Switzerland In 1873.
Lake Of Lucerne.
It was a lovely evening as we sailed away, a happy, lively party, from Lucerne. Our minds were full of the enthusiasm for his native land which Herr H——'s descriptions had excited, but for one characteristic of the Lake of the Forest Cantons we were as yet totally unprepared, namely, its unusual and wonderful variety.
Every traveller viewing it from Lucerne readily admits its extreme beauty. Its interest is acknowledged beforehand, according to the greater or lesser degree in which each one can clothe its shores with historic memories, but its remarkable diversity of scenery is a feature generally ignored until seen, although amongst Swiss lakes it is in this respect pre-eminent. And this peculiarity is mainly attributable to its geographical formation. Consisting, as it does, of divisions completely distinct one from the other, they lead us on, as if designedly arranged in the most artistic manner, in a series of “surprises,” from one picture to another, on an ever-increasing scale of beauty.
That part of the lake which is nearest to Lucerne may be said to resemble in shape a Maltese cross, so equal do its proportions appear to the passing observer. In characteristics and detail, however, it differs widely. The northern shores, though spreading round two of the arms in undulating hills, may decidedly be called flat compared to the magnificent line of Alpine peaks towering along the southern extremity. At one of the angles of the cross stands Mount Pilatus, 5,900 feet high—at the opposite one the Rigi, 5,541 feet above the sea—like two sentinels guarding the entrance to the territory beyond. The tourist sailing straight onwards from Lucerne is fain to believe that the lake ends where a spur of the Rigi seems to stretch across the southern bay, right before him. No other explanation appears possible until the spot itself is reached, when suddenly a channel, hitherto unperceived, opens to the right, between that mountain and the opposite shore—the two promontories thus disclosed rejoicing in the rather ignoble appellation of “Die Nasen,” or “The Noses.” What a beautiful and perfectly different view is then disclosed, as the steamer darts through the narrow strait to the village of Buochs, at the foot of its own Buochserhorn, the base of which is covered with comfortable farm-houses, embosomed in their orchards, changing step by step into châlets as they ascend to the higher pastures! At once we have got into another country. A landlocked bay, that to the eye seems nearly circular, bordered on one side by the precipitous but wooded mountains of Unterwalden, and on the opposite by the southern peaks and slopes of the Rigi, between whose folds nestles pretty Gersau, not large enough to be called a town nor unimportant enough for a village. A sunny, peaceful [pg 558] picture—a “happy lake of Rasselas”—from which no exit is visible, nor, we might suppose, ever need be sought for! At the further end, towering in the distance, snow-clad summits peer above the clouds; but, more striking than all, rise two curiously-pointed peaks close by, which stand, we are told, right above the white houses of Schwyz. So here we are truly in the cradle of Switzerland—the genuine “Urschweiz”! And as we sail towards Brunnen (the port of Schwyz, three miles inland) we try to trace their resemblance to a bishop's distinctive mark, which has given to these two bare rocks, nearly five thousand feet high, the familiar name of “The Mitres.”
But where is the land of Tell—Uri and the Rüti?—for again our course seems barred at Brunnen: valleys, meadows, and a background of mountains alone lie before us. Once more turn round on the quay of Brunnen, at a sharp angle to the right, and say, can a more exquisite picture anywhere be found! Here, in this bay of Uri—for so this part is named—instead of the great expanse near Lucerne, the lake has narrowed into a space not wider than a valley, whilst huge mountains jut forward, and, dipping perpendicularly into the green waters beneath, barely leave room in some spots for the road, which is an engineering achievement of recent years, whilst in others it must needs be carried on through tunnels and open galleries. Right in front, the Uri Rothstock rears its lofty head, with its glacier—a transparent wall of ice three hundred feet in height—sparkling in the sun. Tell's home lies within its folds. But close by, just opposite, is the Rüti, almost undistinguishable until the steamer passes near it. At the head of the bay, on its broad, green meadows, lies Aldorf, below the Bristenstock, which alone, when we reach that spot, hides from us the mighty Gothard. A paradise it truly seems on a brilliant sunny day, with a people worthy of such a land and nurtured into excellence amidst this noble nature. But we have not reached them yet, and have to see and hear of others before we come to this quarter.
Like every other part of Switzerland, the shores of Lucerne Lake are thickly inhabited. No signs of poverty are anywhere visible, and an air of comfort is diffused over the whole district. The most fruitful portion, however, is pre-eminently the strip of land lying at the base of the Rigi, where the straight wall of the mountain rises precipitately facing the north. So proverbial is its fertility that it is called the “Garden of Lucerne,” and through winter and summer that town is supplied with fruit and vegetables by the peasants of this neighborhood. The steamers which now navigate the lake carry them thither in numbers with their produce on every market-day. Of its numerous villages, Weggis held the first place until the last three years, when the engineers of the wonderful Rigi Railway fixed on Vitznau, three miles further on, for their station. Up to that period, no one ever thought of this out-of-the-way little village, lying in a sheltered nook close under the Rigi-Nase. Weggis, on the other hand, was the starting-point for all aspirants to sunsets on the Kulm: the chief place for horses and guides, and full, in consequence, of animation and importance. But the world marches on rapidly nowadays, [pg 559] and matters, therefore, are much changed; for few, except the timid, or the most determined seekers of the picturesque, think of choosing this route to the summit, when both time and trouble can be saved by the railway ascent to those hundreds of summer tourists whose excursions are made at high-pressure speed. Vitznau, consequently, is daily advancing in importance, and the price of land has risen in an incredibly short space of time from fifty centimes to five francs per metre. No buildings, however, have yet been attempted, except two pretty hotels; and it was to one of these, opened this season on the water's edge, that we had telegraphed for rooms. But it was not large enough to accommodate all our party, so my friend Anna L—— and myself adjourned at night to the second one, situated further back near the church.
