon her green hills rising almost to the eternal 

 snows, explains why she can never be subdued. 

 As well might a disciplined army wage war against 

 the chamois on her rocks, as against the Swiss 

 hunter, more fleet even than the mountain deer. 



I saw, this morning, a mountaineer who had 

 brought the baggage of a traveller a six hours' 

 journey across the Pass of the Gemmi, keeping 

 pace with the fastest walker of an English par- 

 ty, and far outstripping the horses and mules of 

 those who rode. I tried the burden which h® 

 bore so lightly partly on his head and partly on 

 his back, and found it almost beyond my strength 

 to lift, and was told that the same man could ea- 

 sily carry two hundred pounds, and keep pace 

 with any traveller along those frightful paths, for 

 the whole six hours. 



There is patriotism left yet in Switzerland. — 

 Tell and his brave exploits are pictured not only 

 on his chapel, which I saw by Lake Lucerne, 

 where he leaped from the boat, leaving his captors 

 to buffet the storm as they might, but on the walls 

 of hotels and of cottages ; and the spirit of Tell 

 was found not to be sleeping when Switzerland 

 was recently threatened with invasion. 



But freedom and poverty ever go hand in hand ; 

 freedom and a hard, ungenerous soil, seem to b« 

 the compensations set against each other by na- 

 ture's equal law. Although Switzerland is the 

 land of the vine, and although her hills and val- 

 leys are adapted to the culture of as great a vari- 

 ety of fruits and other products as any other 

 country in the world, yet she is and must ev- 

 er remain a poor country. Her institutions are 

 fi-ee, her children are well educated, but her so^ 



