The Rigi.
The Golden Lion of Weggis can scarcely be said to resemble its now famed namesake of Granpère. It shows neither coach-house, stable, farmyard, nor bustling village life around it, and yet there is the one point of a certain homeliness in common which suggests that it too may have seen many a simple romance acted out beneath its roof, and have had its share in many a life's heart-story. It is difficult to imagine sentiment of any kind in connection with the monster hotels, or rather caravansaries, of modern Switzerland. But this is a true inn, in the olden acceptation of the word; modest and sedate enough to feel elated at the arrival of new guests, who are welcomed by the landlord himself, and instinctively made to understand that he will personally see to their comfort and proper attendance. At first sight it appears to be overshadowed by a new and larger neighbor; but the Golden Lion does not care, for he enjoys the advantage of mature age and well-established fame, and justly prides himself on his old customers, whose constancy is a good tribute to his honesty and civility. Some who knew him in the quieter times of Rigi history still come and spend two or three days here when going to, or returning from, the mountain, and it was one of these faithful friends who had recommended us to choose it in preference to the larger establishment of more modern date. Truly, no spot seems more suitable for a romance. Situated on the lake, surrounded by the most lovely views of land and water, removed from the rush and bustle which somewhat jar on the sentimental traveller at Vitznau, and even at Gersau, still with the pleasant splash of the steamers as they halt alongside the shady pier, only making just sufficient noise to remind him that, though not of the world, he can still be in it whenever, or fly whithersoever, his fancy may impel him. Yes; every steamer, backwards and forwards, stops at Weggis, though generally merely to drop a stray traveller—a man with alpenstock and knapsack, or two ladies with their waterproofs neatly strapped across their shoulders, thereby betraying their recent arrival from “fatherland beyond the Rhine.” And every one walks leisurely and with consequent dignity on shore, as though life and plenty of time to enjoy it in were still at their command. No feverish train is in the background; indeed, it cannot be even seen on the mountain sky-line from Weggis, so that strangers may pause and dine at ease up-stairs in the clean, airy table-d'hôte room of the Golden Lion, sip their coffee on its wide balcony facing the Uri-Rothstock and Rigi-Nasen, or lunch à la carte in the leafy arbor of the garden, which is more trim and inviting than its counterpart at Granpère.
It was overpoweringly hot when we landed from the Helvetia, the sun bearing down with that full force which so often follows a heavy shower; and the leafy arbor [pg 389] in question irresistibly attracted us by its deep shade and cool, refreshing shelter. Here we resolved to dine, in order to strengthen the “inner being” and let the noonday hours of heat glide by before attempting the ascent to Kaltbad, which promised to be a matter of two and a half hours at the least. The landlord was loud in praise of his horses and men—“well known before that Vitznau railway existed,” he said in a tone rather contemptuous of such an upstart. “The price of each only six francs to Kaltbad, fixed according to the tariff.” And here an ejaculation in praise of this tariff system, penetrating even to the heart of the mountain, may perhaps be allowed to us. None but those who have benefited by it can understand the advantage of being able thus to calculate beforehand the expense of every excursion, nor the unspeakable comfort it brings when, on reaching the hotel at night, tired and sleepy, you know that the guide cannot cheat you, and he feels you cannot cheat him. No one thing contributes more to ensure peace or conduces to happy wanderings. Nor does any man more surely “deserve well of his country” than that Swiss, whoever he may have been, who first proposed this arrangement; and after him we must be grateful to those authorities who have so well carried it out. The dinner was the next matter for consultation between Mr. C—— and mine host, which ultimately ended in the latter promising to do his best, and to have it ready in three-quarters of an hour or thereabouts.
Besides the arbor, the Golden Lion boasts of a tea-house and a swimming or bath house projecting into the lake, and also many a well-placed seat inviting to a most enjoyable dolce far niente close by the pellucid waters, without sound to disturb poetic musings; bright coloring and full foliage forming a framework to the exquisite landscape which extends beyond. Nothing could be more romantic, rural, or tranquillizing to soul and body; but before long, prompted by my “natural female curiosity,” as Mr. C—— ungallantly styled it, I proposed a saunter through the village. “There is nothing whatever to see,” he retorted. Still, with much good-nature, he immediately offered to accompany his wife and me in our rambles. It certainly was true in the ordinary sense of the term. There was nothing very remarkable to behold; still, the Swiss villages are always pleasant to look at, especially in these forest cantons, and of this class Weggis is an excellent specimen. It has probably seen its palmiest days, and is at present thrust aside by the hitherto despised sister, Vitznau, now in the spring-tide of her charms, who seems to toss her head at her elderly and passée rival with the conceit of young life and energy. Yet there no signs of decay. Far from it. It has a steady, old-fashioned commune life of its own, quite independent of the tourist element, which only comes in—very opportunely, no doubt—to help it on its way. As at Gersau and many of these places, the population is much smaller than appearances warrant, owing chiefly to the substantial size of the houses and the straggling, independent manner in which they are placed. Sometimes a dwelling stands endwise or sidewise to the road, just as the whim of the ancestral great-great-grand-father who built it centuries ago dictated. The walls are now mantled [pg 390] with vines, bright blue eyes peep through casements embosomed in leaves, gardens of glowing sun-flowers and fig-trees laden with fruit surround the cottages, while here and there a noble Spanish chestnut throws its deep shade on all around. The street-road was almost deserted as we passed along, on account of the strong sun; but many buxom, pleasant-faced matrons sat working at their doors, while chubby children played beneath the trees hard by. Though innocent of manufactories, and far more rural in its general aspect and atmosphere than Gersau, the whole place breathes of prosperity and comfort. It gives the impression, too, of greater space; for it is not shut in on all sides, and the open slopes extend much further back before they reach the precipitous mountain-side.
