late hour that night: that is to say, a little
beyond the time at which London, in the
season, begins to spend its evening. The
windows of our bedrooms looked into a
narrow, populous street, and some zealous
Lucernese, anxious to make a good figure
in the festival, were practising part-songs
under them, nearly all night. The last
sound that saluted our drowsy ears was a
long-drawn, rich, tremulous chord, formed
by a combination of various kinds of human
voice.

The weather, proverbially inimical to
popular merry-makings, cleared up most
favourably: and, after a long period of rain
and cold winds, the 22nd of August rose
brilliantly. We islanders are apt to imagine
that we have a monopoly of the caprices
and ill-humours of the Clerk of the Weather,
and that he bestows his sweetness on
continental nations with persistent constancy.
But they have their share of his gloomy
moods: witness the frequent exclamations
of pleasure and surprise regarding the
fineness of the day, which we heard from all
sorts of wayfarers in the streets.

The concert was to take place in the
church of St. Xavier. We were told that
the building was no longer used for divine
service, but for this we cannot vouch.
Between breakfast-time and one o'clock, at
which hour the concert commenced, we
amused ourselves by strolling about the
streets and along the shores of the lake.
The whole town now presented a very
animated spectacle. Crowds of singers
arrived at the railway station, and by the
steamboats. These were accompanied in
most cases by troops of friends who
perambulated the streets in their holiday
clothes. National costume is dying out
like the oyster. Very faint traces of it
linger here and there in remote corners of
the Continent. Lucerne, it is needless to
say, is not a remote corner of the
Continent; and the attire of its inhabitants is,
with almost imperceptibly slight modification,
that of Paris or London, Florence or
Vienna. Still, a few of the peasants who
had come from their obscure villages to
assist at the Sängerfest retained somewhat
of the national dress. It was very observable
that the women clung with much
greater tenacity to the old costume than
the men.

The most distinctive costume that met
our eyes, was worn by women who
appeared to be the wives and daughters of
respectable farmers. It consisted of a
rather short black petticoat, a full bodice
of some rich colour — claret and purple
predominated — and a square stomacher
over this, stiffened in a manner which gave
a singularly ungainly look to the figure.
The stomacher was attached to the under
bodice by a complicated arrangement of
silver chains and clasps, set in some
instances with jewels. The materials of the
dress were in most cases very good; in
some, costly. One portly sunburnt woman
wore a skirt of the finest black merino,
and an under bodice and sleeves of rich
purple velvet. Her stomacher was of
black velvet; and her chains and clasps
were of massive silver, adorned with
precious stones. A black straw-hat covered
her head, and her hair hung down in two
long plaits on her shoulders. But by the
side of this picturesque figure walked a
broad, round-shouldered man, with the
lumbering gait common to rustics, and
dressed very much as a London mechanic
would be dressed on a Sunday.

Group after group of men passed us, all
wearing a broad band of ribbon round the
left arm, or a huge breast- knot. These
were the members of the choirs.
Occasionally there hurried by, an individual
with a silken scarf tied across his shoulder
and under one arm. Such a scarf! Crimson,
or yellow, or blue, and edged with a silver
fringe. We all agreed that nothing so
gorgeous had ever been seen out of a stage
procession. The wearers of these conspicuous
decorations were members of the
central committee, or of the select
committee of the provincial choirs. One young
gentleman assisted the effect of his crimson,
silver-fringed scarf, by wearing a blue
neck-tie, and white kid gloves. He
presented quite a dazzling spectacle in the
sunshine. As the hour of performance
drew near, the stream of people making
for the church of St. Xavier became
denser. Perfect order and good humour
prevailed in the crowd. The price of
places varied from fifty centimes up to
two francs. The best seats were those in
the body of the church; the galleries being
considered inferior. Very quickly the building
grew full; before the concert began, it
was densely crowded.

The sound of an approaching band was
heard without. The choirs were arriving
in procession. All at once the great organ
struck up a pompous march, and as the
notes rolled and shook and thundered
through the building, a sudden flash of
bright colour was seen at the further end
of it, and there were carried in huge