LUCERNE AND THE RIGI.
The road from Brienz to Lucerne, over the Brünig Pass, follows the
valley of Meiringen for a long distance, and gives some very pretty
views of Lake Brienz, the River Aare, and a number of cascades in the
mountains across the valley. As the ascent of the pass begins the road
is frequently overshadowed by hanging rocks, which seem about to topple
over every minute.
As we wind around the mountains occasional glimpses are obtained of the
valley far below, and then, after having gone over the summit of the
pass, we have a long almost level stretch along the side of the
mountain, from which we have a magnificent view of the valley of Sarnea,
with its pretty little lakes and rivers, its long, straight, white
roads, and its queer little towns.
Two hours later we come in sight of Pilatus rearing its lofty head high
above Lake Lucerne, as though it were the guardian of that beautiful
body of water. Then a long drive on the banks of the lake, where the
road is cut out of the solid rocks, and in a short time we rattle over
the rough stones of a pavement, across the Reuss River, and are in
Lucerne.
This city, which is to Switzerland what Saratoga is to America, is
prettily built at the head of Lake Lucerne, or, as the Swiss call it,
the Vierwaldstätter See, which resembles somewhat in shape a Roman
cross, Lucerne being at the head. It is situated in an amphitheater, if
the term might be so applied, facing the snow capped Alps of Uri and
Engelberg, with Rigi on one side and Pilatus on the other. Around it are
massive walls and watch towers, built in 1385, and still in a good state
of preservation.
The hotels are nearly all located on the Schweizerhof Quays, which
occupies the site of an arm of the lake that was filled up some fourteen
years ago. From any one of these mammoth hotels magnificent views may be
obtained on any clear day. Directly in front is the lake; to the right
the Rigi group, with its hotel-crowned summit; in the center the
Reussstock chain, and to the extreme right Pilatus. All of these
mountains are full of points of interest, and are annually visited by
thousands of tourists, who make up their parties at Lucerne. The sail
across the lake to any part of the town on its borders, makes a
delightful excursion that is always new and interesting.
[Illustration: LION OF LUCERNE.]
The show sight here is the celebrated Lion of Lucerne, which photographs
and pictures have made famous the world over. It is an immense figure,
cut in the side of a great rock, about a quarter of a mile from the
quay, in memory of the twenty-six officers and seven hundred soldiers
who were massacred in the Tuileries, Paris, on the tenth of August,
1792, when the Commune obtained control of the government, and compelled
King Louis to fly for his life. An immense lion, twenty-eight feet in
length, lies dying in a grotto, transfixed with a broken lance. Under
one paw, as though he would shelter it even in death, is the Bourbon
lily. On either side of the lion are the names of the officers, and an
inscription. The idea is a simple one, but the work was done by a master
hand, (the Danish sculptor Thorwalsden being the artist) and is very
impressive.
[Sidenote: THE SWISS SOLDIERS ABROAD.]
As a rule, people thrill when they look upon this famous Lion of
Lucerne, but I declined to do anything of the kind. The death of these
Swiss, in Paris, was a purely commercial matter. They were the hirelings
of an infamous despot, who was crushing the life out of the French
people by their aid. I have no sympathy for king, queen or noble, and
when one dies I have a hosanna to sing immediately. And I cannot imagine
anything more disgraceful than a man, Swiss, or of any other
nationality, who would sell himself to a despot. These fellows, who fell
in defense of Louis, had but one merit: they sold their blood, bones and
sinews, and they carried out their contract. They were simply honest
butchers, who contracted to do certain work for a lecherous French king,
and did it. But the monument at Lucerne to these hirelings is an insult
to humanity, and all the good I got out of it, was the contemplation of
a wondrously carved lion, and the drawback to that satisfaction was the
frightful fact that the men, to whose memory it stands, never should
have had any monument erected at all. This inscription is the only one
they deserved:
"Sacred to the memory of some hundreds of hired soldiery, who
fought for pay only, had too much animal courage to run, and who
died to carry out a contract."
