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.