Has left me to be judged by such alone.”
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——.