As a work of art, Thorwalsden's lion is worth seeing--as a piece of
sentiment, excuse me. I have seen too many soldiers in Europe who sell
their sinews for pay, and I have seen too many starving people who are
kept poor to support them. I do not like any soldiers but volunteers,
and whenever the people get the upper hand of the other kind, I want to
contribute for a monument to the people, not to their oppressors.
Aside from the bridges, whose only merit is their age, and one or two
rather scantily furnished churches, there is but little of interest in
Lucerne.
The Glacier Mills are an attraction, and are well worth seeing. There is
no humbug about nature. You climb a hill after looking at the lion, and
you come to a garden in which are a series of the great pits known as
Glacier Mills.
These are simply great holes in solid rock thirty or forty feet deep,
and about the same in diameter. In the ages gone by when this country
was covered with glaciers, the action of water wore holes in the rock,
great stones lost themselves in these cavities, the water came in and
the stones, weighing many tons, revolved by the action of the water,
wore away the rock and enlarged the pit at every revolution.
This work went on for ages. The water forced itself into the pit, the
great rock revolved, by its action enlarging the cavity at every
revolution, until finally the glacier disappeared and the rocks were at
rest.
And here they are to-day, round as marbles, lying at the bottom of the
pits they made, so many evidences of the irresistible forces of nature.
In this enclosure there are, perhaps, twenty of them, varying in depth
from thirty to fifty feet, and about the same distance across.
Tibbitts believed they were artificial, and said he should dig a few for
his Hotel and Ruin Company, but he is entirely mistaken. The glacier
mills are genuine and the same forces are at work to-day under every
ice-field, and doing the work precisely as this was done. However, there
is no reason why he should not manufacture a few--tourists would take
them just the same, and be just as well satisfied. He claims that with
nitro-glycerine he can do in five hours the work that requires centuries
to accomplish with water and rock, which demonstrates the supremacy of
mind over matter.
Mont Pilatus, just out of Lucerne, is something you must see whether you
want to or not. It isn't a very remarkable mountain, but the astute
hotel keeper and the more rapacious hackman, has made it necessary for
you to spend more money than you want to, by seeing Mont Pilatus. It is
a proper mountain to see, nothing extraordinary, as a mountain, but you
are compelled to go anyhow, and you do. And this is why you go.
[Sidenote: PONTIUS PILATE.]
There has to be a legend for every point of sufficient interest to
attract a traveler, and so Pilatus has its legend. You are told gravely
that after Pontius Pilate washed his hands of the blood of our Savior,
and saw him go to his death, instead of saving him as he might have
done, he was struck with remorse, returned to Rome, and pursued by a
feeling which he could not get rid of, made his way to this mountain in
Switzerland, and lived in a cave therein, a recluse, expiating by a
life of solitude the crime he had been guilty of in shedding innocent
blood.
And they show you gravely and without a blush, a pond in the top of the
mountain, where, after he became an old man, he ended the life that was
a burden to him, by drowning himself therein, and they tell you of the
earthquakes and things of unpleasant nature that followed his demise.
The Arch Enemy of mankind was on hand in person to seize him, and when
he had struck the water he was taken bodily by His Satanic Majesty and
whisked away to the lower regions.
[Illustration: THE END OF PONTIUS PILATE.]
Did all this happen? Possibly. I was not there, and therefore cannot say
positively that it did not. I wish to be truthful and reasonable. But I
will venture my opinion that Pilate never came to Switzerland; that
after his term expired as Governor of Judea he stole all he could lay
his hands upon and went back to Rome, and went over to the new Emperor
or Consul, or whatever they called the official who had the giving out
of patronage, and got a new appointment somewhere else. That is what
became of Pontius Pilate.
However, Mt. Pilatus is well worth seeing, and the legend is a very
effective one, and the guide who tells it to you always gets several
francs in addition to his original swindle.
You must have legends, and as people believe them it is the same as
though they were true.
An imaginative friend of mine was once standing upon the railroad
platform at Forest, Ohio, in the war years, probably the most lonesome
and desolate station in the world. There were twenty passengers with him
for a train that was so far behind that no one could guess as to when it
would arrive.
He had cut a little switch from a tree near the platform, and as he
flourished it ostentatiously, some one asked him where he got it.
