CHAPTER IX.

SWITZERLAND-SCHAFFHAUSEN- -OBSERVANCE OF THE SABBATH ON THE CONTINENT COMPARISONS OF THE GENERAL ASPECT AND MANNERS OF THE PEOPLE ON THE ROUTE, WITH THOSE OF OUR COUNTRY-FALLS OF THE RHINE -ZURICH-ZUG-RIGHI—WILLIAM TELL-LUCERNE THUN.

SCHAFFHAUSEN (SWITZERLAND), September 8.-We entered Switzerland about ten miles north of this, and the entrance was most appropriate. We had scarcely passed the boundary stone, with Baden inscribed upon it, when there sunk down a deep and narrow valley on our right-deep as if it were placed out of this world, and looking calm, undisturbed, silent, and sequestered, as if it did not belong to this world. We soon descended into it; and with a glorious and gorgeous vista of autumn-painted hills constantly opening before us, we rode all the way to Schaffhausen.

To-day is Sunday, and we are resting at this place. The Sabbath, all over the continent of Europe, it is well known, is partly a holiday. I confess that I was extremely desirous of observing what was the character and effect of this holiday; what kind of relaxation was permitted by the usages of the European churches, both Catholic and Protestant, on Sunday. I had anticipated some modification of the common holiday. I had thought it likely, that relaxation for one part of the day, connected with religious services on the other, would possess a character of unusual decorum. And in this I am not disappointed, unless it be, that I find everywhere, in all the villages and cities which I have had an opportunity of observing on Sunday, a quietness and decorum quite beyond my expectation. The population is all abroad, indeed, after the hours of divine service, in the streets and the public places; but it seems to suffice the people to take a quiet walk with their families; and there is a remarkable restraint among the multitudes upon all noise, loud talking, and laughter.

I state the fact as it is, and as a matter, certainly, of gratifying information. But I cannot conceal that it presents to me a very serious question. And the question is, how far it is desirable that our Sabbath-keeping should partake of the European character. There is much, doubtless, to be objected against the European mode. The day seems to be entirely spent in public-in public worship, or in the public walks. It seems to have no distinct moral object with the people around me. Now this is what, above all things, I would secure. But whether the object is best secured by the views and usages that prevail among us is the question.

We ought, on this subject, to look at the general principles on which time is to be used to the best account; or on which, in other words, time is to be devoted and hallowed to religious uses. Suppose I wish to set apart a day to any intellectual or moral use. How shall I best arrange it? And here let me say, that I know of nothing in the Scriptures that forbids the application of such general reasoning. To sanctify a day is, to set it apart for a religious purpose; and the ques

tion is, how is that purpose to be best accomplished? Now I say, that if I were to arrange the employments of any day, in order to turn its hours to the greatest account for my mind or heart, I should not devote all its hours to study, reading, meditation, or prayer. That is to say, in other words, I must give some of its hours to relaxation. And this is what any man does of necessity, let his creed or system be what it will.

So that the only question is, what sort of relaxation a man shall give himself. Shall it be taken within doors, or abroad? Shall a man sit down in a sort of superstitious stupor, as thinking that there is something in gloom and dulness that is peculiarly acceptable to heaven? or shall he go forth under the open sky, and amid the fresh breezes? Shall he sleep away some hours of the day, or spend them in easy conversation and useful exercise? Which mode of relaxation-for relaxation there must be will be most favourable to health, to cheerfulness, and to agreeable associations with the sabbath?

Is

But it may be said, that it is dangerous to depart from the old strictness, and that the people will go fast enough and far enough, without being helped on in their course. I grant that there is danger arising from the boundless freedom of the country. I certainly fear that the innocent relaxations of the Sabbath might go to excess and disorder. But may we not hope, that an intelligent and wholesome public opinion is to lay restraints as effectual as bayonets and a police? Besides, the danger exists, whether we discuss the subject or not. it not better to take the right and tenable ground at once, than to take a wrong ground which is continually sliding beneath our feet, and bearing us and everything else with it? Yet more: licentiousness is not the only danger. There is danger in bondage, too. For what, I ask, is the effect and result of the old strictness? Some, it makes demure and superstitious on Sunday; others, it makes reckless. They take greater liberties with the day than the most of those who make it a holiday in Europe! They ride, they travel, they labour, they haunt taverns, they engage in hunting and fishing, they write letters of business; they cannot banish the spirit of business even from one day out of seven. Many, and especially of the young, are perhaps still more injured by the old strictness. They dislike the Sabbath. They dread its approach; they are glad when it is gone. And as the Sabbath is

most closely associated with religion, they come to get repulsive ideas of religion itself. It is a gloomy thing; it is a superstition; it is a peculiarity; it is a bondage. It is something to be endured; it is something to be sighed about, rather than acted upon; and the result is, that it exerts no genial, no welcome, no thorough nor permanent influence upon the heart. In short, false views of the Sabbath are answerable for no small portion of that host of dreadful popular errors which deform Christianity, degrade its disciples, cut off from the world so many sources of happiness, and open, in the very bosom of life, so many fountains of sadness, dejection, and misery.

