INDEX

Swiss Rifles

CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL, 26 SEPTEMBER 1857

'BOOK YOU a place to Soleure, sir?' said the waiter of the Sauvage at Basle; 'you had better see the Grand Federal Shooting-match, sir.' 'I haven't time,' I replied; 'I'm going to Bienne by the Munsterthal.'

And so, early the next morning, I set off. Of all the pleasant things in the world, commend me to the beginning of a pedestrian tour. Alone and unencumbered, with the unknown land gleaming in front, how thoroughly you enjoy everything! - how you revel in sights and sounds that have no power to charm the luggage-depressed or bore-companioned man! - how you pity the individual whom yonder dust-storm with a post-chaise inside is sweeping along! - and what a reef is taken in at once in the sails of your spirits, if you find you have lost the way!

Such a discovery did I make when I sat down at a doubtful point and consulted 'Keller,' that faithful map and friend, with whom then first began an acquaintance which soon ripened into intimacy - whose back is somewhat bent with toil now, and whose colour has somewhat deepened as time has passed, but with whom I would not part for many times his intrinsic value. How many associations are there connected with every line in his features! - that thumb-mark on the Bernese Oberland is the only relic I have of my old companion Gramper; and I never look at that smudge in the middle of the Lake of Geneva, without having recalled to me - at second-hand, as it were, through the remembrance of a picnic - that dark-eyed English girl, whose grave I went to see this year at Lausanne.

I had gone out of Basle by the wrong gate, and as I could not think of returning, there was nothing for it but to walk on to Balsthal, and next day proceed to Soleure. This I did accordingly; taking advantage of the diligence to forward my at first loved, then disliked, and finally detested knapsack. Carrying one's luggage in Switzerland is a great mistake; a small parcel goes all over the country for threepence, and a moderate carpet-bag for about as many francs. And it is wonderful what a difference in one's happiness a few pounds-weight will make; an additional coat will often veil the whole beauty of a mountain-range, and an extra pair of shoes walk off with one's good-humour for a week. It is just the same with one's bill, the items of which all day dog the traveller's steps: the monstrosity of last night's charges dwarfs the magnitude of this morning's mountains; that everlasting wax-candle fills up the yawning defile, and the clamour of the waiter silences the thunders of the avalanche.

With the early morning I leave Balsthal for Soleure. The road soon becomes enlivened with groups of holiday-makers bound for the shooting. Everything and everybody speaks of the festivities ahead. Every village has erected a triumphal arch, gay with banners, ribbons, and flowers. Here, arriving travellers are greeted by inscriptions of welcome; on the other side, the departing guest is wished a happy journey, and a joyful return home. Everywhere shine the great words 'Brotherhood' and 'Fatherland.' They serve as an overture to the coming drama; suggestive of old Swiss history, and old songs of the people.

As we draw nearer to the town, the road becomes gayer and gayer. Every one is in good-humour; the sun shines brightly; the sky is cloudless: there is no fear of the 'Sundayrie' being spoiled to-day. Here goes a troop of walkers, a score or so keeping company - the sum-total of the inhabitants of that cluster of cottages up yonder, at the end of the car-way from which our friends have just issued on the road. How the full white sleeves of the women shine, in contrast with their short black bodices! At a distance, they look for all the world like great cabbage butterflies - white wings and black bodies. And how strange a fat little old woman appears when got up in this style! Now dashes by a troop of riders, mounted on rough little ponies, strong and lively; and every now and then there rattles past a singular conveyance, made to all appearance by setting a plank on wheels; forming sides out of a couple of ladders, and filling their interstices with small trees, foliage, and flowers. This rustic kind of open omnibus conveys a dozen Bernese maidens, escorted by a gentleman in his shirt-sleeves, perched upon the shafts. It has a very pretty effect, looking something like an elongated fire-engine, womaned by ballet-dancers, and conducted by William Tell. Now one after another jog a dozen of the regular country gigs, steady-going vehicles; so English farmer-like is a man driving, that you expect to see Mrs Farmer by his side, and are almost shocked when you do see him accompanied by a lady in an all-round straw hat, coquettishly adorned with flowers, a black velvet pair of stays laden with silver chains, short skirts, and any amount of linen-drapery. He really would look as if he were running away with an opera-dancer, if he would only go a little quicker.

The sun has climbed high up in the sky; there was not a breath of wind, and the few clouds within sight appeared to be too lazy to move. The far-off hills became indistinct, and down in the valley the air grew hotter and hotter, and the dark firs and the gray castle-walls, and the green fields and the long white stripe of road, appeared to swim and dance to and fro. The dust was all but intolerable; irritated by the perpetual assaults on its repose, it revenged itself on the innocent pedestrian - filled up his eyes, tickled his nostrils, and rushed into his throat. Every other minute, a gigantic horsefly settled on his hand or face, or thinly protected leg: in an instant, he felt as if a pitchfork had been stuck into him, and perceived his best blood rushing into the animated cupping-glass. The assassin was slain on the spot; but that was little consolation.

