Who can describe the exquisite beauty of our drive?--winding in and out, sometimes through a tunnel; at others along the edge of the high precipice from which a low parapet alone separated us; at another passing through the village of Sisikon, which years ago suffered severely from a fragment of rock fallen from the Frohnalp above. Time flew rapidly, and one hour and a half had glided by, without our perceiving it, when we drew up before the beautiful little inn of “Tell’s Platte.”
“But there is no Platform here,” cried George. “We are hundreds of feet above the lake. The critics are right, Herr H----, decidedly right! I knew it from the beginning. How can you deny it?”
“Wait, my young friend! Don’t be so impatient. Just come into the inn first--I should like you to see the lovely view from it; and then we can look for the Platform.” Saying which, he led us upstairs, on through the _salon_ to its balcony on the first floor. This is one of the smaller inns of that olden type which boast the enthusiastic attachment of regular customers, and display with pride that old institution--the “strangers’ book”--which has completely vanished from the monster hotels. It lay open on the table as we passed, and every one instinctively stopped to examine it.
“The dear old books!” exclaimed Mrs. C----. “How they used to amuse me in Switzerland! I have missed them so much this time. Their running fire of notes, their polyglot verses--a sort of album and scrap-book combined, full, too, of praise or abuse of the last hotel, as the humor might be.”
“Yes,” said Mr. C----, “I shall never forget the preface to one--an imprecation on whoever might be tempted to let his pen go beyond bounds. I learned it by rote:
“May the mountain spirits disturb his slumbers; May his limbs be weary, and his feet sore; May the innkeepers give him tough mutton and Sour wine, and charge him for it as though he were Lord Sir John, M.P.!”
“How very amusing!--a perfect gem in its way,” cried Anna. “Lord Sir John, M.P., must have been the model of large-pursed Britons in his time.” Here, however, everything seemed to be _couleur de rose_. The book’s only fault was its monotony of praise. Two sisters keep the hotel, and “nowhere,” said its devoted friends, “could one find better fare, better attendance, and greater happiness than at Tell’s Platform.” The testimony of a young couple confessedly on their bridal tour had no weight. We know how, at that moment, a barren rock transforms itself into a paradise for them; but three maiden ladies had passed six weeks of unalloyed enjoyment here once upon a time, and had returned often since; English clergymen and their families found no words of praise too strong; while German students and professors indulged in rhapsodical language not to be equalled out of fatherland.