On the whole, as a sabbatarian, I am inclined to be at once very strict and very liberal. I would have a more practical and pious use made of the day, than is common with us. I would have as many hours devoted to public worship and to private reading and meditation, as can profitably be given. The right ground on this subject seems to

me to be high ground. No hours in the year should be more busy, more absorbing, more sacred to effort and improvement, than Sabbath hours. No hours in the merchant's counting-room, or at the student's desk, should be more earnestly devoted. But this done, I would give the utmost freedom to all innocent, decorous, and quiet relaxation. I believe that this disposition of time would give us a day far more interesting, useful, and happy. I am persuaded, that this spreading of superstitious restraints over the whole day, tends at once to weaken the springs of those religious exercises, and of those recreative, social, and domestic enjoyments, for which it was alike though not equally ordained.

There is an air about the people at Schaffhausen that pleases me more than anything I have seen on the Continent. We meet bright, intelligent faces everywhere; the people appear more cheerful; we hear laughter oftener; the children look happier; we see groups of them, and they have books in their hands, and are well dressed and neat. In the houses, too, we see people at the open windows: there is not that dreadful solitariness and seclusion that appear in the better class of houses, throughout most of the continental cities. Indeed, where the better sort of people—the people of condition, or learning, or wealth, or leisure, or taste-are, in these countries, I cannot devise. Few equipages, no saunterers, no fashionable or contemplative walkers, no riders out-nothing, or nearly nothing, of all this, which is so commonly seen in and near all our American cities and villages, appears here. The toiling multitude-men with sober brow, women with faces weather-beaten and shorn of every feminine grace, dull children, or the starched, stupid, or fierce-looking soldier-this is almost the entire population that meets the eye of the traveller. Now there must, of course, be other people; but they must be few, and their habits secluded.

In speaking of the general air of the people, I should not forget the extreme courtesy that pervades all classes, and especially the lower classes. No one of these ever speaks to you without touching his hat. The very grooms and horseboys never forget this. If they have no hat, they put their hand where the hat should be. The common people, too, as we pass them, really tax our courtesy, unless we would consent to be outdone in politeness. At the hotels, too, landlords, waiters, valets, are all at your service: you are assisted out of your carriage; you are ushered into your room with a bow; you have dinner announced with a bow; every one of the limbs and senses of those around you is at your bidding-is alert and instinct with obedience-is ready to say, if it could speak, “Oui, monsieur." This, to be sure, is, at the hotels, partly mercenary; but it belongs in part, also, to the general manners of the people.

The fashion of salutation on the Continent is always to take off the hat; and this is done not to superiors alone, but among the country people, from one to another, constantly. I wish it were the fashion everywhere. Our manners in America are too brief, gruff, and hasty. Our "no" and "yes" are very short words; and if we add "sir" to them, that again is an unfortunate monosyllable; and the whole intercourse, I mean the out-of-door intercourse, of our people, seems to me, compared with what I see here, monosyllabic, brief, and ungracious. Is it fanciful to suppose that something of this depends on the very words of salutation, with which different languages provide us?

Cui, monsieur, and Si, signore, always seems to come softly and kindly from the mouths of French and Italians; and they cannot well be pronounced as gruffly as Yes, sir, and No, sir. At any rate, the difference in manners is great, and in my judgment it shows altogether to our disadvantage. When a man here meets his fellow-labourers in the morning, he says, "Bon jour, messieurs," and has time, while he is saying it, to take off his hat to his neighbours. It is a good and kind beginning of the labours of the day: there is something almost courtly in it. What a contrast to the manner with which you may often see a man meet his neighbour, in one of our New England villages. "Morning!" he says-I suppose he means, "Good morning, sir," or "Good morning," at least but he says, "Morning!"-but half raising his eyes, perhaps, in civility, from the ground-and his hat as fast upon his head as if he had worn it all night. Ask a man here if he knows the way to a certain place, and if he does not know, as it is very likely he will not, he has, at least, the grace of manner to make his ignorance agreeable-which is more than you can say of many people's knowledge."Non, monsieur, pardonnez," he says, and takes off his hat. In America, a man would often answer your question with a "No, sir," or, "No, I don't," and turn upon his heel.