The evening continued fine, and as the moon shone on the calm waters whilst we supped under the veranda of the inn, every one was happy and contented. The young C——s declared they felt “most romantic,” we elders “sehr æsthetisch” (very æsthetic), as Heine calls it, and all looked forward with confidence to the morrow. The plan was, by sleeping here, to start in the first train, which is generally the least crowded, and, halting at Kaltbad, thence to explore the other parts of the Rigi. It had been devised by Herr H——“cunningly devised,” he secretly told Mr. C——, “in order to humor the nerves of the ladies, always stronger in the early morning, and which he knew, though he chose to conceal this fact from us, would be sorely tried by the alarming railway.” As to a change of weather, no one ever dreamt of it. There had been such a spell of fine days and lovely moonlights that nothing else was taken into account. But, alas for presumptuous confidence! What was our dismay on awaking to hear the unwelcome sounds of rain! Patter! patter! drop after drop, it fell against the window; and, rising in trepidation, the painful fact became evident that a steady downpour had commenced. There was no wind, but such thick clouds rolled down from the mountain and spread over the lake that the opposite shore was soon invisible. It might pass off, and we determined to have patience; so, when the bell tolled for Mass at half-past seven o'clock, seizing our umbrellas we rushed across the cemetery, which separated our hotel from the church. This latter, as suited to so small a village, is not large nor rich-looking—on the contrary; but all was very clean, the building solidly constructed, and the congregation, despite the rain, fairly large, and most attentive. Everything was arranged, too, on the same system as elsewhere. The cemetery full of holy-water stoups, with a separate corner for the children, the church doors open all day long, the lighted lamp betokening the Blessed Sacrament, and men and women often, as we noticed, passing in and out, to say a prayer in its divine presence.
At half-past nine the train was to start, but the rain grew heavier each minute, and no one, we supposed, could think of ascending the mountain in such weather. At the appointed time, however, the steamers arrived from both ends of the lake, with their ship-loads of enterprising tourists. How we pitied them! To have come so far in this weather, only to be disappointed—for [pg 560] no one surely could land on such a day! But experience has since taught us differently, and shown that in no part of Switzerland, or perhaps of any other country, does this class so pertinaciously defy the elements as on the Lucerne Lake and the Rigi Railway. To-day, from behind our hotel windows, we watched hundreds rushing on shore, in their water-proofs, and with dripping umbrellas, to the railway station—adventurous spirits, who trusted to their good stars to drive away the clouds from the mountain-top on their arrival; or, if the views should fail them, at least to go through the “sensation” of this singular railway. And, in this one respect, no one could be disappointed. A “sensation” it certainly would be: whether pleasant or terrifying must depend on each individual temperament.
And now the sloping engines emerged from their night's hiding-place, and we too began to share the general excitement. One by one our party ran to the pretty station, and there stood examining the proceedings. So fascinating did the attraction become, that every time there was an arrival or departure whilst we remained at Vitznau, books, writing, and all other occupations were hastily thrown aside to scamper off to the still novel sight. But a very unwise course this proved; for, instead of reassuring our feeble nerves, the disinclination to make a personal experience of the ascent visibly increased as the day wore on. And what wonder! The engines were unlike any we had ever seen; shaped in a slanting fashion to fit the mountain side. There were five, but of these each one was attached to only one carriage, which contains cross benches for fifty passengers (with an ominous printed request “not to move!”), and with open sides, so that nothing should obstruct the view to those whose nerves might retain their customary tranquillity. Five such trains compose each departure, hence, should the arrivals exceed 250, the unlucky “last” are left behind at Vitznau to wait patiently for the next trains—two or three hours later. And now we understood the cause of the rush on shore, and the violent squeezing between the rails of the ticket office, which had so much puzzled and amused us.
In mid-season this constantly happens, it being a case of “first come, first served.” Even to-day, all the carriages were full. As a rule, therefore, it is calculated that on an average between 1,100 and 1,200 tourists daily ascend the Rigi during the summer months from this point alone. Up they went at a short interval between each train; the engine not preceding, but pushing the carriage before it—mounting slowly to all appearances, but withal rapidly, for in less than five minutes they were lost to sight; climbing first high above the church-tower, and then above the cottages, which one by one here overtop the village. It took away one's breath to look at them: a seeming tempting of Providence thus scaling mountain walls and precipices at the measure of from 18° to 25°—perhaps all the more awe-inspiring to day by reason of the weather and the mysterious cloud-land they boldly pierced through.
