THE TITLIS FROM ENGELBERG—WINTER
suicide in prison in Rome, and his body was thrown into the Tiber, when at once a terrific, devastating storm arose. The body was therefore taken out, conveyed to Vienne, in France, and thrown into the Rhone, here again causing disturbance. It was then transferred to Lausanne, but a further repetition of its untoward behaviour caused it to be banished to the little lake upon Mount Pilatus. Here it remained benign so long as the lake was in no way interfered with. If, however, anything was thrown into the water, “the lightnings flashed, the thunder rolled, and desolation broke over the land”. The town council of Lucerne therefore felt called upon to forbid all persons to approach the Lake, and it is related how at least one wretched man was executed for disobedience. But
“by degrees the belief in the supernatural powers of the old Roman began to decay,” says J. Hardmeyer, in his little work upon this mountain, “and at last, in 1585, a certain Johannes Muller, rector of Lucerne, brought about its complete overthrow. With numerous companions he made his way to the lake on Mount Pilatus, boldly challenged the evil spirit to show his might, threw stones into the water, and made some of his people wade about in it, and behold, neither storm nor tempest followed, not a wave rose, and the skies remained as serene as before. This was the death-blow to the legend of Pontius Pilate and his evil deeds. The council of Lucerne went still further: they had the mountain lake drained off, so that nothing remained of it but a small morass, where a little water still collects after the melting of the snows, but soon disappears.”
Thus perishes Romance before the onward march of prosaic understanding!
ENGELBERG, THE LAKE, AND WILLIAM TELL
Andermatt and Engelberg are the two really Alpine villages which one usually connects with Lucerne. Andermatt is rather remote, being away up in the mountains beyond Göeschenen; but the journey to Engelberg is no more than that to the summit of Pilatus. From Stansstad, with its sturdy, grey old tower upon the water’s edge—a tower built soon after the banding together of the Forest Cantons, and last used in the desperate struggle against the French in 1798—there is an electric railway. The line passes over the orchard-covered plain to Stans, the capital of Nidwalden and the birthplace of Arnold von Winkelried, whose monument is in the marketplace, and whose ancient farmstead still exists amid flowery fields beyond the town; then on past Wolfenschiessen, known to history in connection with the Austrian Governor of that name killed hereabouts by the woodman Baumgartner for insulting his wife—a deed which appears to have done much to mature the defensive alliance of 1307 between the three Cantons; and so on to Grafenort, where the engine is changed and the line commences its steep ascent to Engelberg. Through a forest, wherein the hart’s-tongue fern luxuriates, the train advances, crossing and re-crossing the winding carriage-road. Here and there through the trees to the right of the line are glimpses of towering cliffs with waterfalls tumbling wildly over the rugged sides and falling into the gorge below, where foams and froths the Engelberger Aa on its way to the Lake at Buochs. The ascent is not a long one. Soon the forest is replaced by rapid flower-strewn slopes, and the near presence of impressive mountains. Then the valley somewhat broadens, and through almost flat pastures the train quickly reaches the village, its big hotels and spick-and-span prosperity.
Engelberg has all the airs and graces which two crowded seasons can give. It is as popular in winter as in summer, and is organized accordingly. But with the exception of its famous monastery, there is little that is old and picturesque about it. As the local guidebook says—and says seemingly with pride and glee—: “Favoured by a great fire in the autumn of 1887, the witnesses of modern civilization have become predominant”—an expression of sentiment which is apt to make one think of Thoreau’s caustic remark about man placing his hoof among the stars. However, although “the splendid hotel buildings tower gigantically above the country cottages of former times”, and the fine old timbered dwelling of the tailor stands an heroic interval in the midst of shop-fronts decorated in the best art shades of paint, yet something has been spared of the peasants’ old-time costumes—the women’s quaint silver hair-shields and bejewelled silver-gilt necklaces, and the men’s elaborately embroidered blouses. Nor have the blessings of fire and civilization suppressed the lovely mountain flowers which carpet the pastures outside the hotel-zone. Here, from the early spring crocus and soldanella to the late autumn crocus and willow-gentian, there is a rich round of floral delight. Rock, Alp, and forest are alike gay with colour, and many a botanical treasure haunts the district. Perhaps the best season for appreciating this side of Engelberg’s charm is spring and early summer. The near fields and slopes are then wearing their finest dress. Where, erstwhile, the sportsleute revelled on ski, the vernal gentian and yellow violet are in radiant masses, and where the luge ran merrily but a few weeks previously, the geranium and globe-flower are ablaze. And for this bright and wild abundance there is a wonderfully effective background of stately mountains. The rugged Engelberg, the fretted Spannorts, and the giant Titlis of such distinctive form, all abundantly clothed in snow at this season, make as admirable a setting for these slopes and fields of