And in accordance with this character is the church, which stands on a slight eminence at the end of the village. The cemetery too, though large and thoroughly well cared for, is more simple, and has none of those pretty monuments that lend such poetry and beauty to the Camenzind-Küttel resting-place. But, if not, it possesses a very handsome stone crucifix in one angle—evidently a recent erection, and of which Weggis may well be proud—with the following inscriptions on the base: “Praise be to Jesus Christ in all eternity”; on the front facing the entrance: “See, is there any sorrow like unto my sorrow?” and “In the cross is salvation and benediction” on either side; whilst on the back, close to the Mortuary Chapel, the words run thus: “Gentle Jesus, grant eternal rest to all departed souls.” The children's quarter, too, was remarkable for its fresh flowers and superabundance of white ribbon; but not until quite near did we notice a poor disconsolate mother decorating the grave of her child—her little engel, or angel, as they are so often styled on the tiny headstones or crosses. She did not mind the sun, nor our presence either, but went on with her work, while large tears rolled unchecked down her cheeks. And this part is in a striking spot, right under the northern angle of the Rigi, the straight rocks of which rise perpendicularly from a green slope of pasture-land behind the village church, covered with large boulders and débris that seem to corroborate all the stories of land-slips and stone-rolling so common in this region. Standing here, it was easy to understand the most noted of these events—the mud-slide of 1795, which threatened Weggis with destruction. Thirty-one houses and eighty acres of land were buried beneath the creeping mass. It occurred, like the fall of the Rossberg, after a peculiarly rainy season. Though the story says that the slide was preceded by ominous symptoms, the earth so much resembles rich garden-mould, and looks so loose and friable, that, recollecting yesterday's rain, it made me quite nervous to look at it. Had I stayed gazing upwards much longer, I felt that I would certainly have fancied it was beginning to move downwards. “What an idea!” exclaimed Mr. C——, laughing—“the effect of nerves and sun combined! The church-door is open, and the sanctuary lamp burning; so it would be much wiser and better for you to enter in!” Saying which, he preceded me into the sacred building.
Large, clean, and simple, as a rural church should be, it had three [pg 391] distinguishing points: first, an altar dedicated to S. Justus, one of the patron saints of Weggis, who was an archbishop of Lyons in the first centuries of its Christianity, thus affording, as in the case of S. Leodegar, another proof of the early ecclesiastical connection between Switzerland and the Frank Empire. Next, a large processional banner placed near the altar, and composed simply of the national standard—the beautiful white cross on the red ground—whose position in this spot it puzzled us to explain. Lastly, the model of a boat suspended from the ceiling, with two sailors rowing, whilst a bishop in full canonicals stood erect in the stern, in the act of giving them his benediction. It looked like an ex-voto, but our communicative landlord later informed us that it was the emblem of the Guild of S. Nicholas, “patron of all who navigate upon the lake.” Every Weggis man who has anything to do with the water belongs to the confraternity. Before steamers existed they numbered many hundreds, and, though of late the village occupations have been turned into other channels, the numbers are still numerous enough; for boats and smaller craft are even now much used on the lake. The confraternity is still full of life and vigor. The Feast of S. Nicholas is religiously kept in the village. The members of the Guild often assemble, but on that day they go in a body to church, accompanied by their wives and families, to offer thanks for the past and implore protection for the coming year.
Who shall describe our charming little dinner in the deep-shaded arbor, with the glowing sun-color lighting up the mountains, seen through its leaf-framed openings? Such a clean Kellnerinn waited upon us, and the Gastherr himself all smiles and conversation! The beautiful trout too, “fresh from the Muotta-Thal, just brought by the steamer from Brunnen.” The Muotta valley!
“But what's in a name?” said Mrs. C——.
“A great deal more than we acknowledge,” I answered.
This one struck again the chord of Schwytz and the “Urschweiz” in our minds, but perhaps much more that of Soovorof and the hard fighting on the surrounding crags of the Muotta between his Russians and the French. Mr. C—— knew the locality, and waxed eloquent on the subject, until interrupted by an army of—wasps! attracted by some delicious cream with which our landlord wound up the dinner. It became a regular battle, and a doubtful one at first, waged in self-defence. “Never had there been such a year for wasps,” said our host, slaying a couple so dexterously with his napkin that it betrayed considerable practice in the art. “But it had altogether been a prosperous season”—two more knocked down by Mrs. C——. “So no one had a right to complain”—three or four more timidly but effectually killed by Mrs. C—— and myself. “The villagers had made a great deal of money by their fruit and flowers carried up the mountain by their children,” he continued; until at last, counting our victims by tens and twenties during this running dialogue, we were left in peaceful possession of the scene, and ready to hear wonderful reports of Weggis prosperity. The Golden Lion evidently would have been pleased to keep us longer, but the horses were waiting and the afternoon advancing; so, despite the attractions—minus the [pg 392] wasps—we were obliged to depart.