As yet, no serious accident has happened. Let us hope none ever may! The principle of construction, with a central notched rail, tightly grasped by a cog-wheel, besides [pg 561] the powerful brakes belonging to each carriage, seem to promise fairly. The trains, too, proceed in reality so slowly, and with such caution, that a man is always able to walk in front of the first carriage. Most striking was it to watch the down trains two hours later; the guard blowing a horn as they passed the height above the village, then marching into the station with a solemn countenance that seemed to tell of perils met and conquered, leisurely followed by the sloping engine, looking helpless and distorted once it reached the level ground. Steady and serious-looking men these guards and engine-drivers are, quite unlike the daring beings to whose care we so thoughtlessly entrust our precious lives in every-day railway travelling. In walk and dress, too, they have a mountain air and bearing, at once telling us of the life to which they were “born and bred,” and reminding us of the intrusion of our material world into their hitherto simple sphere. So far, however, it does not appear to have interfered with Vitznau habits. Being what the French call a “cul de sac,” without even a road over the promontory to Gersau, there is no temptation to linger here, and the trains and steamers are made to fit in so exactly that, except in the case of undue numbers, or for a hasty luncheon, few travellers ever do remain. Nothing struck us so much during our enforced stay as the sudden relapse into its ordinary quiet which took place at Vitznau the moment train or steamer passed on.
The nature of its position will also prevent this pretty village from ever losing much of its original character. It consists of but forty or fifty houses situated on a narrow ledge, a small strip of land, between the precipitous Rigi cliffs on one side and the lake on the other, so that room does not exist for very large extension. Only this summer it narrowly escaped destruction from the effects of a thunder-storm higher up, such as had not been known for years. The stream overflowed into a torrent, carrying all before it, and the villagers and railway officials had to turn out in the middle of the night to open channels and raise embankments, and only succeeded by great exertions in arresting destruction. Personally, I should fear the rocks rolling from above more, as they have often done at Weggis—but of this the natives seem to take no account. We were told that there is one point on the road between this and Weggis—to which larger village the Vitznau children go to school, three miles distant—where stones fall so constantly that the little ones are always on the look-out, and make a run when they see them approaching. Yet this pretty spot has many attractions, especially for invalids. We met a gentleman lately who had passed a winter here, and was loud in its praises. Nothing can exceed the morality and sobriety of the people; the winter climate, too, is perfect—he and the parish priest had made observations together during one season, which proved that the temperature is as mild as that of Montreux and of other sheltered spots on this side of the Alps. Fruit grows here abundantly, even figs and melons, as in Italy, and flowers thrive equally well. One of the prettiest features in the place was the numberless girls in front of the station with small baskets of each—the grapes having just arrived from Italy over the St. Gotthard, and come hither by the steamers; but [pg 562] the “fresh figs” and “beautiful peaches” which they offer in excellent English are genuine Vitznau productions.
The day advanced, yet there seemed no cessation of the downpour, and all were in despair at being thus caught at such a spot, without the resources even of a large hotel. At last “a happy thought” suggested the idea of our abandoning the Rigi altogether! “Let us move on to Gersau,” said one—“just round the corner!” broke in another weather-bound traveller, who gave a glowing report of its charms and comforts. Even the young people, who in the morning were so anxious for the railroad excitement, were worn out by waiting and the little likelihood of a change. “No sooner said than done” was therefore the result of our conversation, and the telegraph had ordered our rooms, and our luggage was on board the steamer, before we almost reflected on the consequences. But what matter if we never saw the Rigi! It was more than likely those travellers would never reach the top in that dreadful railway, and our vexed spirits refused to recognize the attractions of anything on such an afternoon but the prospective charms of comfortable salons and piles of the latest newspapers, which we prophetically beheld awaiting us at Gersau. In twenty minutes we had crossed to Buochs, tried in vain to discover the landscape thence—so lovely from this point in fair weather—through the heavy mist of rain and cloud hanging over the lake, and found ourselves lodged in “the palatial hotel” (as the prospectus calls it) at Gersau, close alongside the water's edge.
No sooner were we fairly landed than the curtain of cloud began to rise, and we clearly beheld the opposite shore. Half an hour afterwards, we were discussing the possible return of fine weather, when a sudden commotion took place around us. Waiters rushed right and left closing windows, housemaids even shutting shutters, without any apparent reason, like demented beings, not giving themselves time to answer our questions. At last, they declared that a storm of wind was approaching, although we could perceive no symptoms of it, and truly, as they foretold, there soon came rushing by one of those sudden squalls against which kindly guide-books have so many words of warning. Small waves rose rapidly, and in less than half an hour, without one drop of rain, the whole surface of the lake was in commotion. Then came a great excitement!—half the village and all the travellers crowded to the shore, and every eye fixed on the centre of the lake told of a tiny boat in extreme danger. Had the clouds still continued, it could scarcely have been seen, but now a large, well-manned craft pulled out to the rescue. It took a long time to reach the sinking boat, for the lake is wider here than it seems, but at last there was a cry of joy on shore when three men were seen to jump from one to the other, and so certain did we then feel of their safety that only a few remained to greet their arrival. The wind, too, subsided, and later that evening the moon struggled—though feebly—to reassert her empire.
