Scenes in Switzerland | Page 4

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.
Lastly came the youths; maidens with eyes full of a childlike innocence,
the quick color coming and going as they greeted the pastor and his
friends, and received his blessing in return. Gretchen and her husband
were with us, and Gretchen number two was my especial escort,
leading me through the rooms, and introducing me in her naive manner,
"Mamma's friend, and papa's, and uncle Euler's."
Christmas festivities were kept up during the week; and before that
elapsed, I was won to add a month, and then another, it being quite
impossible to slip away from the kind friends with whom I had so
much in common; the fascination only the more potent as we listened
to the beating winds, and looked out into the slippery paths leading
down into the cantons beneath.
Spring had come when it was "fit to travel," as Gretchen said. The

green of the landscape was brilliant and uniform; the turf sown with
primrose, violet, anemone, veronica, and buttercups. It was time for me
to leave; neither could I be persuaded to stay till the meeting of the
Landsgemeinde. It was sad to leave them, and the little Gretchen was
only pacified by my assurance that, if possible, I would return at no
distant day. My friend Spruner had business at Herisau, and spending
one more evening together, our prayers mingling for the last time, we
parted.
Our way led through the valley of the Sitter, a stream fed by the Sentis
Alps, and spanned by a bridge hundreds of feet above the water. The
same smooth carpet of velvet green was spread everywhere.
"There is no greener land," said Spruner; "the grass is so rich that the
inhabitants cannot even spare enough for vegetable gardens. Our tables
are supplied from the lower vallies."
"In our country we should not dream of making hay in the month of
April," I remarked, seeing several stout men already in the field.
"With suitable care they can mow the same field every six weeks,"
responded my friend. "And it is no doubt this peculiar process that
gives such sweetness and splendor of color, seen nowhere else, not
even between the hedgerows of England."
The day proved to