ASCENT OF THE RIGI.

THE Rigi is a mountain in Switzerland standing between the Lake of Zug and the Lake of Lucerne. It rises nearly 6000 feet above the level of the sea;-5900 feet is Dr. Forbes's statement in his "Physician's Holiday;" 5700, Murray's. The summit of the mountain is 4400 feet above the Lake of Zug. There are three lines of ascent, on different sides, all uniting before reaching the top. As we came from Zurich, our road was that which starts from Arth, a village on the margin of the Lake of Zug. We set out from Zurich, in a hired carriage, at seven o'clock, and arrived at Arth about two. After a slight dinner we prepared for the ascent. We were a party of four,-two ladies and two gentlemen. Horses were provided for the ladies. They carried, however, besides, our necessary luggage, with a good supply of cloaks, shawls, umbrellas, and railway-wrappers,-a precautionary provision against cold and wet. My travelling companion, a younger man than myself, in full health and accustomed to Switzerland, preferred of course to walk; and as this was the beginning of such efforts with us, I determined to test my ability, and to walk too. I bought an alpenstock; looked up to the point I had to reach, and had resolved to reach on foot; helped the ladies into the saddle; and then set myself to the realisation of my great purpose!

From Arth to the top of the Rigi is a measured distance of nine miles; the elevation, as has been mentioned, 4400 feet. To give a Cockney an idea of what these statements imply, I will request him to take his stand at the end of Cheapside, and to look up to the top of St. Paul's. You

another ;-one more.

"All

see the cross? "Yes." Place another St. Paul's upon it. "I have." Another. "Done." Another that. upon right." Another;-another;-another; another;-another; That will do. You have got eleven St. Pauls' rising up there, one upon the other, far, far above the clouds. I have to walk up, then, to the culminating cross, on the summit of that highest of the cathedrals,which will glitter in the sun long after he has set to the inhabitants alike of city and suburb; and I have to reach it by starting from Charing Cross, say, or one of the parks, and winding my way up the steep ascent, after such a fashion as I shall now describe.

We left Arth about three o'clock. It was a beautiful afternoon. There were other travellers, both ladies and gentlemen, some on horses, some on foot. The preparation and departure had a good deal about it of stir and excitement. Our road at first lay, for about two miles, up a very gentle ascent-so gentle as to be hardly perceptible. This brought us to the village of Goldau. I walked these two miles with stern deliberation; in a light great-coat, in which I had travelled from Zurich; and as if I was just having a quiet, easy stroll. The pedestrians of the other party of travellers passed me. They seemed puzzled by my apparent indifference, so little like their own earnest strides. Was it weight? or age? or philosophy? or fatigue? They could not tell. I could. I meant to husband my resources; to take time that I might go the faster; or, at any rate, to achieve what I had undertaken without straining or painful effort. At Goldau the pedestrian can procure a horse, if he chooses to change his purpose. I was appealed to whether I had not better avail myself of this last chance? "No." "I tell I shall walk." "Go on."

you

Our road now turned to the right. It gradually led us in front of the mountain, on the face of which there seemed