The Gersau Hotel is certainly excellent, owing to the skilful direction of Herr Müller, one of the potentates of the place, as are the majority of hotel-keepers in all these Forest Cantons. He also built the one at the Rigi-Scheideck, on [pg 563] the peak above Gersau, equally celebrated for its comfort; but lately a company, which calls itself the Regina Montium (one of the supposed meanings of the word Rigi), has purchased it together with others on the mountain. We found the Gersau establishment full, many having come down from the higher “pensions,” and amongst the number two or three acquaintances who laughed at our fear of the railway and general lack of spirit. But nothing is so discouraging to tourists as rain, especially when nearer to the end than to the beginning of their rambles. We were all in bad humor at the trick the clouds had played us, and planless and annoyed we all retired early to bed that night.
But “la nuit porte conseil,” and there is no resisting a sunshiny morning! The Angelus-bell once more awoke us, but this time to sun and brightness. Again the church was close by, its bell ringing for half-past seven o'clock Mass. Anna and I quickly answered its bidding. It is a good-sized parish church, of the solid, unarchitectural style of building usual in these parts, but making a pretty effect with its lofty tower seen rising against the high green hill behind it. To-day, the Mass was for the dead, and the benches were all full, as at Lucerne; respectably dressed men on one side, while the women knelt on the other. What most struck us, however, were the children; the boys in front of the men, and about twenty girls in the two front benches opposite. These were in charge of a devout-looking young school-mistress, whose sweet, placid countenance seemed to tell of pleasant hours for her youthful scholars. Later, we learned that the children, though obliged to attend school by law, are not compelled to attend Mass, but that, as a rule, they do so both by their own and their parents' desire. Nothing could be tidier than the little maidens' appearance; their frocks clean, and their hair neatly plaited round their heads, all according to the same pattern, probably as their mothers had done before them; and so attentive and reverential were they, that although we strangers knelt right behind them, not one ever turned to look at us. Each had her prayer-book, which she read attentively, and, besides, her rosary wound round her hand when not in use, all in the same fashion and of the same pattern. This small incident carried our thoughts back swiftly to another land, recalling a sermon we had heard in London by the Archbishop of Westminster, when, after speaking of the olden days of the true faith in England, and the culpability of its first disturbers, he made allowance for the “invincible ignorance” of the mass of its people nowadays; “for,” exclaimed his grace, “who has there been since then to teach the little maidens their rosary, and to bring them to our Lord and his blessed Mother?” and we thanked God, as we beheld the Gersau children making their genuflections with serious little countenances, that there is still one nook at least left in this world where the demon of heresy and unbelief has not penetrated, and where piety and reverence are, from earliest childhood, taught to go hand-in-hand with modern life. At the offertory of the Mass another peculiarity occurred. Suddenly, an elderly woman rose, and, going forward, was followed by all the other women in the church, who, in single file, advanced towards the altar, walked [pg 564] round it by a passage at the back, laid an offering on the altar itself, and then quietly returned to their places. The oldest man, on the other side, now rose, and followed by all the men, in like manner proceeded through the same ceremony, only varied by their passing round the altar from the contrary side, and depositing, as did some of the women too, an offering besides on a small table in front of the choir. It was weeks before I could learn the origin of this custom, but then, opening by chance an old history of Switzerland, I found this rule quoted from an ancient document, which purported to regulate the relations between pastor and people some centuries ago. There it was stated that the offering for the priest should be laid on the altar itself, and that for the sacristan on a small table outside—so steadily and closely do these conservative-republicans still keep, even in form, to the pattern of their ancestors.
The Mass being only one of commemoration and not of burial, the congregation soon dispersed to their different avocations. In this way tourists are so often deceived, when, coming in at a late hour, they find foreign churches empty.
I remember a Protestant lady who had passed three winters in Rome once asking me seriously if Catholics ever went to holy communion. I thought her mind must be wandering, but discovered on enquiry that she had never been inside a church, even in Rome, before eleven o'clock or later; therefore, though many were hearing Mass, she had noticed none at holy communion. It had never occurred to her that, contrary to her Protestant custom, Masses were begun, and devout Catholics received holy communion in those same churches, long before she probably was awake each morning. So in the present instance, the congregation, consisting of working-men and women, might have been through half their daily occupations before any traveller at Gersau thought of looking in at the church, “wondering at its desolation!”
The sun was streaming in brightly through an open side-door, inviting us to depart by that exit. What a beautiful sight met us on the threshold! The lake, placid and sunny, framed in by surrounding green slopes and peaks, lay close in front, separated only by the public road to Brunnen from a beautiful little cemetery belonging to the church. Here were a crowd of pretty monuments, the majority I in stone, but some in white marble, in excellent taste, bordered with flowers, or delicately twined round with creeping roses and ivy. The children's corner lay to the right, and there an old woman was sprinkling holy water and arranging flowers on some of the poorer graves, which lay between them and the handsome tombs in the pathway from the church-door to the road—a path that quite formed a “via sacra” of Gersau notabilities. Judging from these, the population would seem to consist of Camenzinds and Küttels. An occasional Müller figured on a tombstone, but otherwise it might safely be assumed that what was not Camenzind was Küttel—if not Küttel, Camenzind. The names, even if only seen once, would have attracted notice—Camenzind, especially, had a non-local sound, and we willingly jumped at the conclusion that it may be one of those which, according to Herr H——'s theory, still exist in these cantons, [pg 565] and are equally to be found in Swedish and Northern valleys to this day. That they are the living autocrats of Gersau admits of little doubt, for every house above the common run is certain on enquiry to prove the property of this family. The manufactory, too, at the end of the village belongs to them. A beautiful resting-place they certainly have between their church and the lake, which every Camenzind and Küttel must have been looking upon from their tenderest years, for many centuries past.