I believe that utility and philosophy have more to do with these things than we may imagine. The manners of life are the chief language of its affections. If that language be abrupt and harsh, there is some danger that the affections may take their tone from it. Manners infect the mind. And the mind of an ill-bred people is likely, at length, to become coarse and degraded. There is a morality in street salutations. And I have often thought, that a man of a harsh and repulsive demeanour might give more pain, as he passed through the street to his home, than he could give pleasure or do good, if, when he arrived there, he should distribute the most liberal alms.

Are not the manners of our people becoming less courteous? Are they not less so than they were fifty years ago? When we speak of the 66 manners of the old school," do we not imply this? Must republican institutions always be found hostile to the gracefulness and refinement of life? I do not believe it. And yet much is to be done and taught among us. We do exceedingly want some Censor morum, some Spectator redivimus; and if I could direct the pens that wrote Salmagundi, I would engage them in this work.

The Falls of the Rhine are three miles below Schaffhausen. They are glorious and beautiful; but who shall describe a waterfall? Every particle a living thing: a whole mighty river hurled, amid the thunders of its descent, into spray and foam-the drifted snow not whiter nor lighter-and, indeed, if mighty suow-banks were, in succession, driven by a sweeping storm over a precipice seventy feet high, I do not know but it would more resemble the Falls of the Rhine, than anything else I can think of.

The waters of the Rhine here are perfectly pure and transparent, and have a colour of the deepest green, for which I cannot account. This colour, purity, and a rapid flow, make it, at this point, the most beautiful of rivers.

Before I leave the notices of Schaffhausen, I must just mention, what I have seen nowhere but on one small house-front in Frankfort,

the fresco paintings covering the whole front of several old houses here. They consist, some of them, of considerable numbers of figures. On one is an allegorical representation of all the cardinal virtues- -a good admonition, certainly, to the dwellers within.

ZURICH, September 9.-From Schaffhausen to this place (thirty miles) we came on an excellent road, through a highly cultivated and delightful country. The ride to-day, and the entrance to ZurichSwitzerland, in short, as far as I have seen it-has seemed to me more like home than anything I have looked upon since I landed at Calais. Welcome as the impression might be thought, there are pretty serious abatements from the pleasure. To "an exile from home," it is some relief to have everything around him strange; the scene is in harmony with his lot. But be this as it may, there are many things here-the bright and happy faces, the groups of children going to school with book in hand, the dwellings scattered up and down through the country, the environs of Zurich filled with beautiful country-seats-which remind one of America. I must add, however, that the villages which I have seen in Switzerland-those, I mean, of two or three thousand people— are very filthy; as bad, I think, as those of Ireland. Before every door is the steaming, stercoraceous heap; the manure of the farm is made under the very windows. Swiss country cottages are one thing; but for all romance about their villages-alas for it!* At Eglisau, today, we parted company with Father Rhine, not without some emotion. Zurich is built on both sides of the Limmat, at the point where it issues from the Lake of Zurich. The colour of the water, green almost as an emerald, the swiftness of the current, like the Rhine, gives to this river, as well as that, an aspect of life and beauty almost unrivalled. At Zugt we took a boat to Geinser (though it had been better, perhaps, to have gone to Art), to ascend the Righi; Righi Culm, as the top is called, which Mr. Simond thinks is a contraction for Culmen Reginae Montium; the Summit of the Queen of Mountains. It may have obtained such a name from its standing alone, and commanding a better view than any other in Switzerland.

*

Our ride from Zurich to Zug presented fine views from the top of Mount Albis (over which, by the bye, we were drawn by four horses and two cows)-the whole Lake of Zurich being at one time in sight; but it was on the Lake of Zug that we had the first view, properly, of Alpine scenery-and it was, of course, sublime. But to multiply epithets would be to convey no impression; and I can only tell you to resort to measurements. There is Righi directly before you; six thousand feet high; the mighty gate of the Alps; rising up almost perpendicularly from the soft and shaded bosom of the lake. Pontius Pilatus, with its sharp pinnacles, about seven thousand five hundred feet high, lies a little to the right, and farther back. On the left is a range of hills wooded to the top, and terminating in Rossberg; down which, in 1806, was the tremendous slide of earth, which buried Goldau and its sister villages- five or six in all, with an hundred houses and five hundred inhabitants. Pontius Pilatus took its name from a legend,

*The beautiful villages of Lucerne show how dangerous it is to generalize. Pronounced Zoog. Pronounce u like oo in almost all names on he Continent. Thun-Toon, &c.