With a quickness of invention--a fertility of lying that was simply
admirable--he said it was the tip of the flag-staff of Fort Donelson!
Now this was nothing but a little switch cut within twenty feet of where
they were standing, but immediately all the passengers came up and took
it in their hands and examined it critically, and commented on it, as
though it were something of actual importance. It was, to them. The
battle was discussed, the merits of Grant as a soldier were discussed,
and the whole war was with its causes and consequences, reviewed. And
all this because a prompt liar, in an impulsive way, located a Forest
switch as the tip of the flag-staff of Donelson.
We believed it, and handled the switch reverently. The tourist to
Pilatus swallows the legend of Pilate, and it does him just as much good
as though it were true.
The moral to all this is, the wise man swallows what is set before him
and asks no questions for his stomach's sake.
Never go into the kitchen in which your hash is made. Be ignorant and
happy.
[Sidenote: UP THE RIGI.]
By this time we were ready for another mountaineering
[Illustration: LUCERNE-RIGI-RAIL--VITZNAU AS SEEN FROM THE EICHBERG.]
expedition, especially as in this instance the ascent could be made in a
comfortable railway car. To reach Vitznau, where the railway station is,
we took a sail of about an hour and a half, through beautiful scenery.
As we steam out from Lucerne, the city is seen to its best advantage,
its long walnut-shaded quay, its massive hotels, churches, walls and
towers, standing up from the water and thrown into relief by the dark
green forests on the mountains behind it.
[Illustration: LUCERNE-RIGI-RAIL--VIEW FROM THE KANZELI.]
[Sidenote: PILATE IN THE GUIDE BOOK.]
Soon after Lucerne fades away we see the cross-like formation of the
lake, one arm, known as Lake Küssnach, stretching way to the north,
while on the other side is Lake Alpnach. Far ahead of us is the Bay of
Buosch and Lake of Uri, forming the foot of the cross. At the head of
Lake Küssnach can be seen the town of that name. Here, in the central
part of the cross, the view is particularly impressive; the Rigi, on the
left, with its wooded slopes shining in the sunlight, contrasting
strangely with the mist and clouds that envelope Pilatus, on the other
side of the lake. As we see the clouds lowering around the high peak of
Mt. Pilate, the legend told by Antonio, the guide in Sir Walter Scott's
"Anne of Gierestein," comes vividly to mind. I have given my readers my
notion of the legend of Pilatus--now they have it exactly as the guide
books give it. You pay your money and you take your choice. Here it is
in guide book talk:
'The wicked Pontius Pilate, Proconsul of Judea, here found the
termination of his impious life; having, after spending years in
the recesses of the mountain which bears his name, at length, in
remorse and despair rather than in penitence, plunged into the
dismal lake that occupies the summit. Whether water refused to do
the executioner's duty upon such a wretch, or whether, his body
being drowned, his vexed spirit continued to haunt the place where
he committed suicide, no one pretended to say. But a form was often
seen to emerge from the gloomy waters, and go through the action of
washing his hands, and when he did so dark clouds of mist gathered,
first round the bosom of the Infernal Lake (such it had been styled
of old), and then wrapping the whole upper part of the mountain in
darkness, presaged a tempest or hurricane, which was sure to follow
in a short space. The evil spirit was peculiarly exasperated at the
audacity of such strangers as ascended the mountain to gaze at his
place of punishment, and, in consequence, the magistrates of
Lucerne had prohibited any one from approaching Mt. Pilate, under
severe penalties.'
It is perhaps needless to say that the prohibition has been long
removed, and that every season a great many tourists ascend the grand
old peak, to see the Infernal Lake on its summit. All do it who can
afford to pay for it.
And speaking of these miracles and appearances, and all that sort of
thing, they don't take place any more. Pilate hasn't appeared in person
to any tourists for hundreds of years. His appearance is something that
used to happen, but doesn't any more.
Tibbitts remarked that when he got his hotel done, he would have Pilate
appear, actually washing his hands, no matter what it cost him. He
intended to have a lot of fresh miracles. He would treat his patrons
decently, and not palm off upon them a lot of old legends. He could get
a man to do the Pilate business for thirty dollars a month, and he
wouldn't be mean enough to stop at so small an expense as that.