When our party met at breakfast, it was amusing to see what a complete change the sun and general brightness had effected. All were equally bent on retracing our steps at once, the railroad being the only drawback in the foreground. The juniors would not consent to give that up on any account, but the elders still hesitated, daunted by yesterday's recollections. Opportunely, a casual acquaintance proposed a solution that conquered all difficulties. He suggested that the younger folk should take the railway, and the timid, going on to the next steamboat station—Weggis—get horses there, and thence ascend by road in the old-fashioned style. What we (for I was among the latter class) should lose in “sensation” he asserted that we should gain in interest and picturesqueness, and his plan, suiting all parties, was at once adopted.
Having an hour to spare before the steamer was due, we strolled through the village. No wonder that Gersau has an individuality of its own, for it is a rare specimen descended almost to our own day of those village communes Herr H—— had spoken to us of, which, taking advantage of the debts and embarrassments of their feudal lords, had purchased exemption from them early in the middle ages. Indeed, none of these small communities retained their independence down to late times with the exception of Gersau. “It was forgotten, hidden away in its beautiful retreat,” say some; “steady, self-respecting, and not quarrelsome,” say others, with more likelihood of truth. At all events, the fact is undeniable that it owned obedience to none but its own local authorities. Tradition says, and the date is proudly recorded on the wall of the town-hall—a true peasant town-hall, only one degree superior to the surrounding houses—that the peasants of Gersau, having put aside their savings for this purpose during ten years, bought their freedom from the Counts von Moos, for the sum of 690 “Pfund pfenninge,” in 1390. Years before, in 1359, they had made a treaty with the four Forest Cantons, and were acknowledged by them as confederates, which singular position this small community retained until the French invasion of 1798, since which time they have been incorporated with the Canton of Schwyz. The place is, literally, nothing more than a large village, said to contain only 2,276 inhabitants, but, seen from the lake with the animation given to it by the tourist life, and the manufactories of the Camenzinds along the shore, it makes the effect of a much larger population and of a very thriving town. Penetrating, however, as we did to the original background of houses, we found them of quite another character. Swiss peasant dwellings, in general, are more comfortable than those of almost any country, and so capacious as to be thoroughly patriarchal, often sheltering numberless children and grandchildren [pg 566] together under the one roof. These of Gersau look like true family strongholds; as if they contained in themselves the histories of many generations, and everything seemed so stationary, so unmoved and immovable, that we could not help thinking of Hawthorne's description of an English country village, where he fancied he saw the grandfathers and grandmothers marrying over and over again in their descendants, so completely had the place and people a centenarian air about them. Pretty it was, too, to see these picturesque homes extending one above the other up the defile behind, amidst their orchards and fresh green pasture-grounds, headed by the Rigi-Scheideck Hotel, which crowns the summit and looks quite near, though it is not so in reality. The intercourse between the two now gives Gersau much stirring importance, but, as in the case of Weggis, the advance of “civilization” is likely to prove of permanent injury to it. Next year a railroad, branching off from Kaltbad, is to be finished along the brow to the Scheideck, when the stream of tourists will of course flow in that direction. And perhaps nowhere could there be more excuse for abandoning “picturesque old ways.” Although it seemed a short ascent, and we saw a merry party starting from the Pension Müller on horseback, intending to dine and sleep at the top, we found on enquiry that it would take them at least two and a half hours to reach the Scheideck, and between three and four hours for the unfortunate carriers who followed soon after laden with the ladies' huge trunks. Nothing could be more painful than to see these men, some quite old, staggering under the weight, and to know what a stiff climb awaited them higher up. At present there is no road up the hill nor any other means of transport, and the whole supplies for that large establishment at the top have to be taken up by these carriers. It was fortunate for the ladies' happiness that they had started before their luggage, for the sight would have completely spoiled the welcome one's trunks always receive on their arrival when you are tempted to part with them even for a short time—tender-hearted, as they certainly looked, the finery would doubtless have been left to repose quietly beside the lake below.
The thunder-storm of which we had heard so much at Vitznau committed even greater mischief at Gersau this summer. Two small streams here unite, and an unusual mass of water rolling down from the hillside that night, increased them to a violent torrent, which broke down the strong embankment, carrying all before it—sweeping two houses into the lake and flooding the manufactory to the first floor. A poor woman and two children were also drowned; in fine, the damage done was very great. There had not been time for repairs when we visited it, and the broken walls and scattered stones told their own tale. “Appeals,” too, were hung up on all sides, but also many notices of “thanks” from the commune to every one who had helped on the occasion, worded in the same touching style we had noticed in the Lucerne papers—giving a most agreeable impression of the natural simplicity and dignity of this small community. As we steamed away back again round the Rigi-Nase, the sun was resting on the pretty spot, inhabited by the descendants [pg 567] of the original hard-working peasants, and it seemed as if the spirits of former Camenzinds, Küttels, and Müllers must look down approvingly on their posterity, who are not yet ashamed to profess their faith, nor unwilling to have their children still taught how to unite liberty with religion, and thus preserve the two treasures intact.
