Evening Republican, Volume 18, Number 182, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 4 August 1914 — VACATION DAYS IN SWITZERLAND [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

VACATION DAYS IN SWITZERLAND

THE trip by rail over the St Gothard from Milan to Goeachenen, the first town on the Swiss frontier, occupies but*a few hours, and is probably the most entrancingly beautiful railway journey in Europe. The succession of mountains, valleys, lakes, ravines, vll; lages, precipices and waterfalls keeps one alert each moment for fear of missing some' glorious prospect. The only drawback is the long St. Gothard tunnel (nine miles) and the many smaller ones, which not only tantalize one by continually shutting out the - view, but at times make the atmosphere in the coaches almost suffocating, writes James Knapp in the Philadelphia Record. Goeschenen is a charmingly picturesque village situated at an elevation of some 3,500 feet, and surrounded by high peaks. But we have not calculated on the change in temperature that we would find from merely crossing the Alps and getting into a somewhat higher altitude. We were ahead of the season and found that we had the hotel quite to ourselves. Although we shivered pretty constantly our stay of two days was not without enjoyment Best Hotels In World.

We had heard that the Swiss hotels were the best in the world, and were not disappointed at this our first experience. We were served with an excellent dinner in a cozy, glass-in-closed dining room looking out upon a pretty garden. From the windows of our room, big and airy, we had upon two sides majestic views of great snow-capped peaks down whose rocky, many-col-ored faces fell a dozen musical cascades formed from the melting snowbanks. Our beds were deep and downy, heated with hotwatef jugs, and over the counterpane was a small leather bed to give additional warmth, Ooeschenen has two claims upon the attention of the tourist besides its natural scenic beanty —one, that it is the northern terminus of the great tunnel, whose huge black/ mouth yawns wide at the edge of the village; the other that it is the starting point for the drive to Hospenthal and over the Furka Pass; but we were too early for this, as the mountain passes were yet closed-hy snow, so had to content ourselves with long tramps over the -excellent roads that sometimes led us well up into the hills, and strolls beside the picturesque and turbulent little river Reuss. Deciding to try a lower altitude in the hope of warmer weather (for Ooeschenen proved rather cold for one who had just come up from the hot plains of Lombardy), yet desiring to stay among the mountains, we went half hour’s journey by rail down to the little village of Amsteg. Eh route we made the famous loop of the St Gothard, about the hamlet of Wassen, a bit of railway engineering that is worth traveling a long way to see. Here thejllne passes through three tunnelsSau sharply curved, and a wide double loop which runs first below the village (3,055 feet altitude), returning at an equal height with it, and finally passing above; thus attaining (at Goescbenen) the level of the great tunnel. *

The mountains above Amsteg are especially attractive in their rugged outlines and color. Here we spent many pleasant days, climbing to their lower levels or wandering along the smooth roads of the narrow valley. This little town, with absolutely no attraction for tourists besides the mountains, has four hotels, and finds Itself thronged in midsummer. At any one of theSe inns good comfortable accommodations may be had at 6 to 7 francs per day—clean, pleasant rooms, wholesome, palatable food and courteous attendance which seems at least to have some real concern as to your welfare. We stopped at a rather far pious old place whose beamed kitchen, with its great array of spotless and polished brass utensils, was a neverending delight The dining room, too, boasted a unique possession—a big tile stove with the date of 1765, which warmed both our bodies and our souls with its cheery comfort I have said that this village possesses none of the ordinary attractions tor tourists. This is quite true. There are no shops tor the sale of "native handiwork,” no dealers in recent made-in-Germany “antiques,” no curio shops, even, except one small booth kept by S Uttle b'ifht'oyed old lady wife will

offer you a choice between a pair of chamois horns and a handful of glittering semi-precidus stones, which she will assure you came from the great granite heights of the Bristenstock, frowning far above. One should give thanks that this is so, for in Switzerland, and, in fact, in all Europe, the places are ail too few where one may seek the beauties of nature untrammeled by the curio-seU-er,- the post card hawker and the other unpleasant outcroppings of civilisation and its attendant commercialism. * Qlimpees of Native Life. In the place of these things one may get here glimpses of native life that compensate. When night begins to draw close about the narrow valley, the people ofthe village (It has some three hundred; souls) and from the little farms in the nearer hills, gather in the taprooms of the hotels and make merry, in a quiet, orderly fashion, sitting at the long bare tables, smoking, drinking beer or the light wine of the country, and exchanging the news and gossip of the day. Men and women are there, and youths and maidens, and the revel holds passing late, for sometimes it is almost 10 o’clock before the last light is out. Quiet pleasures suffice for these narrow and hemmed-in lives. Perched away up on the hills, some seemingly where only the sure-footed goats can reach them, stand the picturesque wide-roofed chalets of the small mountain farmers. Surely, they live the simple lives there. “▲ loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and —” Coming down the narrow path that leads over the mountain from the Maderanertal valley we met two peasants going up, with alert long strides that were our envy and humiliation. One was a woman, old, lean, bent and withered, but sinewy and strong withal. On her back was fastened the wooden crache, a sort of long and heavy basket in which these people carry their burdens of every sort It was filled to the brim with loaves of bread from the baker's shop down in the village. Beside her trudged a youth of perhaps twelve, her grandson, maybe, likewise bearing a crache on his small back, and in it a huge wick-er-covered demijohn of wine. “Only these and nothing more,” their staples of food and drink. Verily the poet’s verse come true, yet I doubt very much if they ever had heard of old Khayyam.