Passing Weggis, a pretty village nestling at the foot of the Rigi,
Vitznau is reached, and there we disembark for our ride up the mountain.
The Rigi has long been a favorite resort for tourists, and as far back
as 1868 an attempt was made to assist them in reaching the summit with
less fatigue and greater comfort and security. In that year, one
Riggenbach, of Olten, and an engineer of Aaron, named Olivier Zschokke,
after having experimented for years on the subject, published a
pamphlet, in which they declared that it was possible to construct a
railway from Vitznau to the summit of the Rigi.
[Illustration: THE OLD WAY OF ASCENDING THE RIGI.]
The treatise attracted a great deal of attention, and the following year
the two engineers applied for aid from the Government of Lucerne to
carry out the scheme they had devised. This aid was granted, and in two
years the road was finished to Stoffel, over half the distance, and two
years later to the very summit of the mountain.
[Sidenote: A MOUNTAIN RAILWAY.]
The new system consists of two rails of standard gauge, such as are used
on ordinary railways, firmly fixed on sleepers, which are solidly
secured to the rock by every device known, to insure their solidity.
Then a third rail, supplied with cogs, is placed between the other two,
and on this the cogged driving wheel of the engine of a new construction
propels the
[Illustration: NIGHT ASCENT OF THE RIGI IN THE OLD TIMES.]
engine up the hill. Engines of a special pattern were built, for as the
ascent is often at an angle of twenty-five degrees, ordinary locomotives
would not do. The boiler in the new engine is perpendicular and the rear
is slightly elevated. The tread-wheels are connected with the cog wheel
in the center of the engine in such a manner that each wheel bears its
proportion of the weight. The road has been a complete success from the
start, not a single accident having ever occurred.
The sensation after the car leaves level ground at the station in
Vitznau and begins to climb steadily up the mountain is peculiar. The
ground seems to melt away, and yet is always replaced. As we mount
higher and higher, the view becomes more extensive. Now we can see the
little town we have just left on the pretty little bay, at the foot of
the mountains. Beyond it the lake stretches out to the mountains that
seem to come to its very edge. Then the road passes through a tunnel, a
marvel of engineering skill, for going through there the ascent is at a
rise of twenty-five degrees.
Emerging from this tunnel, the train speeds across a bridge, over a
yawning chasm, whose sides are lined with stunted trees and great
bowlders, that are washed by a large stream which takes its rise higher
up the mountain.
From this point the view is grand. Pilate, towering above the lake, is
clearly seen on the right; just below is Weggis, and further on the
bright buildings of Lucerne shine in the sunlight, while the lake, with
its different arms, looks like "a painted sea." All around and above are
the huge red rocks of the Rigi. There are two or three stations along
the route, but we push steadily on, the views becoming grander and
grander with each successive step, until the summit is reached, and then
the panorama is complete. You see the Alps in the eastern part of
Switzerland, the massive pile of the Loudi, all the western mountains of
Schwyz, and to the north the cantons of Zug, Zurich and Lucerne spread
out like a map at our feet. Way down the valley can be seen eleven
different lakes, with little clumps of houses, the villages on the
shores of the "Vierwaldstätter See."
Passing by the great hotels that flourish here so high above the world,
we go to the great bluff which is so prominently seen from Lucerne, and
there the view is magnificent. As far as the eye can reach on the south
are the countless peaks of the Alps, covered with snow the year around.
Near at hand are beautiful valleys with winding rivers and straight,
thread-like roads.
[Sidenote: RIGI KULM.]
As we stand there, lost in wonder at the overpowering magnificence of
the scene, the sun, which up to this time had been shining brightly, was
obscured by clouds, and we were treated to a thunder storm which raged
with terrific fury for half an hour or more. Then the sun broke forth
again in all his splendor and we saw the clouds disappear beneath his
powerful rays.
[Illustration: RAILWAY UP THE RIGI.]