Certainly there is no magician like Apollo—and none who so well knows how to make himself valued by occasional fits of absence. Under his influence, Vitznau was to-day another place, an ideal picture of the stir and movement of modern life, combined with a tranquil beauty which we could not have imagined, veiled in cloud and mist as it had been on the day before. It already looked like an old friend, though only the acquaintance of one day. There were the curious engines, showing themselves ready to brave the dangers of the ascent; the pretty station with its fruit and flower girls and photograph stall; the old church, and the two hotels, looking bright and clean—all standing out in relief against the precipitous cliff behind, and surrounded by luxuriant chestnut and walnut trees, and patches of green, freshened up by the recent rain. Even the Nase-promontory was clothed with timber down to the shore, and the water reflecting the trees was only of another lighter shade, that beautiful transparent green which is now known as “Eau de Nil.” One felt too that the picture could never be much spoiled, there being no space for ugly buildings, or the factory life which, although it tells of employment with its own peculiar charms, rather mars the picturesque beauty of the landscape at Gersau. Moreover, the brightness was enhanced by the national flag of Switzerland floating over the hotel, looking more red and striking then ever against the green background. Yes! striking is the true word for it, not showy—nor flaunting its importance like the tricolor and many another particolored standard of our own days, but solemn and yet attractive, one quite impossible not to notice wherever or however seen. It had always suggested some history to my mind, with its white cross on the red ground, which could not have been adopted without a purpose, but since yesterday it had acquired a new and deep interest, for one of the pamphlets Herr H—— had bestowed on me in Lucerne treated of nothing but this same flag. It was a sermon preached before the “Pius-Verein” or “Pius Union” of Switzerland, at the general meeting, which took place at Einsiedlen in the summer of 1872, entitled the “Wappenschild” or “coat-of-arms” of the Swiss “Pius Union.” During the rain of yesterday I had read it through, and most interesting it was to note the very characteristics he had foretold that we should observe pervading all sermons in these parts: the constant allusions to their beautiful nature and uninterrupted reference to their past history.
It commenced by recording how the “Pius-Verein” had been founded in 1854 by some devout Catholics who could not stand by quietly noticing the evil tendencies of the age without protesting, and who had, in consequence, “assembled on the shore of the tranquil lake of the Forest Cantons, where 500 years previously their forefathers had met together in order to shake off the [pg 568] hated yoke of the Austrian governors and imperial Vogts.” It then proceeded in most eloquent language to give the reasons why, amongst a variety of flags, none could be found which corresponded so completely to the sentiments of the associates as the national standard of Switzerland—the white cross on the red ground.
“The white cross had originally been chosen,” said the preacher, “as being the emblem of purity and innocence,” and the honesty, uprightness, and union of their ancestors in that distant age were forcibly dwelt upon for the imitation of their descendants, whilst he drew a lamentable picture of the divisions and ineffective schemes of the present day. The second part explained that these ancestors had placed this white cross on a red field—first, because red, being the color of blood, was the symbol of bravery, and was justly claimed by those same ancestors, who had made Swiss courage a proverb, and who had so often shed their hearts' blood in defence of liberty and of their faith; for through Christian liberty alone could civil liberty be attained. New “Vogts” or “governors,” continued the preacher, “threaten our land nowadays, but let us manfully resist, and conquer them. The Lardenberg[127] of avarice which formerly seized the oxen of a poor man, and put his eyes out, to-day tries to blind the poor by a godless press and scandalous literature, robbing them of their most precious possessions—of their churches, convents, priests, and schools. Let us fight against this vice in ourselves, in our families and our communes. Sundays and holidays displease them, and instead of church-services and hymns they wish to hear of nothing but labor on these days. Let us then be more strict than ever in the sanctification of the Sunday, and give our enemies the example of disinterested love and charity! The ‘Wolfenschiess’ of sensuality and self-indulgence is more likely to bring our beloved land under the slavery of Satan now than 500 years ago—a worthy undertaking, therefore, for the ‘Pius-Verein’ would be the establishment of temperance societies.... And let us courageously fight the third ‘Landvogt’—the Gessler of luxury, wealth, and despotism.... Commerce and industry are the sources of public prosperity, but let not the golden calf of gain become the god of our XIXth century. Let not our factories become modern Zwinglius, nor their proprietors force others to bend the knee to the hat of self-interest, nor to offer up the sacrifice of their freedom and liberty of speech. The red field with its white cross will remind us in all this of our forefathers' example.
“Red, too, is the color of fire, and symbolizes love of country. It reminds us of the fifty men of Schwyz, who decided the fate of that first fight for freedom, the great battle of Morgarten—of the love of fatherland shown by an Arnold von Winkelried, an Adrian von Bubenberg, a Nicholas von der Flue, and the many thousand others who left wife, children, trades, and home, to seek the death of heroes for love of country. Compare their conduct with the boastful toasts of the present day, and see the difference between deeds and words. They reproach us only because we do not boast with these boasters, and that [pg 569] we seek to give our ‘Union’ a religious character.... But history will judge us differently! Let us on our side show love and charity to all; to those also who differ from us in belief; love our confederates as fellow-Christians; maintain every bond of union—and in this the red ground of the white cross may be the sign of fraternal love and harmony.”