Fortunately, there was no lack of water, or the heat would have been unendurable; every hamlet had its fountain - clear, cold water purling out of the long metal spout into a trough of wood or stone, splashing away on these broiling days with a most grateful music, ever seeming to say: 'It is so hot, so hot! and I am so cool, so cool, so cool!'

Here we are at length in the town. The streets swarm with people; the space outside the walls accommodates a fair. Here are the dear old yellow houses on wheels so familiar to our infancy - here, as at home, the abodes of nomade giants, and peripatetic dwarfs, and circulating monsters, each a sort of fairy domain or unknown Nile-watered region. Trumpets are blowing, drums are beating, Columbine is dancing, and Jack-pudding is playing tricks exactly as they do in England. Fairs all over civilised Europe seem to be pretty much the same. You recognise here at Soleure the pig-faced lady whose horrors froze your blood at Greenwich; that forty-six inch Polish count has not altered a bit since you saw him at Paris; but his friend, the tall Goliath von Gadabout, is perceptibly weaker in the knees. Alas! the showman's wife looks sadder than ever: poor thing! even the constant society of a giant and a nobleman will not render life utterly destitute of cares.

But let us proceed. Shall we revolve on that merry-go-round, or witness the siege of Sebastopol? or indulge in the recreation of having a tooth drawn by that sharp-eyed Italian? Why is it that people so much enjoy a joke connected with that most abominable of operations? Every visitor to Paris has seen the polite gentleman who migrates from place to place in a vehicle half-way between the lord-mayor's coach and a fire-engine - locates himself for a time in a favourable neighbourhood - plays a tune on the piano, calls on his gorgeous footman to sound a trumpet, and then displays to the crowd a series of odontological pictures, gravely, much with the air of the P.R.A. conducting august visitors on the private view-day - pictures representing the agonies of a patient in the hands of a bungling dentist, who tugs and tugs - now in front, now behind - now above, now below: now they are both on tiptoe, now they writhe in close embrace, now they are down together. Last scene in this eventful history - the patient's head comes off; and the extractor is hauled to instant execution by the hands of indignant justice. Something of this kind was exhibited at Soleure, but it did not produce much effect. Except on canvas, there were no drawings of teeth.

But if the Swiss have good jaws, they must surely have very bad eyes. Spectacles here, spectacles there, spectacles everywhere - white, blue, green; glass, pebble, wire. Intelligent traveller, jot down this fact in your note-book; it will afford a subject for an inquiry into the effect of mountain air and snow-water on the sight. Not being familiar with any but your native tongue, you will probably not discover that the glasses are for the marksmen, who may now be heard thundering away incessantly. Let us go and see them. Come this way, up this road, under this arch, and we are in the precinct sacred to the rifle.

A piece of ground, about as large as a good cricket-field, was surrounded by a low wall. On entering, you saw before you two wooden buildings, something like the stands on a race-course. The left-hand one is the shooting-station; that on the right hand is devoted to the purposes of conviviality. The clock is just striking half-past twelve, and dinner is on the point of commencing. Two rows of plain deal-tables, with benches to match, run the whole length of the building; each table has a board affixed to it, on which is displayed the name of one of the cantons: each district having a space reserved for its representatives at dinner, as well as in the shooting-house.

Now came the diners - men and women all in holiday array and high spirits; specimens of Swiss nationality from every part of the republic. Every valley and lake and mountain was represented here; and as we roamed from table to table, we noted the characteristics of each locality; not only the varieties of costume, though these are never seen elsewhere to such advantage, but also those of feature, speech, and custom. Here were semi-Parisian Swiss from Geneva, voluble talkers of doubtful French, and much more fashionably got-up than their comrades; slow, round-faced Teutonic Swiss from the banks of the Rhine; and dark-eyed, lithe Italian Swiss, whose homes look down upon the Lago Maggiore: men of different races, of different creeds, of different tongues, but all united in the love of freedom and the fatherland.

Many travellers, or rather tourists, passing hastily through Switzerland on their way to Italy, or sauntering wearily from sight to sight, speak scornful words of the Swiss, and set them down as a nation of grasping, unpatriotic extortioners. They compare the men with the mountains, greatly to the disadvantage of the former; and declare that the race of other days is extinct, and that an invader of the country would no longer meet with any opposition worth speaking of. The affair of Neufchâtel has afforded the best contradiction to these charges. No one can any longer affirm that the Swiss love their money dearer than their country. The call to arms has again, as in olden times, resounded along the rushing Rhine, across the dark waters of the lake of the forest cantons, and amidst the icy peaks of the Oberland, and the reply has been as hearty as ever it was. While such is the spirit of the people, the liberties of the country rest secure, and our children's children may be able 'to see the cantons dine together.'

