Who was so wicked as to call Lucerne “drab”? If it were I, I don't remember it, and I never will acknowledge it, though the printed word stare me in the face. After the rain it shone out in radiant colors,—the pretty city with its quaint bridges, and the Venice-look of some of the stone houses that rise directly from the lake; the water plashing softly against their foundations, the little boats moored by their sides. People who have seen Venice are at liberty to smile in a superior way if they wish. We, who have not, will cherish our little fancies until reality verifies them or proves them false.

And the lake,—

“The Lake of the Four Forest Cantons, apparelled

In light, and lingering like a village maiden

Hid in the bosom of her native mountains,

Then pouring all her life into another's,

Changing her name and being,”—

how lovely it is! Roaming there at sunset was an ever-memorable delight:—the happy-looking people under the chestnut-trees on the shore, the little boats dancing lightly about everywhere, the pleasant dip of the oars, the chiming of evening bells; on one side, the city, with its old watchtowers and slender spires; over the water, the piled-up purple mountains, with the warm opaline sunset lights playing about them; behind, the long range of pure-white peaks, catching the last rays of the sun, glistening and gleaming gloriously, while the lower world sinks into gloom, and even they at last grow dim and vague, and still we float on in drowsy indolence.

The narrow covered bridges, the one where the faded old paintings represent scenes from Swiss history, and the MÜhlenbrÜcke with the “Dance of Death” picture described in the “Golden Legend,” were both interesting. Prince Henry and Elsie seemed to go by with all the stream of life,—the soldiers, and peasant-girls, and monks, and workingmen in blouses, and children with baskets on their backs; and queer old women we met as we stood by the little shrine in the middle of the bridge, peered in and saw the candles and flowers and crucifixes, or looked out through the small windows upon the swift waters beneath. So faint and obscure are many of the paintings, yet we found the ones we sought, and saw the

“Young man singing to a nun

Who kneels at her devotions, but in kneeling

Turns round to look at him; and Death, meanwhile,

Is putting out the candles on the altar.”

The old church with the celebrated organ, which may be heard every afternoon, has some carved wood and stained glass that people go to see. Its churchyard, so little, so old, so pitifully crowded, is a sad place, like all the cemeteries I have yet seen here. With their colored ornaments and tinsel, their graves crowding one against another, and the multitude of sad, black, attenuated little crosses that have such a skeleton air, they are positively heartbreaking: they seem infinitely more mournful and oppressive than ours at home, with their broad alleys, stately trees, and the peace and beauty of their surroundings. There are two new-made graves in the pavement here. You can't help feeling sorry they are so very crowded. They are covered with exquisite fresh flowers, which the passer-by sprinkles from a font that stands near, thus giving a blessing to the dead. We have had ample opportunity to observe all the old monuments and epitaphs without voluntarily making a study of the churchyard, for the way to and from our chÂlet led through it. To one very ancient stone we felt positively grateful because its inscription was funny:—

“Here lies in Christ Jesus

Josepha Dub

Jungfrau

Aged 91.”

We were glad to have Miss Dub's somewhat prolonged life of single-blessedness to smile over, so heavy otherwise was the atmosphere of that little churchyard.

The celebrated Lion of Lucerne we found even more beautiful than we had anticipated. It was larger and grander, and the photographs fail to convey a true idea of it, and of the exact effect of the mass of rock above it. It all comes before you suddenly,—the high perpendicular sandstone rock, the grotto in which the dying Lion lies, pierced through by a broken lance, his paw sheltering the Bourbon lily; the trees and creeping plants on the very top of the cliff, at its base the deep dark pool surrounded by trees and shrubs. The Lion is cut out of the natural rock, a simple and impressive memorial in honor of the officers and soldiers of the Swiss Guard who fell in defence of the Tuileries in 1792. They exhibit Thorwaldsen's model in the little shop there, which is one of the beguiling carved wood-ivory-amethyst places where, I suppose, strong-souled people are never tempted, but we, invariably. There are lovely heads of Thorwaldsen here, by the way, the most satisfactory I have seen.

We live in a pension, a chÂlet on the banks of the lake. It has, like most things, its advantages and disadvantages. From our balcony we look out over shrubs and little trees upon the lovely lake and the mountains. The establishment boasts numerous retainers, mostly maids of all work; but our attention is drawn exclusively to a small, pale girl, whom we call the “Marchioness,” and a small, pale boy, whom we call “Buttons.” Why need such mites work so hard? Buttons is only fourteen, and he drags heavy trunks about and moves furniture and does the work of two men, besides running on all the errands, and blacking all the boots, and waiting at the table.

If you ask him if things are not too heavy he smiles brightly and says, “No, indeed!” with the air of a Hercules, so brave a heart has the little man. So he goes about lifting and pulling and staggering under heavy loads, and breathing hard, and he has a hollow cough that it makes the heart ache to hear from such a child; and it does not require much wisdom to know what is going to happen to him before long,—poor little Buttons!

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