Our path led at first up behind the hotel, through lanes, and meadows enamelled with wild flowers, and dotted here and there with picturesque cottages under magnificent chestnuts and walnut-trees. The whole of this portion is on the site of the former land-slip, now the richest and most highly-cultivated district of the mountain. On every side the views were enchanting; Mount Pilatus standing forth in all his grandeur just opposite, displaying folds and tracts of pasture-ground we had not attributed to his rugged form. Lost in admiration, we rode on in comparative silence, until we halted, to refresh the men and horses, at a café under a splendid tree, and soon after reached a chapel sheltered by a rock, called in our hand-book the Heiligenkreuz, or Church of the Holy Cross. “The beginning of the Stations to Kaltbad,” said my guide, a dark-eyed, refined-looking man, who had spoken but little hitherto. “Stations to the Wallfahrtort, or place of pilgrimage at Kaltbad,” he repeated, noticing my perplexed countenance. “Kaltbad is a Gnadenort, or ‘place of grace,’ to us, madam,” he continued, “although you perhaps only know it as a Curort.” And such was the sober truth. I had never heard it spoken of as anything but a huge hotel with salubrious air. So now I entered into conversation with my guide, and found that he constantly made the Stations, in common with all the Weggis population, up this rugged ascent, until they reach the church at Kaltbad. “Would I not go to see the church?” he asked. “It was indeed a Gnadenort. But the feast of the year I could not see, for it takes place in the middle of May, just before the flocks are sent up to the summer pastures. Then there is a procession up the mountain, with the banner we had noticed in the parish church—the white cross on the red ground.”
So here was the explanation of its place of honor inside the sanctuary—one more reason why the Weggis folks should hold it dear and we strangers regard it with reverence. Nay more: should we not love and cherish a flag which not only symbolizes, but is practically used by, a modern free people in connection with their highest and noblest feelings? “In this procession, headed by the priest,” my informant continued, “we, the people, make the Stations with hymns and prayers as we go up, and, after first visiting the Kaltbad church, all ends by the priest blessing the pastures on all sides before the cattle are permitted to be brought up to them for the summer season.” The higher we ascended, the steeper became the road under a straight face of rock, and we could readily fancy how picturesque, even from an artist's point of view, such a procession must be, headed by the red flag, winding its way up this rugged mountain-road; but, combined with the spirit and faith which animate it, it is impossible to conceive anything more beautiful.
This peasant was a native of Weggis, and soon grew communicative. “Oh! yes, he had often been to Einsiedeln; every one in that country had many, many times made the pilgrimage there.” And in fervent language he described the place to me. He had also been to Tell's Chapel often, but not yet to Tell's Platform. That was the great object of his ambition, what he most wished to accomplish, with a visit to Sachslen to see “Bruder [pg 393] Klaus,” as so many of his neighbors had done; but another year should not pass without his carrying out his intentions. Amidst conversation of this kind we climbed up the straight wall of rock, which seemed to have no issue, until suddenly we reached a curious group called the Felsenthor, composed of large fragments fallen from above exactly in the semblance of a “rocky gate,” as the name implies, and whence the view is magnificent.
The afternoon was lovely. At each turn one snowy peak after another had been coming into view. The air, though warm, was fresher and brisker than at Weggis, while the vegetation had sensibly changed from the luxuriant chestnuts to the pines and fir-trees of the Alpine heights. Nothing could be more poetic and tranquil than our half-hour's repose at this beautiful point, noticing the approach of sunset-tints on the mountain-wall just opposite which overhangs Vitznau; watching the pretty steamers looking like dragon-flies hovering over the lake two thousand feet below; and then reflecting on the faith and piety of our humble attendants, which shed a vivifying atmosphere over the whole scene. Our minds were still full of these thoughts as we set forth again for our last ascent to Kaltbad, about three-quarters of an hour distant, through a pretty dell of fallen rocks and fresh verdure. We had quite forgotten the existence of the railway or its feverish life, when all at once a turn in the road gave a rude shock to our peaceful meditations. There were the trains laboring up a barren, steep hill beside us—one that would be too steep for any horse without three or four zigzag turns and windings. Three separate trains were coming up at certain distances in succession, the engines puffing and snorting, panting and laboring, in the effort to push the one carriage before each, as though the struggle were too much for their fast-failing strength. It made one tremble to watch them, and it seemed impossible to comprehend how the passengers looked so quiet and unconcerned. How Mrs. C—— and I congratulated ourselves on having kept old-fashioned ways and despised “progress,” at least for once in our travels! And when I also thought of the varied charms of our ride, and all that I had seen of the population and their ways, I felt that no one who rushes through a country at high-pressure railway speed can ever hope to understand its people half as well as those who come into closer contact with them.
Before we had time to recover from the impressions of the railway, Kaltbad itself appeared in sight, high above our heads, like a green-jalousied monster of some German watering-place lifted bodily up from the depths below. Anything more unpoetic than its first view is not to be found; though it must at once be admitted that first impressions are not to be trusted in this particular case. It was a cruel shock, however, to our visions of pious pilgrimages and processions; a return to the prose of life we had never contemplated at four thousand four hundred and thirty-nine feet above the level of the sea.
Our young friends were anxiously awaiting us on the long terrace in front of the hotel with such sensational accounts of their railway journey as might well have obliterated all remembrance of the Wallfahrtort, or “place of pilgrimage,” but for the parting reminder of my guide, that “the church was behind [pg 394] the house, and he hoped I would be sure to see it.” But the C——s' only thought now was of the sunset about to take place, and they hurried us off, without a moment's delay, to a beautiful spot, called the Käuzli, ten minutes' distance from the hotel. Certainly no view could be more glorious! Before us spread half the northern portion of Switzerland—Mount Pilatus right opposite, Lucerne at our feet, Sempach, the great lake, just beyond, bathed in a flood of crimson, as though in harmony with its memories, and bringing back to our minds at one glance Arnold von Winkelried and all the grand history related to us so recently by Herr H——. The seven great peaks of the Oberland, including the Wetterhorn, Monk, and Eiger, towered above the clouds to our right, while the summits on the south, half facing the sunset, were lit up by the same kaleidoscopic coloring that we had witnessed on the first evening of our arrival at Lucerne. Spell-bound by this fairy-like scene, we lingered here till nearly dark, and it seemingly became too late to seek out the little church. But young C—— had discovered it that afternoon, and led me by an intricate back pathway to its very door. Even at that late hour it was open, the lamp burning before the altar, and many figures could be distinguished devoutly praying in the twilight. These, as I afterwards learned, were servants of the hotel—the laundresses, bath-women, and porters, who came to pay their visit to the Blessed Sacrament before retiring to rest after their busy day's work. Mass was celebrated every morning at half-past seven o'clock, they said. My own devotions over, I was again led back to the hotel, where the brilliantly-lighted rooms and crowd of fashionably-dressed ladies—although the material comforts are by no means to be despised—were still in harsh discord with our ideas of mountain life.
