The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 20, No. 118, August, 1867: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and PoliticsVarious
General
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 20, No. 118, August, 1867: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics
Various
American periodicals
When the service was over, I could scarcely make my way through the
throng which had meanwhile collected. The sun had come out hot above the
Hundwyl Alp, and turned the sides of the valley into slopes of dazzling
sheen. Already every table in the inns was filled, every window crowded
with heads, the square a dark mass of voters of all ages and classes,
lawyers and clergymen being packed together with grooms and brown Alpine
herdsmen; and, after the government had been solemnly escorted to its
private chamber, four musicians in antique costume announced, with drum
and fife, the speedy opening of the Assembly. But first came the singing
societies of Herisau, and forced their way into the centre of the
throng, where they sang, simply yet grandly, the songs of Appenzell. The
people listened with silent satisfaction; not a man seemed to think of
applauding.
I took my place in the pastor's study, and inspected the crowd. On the
steep slope of the village square and the rising field beyond, more than
ten thousand men were gathered, packed as closely as they could stand.
The law requires them to appear armed and "respectably dressed." The
short swords, very much like our marine cutlasses, which they carried,
were intended for show rather than service. Very few wore them:
sometimes they were tied up with umbrellas, but generally carried loose
in the hand or under the arm. The rich manufacturers of Trogen and
Herisau and Teufen had belts and silver-mounted dress-swords. With
scarce an exception, every man was habited in black, and wore a
stove-pipe hat, but the latter was in most cases brown and battered.
Both circumstances were thus explained to me: as the people vote with
the uplifted hand, the hat must be of a dark color, as a background, to
bring out the hands more distinctly; then, since rain would spoil a good
hat (and it rains much at this season), they generally take an old one.
I could now understand the advertisements of "secondhand cylinder hats
for sale," which I had noticed, the day before, in the newspapers of the
Canton. The slope of the hill was such that the hats of the lower ranks
concealed the faces of those immediately behind, and the assembly was
the darkest and densest I ever beheld. Here and there the top of a
scarlet waistcoat flashed out of the cloud with astonishing brilliancy.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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