ONE morning Ruth brought me my mail. Among the letters was one with the postmark ZÜrich. The superscription was written in a very individual hand, every letter carefully formed. There is a great deal in the claim made that handwriting is an index of character. Preciseness shows in it; the artistic temperament is betrayed by little flourishes; sincerity, craftiness, other virtues, other weaknesses. I knew in a moment that this letter was from my steamer-friend, Professor Landoldt. It was written in delightfully understandable yet amusingly erratic English and asked me to come and make him a visit. It was his “vacancies” and he and Frau Landoldt would be entirely at my service to show me the city and its “surroundabouts.” If I should be coming “by the train-up” he would meet me “by the station.”

It fell in admirably with my plans. Will said that he would send me over in the Moto; he had some writing to do, else he would go along; but he and Ruth would come for me at the end of my visit, and, if the Professor and the Frau Professorin would like to join us, they would take us to the Dolomites over one of the new routes just opened to motor-vehicles.

What could have been kinder? The last part of the proposition I gladly accepted, but as long as I should have to go alone I thought it best to go by train, and taking it leisurely, stop here and there on my way. So I wrote Professor Landoldt that I would be with him in a week. I provided myself with one of those “abonnement-tickets” which are good for a fortnight of unlimited travel at a cost of only $18.50 and allow one to cover almost all the roads of the country—twenty-eight hundred miles—if one should so desire. My photograph was duly pasted in, my signature appended, and I was armed and equipped.

I went first to Yverdon, enjoying the fine view of the Jura, and following with an eager eye the windings of the ThiÈle River, which here proclaims itself the legitimate child of the Orbe and the Talent; such a parentage assuring beauty. I stopped long enough there to visit the famous convent built by Duke Conrad of ZÄhringen before the middle of the Twelfth Century and nearly eight hundred years later famous as the scene of Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi’s epoch-making school, after he had been driven from one place to another by jealousies and misunderstandings. It is still used as a school-building. Pestalozzi is kept in memory of the inhabitants by a monument near the railway station. Here, as in many other places, there are interesting remains of the ancient Roman occupation.

Only two miles beyond—and those two miles offering an enchanting view down the Lake of NeuchÂtel—is the famous town of Grandson. As the Swiss railway-ticket allows perfect freedom both of passage and of stop-off, I spent the time between two trains in visiting the chÂteau of Baron de Blonay, which has a wide view, and the castle that gives its name to the place. It was built in the year 1000, probably just after it was generally decided that the world was not coming to an end immediately. Here took place the great battle which all Switzerland commemorates.

First it was captured in 1475 by the Bernese; then recaptured by Charles the Bold, of Burgundy. Then on March 3, 1476, the duke was surprised and completely annihilated. Hughes de Pierre, of the Chapter of NeuchÂtel, who was an eye-witness, tells the story of it in his chronicle:—

“At the first blow the castel of Valmarcus fell into the hands of the Burgundian. As soon as Count Rudolphe learned of it he sent the archers of Rhentelin and a part of our men to guard Pontareuse; all the other men from the country were thrown into Boutry and all along the Areuse, on the farther bank, likewise those of Valengin and Landeron. Nor must we forget seven boat-loads of gentlemen (gens de bien) who came from Vully, Cerlier and Bonneville—all of these worthy people (bons enfans) arriving before NeuchÂtel were welcomed by the townspeople and immediately two Chevaliers des Ligues, together with the notable councillors of the city and others, were taken from the said barques straight to the Abbey of Bevaix; a part were lodged there; a part at Chastelard, Cortailloud and at Pontareuse.

“When this had taken place the allies, purposing to bring aid and deliverance to their friends at Grandson, arrived at NeuchÂtel in great spirits, with songs of joy and a formidable array, all of them men of martial appearance, fear-inspiring and yet good to see. Immediately on being informed by our men of the disloyalty and cruelty of the duke and the miserable condition of the brave people of Grandson (this report going from mouth to mouth from the first to the last) the said Messieurs des Ligues put on such furious frowns of indignation that no words could express it, all swearing (chevaliers and the rest) that their brothers by life and blood should be avenged without delay and that they would not lose any time for refreshment or rest in the city, but they instantly went to lodge in AuvermÉ, Corcelle, CormondrÈche, Basle, Colombier, Boudry, Cortaillonds, Bevaix and neighboring places, given aid and welcome everywhere in the county. Then followed the bandiÈre of the city with those of the bourgeoisie who remained there (the most eager having already taken their positions on the Areuse and the Boudry, where they were close together).