Next morning, as if we had been in the plain, the church-bell tolled at the stated hour, and found us ready to sally forth in answer to its call. In the hotel all was bustle and clatter; but what wonder? Three hundred guests and upwards have, on an average, to be provided for daily during the season. In the middle of July four hundred and twenty were at one time under this roof, but, happily for us, the numbers had now sensibly decreased. No church, however, was visible, and it was only on inquiry that I found a pathway in the rear of the house leading behind two rocks—a true Felsenthor, or “rocky gate,” they made—hiding away their little treasure. Once past them, there stood the church, with the sun shining on its roof, small and simple, but perfect in all its proportions, nestling amongst the encircling crags and overhanging trees, from amidst which, opposite the door, trickled a stream of the clearest water. Mass had just commenced at the centre altar, over which stood a statue of the Blessed Virgin and Child, surrounded by a garland of flowers, and two bouquets were laid, evidently as a pious offering, on the two side altars, which were also adorned by excellent paintings. A handsome silver lamp hung in the sanctuary, and there was a confessional, besides benches capable of accommodating a couple of hundred people, all neatly painted and very clean. To-day the congregation was small, for the servants could not be spared, we were told, at that hour from their work, and [pg 395] there were few Catholic visitors in the house; but we noticed that the clerk rang the church-bell at the Gospel and the Elevation, so that the shepherds and others scattered about on the mountain might join their intention with the priest at the altar. Nothing could exceed the quiet of the spot. It might have been miles away from the noisy world hard by, no sound audible but the trickling of the stream outside, heard through the open door, and enhancing the deep tranquillity of the scene. A most perfect haven of rest it made for weary souls or pious pilgrims, and a worthy aim, with the constant presence of the Blessed Sacrament, for any procession toiling up the precipitous mountain-side. When Mass was over, we lingered awhile, and, looking round, a large, illuminated tablet caught our attention. What was our delight to find it gave the whole history of the place in the following words:
“Kaltbad on the Rigi.
“Amongst the venerated spots which the goodness of God seems to have especially chosen for the distribution of rich spiritual and temporal gifts, Kaltbad on the Rigi has for centuries enjoyed a well-founded reputation. The natural operation of the remarkably cold water has in itself given life and health to thousands. But far more effect has been produced by trustful prayers, joined with the contrite and devout reception of the holy sacraments, and aided by the powerful intercession of the pure Virgin-Mother of God and of other saints. Remarkable and often perfectly miraculous cures of countless Christians, in the most different circumstances of body and soul, have here taken place, which have partly been recorded in writing, and partly live on in grateful remembrance.
“In former times this place was called the ‘Schwesterborn,’ or ‘Spring of the Sisters’; for the legend relates that in the reign of the Emperor Albert of Austria—in the beginning of the XIVth century—three pious sisters retired to this wilderness in order to escape from powerful governors, or Vogts, and here led holy and saintly lives. The first miraculous cure on record is that of a devout Landsassen of Weggis, named Balthasar Tolen, in the year 1540. From year to year the reputation of this spring increased. In the year 1585, on the 20th of May, the first small chapel was consecrated in honor of God, of the holy Archangel Michael and the other angels, and of the holy shepherd Wendelin, by Balthasar, Bishop of Ascalon. It proved, however, insufficient for the number of Alpine inhabitants and pilgrims. Even after those belonging to the canton Schwytz built themselves a chapel, a hundred years later, at Mary in the Snow, or ‘Maria zum Schnee,’ the want of a larger church was still felt. The present one, with three altars, the middle one of which possesses the image of the ever Blessed Mother of God, and the two side ones the pictures of the holy martyr S. Lawrence and the father of the church, S. Jerome, was built in the year 1779, and considerably renovated in the year 1861, when the two new side altars and their paintings by Theodore von Deschwanden were added.
“On the 20th of July, 1782, His Holiness Pius VI. granted a plenary indulgence to all the faithful, on any day whatsoever, on the condition that after approaching the holy sacraments of Confession and Communion, with contrite and worthy dispositions, they here devoutly pray for the union of all Christian princes, the extirpation of heresy, and the increase of the Holy Catholic Church—an indulgence which can be applied to the souls in purgatory.
“In order to afford the opportunity of assisting at divine service on Sundays and holidays to the shepherds as well as to the pilgrims, and also of approaching the holy sacraments, a special priest is here appointed during the whole summer season.”
So here again, even here, the Austrians and imperial Vogts were at the root of all things—in this instance, however, and unconsciously, the source of good to many poor sufferers; for numberless ex-votos filling the end of the little church eloquently told that it had proved [pg 396] to them a true “place of grace,” as my guide of yesterday had so beautifully called it. And the little stream outside was the real “Kaltbad,” whose wonder-working effects had first given the place its name. Quaint and rude were all the paintings, but full of life and feeling, mostly from the neighborhood—from Weggis, Vitznau, and Gersau. Yes, there was a man in a boat in danger on the lake, just as we had seen from the Gersau hotel two evenings ago; but this one is praying fervently with clasped hands, and we longed to know if those who were saved the other day had done likewise.