Sunrise as seen from the Rigi Kulm is said to be one of the most
magnificent sights imaginable. One enthusiastic German writer gives a
very glowing account of it, which has been literally translated and is
sold in all the book-stores in Lucerne. The translation is so good (?)
that it should be universally read. A portion of it is reproduced:
"The starlight night far expanded and aromatic with the herbs of
the Alps and the meadow ground, now begins to assume a gray and
hazy veil. Their mists arise from the top of the feathered pines,
an airy crowd of ghost-like silent shapes approaching the light,
that with a feebly pale glimmering dawns in the East. It is a
strange beginning, a gentle breath of the morning air greets us
from the rocky walls in the deep, and brings confused noises from
below. That is a signal for all who did not like to ascend so high,
without beholding the sunrise. Meanwhile the day breaks out bright
and clear; a golden stripe, getting broader and broader, covers the
mountains of St. Gall; the peaks of snow change their colors,
indifferently white at first, then yellowish, and at last they turn
a lovely pink. The new-born day illuminates them. Now, a general
suspense! One bright flash--and the first ray of the sun shoots
forth. A loud and general "oh" bursts out. The public feels
grateful, be it a ray of the rising sun, or a rocket burnt off and
dying away in the distance, with an illuminating tail of fire, and,
after the refulgent globe, giving life to our little planet, has
fully risen, the crowd of people drop off one by one to their
various occupations."
[Illustration: THE RIGI RAILWAY.]
The ride down, while full of surprising views, is not so interesting as
the ascent, for one is familiar with every turn, and has not that
feeling of novelty that impresses him while going up.
Going back to Lucerne we are treated to a magnificent sunset, old Sol
sinking behind the mountains with a grand blaze of glory that tinges the
peaks all around the horizon with a brilliant golden outline.
[Sidenote: TELL'S CHAPEL.]
On the eastern border of this wondrously beautiful lake is
[Illustration: THE RAILWAY UP THE MOUNTAIN.]
a chapel, built, it is said, upon the spot where Tell leaped from the
boat of Gesler, the Austrian tyrant, while on his way to prison, and
shot him. It is a pretty little structure, at the water's edge, and is
every year visited by thousands of people who come to enthuse over the
alleged Swiss patriot.
I should have enthused with the rest, only ever since I have been in
Switzerland I have been investigating Tell, and to my profound grief I
find that like Sairy Gamp's Mrs. Harris, "There ain't no sich a person,"
and never was.
[Illustration: TELL'S CHAPEL, LAKE OF LUCERNE.]
When I say to my profound grief, I mean it. In my boyhood--alas, that
was many a year ago--I had several pet heroes among men and things. Tell
shooting the arrow off his boy's head and saving another arrow to shoot
Gesler had he harmed his son, was one of them; Jackson and his cotton
bales at New Orleans was another; the maelstrom, sucking down whales and
ships, as depicted in the school geographies, was another; and then came
Wellington with his "Up guards and at 'em," at Waterloo, the quiet but
heroic General Taylor at Monterey with his "A little more grape, Captain
Bragg!" with others too tedious to mention. Among my especial hatreds
was the cruel King Richard, of England, who slaughtered the infant
princes in the tower.
[Sidenote: HISTORICAL ROMANCE.]
Alas for history and geography! One by one these idols were dismounted.
Later geographical investigation proves that there is no maelstrom on
the coast of Norway; that the statement was founded upon a few rather
ugly currents that swirl and eddy among some islands, but which are yet
perfectly safe for vessels of light draft.
I had scarcely recovered from this before it came to light that
Jackson's riflemen did not rest their unerring pieces upon cotton bales.
When one thinks of it, it would be rather risky to fire flint-lock
rifles over such inflammable material as cotton, to say nothing of the
confession of that Brobindignagian fraud, Vincent Nolte, who confessed
that all there was of the cotton story was this: He was moving a few
bales of cotton he had in New Orleans up the country for safety, when it
was feared the British would burn the city, and one of his mule teams,
with two bales upon the wagon, was passing where some Tennesseeans were
throwing up an earthwork. The wild backwoodsmen, in sheer mischief,
upset the wagon, cut the mules loose, and buried the two bales and the
wagon under the earth. Then, as he sued the government, per custom, for
the price of five hundred bales, it was said that the battle was fought
behind cotton, and the pictures show it.