Shooting recommenced at two o'clock. The tide of life ebbed from the dinner-table, and flowed into the 'grand stand.' The lower part of this building was divided into a series of compartments - one to each canton. Others were appropriated to the use of members of the great Swiss Shooting Society. The chief division bore the title, 'Vaterland,' and was generally the centre of attraction. The targets were placed in a row parallel to the stand, about two hundred yards distant from it, and about five yards apart one from another. Wooden screens were so arranged that each shooter could see only the target at which he aimed, while the whole row was visible to the spectators in the gallery that formed the upper story of the building. Whenever a 'palpable hit' was made, the target sunk into the depths of the earth, where the marker examined the wound, and telegraphed to the umpire the numerical value of the shot. The shooter received a ticket bearing the number, which he straightway stuck in his hat.

The practised shots bring their own rifles, and as they are sure to be members of the society, they usually prefer the large compartment. Any one is at liberty to shoot, but only members can carry off the prizes. The rules allow any foreigner who has resided six months in Switzerland to join the society, and Lord Vernon not long ago won the chief prize. There is no lack of rifles for those who wish to shoot; the charge is threepence a shot; and a trifle at the end to the loader. It is no easy matter, however, to use these Swiss rifles; they weigh about sixteen pounds, their barrels being about half an inch thick at the muzzle, and they have such hair-triggers that, as their owners themselves say, a wink will set them off.

Here are a couple of tourists, evidently Cockneys, about to shew off: The English have a reputation abroad as sportsmen, so our two compatriots soon become 'the cynosure of neighbouring eyes.' Young Geneva pauses in its career to watch the proceedings of the islanders who have invaded its domain. 'Genf,' remarks one of these gentlemen to the other; 'Arry, what's the meaning of Genf?' 'Don't know, I'm sure,' replies his friend. 'Never mind. Quel est le dommage pour un - What's the French for shot? Combien chargez vous?' Fortunately an interpreter arrives, and the Briton relapses into his vernacular. 'Careful, eh! - d'ye suppose I can't shoot. Give us hold.' The muzzle of the rifle rises slowly from the ground, wavering on its course in such an uncomfortable way, that the bystanders beat a precipitate retreat, and before 'Arry' has brought the sight to bear on the target, an unlucky touch on the trigger lets the gun off. The tourist is almost knocked down by the recoil, the bullet flies singing cheerily over the field, and the reputation of the English as good shots suffers an eclipse. 'They may well call them air-triggers; a puff of wind would set them going any day,' says the discomfited 'Arry,' as he quits the spot with his friend. 'I vote this precious dull sport; let's cut it, say I?' And they retire, much to the relief of their neighbours, who are able to recommence operations in safety.

Presently the storm of popping lulled, and a procession formed to the sound of martial music. First came a fantastic individual, clad in a gold-laced scarlet coat, and wearing a sort of huntsman's cap. He led the way with wild gestures, bounds, and exclamations, much with the air of a cannibal conducting victims to the stake. Behind him marched the musicians; then came the markers from their posts in the trenches, one from each canton. Behind them went the winners of prizes, walking two and two; mostly mountaineers - steady-looking, gamekeeper-like, middle-aged men - after them flocked the populace. We were carried away in the stream, and after a while came to a stand-still in front of a pagoda-like building at the summit of a gentle slope. Here the prizes were on view. There were plenty of them, and of all kinds, from a five-franc powder horn to the gem of the present meeting, which was a present from the Swiss in California. It was simple and valuable, consisting of a number of twenty-franc pieces formed of Californian gold, and arranged in the figure of the letter S. It is very pleasant to see so many presents from the Swiss in foreign lands; however distant they may be, they take an honest pride in contributing some token of their affection. The procession returned to the stand, and the shooting recommenced. For three days, it will continue with little variation, ceasing only at meal-times and at the approach of night. So far as I am concerned, I begin to feel somewhat wearied of the din, and am glad to retire for a while to the hospitable Couronne. The house is gay with decoration; and full of guests; the peasantry and voituriers throng the lower rooms; the aristocracy of the cantons dine up stairs; the streets are more full than ever; and the scene is so gay, so romantic, the costumes so strange, the deep-eaved, flower-wreathed houses so picturesque, that the weary traveller, half-dozing in the comfortable bow-window of the inn, may easily fancy himself at the opera, and expect every moment to hear the entire band join in a grand chorus.

The day is drawing to a close; the sunlight deserts the splashing fountains in front of the church, through whose open doors one can see the lights twinkling at the end of the cool and shadowy aisles. A parting glow suffuses the old Roman clock-tower, and gilds the leaves of the trees which overhang the ramparts. The visitors begin to depart. Gig after gig rattles out of the courtyard; carts full of merry girls jolt away over the rough pavement, amidst a storm of adieux. Here and there towers the elephantine bulk of an omnibus bound for Bern; I bargain for a lift with a voiturier, and away we go. At first, the road is all alive with walkers, riders, and drivers, but they gradually fall off and at last we are alone. The sun has set, and the evening-star trembles in the sky as we reach the summit of a hill; the voiturier points with his whip far away over the plain; and there at last are the Alps! like faint rose-coloured stains on the pale-green sky; a little further, and there lies Bern beneath us in the embrace of the Aar. So ends a pleasant day: one may often gain a good deal by judiciously losing his way.

Federal Rifle
Championships
in La Chaux-de-Fonds,
1863

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