Then here is a family of boys and girls kneeling in rows, the father and mother behind, all with their pink, and blue, and green rosaries twined round their hands, in the selfsame manner that the Gersau children had theirs during Mass! Above, a child of two years old, kneeling beside its mother, has a rosary hanging on its arm; quaint little things in caps like those of their elders, or infants tied on pillows with quantities of red bows. Red was so much the prevailing color that it seemed as if it must have some reference to their beloved national flag. And then there were small waxen hearts, and ears, and a wooden hand with a fearful gash, the offering, no doubt, of a grateful wood-cutter. Some of these are upwards of a hundred or a hundred and fifty years old, with inscriptions in the native dialect, full of pathos and local color. But most striking of all is a large painting of the very wall of rock up which we had climbed from Weggis yesterday, bearing the following simple-worded inscription:
“Be it known to all, that by the breaking up of the dangerous Rigirocks on the Weggis mountain some of the inhabitants were threatened with the complete destruction of all their possessions. In this extremity and distress they turned to heaven, and, with firm confidence in the gracious Mother of all the angels, they here sought and found help; for instantly the loosening of the rocks ceased, and all became quiet again. Therefore, as a perpetual memorial of praise and thanksgiving to God and the Mother of Mercy, they have consecrated and hung up this tablet, anno 1753.”
This was clearly forty-two years before the fatal mud-slide which destroyed so much, and it would be most interesting to know whether the later victims turned hitherward for succor; but of this no record exists in the church. In the above painting the Blessed Mother, holding the divine Infant in her arms, is represented standing in the centre of the rock-wall, with S. Michael on one side and S. Lawrence on the other, just as if they had been visible. Had we only beheld this tablet before, with what different eyes should we have looked at this face of rock yesterday from the cemetery below, as also during our ascent! And what proof such a picture and inscription give of the strong faith of the Weggis population in the unseen world under whose blessed protection they live in peace and confidence! Whilst we tarried, peasant after peasant came in. One, an old woman, took out her rosary, and told her beads leisurely; another, younger and busier, laid down her basket, prayed for a few minutes with recollection, and then went on to her work; but what most struck us was a little girl of about twelve, who also had her basket, full of fruit and flowers, and had [pg 397] been there before we arrived for Mass. She waited until we left, and then evidently thought that we had finally departed. Unexpectedly, however, I returned to look at the tablet again, and I beheld the little maiden in the act of dropping some money into the poor box, blushing modestly when her eyes caught mine. I asked, and found that she was a Weggis child—one of the number that climb the mountain like antelopes up to this hotel daily to sell their “fresh figs,” “peaches,” and “flowers”—for they offer them in good English—the majority of whom first pay their visit to the Blessed Sacrament in this church, and leave some little offering for themselves or their parents. She was a blue-eyed, intelligent girl—one who had made her first communion two years previously, and approached the Holy Sacrament manchmal—many times, she said, during the course of the year.
As time went on, experience taught us that the children of the Rigi are one of its most distinctive characteristics. Intelligent, bright-countenanced, and yet modest, they are the most attractive race of juveniles to be met with in Switzerland, and, as yet, are unspoiled by contact with the stranger crowd. They form the most remarkable contrast to those of the Bernese Oberland, where the grandeur of Grindelwald and other spots is so much marred by the swarms of sickly beggar-children that there flock round one from all quarters. Here, on the contrary, they are brimful of health and intelligence, and never once during all our wanderings in the forest cantons did a beggar, old or young, ever cross our path. So much for the popular fallacy, or rather calumny, which says that prosperity, comfort, and thrift are alone to be found in the Protestant cantons, and that beggary, want, and uncleanliness mark the entrance into the Catholic districts. Like many such sayings, it does not bear investigation; but when even the most just-minded start on their travels with prejudiced minds, it is astonishing how readily they accept the opinions of men whose want of observation they despise at home. Above all, should the question be anything concerning Catholicity, their wilful blindness surpasses all belief. Some exceptions to this rule there certainly are, increasing, too, each year, like the celebrated Dr. Arnold, for instance, who frankly admitted that he had found nothing in Switzerland to justify such a verdict being passed on its Catholic population, and was generous enough to acknowledge this.
Nor are the children who cover the Rigi, selling fruit and flowers, idlers in any way. The law requires their attendance at school up to the age of eight all the year round, but from eight to twelve only during the winter months. This arrangement has been made in order that they may accompany their parents to the upland châlets, or, as often happens, mind the cattle alone on the higher pastures. A most interesting class they are, and one must ardently pray that nothing may ever change or modernize them, according to the present ideas of so-called “civilization”!
For several days we took up our abode at Kaltbad, and never had cause for one moment's regret. The hotel is in itself a marvel of material comfort and luxury at such an altitude; the air brisk, invigorating, and yet balmy, and the views simply lovely. Who can forget the terrace facing the Uri-Rothstock, [pg 398] Tittlis, and many another peak and pass, and overhanging Vitznau, whence we could even distinguish my favorite red standard floating over its hotel, as the steamers came and went to Lucerne or Fluelen, and the light smoke of the engines told that the trains were creeping up towards us? Sometimes, it is true, the lake and all below were hidden by the clouds that settled in thick masses over the water or floated beneath us in light, vapory forms, while the heights and summits opposite shone, like Kaltbad, in brilliant sunlight; making us more fully realize the great elevation we were inhabiting in such tranquillity.