For Wellington to have said "Up guards and at them!" would be to presume
that Wellington was in the extreme front with the guards, and Taylor, to
have made his exclamation, must have been sitting on his horse beside
Captain Bragg, something generals never do.
But I said, though all these are gone, I have my Tell left me. Alas!
Swiss and German investigators have proved conclusively that there never
was such a man as Tell; that Gesler is quite as much of a fiction, and
that the whole business of the apple on the son's head, the leap from
the boat, and all the rest of it, is a poetic legend, the counterpart of
which may be found in the literature of all old people. There is no
mention either of Tell or Gesler in any authentic history.
But I thank heaven my objects of dislike are proved to be just as much
fictions as the others. For up comes an English essayist who proves that
Richard III. did not smother the infant princes, that he was not a
cruel, humpbacked tyrant, but was the wisest and best king England had
ever had, and that his untimely taking off was one of the greatest
misfortunes that ever befell that country.
So these investigators have reduced humanity to a sort of average dead
level, with no Mt. Blancs of goodness and no Jungfraus of badness.
Tibbitts was very indignant when I told him this about Tell. He remarked
that he preferred not to believe the investigators; he preferred to
believe in Tell. He didn't care a straw for the investigators, he defied
them. Suppose Tell didn't shoot the apple? What then? Tell shooting the
apple made a picturesque picture, and it pleased him. He protested
against reducing all mankind to the drawing of molasses and the hewing
of calico. He wanted heroes and heroines, and if they didn't appear in
real life the poet gave them to us, and it did just as well.
By this time Tibbitts got wound up. "How does any one know that there
was no Tell? I demand proof. You can't prove that there was _not_ such a
man, and that he did _not_ do the feats ascribed to him. Very well! I
assert there _was_ such a man; that there was a Gesler; that Gesler put
his hat on a pole in the market place, and required everybody to bow to
it, and Tell refused; and then Gesler insisted that he should shoot an
apple from his boy's head, and he did it. You have no proof that this is
not so. I have proof that it is. I can show you the market place, and an
apple. That the feat is possible every schoolboy knows, for have we not
all seen Buffalo Bill do the same thing in the theaters? And, then, if
it were not precisely true, it should have been. We want such incidents
to keep alive a love of country, a healthy spirit of patriotism, and a
wholesome hatred of tyrants who go about putting caps upon poles and
requiring people to bow to them. Admitting it to be a fable, we want
more such fables. What difference does it make if it is a fable? Does it
not inculcate a great principle just the same? And inculcating a great
principle is the main thing. I hold to Tell with all the simple faith I
had in childhood, and even more. For in childhood Tell was merely a
romantic and highly colored sensation--now he has grown to the sublime
dimensions of a moral necessity."
And in spite of the bald facts staring him in the face, he went into
ecstacies in the chapel, and spoke of it as a "shrine," and remarked
that it would be better for the world had it had more Tells, and said
everything that everybody says.
[Sidenote: SWISS REVERENCE FOR TELL.]
The Young Man who Knows Everything ambled in at this point with the
remark that worms were made for sparrows, and the sparrows know it. It
is a beautiful provision of nature that the strong eat the weak. If
intellect and strength won't provide a living, what is the use of
intellect and strength. A man might as well be a fool as anything else,
if he can't live on his mental endowments.
Which, as it had no earthly application to the subject under discussion,
was characteristic, very. But it satisfied him.
But you had better not express any doubt as to Tell to any of the Swiss,
especially in this region. They believe in him as firmly as Americans do
in Washington, and in the apple as steadily as we do in the hatchet.
There was a book published in Berne, proving Tell to be a myth, and it
was suppressed by the government, and all the copies in circulation
siezed and burned.
Tell is a national pride, and besides, the legend brings tourists into
the country, and keeps them longer after they come, which is a matter of
national profit. And so, between pride and profit, they keep up the
fiction, and will, to the end of time.
However, I still believe in Washington's hatchet, and in Franklin's
eating bread in the streets of Philadelphia. I am going to cling to
something of my youth. But I suppose somebody will disembowel these
legends in the course of time, and life thereafter will be as monotonous
as a mill-pond--all on a dead level.