Scenes in Switzerland | Page 2

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