“And the day being the second of March, the companies (bandons) being assembled in warlike order, the Messieurs des Ligues before sunrise on the plain between Boudry and Bevaix resolved to dash immediately at the Burgundian without waiting longer for the bandiÈres of ZÜrich and the horsemen who were late and not as yet arrived at NeuchÂtel.

“On the other side, and at the same hour, Duke Charles advanced with great noise of trumpets and clarions. Those of Schwyz, Thun and others (whose names we can not easily recall) started forth above Valmarcus. The bandiÈres of Soleure, Bern, Lucerne, Fribourg, and that of NeuchÂtel which included three hundred citizens and more, as well as that of Landeron and the hommes royÉs of M. de Langern, led straight to the plain; those of Siebenthal, Unterwald, Morat, Biel and others followed the shore of the lake.

“Soon before the battle-line of the Ligues the Burgundian troops superbly accoutered came forth; there was found the duke with his most trusty cavaliers. Soon the charge was made; soon Les Chartreux de la Lance were crushed and overthrown. After this attack the Ligues, spying all the swarming crowd (formiliÈre) of the Burgundians near Concize, planted their pikes and banners in the ground, and with one accord, falling on their knees, asked the favor of their mighty God.

“The duke, seeing this act, swore: ‘By Saint George these dogs are crying mercy. Cannoniers, fire on those villains!’

“But all his words were of no avail. The Ligues like hail (gresles) fell upon his men, slashing, thrusting those handsome gallants on all sides. So well and so completely discomfited all along the route were those poor Burgundians that they were scattered like smoke borne away by the wind.”

Other chroniclers tell of the defeat of the duke and the brave deeds of the allies, and how the duke’s horsemen tried to escape but were run down by the infantry and many were killed. Another tells how the sun dazzled them as from a mirror and how the trumpet of Ury bellowed and the horns of Lucerne sent forth such terrible sounds that the people of the Duke of Burgundy were seized with terror and fled. The duke tried to stop them, but it was all in vain; they abandoned their camp, and all its treasures fell into the hands of the allies.

These contemporary accounts are all more or less full of inaccuracies; it is well known now exactly how the battle took place and how the Burgundian army of about fifty thousand with five hundred pieces of artillery was so completely defeated.

The mere facts were these. On Feb. 18, 1476, the Duke Charles assaulted Grandson; on the twenty-eighth the garrison surrendered and the next day were all massacred. On the same day the duke went to the ChÂteau of Vaulxmarcus (now Vaumarcus). Its master, Messire de NeuchÂtel, surrendered, throwing himself on his knees and begging to be allowed to retire with his garrison of forty. The duke kept the baron but let the garrison go, who were wildly indignant at not having been allowed to fight. The forty scattered and spread the news, and that brought the allies together. The duke had an impregnable position, but the Swiss, by making a feint of attacking Vaulxmarcus, tried to draw him out. Had he not lacked provisions for so formidable an army, he might have resisted, but he had to advance on NeuchÂtel, and the sudden attack of the confederates, who numbered only between twenty and twenty-five thousand men, was irresistible. Many of the Swiss cities possess relics of this great victory, which is the one great event for the Cantons to exult over and no doubt did much to prepare the way for the future Confederacy. At Soleure one sees the costume of Charles’s court jester. Lucerne has the great seal of Burgundy. At the University Library at Geneva are miniatures which belonged to the duke.

If the Duke of Brunswick left twenty million francs to Geneva,—and, by the way, the heirs of his illegitimate daughter are trying to get it away from the town,—NeuchÂtel had a benefactor in David de Purry, who left four and a half millions, and he also has a statue. I did not stop to look into the Municipal Museum, but I took the train to the top of the Chaumont, which gives a fine bird’s-eye view of the city, the lake, and the whole range of the Alps.

I crossed the lake from NeuchÂtel to Morat. The lake is a little less than eight kilometers long and is about one hundred and fifty-three meters deep. It connects with the Lake of Bienne by a stream tamed to service. It connects by the Broye with the Lake of Morat, which is like a family reduced in circumstances. It once washed the walls of the ancient city of Aventicum, capital of the Helvetii, and after the Romans captured it, a city of large importance. Both lake and town have shrunk. The lake is about as long as the Lake of NeuchÂtel is wide, and the town, now Avenches, lives in its past. Omar KhayyÂm would have found a topic for a poem in the solitary Corinthian column from the temple of Apollo standing nearly twelve meters high and serving only as the support for a family of storks most respectable as far as their antiquity is concerned.

Avenches is only about a mile from Morat. It has been called a modern Pompeii. Under the auspices of the Society for the Preservation of Roman Antiquities it has been more or less thoroughly investigated and archeologized, and one may stand in the very forum where perhaps CÆsar stood.