Then, the mornings spent in the “Wilderness,” which is represented nowadays by fir-trees, descendants of those the three sisters knew, but at present embedded in velvety turf on the hillside, with seats and tables carefully placed at the best points of view! And the dear little church to turn into at all times and hours, with the lamp ever burning, and never quite empty! The afternoons we devoted to longer excursions, ascents and descents in all directions. That to the Kulm, or Summit, was made by rail, despite its terrors and perils. The young people insisted on our making the experiment, but they could not succeed in persuading us elders to return, except on foot! The Kaltbad world seems to go through the ordeal unconcernedly; but nervous and uncomfortable work it must always be, no matter how custom may familiarize them with it. One spot especially is most alarming, where the precipice seems to go straight down from the railroad to the plain many thousand feet below. As a matter of course, the sunset at the Kulm is the great event on the Rigi—one, however, which altogether depends upon the weather. We were most fortunate in catching a clear atmosphere, and consequently distinct horizon. Then, sleeping at the large hotel at the top, we included the famed sunrise in the same excursion. Oh! for the pen of poet to describe either of these sights properly. They are among those grand scenes which nature holds so completely in her own keeping that no rush of commonplace humanity can ever lower or vulgarize them. Crowds from all countries were present, yet we saw nothing save the glorious panorama before us—the sun sinking grandly behind the Jura Mountains in the west, or rising majestically from behind the Sentis far away in Appenzell, after having first heralded his approach by coloring with the light touch of “rosy-fingered morn” the Finster-Aarhorn, Wetterhorn, Monk, and Jungfrau, as they stand in gradual succession, facing the east, in the Bernese Oberland.
Here, too, were all the scenes of that famous Swiss history which we had been studying within the last few days—the town of Schwytz in the Urschweiz, bright and cheerful on its fresh, green meadows; Lomerz, where Stauffacher commenced the great revolution; the small lake of Egeri, the site of the battle of Morgarten; Kappel, on this side of the Zurich line of hills—the Albis—with its monument to Zwingle, who was killed here in battle against the Schwytzers; Königsfelden, further north, the scene of Albrecht's murder, and, later, the site of the sanguinary Agnes' convent; Küssnacht at our feet, with Tell's Chapel close by, the object of my guide's pilgrimages, and where the fatal arrow is said to have entered Gessler's heart; the [pg 399] Lake of Sempach, and Lucerne towards the northwest—every spot, in short, hallowed by some memory sacred to Swiss patriotism or piety.
A circumference of three hundred miles is said to be included in this panorama, dotted here and there with thirteen lakes, distinguishable in clear weather. But it needs a mountaineer's eye to detect this number, for, though they certainly do exist, as proved by the map, even the youthful sight of George C—— and his sister failed to count more than eleven. The other two had “to be taken on trust,” on the word of the guides, who declared that particular gleams of sunlight rested on distant waters. But it is not the number of lakes or the extent of view which gives such renown to this favorite spot. It is the grand poetry of its nature, the interest of its associations, and that great, indescribable influence which the poet addresses as
“Spirit of Beauty, that dost consecrate
With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon.”
Amongst the pleasantest of many pleasant memories, that of Sunday at Kaltbad stands forth pre-eminent. The weather was brilliant, and high and low appeared in corresponding costume. It cannot be said that in the hotel proper the day was altogether sanctified or edifying; for, except the Catholics, the English Protestants, and a rare few others, the foreigners show little outward sign of remembering the day. Indeed, one lady ingenuously confessed her surprise that we should be so careful about attending church, considering that she never thought of it whilst “taking the waters,” as she liked to fancy she was doing at Kaltbad. “Who did?” she asked; and certainly it looked as if the majority were of her way of thinking. Not the peasants, however, and let us hope that their example may yet influence the strangers. Alas! alas! how one trembles, lest the reverse may be the result of this inroad of “civilized” multitudes to their midst! But so far no harm seems to have come of the contact. As the hour for Mass drew near, men and women were to be seen coming from various points, and when we reached the church it was so full that a large overflow of the congregation had taken up their position in the little porch outside. It seemed as though the history of the past century would repeat itself over again; that a new church would become necessary, and another new tablet be put up, telling future generations that the present one had “proved insufficient for the number of Alpine inhabitants and pilgrims.” No sight could be prettier, considering the locality, the bright sun, and all these people in their Sunday dress. In the latter particular, however, one peculiarity had a singular effect, namely, that on the Rigi “full dress” for the men seems to consist in the absence of their outer coats, and the Sunday distinction is shown only by the snow-white linen of their shirt-sleeves and collars. All had their alpenstocks and their prayer-books, which they read devoutly during the whole time. Anna and I also remained outside, as there was no room within; but we heard every word distinctly, and could see the altar through the open door and windows. The service began by an oblation of the Mass and the Acts of Faith, Hope, and Charity in German, in the very manner and words used in so many other countries, but notably in all the churches of Ireland. This was followed by a good sermon, in which the preacher chiefly urged the necessity [pg 400] of “keeping holy the Sabbath day,” of living in peace and concord, but likewise of holding fast to the principles of religion, “like their forefathers of old,” of whose virtues and steadfastness he spoke in glowing language. It was the first sermon we had had an opportunity of listening to in these parts, and it was very curious to hear, even in a small out-of-the-way place of this kind, such allusions thus brought in as a matter of course, and so thoroughly in accordance with Herr H——'s predictions. At its termination we were surprised to see half a dozen of the hotel guests rise and leave; but these, we later learnt, were Lutherans, who, having no chaplain of their own, find no difficulty in coming to the preliminary part of the Catholic service, though they consider it their duty to leave before Mass commences. It was a curious instance of liberalism, and of the little essential antagonism German Protestants entertain towards the Catholic Church. At the end of Mass a prayer was said in German in honor of the Five Sacred Wounds, joined in by all, after which the congregation dispersed, some to the front of the hotel, and others in various directions. On these days alone a few picturesque costumes appear, but they are generally from other parts, as the Rigi boasts of nothing special of this kind. To-day two women in bright bodices covered by silver buttons and crosses, and with silvered head-dresses, enlivened the group of women—relations of the clerk coming, they said, to visit this spot from Bürglen, a long distance on the other side of the lake, and beyond Sachslen, the sanctuary of “Bruder Klaus.”