Lastly, the preacher showed how “red typifies the aurora or the dawn of day,” alluding to the “battle near Murten, where, after a short prayer recited by the combatants, the sun broke through the heavy bank of clouds, lighting up the horizon in brilliant colors, and their leader, Hans von Hallwyl, exclaimed, Up, confederates, and forward, for God lights us to victory!—a prophecy which proved perfectly true. A firm trust and reliance on the Lord gave soul, courage, and strength to our ancestors, and never were they deceived. God has preserved our fatherland in a marvellous manner, and why should we despair? Great should be our hopes of a better future.... For every reason, then, ought we to choose the white cross on the red field as the flag of our Pius-Verein. Let us show to our Lord and to the world that we seek nothing for ourselves, but, treading in the footsteps of our forefathers, only strive for the welfare of our fatherland.... God will be with us! and we shall have the intercession of the Blessed Virgin Mary, and of the patrons of our Union, S. Charles Borromeo and Nicholas von der Flue.... Let us hold firm to our glorious faith, and then, when the sign of the Son of God—our Holy cross, our ‘coat-of-arms’—shall appear amidst the clouds, may it lead us in triumph on that dreadful day into the eternal fatherland of heaven!”
Fresh from the impression of these eloquent words, it was impossible not to look on this beautiful flag to-day with increasing admiration, nay affection. But my reveries were cut short by the young C——s, whose approaching railway ascent caused them intense excitement. George C——, the son, especially, became full of animation when he undertook to procure the tickets for his sisters at the office. Stationing himself close to the gangway, he bade them follow at their leisure, as he would jump on shore and put his experience of yesterday's many long hours to profit. Accordingly, the instant the steamer came alongside the quay, he got ahead of all the other passengers, and giving one bound to the office, proudly flourished his tickets for the first carriage to us who remained on board, long before the untaught crowd thought of moving. A few who knew better, like himself, made a rush too, and one old man tripped and fell, whilst another leaped over him, without allowing himself time to help his companion—so selfish does excitement and locomotion make all ages and ranks! We likewise moved on, and so rapidly, that there was barely time to see the start of the first train containing our young friends, who were waving handkerchiefs to us, as their carriage seemed to creep above the church-tower up the mountain, or to note the fruitful garden-land stretching along the shore with the precipitous wall of rock above, extending the whole length of this side of the Rigi, when in a few minutes we reached our landing-place at Weggis, and found ourselves sitting in the garden of the “Golden Lion.”
Odd Stories. VII. The Philosophers Of The Dragon's Bower.
In the reign of King, and in the Dragon's Bower of the beautiful tea-garden of the statesman Kung, had assembled the philosophers Tung, Bang, Sing, Lung, Wing, Hang, with the rich mandarins Bo and Sho. Sipping that exquisite beverage which, as yielded by a choice herb grown only in the flower-sprinkled garden of Kung, has imparted to the Hi-Tea philosophy the peculiar intellectual flavor which distinguishes it from the Lo-Tea doctrine, they discussed the problems of existence. Only a vague, brief record has been preserved of that eventful meeting, so well called by Yung Sing, the poet, “the shock of minds,” and which, it was long maintained by the Hi-Tea school, had solved the mysteries of preordained genesis and circumstantial fixture. The dialogue turned upon that profound saying of the old man of Chow, the wise Lautze—“The Tau which can be tau-ed is not the eternal Tau.” Vainly having sought in his own poor wit the meaning of this sublime sentence, the mandarin Sho begged the six sages, in the grace of their princely hearts, and with the light of their shining minds, to make it clear to his benighted intelligence.
Tung: Tau is the unbounded entity.
Bang: Thunder without sound.
Sing: Unsung music of all things.
Lung: Breath of life without life.
Hang: Justice of accidents.
Wing: Eternal entity of non-entity.
“In short,” added Tung, “the supreme principle Tau is the uncircumscribed limit of universes; the order of disorder; the contradiction which reconciles; the peace into which all storms subside; the mother and father of action; the source of the unworshipped unworshipping worship, and of power beyond dominion.”
The mandarin Sho acknowledged this to be a grand definition of Tau; but, being a collector of the imperial revenues, prayed to be informed of the use and value of Tau in the practical administration of the affairs of men; for to save his worthless life he could not see (begging the favor of the assembled wisdom) how Tau was of any use whatever. “It's of no use,” said Wing; “and there's the beauty of it.”
“Then what is the use of mentioning it?” tartly added Hang, a devoted admirer of the Tau theory. At this arose an admirable wrangle over the question of use and beauty, in that happy style of wit which only the great Hi-Tea school of wisdom could boast. Its upshot was that matter resolved itself into the final irresponsibility of all things.
“But woe to that mortal,” said Tung, “who carries not about him the talisman of wisdom which imparts [pg 571] to everything its infinite magic, and who, groaning in the prison-house of the senses, sees not the eternal day-beam in all things. With eyes he sees not; with life he lives not. He hath the six becloudings of Kungfootse.”