From Morat I came up to Fribourg, which, to me, was so interesting that I should have liked to stay there a week. In the old days it must have made a natural castle standing on its acropolis almost surrounded by the Sarine River. Indeed, some of the medieval walls and towers are still left to bespeak its military prestige. Ancient churches make it picturesque. That of Saint Nicholas was begun about a hundred years after the town was founded; it has wonderful stained-glass windows, dating back to the Fourteenth Century, carved stalls, and a glorious organ with seven thousand eight hundred pipes. I was fortunate enough to be there while the organist was playing. But most church organs are out of tune. Variations of temperature so easily affect the pipes.

I was pleased to know that the Catholic Bishop of Lausanne resides in Fribourg, which, indeed, is largely a Catholic town. The ancient linden-tree on the Place de l’Hotel-de-Ville would have delighted Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, who was always measuring big trunks. This is more than four meters in circumference, and, like every other big tree, it traces its pedigree back to a tiny slip stuck into the ground. It was brought by the young Freiburger, who, having run all the way from Morat, announced the news of the great battle there in 1476 by crying “Victory” and falling dead of his wounds and exhaustion. Probably Pheidippides brought a willow wand which grew into a monstrous tree.

The great suspension bridges also are worth seeing, and every vantage-point has a magnificent view.

Bern was my next objective point. I delighted in the quaint old arcaded streets made under the grey stone houses with their green Venetian shutters, and in the Sixteenth-Century fountains. An abundance of water is one of the most blessed gifts of the gods. I put up at the Bernerhof Hotel and spent a day “seeing the sights.”

Bern was founded by Berthold V of ZÄhringen in the Twelfth Century, the same Berthold that built Fribourg. Legend makes it out that he named his new city after the quarry of his favourite priest. This proved to be a bear. He spoke his will in a rhyme:

Whether the name came from the legend or the legend from the name is a question no man can decide. The bear is seen on every city shield, and those that once ornamented the city-gates are now penned in the Historical Museum. The bears also come out automatically on the famous Zeitglockenturm. The real bears in the pits—which are pits—are said to be lineal descendants of a cub brought back from a hunt by Berthold himself, or, as others have it, from a pair given him by RenÉ, Duc de Lorraine. In 1798 General Brune carried them off to Paris and put them in the Jardin des Plantes, but they were so homesick that they were returned.

“Noble animals,” exclaimed a friend of mine, “fed and pampered as they deserve to be, for they brought good fortune to the triumphant Bernese at DonnerbrÜhl and at Laupen. Established like real kings under the fir-tree, they seem to look up at us with disdain—at us feeble creatures who gaze at their mighty muscles and at their indomitable eyes!”

A statue to Rudolf von Erlach, the hero of Laupen, is one of the ornaments of the city. Saint Christopher also used to have a wooden statue; it was supposed to guard the silver communion-service, but the plate was stolen again and again, and so he was banished to a niche in the tower that bears his name, and, as he faced the David fountain, he acquired the nickname of Goliath, and, if tradition tells the truth, which I would never dare deny, whenever the town clock struck twelve he used to rain Weckli, or little cakes, on the people. In order to make the legend true it is said that a rich lady ordered this miracle to be performed. She lived to be a hundred, and, when she died in 1857, the Cathedral chimes were rung in her honour. A statue of Saint Christopher also stands now in the Museum—a relic of the day when Bern was mostly built of wood, as was indicated in the duke’s couplet.

I shall not attempt to tell all I saw in Bern; it would fill a volume; besides, I have reserved the fine old city for at least a year in one of my future reincarnations. Bern is the capital of the Swiss Confederation, and whole chapters would require to be written to elucidate the history and government of the country. There are splendid museums, and libraries, and the University, though comparatively recent, has more than a thousand students enrolled.

As it is always my habit to get above a city if possible, either on a church tower or on some commanding hill, I went to the Gurten and was there at sunset when the Alpenglow was exhibited with all its pomp. Below lay the splendid buildings of the prosperous town with their towers and variegated roofs and gables. At the foot of the lovely BlÜmlisalp could be seen the glint of the Lake of Thun, and as for mountains—merely to mention the Jungfrau, the Finsteraarhorn, the Eiger and the MÖnch, brings up to me now, not seeing them, a vision that makes the tears come to my eyes. What shall I say, too, to add to the picture, so inadequately hinted at, merely, more than to chronicle that the moon arose not quite at her full but pouring out a jar of golden light that filled the whole valley with vibrating, quivering beauty? At night mountains seem to shrink as if they lay down to sleep. So, from the eight hundred and sixty-one meter altitude of the Gurten, I had the brilliant afternoon sunlight, the most perfect view of the blushing Jungfrau,—and it was most becoming to her,—and then a radiant moonlight night.