Not wishing to disturb our Anglican friends, who were singing hymns and performing their service in one of the drawing-rooms of the house, Anna and I sauntered past the “Wilderness,” until we reached the Käuzli. The atmosphere was most clear, and the landscape so enchanting that a rest here seemed a fitting and heavenly portion of our morning worship. Weggis lay below; its church and the children's corner, where I had stood lately gazing upwards in this direction, were at our feet, and Lucerne, with its girdle of battlemented walls at the upper end of the lake, further north, its houses and boats distinctly visible in the transparent atmosphere. The peasants could be seen here and there returning to their gray-roofed châlets, but, save the tinkling bells of the light-limbed cattle browsing in our neighborhood, no sound broke the perfect stillness of the scene. All at once the peal of Lucerne Cathedral came booming to us across the waters! It was eleven o'clock, which in those cantons is the Angelus hour, and in a moment the deep-toned bell of Weggis sent its sound up to our very resting-place. Then swiftly the echo was caught up by the churches of all the numberless pretty villages that here cover the land, until the whole country seemed to sound as with but one note. A more thrilling instance of faith and practice it were impossible to imagine, and, looking down at such a moment at this fruitful, prosperous district, one felt as if our Lord had already heard its prayers, and in his mercy blessed it.
Our afternoon walk was this day directed to the other Rigi sanctuary, “Maria zum Schnee,” or Mary of the Snow, the same mentioned in the Kaltbad tablet, and which, from Wordsworth's beautiful poem, has obtained a more world-wide [pg 401] name than its pretty neighbor; though in the locality itself no difference in celebrity is admitted between the two. The only striking distinction is that whilst Kaltbad has but the one simple appellation, “Mary of the Snow” rejoices in a pet name, by which it is more generally known on the Rigi, where Klösterli, or “the little convent,” is its familiar and every-day title. It lies deep in a southern fold of the mountain, unseen from Kaltbad, but only a couple of miles distant; so that it is a favorite walk with those visitors whose strength is unequal to the longer excursions. This year the charms of the mountain-road have been sadly interfered with by the blasting of rocks necessary to the making of the railway branch to the Scheideck, and another line up from Arth to the Staffel, besides the building of an additional hotel, all which modern material improvements make one look forward with trepidation to their future effect on the old inhabitants. In a few years more these heights will be one vast mountain-city—a new phase of life, which may have its own poetic side, it is true, and bring health and advantage to humanity in general, but which, during two or three months of the year, so completely changes the old character of the beautiful mountain that its friends of twenty and thirty years' standing say they can no longer recognize its former simplicity. Hence our musings were somewhat melancholy, as we wandered on above the new railway-line, until, from a bend in the hill, we unexpectedly came in sight of a completely new scene, the curious Mythen rocks rising above Schwytz, in the distance, and Klösterli itself lying peacefully below us, as if sheltered from all harm in a dell beneath the Kulm! It seemed a spot exactly made for snow, and one could almost fancy it buried at times under the soft embrace of some snow-white drift. Whether the name first came from this circumstance of its position, or from its connection with the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore at Rome, we had no opportunity of ascertaining; but, whatever the cause, the name and connection seemed most appropriate. Certain it is that the painting which is the chief ornament of S. Maria zum Schnee is a copy of the one at the great basilica, and, moreover, that the church at Klösterli has been, as is fitting, affiliated to the one in Rome. The festival is kept on the same day, the 5th of August, and the Rigi church was consecrated by a Papal Nuncio in 1700, and endowed since then with many privileges by Pope Clement XII., so that the link in interest and connection has never been wanting. Mr. C—— knew all the particulars, and as we descended the steep pathway to Klösterli he recalled to us the beautiful tradition about the foundation of Santa Maria Maggiore. He reminded us how a Roman senator and his wife having been converted to Christianity, the latter had a dream which made her believe they ought to build a church in honor of the Blessed Virgin. Her husband, however, dismissed the idea as a fancy of her brain, until, having had the same dream for three successive nights, his wife on the last occasion understood that she ought to choose the site which should be covered with snow on the following morning. Her husband, still unwilling, accompanied her in the search, when, not far from the house, they found the top of the Esquiline Mount completely [pg 402] covered with a fine crust of snow! This occurred on the 5th of August, and, bringing conviction to the husband's mind, he at once consented to give up his fortune for the purpose, and built on the spot the Basilica, which now covers the extent of ground marked out by the fall of snow. Another version states that it was the result of a vision which the pope, S. Liberius, and John, the patrician, had on the same night, and which was confirmed the following morning, the 5th of August, by a miraculous fall of snow, which extended over the space the church was to occupy. Certain it is that the fall of snow occurred, on this very spot too, and that the recollection of this wonderful origin is still kept alive in Rome. On the Feast of Santa Maria ad Nives, on the 5th of the hot month of August, a shower of white leaves is made to fall on the congregation attending High Mass at the great Basilica. What affiliation, therefore, could be more fitting for a mountain chapel? With renewed interest we hurried to the spot. The village consists entirely of a few inns, the convent—where live the Capuchin fathers who have care of the church—and of the church itself, much larger than that at Kaltbad, and which forms the centre of the whole place. The old character is maintained up to the present time, these inns being still