"AH! WHO CAN TELL HOW HARD IT IS TO CLIMB." 311

to be cut a zig-zag path, up which we were presently to toil. From Goldau to the commencement of this path, a distance of a mile and a half or two miles, the ground is rude and uneven. It is studded everywhere with great masses of rock, which look as if they had been shot, like immense cannon-balls, from some distant height, and had half buried themselves in the ground in a slanting direction, where they had stuck ever since. This, which appearances so naturally suggest as probable, actually took place in fact; and that, too, within the memory of man. This second portion of the journey passed, the ascent of the mountain began in earnest. We entered on the zig-zag path just mentioned. It soon became very precipitous. In many places it was literally a sort of rude staircase, as steps were formed by pieces of wood being put across, a device, partly intended for the preservation of the path itself, partly to aid the traveller, whether man or mule. On encountering this portion of the ascent, I gave my great-coat to the care of one of the guides, and prepared for the vigorous use of the alpenstock. Travellers, indeed, hereabouts, may occasionally be seen, half in sport half in earnest, catching hold of the tail of a horse, and thus getting the advantage of a good pull up the acclivity. It does not seem very dignified this,—nor merciful;-nor, in the case of some of the animals, brotherly; but it falls in with the laughing humour which mountain air seems to create and to diffuse, and gives birth to those jokes and sallies, which often greatly help a man up the hill of life. After a time we reached a level piece of ground, on which there is erected a small wooden building. Here something may be obtained in the form of refreshment, of which the guides, at least, will not object to partake; and here, too, the traveller may rest a brief interval, before attempting the other half of this first and steepest portion of the ascent.

From this point, looking back over the path from Goldau, and across the valley out of which we have toiled, we get a full view of the ROSSBERG, as it rises before us to the height of 4958 feet above the level of the sea. On its side are the marks and scars of the memorable landslip of 1806, which hurled the great rocks into the base of the Rigi, to which allusion has already been made. Looking from the Rigi to the Rossberg, the traveller sees, on the heights of the latter, a long, broad, bare surface, as if the earth had been scraped off, or as if it had been seared and hardened and rendered for ever incapable of verdure. This is the place from which, on the 2d of September, in the above-mentioned year, about four o'clock in the afternoon, after a few slight warnings, but,—when it once began to move, -in a few seconds, there slid off, into the valley beneath (a fall of 1500 feet), a portion of land three miles long, 1000 feet wide, and 100 feet deep!-carrying on its surface houses and barns, fields and vineyards, living men, women, and children,-burying beneath it the then existing village of Goldau; filling up the greater part of a large lake,-dashing its waters over the spire of a church sixty feet high; swelling into immense mounds and heaps acres of earth; projecting huge pieces of rock to a distance almost incredible, and with a force which seems to baffle calculation; destroying, in an instant, property to the value of 150,000l., and becoming a mausoleum for nearly 500 human beings!

After a short rest, including the survey of the stupendous memorials of this terrible catastrophe, we started again; and after a second ascent we came to a long tract of level ground. On our right the shoulder of the mountain rose into the sky; on our left was a deep valley,—its opposite side precipitous, but the summit covered with verdure and dotted with cattle. The evening was approaching; shep

OUR LADY OF THE SNOW.

313

herds were seen moving above, some of them sounding the ranz-des-vaches, the effect of which, coming to us across the ravine, was very pleasing. At some distance before us, the side of the mountain up which we had again to climb rose before us, with the little village and church of our Lady of the Snow lying upon it. The ascent did not threaten, nor did it prove, to be so precipitous and painful as the portion we had passed. On the 5th of September a pilgrimage is made to the village just mentioned. All along the path we were now pursuing, were rude pictures representing the last sufferings of our Lord, placed at nearly equal distances, and terminating in a large coarse wooden figure of Christ on the cross, or in the sepulchre, I forget which,-for the whole thing was to me so painful and repulsive that I could not stop to look at it with attention. When we reached the village it rained heavily, and we took shelter in it for a time. While thus waiting, the bell of the church tolled for prayers. We went in, and found three monks saying vespers. They were old men, habited in a very sordid dress of a dirty brown colour, with ropes round their waists. One man and a couple of children, cowering together near the door of the church, constituted the congregation.

left them to pursue our journey.

We soon

After starting again I rather lingered behind, and allowed my companions to pass on. The ascent became rather more difficult than before reaching the village. I breasted the steep, however, with strong resolution, and was soon cheered by seeing a solitary building coming into view. It stood on the line of the horizon; its outline was clearly defined on the evening sky; and it seemed to encourage a last effort with the promise of a rewarding welcome! 'Here, then," I thought, "is the point towards which I am pressing the temporary home into which I can turn and tarry for the night. I shall be glad to reach it, for I