“The wise man,” said Bang, “fears no fate. Torrents, tempests, earthquakes, are but blustering fictions; nothing is true but his courage. Fixed in his will, his condition is victory; and if he falls, he finds in the elements his kindred, and in nature his home.”
Here the countenance of the philosopher Tung was observed to change from yellow to pale green, with signs of great agony caused by unknown interior workings; for, it was afterward told, his morning repast had been poisoned by an ignorant cook and a bad doctor. Lost in their thoughts, the sages heeded not his groans.
“Always should the sage rejoice,” said Sing. “His spirit should take part in the feast of events, the sublime comedy of life. Does fortune desert him? Let him be glad that it seeks another. Is his friend dead? Let him be glad that he is gone to joy. In every event we can as easily discover reason for cheer as for despair.”
Ere Sing had finished speaking, an ornamented tile from the roof of the Dragon's Bower, loosened by one of those disturbances of the earth not unknown to the learned men of the East, fell upon the bare head of the philosopher Bang, who, after experience of a severe fright, was borne away helpless from the scene. Wing smiled, Sing laughed, and a perceptible scorn was on the lips of Hang.
Thus said Lung, he who had been called the gaunt thinker: “What think you? Is there anything better than life, friends? Here we live, responsible neither to be nor to do nor to die; life and fate stand pledged for us. Do we fall out of the charmed circle? We are caught up into another. Do we die? Then we live again; or, if we do not,” continued Lung, gasping, “so much the better. What so excellent as life; what so merciful as death?” Here a painful fit of coughing compelled the philosopher to pause.
But what now most drew the attention of the company was the entrance of the statesman Kung, who, in a voice of dignified emotion, informed the wise Sing that his brother had been suddenly seized and decapitated on a charge of conspiracy, and all his immense fortune confiscated to the state, save a portion awarded to his betrayer. Pangs and groans shook the bosom of the sage, as he left the tea-table; for his brother's bounty had been the mainstay of his life.
“O friends!” cried Kung, “the law is inexorable; it kills its child and devours its mother, and swallows the substance of its benefactors; but the state reigns and the king lives, and the land is happy. Praised be the king!”
“Praised be justice!” echoed Hang, who had counselled the astute Kung in the preparation of his criminal code. “Justice reigns in King, and acts through Kung. What is nature but justice, and what are her thousand-fold accidents but executioners? Every man gravitates to his fate, and every fate is a judgment. The king makes death: he can do no wrong; let no man mourn.” Long after the piercing mind of Hang had perished under the terrors of that great instrument which his genius invented for the reform of mankind; long after the astute [pg 572] Kung had yielded up his life to the demands of state (for he had put to death by mistake the favorite dog of his imperial master), these sentences, which seem to tear to pieces the leading tenet of the Lo-Tea doctrines as the dragon tears the bull, were remembered in the realm of King.
Spake at last that strange sage whose eyes are as starlight to the darkness of common minds, and whose vision seeks the abode of Tau. “Since we but dream we live,” said Wing, “let us live to dream well. In reason are the pillars of our temple; in imagination is its worship. Happy are ye who, out of the toils of vain science and hard action, take rest in the bower of fancy, the pavilion of dreams, the garden of poetry, or roam the royal hunting-grounds of imagination to capture logic in the chase of pleasure, and find wisdom by seeking delight. Thrice fortunate ye,” continued the star-eyed Wing, taking another whiff from his pipe of opium, “who, when the caprices of power have driven you from doctrine, can retreat upon your dreams. Life is a fiction; let us dream that it is the truth.” Such was the curious doctrine of that wonderful man, whose visions of demons and the powers of the air have so often filled the imperial stage, and who died in the frenzy of his powerful mind.
The refined mandarin Bo—he who, for his reticence, had been entrusted with so many affairs of state—heard all these words of the learned, and spoke not. “All men and things,” he said to himself, “serve him who listens, and resist him who talks. Shrewd is he who gains without giving.” Immersed in these thoughts, the silent mandarin could only nod his head to a remark of the mandarin Sho, that life was a business of profit and loss, and the best speculations were always practical. What man can foretell his fate? The frank and candid Sho, whose manners concealed his purpose, lost his head for speculating with the king's money. The secret Bo, through his love of silence, forgot to send his kinsman Bang a physician who would have saved his life, and so was disinherited, and died a beggar.
The thinkers of Lo-Tea, having taken the measure of these and other events subsequent to the great dialogue of the Dragon's Bower, could not avoid the boast that their humble philosophy was better than a proud one; whereupon the infuriated statesman Kung sent a number of them into exile.
When the old philosopher of Chow heard of these sayings and doings, he murmured: “Half-truths are contradicted, whole truths are verified. There is no courage without right fear; no good silence without true speech; no aspiration without reverence; no dignity without humility; no good without affection; and philosophy has no room for a cold heart and a vain mind. But life is not contradicted, though lives are slain. Tau reigns.”
O sages! how by thinking shall ye add a foot to your stature? And how shall it avail ye when a brick, as it were, dropped down by a tornado centre-wise, so to speak, on a shaven head, shall fracture your systems of philosophy? What withstands the accidents of fate save the divine Truth, which is no accident?