most homely—very different from the luxurious abodes elsewhere on the mountain—and the convent in reality an hospice for pilgrims, which at once gives the impression of a higher aim than mere pleasure-seeking. The Capuchin fathers, who glide about with serious mien in their brown habits, add to the solemnity, further increased by the depth of the valley “making sunset,” as the sailors say, to the place long before it happens on the surrounding heights. It has nothing cheerful or peculiarly attractive to the general public, so one might hope that it would escape the contagion of a worldly spirit. This year the gloom has been added to by a dreadful accident connected with the unwelcome railway, and one heard of little else on the spot. A young lady who was sitting with her father outside the Sonne Hotel, writing at one of the small tables, was suddenly struck by a large stone, thrown by the blasting of a rock close by, and died in less than half an hour. She was to have gone away from Klösterli on the previous day with the rest of her family, but had remained a while longer merely to take care of him. His grief, consequently, was overwhelming. It was a melancholy inauguration of the “iron road,” and for the moment made a deep impression on all concerned. But it is much to be dreaded that it will not be a lasting one. The father, to whom we spoke, shook his head gravely, as he pointed to the railway works, expressing his fears that from a place of pilgrimage they would soon convert his dearly-loved Klösterli into a simple Curort, or, in modern parlance, a Sanatorium. He complained of its baneful influence already; for, though the peasants are thoroughly good and pious, the immense influx of tourists gives them little time for devotions during the summer season, especially in the month of August, when the church festival occurs. They, the monks, belong to the large Capuchin convent at Arth, from which two or three have been sent here at the special request of the commune, ever since the foundation, to take care of this church and attend to [pg 403] the wants of the pilgrims. But the numbers of the latter are diminishing from the above causes, and hospitality has this year been chiefly bestowed on invalid priests, who here seek change of air for weeks at a time. The procession similar to that from Weggis, which used to come up from Arth for the 5th of August, making the Stations on the way, did not take place this time. Nor had the people leisure, either, for their old games, which followed the church services as a matter of course. Sad and melancholy, he seemed fearful of this inroad of materialism and the many temptations to which the poorer classes may be exposed. The tranquillity of the spot will doubtless be ruined by the puffing engine and obtrusive railway, and we could not but rejoice doubly that the “haven of rest” at Kaltbad lies safely hidden away behind its rocks out of reach of such disturbance. But so many have been the prayers answered and hearts cured within the last two centuries by the intercession of holy “Mary of the Snow” that it is hard to believe so favored a sanctuary, though this may perhaps be a moment of transition, will be altogether swept away or lose its holy influence on so essentially pious a population. The church is crowded with ex-votos, many of them the same seen by Wordsworth in 1820, when he sang in the following strain of
“Our Lady Of The Snow.
“Meek Virgin Mother, more benign
Than fairest star upon the height
Of thy own mountain set to keep
Lone vigils thro' the hours of sleep,
What eye can look upon thy shrine
Untroubled at the sight?
“These crowded offerings, as they hang
In sign of misery relieved,
Even these, without intent of theirs,
Report of comfortless despairs,
Of many a deep and cureless pang
And confidence deceived.
“To thee, in this aërial cleft.
As to a common centre, tend
All sufferings that no longer rest
On mortal succor, all distrest
That pine of human hope bereft,
Nor wish for earthly friend.
“And hence, O Virgin Mother mild!
Though plenteous flowers around thee blow,
Not only from the dreary strife
Of winter, but the storms of life,
Thee have thy votaries aptly styled
Our Lady of the Snow.
“Even for the man who stops not here,
But down the irriguous valley hies,
Thy very name, O Lady! flings,
O'er blooming fields and gushing springs,
A holy shadow soft and dear
Of chastening sympathies!
“Nor falls that intermingling shade
To summer gladsomeness unkind;
It chastens only to requite
With gleams of fresher, purer light;
While o'er the flower-enamelled glade
More sweetly breathes the wind.
“But on!—a tempting downward way,
A verdant path, before us lies;
Clear shines the glorious sun above;
Then give free course to joy and love,
Deeming the evil of the day
Sufficient for the wise.”
In our walk hither along the brow of the hill we had talked to some pretty, bright-eyed children running about to call in their father's cattle, asking their names and other questions; but, returning the same way, all our thoughts and attention were given to the distant sound of avalanches, which the C——s declared came to us across the mountain-tops from the region of the great Oberland range. Anything more sublime it were difficult to conceive in the fading light and soft hues of the sunset twilight. We had quite forgotten the children, but they had been thinking of us, and, passing on by their châlet, little Aloysius (a fair-haired boy of three years old) was seen skipping down the green slope with a paper in his hand. It was a mysterious proceeding, especially when he came and eagerly presented it to me. But my surprise was greater on reading it to find that it consisted of prayers printed at Einsiedeln: the first teaching how to offer up one's intention with the Masses that [pg 404] are being said all over the world; another to be said when present during the offertory of the Mass; and a third, when unable to attend in person, for daily recital at home in union with the priest at the altar. The little fellow evidently prized it, as taught by his mother, and it was fortunate that I was able to promise him it should hold a place amongst my treasures, and that I would say the beautiful prayers daily, which I have never failed to do. But he could not altogether know how much happiness his act caused me, chasing away the gloomy fears of the Capuchin father, and giving bright hope that a true spirit of piety will grow up with the rising generation.