"Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again! I hold to you the hands
you first beheld, to show they still are free. Methinks I hear a spirit
in your echoes answer me, and bid your tenant welcome to his home
again! O sacred forms, how proud you look! how high you lift your heads
into the sky! how huge you are, how mighty, and how free! Ye are the
things that tower, that shine; whose smile makes glad--whose frown is
terrible; whose forms, robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear of awe
divine. Ye guards of liberty, I'm with you once again! I call to you
with all my voice! I hold my hands to you to show they still are free.
I rush to you as though I could embrace you!"
What schoolboy or schoolgirl is not familiar with those stirring lines
from "William Tell's Address to His Native Mountains," by J. M.
Knowles? And the story of William Tell,--is it not dear to every heart
that loves liberty? Though modern history declares it to be purely
mythical, its popularity remains unaffected. It will live forever in
the traditions of Switzerland, dear to the hearts of her people as
their native mountains, and even more full of interest to the stranger
than authentic history.
"His image [Tell's]," says Lamartine, "with those of his wife and
children, are inseparably connected with the majestic, rural, and
smiling landscapes of Helvetia, the modern Arcadia of Europe. As often
as the traveler visits these peculiar regions; as often as the
unconquered summits of Mont Blanc, St. Gothard, and the Rigi, present
themselves to his eyes in the vast firmament as the ever-enduring
symbols of liberty; whenever the lake of the Four Cantons presents a
vessel wavering on the blue surface of its waters; whenever the cascade
bursts in thunder from the heights of the Splugen, and shivers itself
upon the rocks like tyranny against free hearts; whenever the ruins of
an Austrian fortress darken with the remains of frowning walls the
round eminences of Uri or Claris; and whenever a calm sunbeam gilds on
the declivity of a village the green velvet of the meadows where the
herds are feeding to the tinkling of bells and the echo of the Ranz des
Vaches--so often the imagination traces in all these varied scenes the
hat on the summit of the pole--the archer condemned to aim at the apple
placed on the head of his own child--the mark hurled to the ground,
transfixed by the unerring arrow--the father chained to the bottom of
the boat, subduing night, the storm, and his own indignation, to save
his executioner--and finally, the outraged husband, threatened with the
loss of all he holds most dear, yielding to the impulse of nature, and
in his turn striking the murderer with a deathblow."
The story which tradition hands down as the origin of the freedom of
Switzerland dates back to the beginning of the fourteenth century. At
that time Switzerland was under the sovereignty of the emperor of
Germany, who ruled over Central Europe. Count Rudolph of Hapsburg, a
Swiss by birth, who had been elected to the imperial throne in 1273,
made some efforts to save his countrymen from the oppression of a
foreign yoke. His son, Albert, Archduke of Austria, who succeeded him
in 1298, inherited none of his sympathies for Switzerland. On his
accession to the throne Albert resolved to curtail the liberties still
enjoyed by the inhabitants of some of the cantons, and to bend the
whole of the Swiss people to his will.
The mountaineers of the cantons of Schwytz, Uri, and Unterwalden
recognized no authority but that of the emperor; while the peasants of
the neighboring valleys were at the mercy of local tyrants--the great
nobles and their allies.
In order to carry out his project of subjecting all to the same yoke,
Albert of Austria appointed governors to rule over the semi-free
provinces or cantons. These governors, who bore the official title of
Bailiffs of the Emperor, exercised absolute authority over the people.
Men, women, and children were at their mercy, and were treated as mere
chattels--the property of their rulers. Insult and outrage were heaped
upon them until their lives became almost unendurable.
An instance of the manner in which these petty tyrants used their
authority is related of the bailiff Landenberg, who ruled over
Unterwalden.
For some trumped-up offense of which a young peasant, named Arnold of
Melcthal, was accused, his oxen were confiscated by Landenberg. The
deputy sent to seize the animals, which Landenberg really coveted for
his own, said sneeringly to Arnold, "If peasants wish for bread, they
must draw the plow themselves." Roused to fury by this taunt, Arnold
attempted to resist the seizure of his property, and in so doing broke
an arm of one of the deputy's men. He then fled to the mountains; but
he could not hide himself from the vengeance of Landenberg. The
peasant's aged father was arrested by order of the bailiff, and his
eyes put out in punishment for his son's offense. "That puncture," says
an old chronicler, "went so deep into many a heart that numbers
resolved to die rather than leave it unrequited."
But the crudest and most vindictive of the Austrian or German bailiffs,
as they were interchangeably called, was one Hermann Gessler. He had
built himself a fortress, which he called "Uri's Restraint," and there
he felt secure from all attacks.
This man was the terror of the whole district. His name was a synonym
for all that was base, brutal, and tyrannical. Neither the property,
the lives, nor the honor of the people were respected by him. His
hatred and contempt for the peasants were so great that the least
semblance of prosperity among them aroused his ire.
One day while riding with an armed escort through the canton of
Schwytz, he noticed a comfortable-looking dwelling which was being
built by one Werner Stauffacher. Turning to his followers, he cried,
"Is it not shameful that miserable serfs like these should be permitted
to build such houses when huts would be too good for them?" "Let this
be finished," said his chief attendant; "we shall then sculpture over
the gate the arms of the emperor, and a little time will show whether
the builder has the audacity to dispute possession with us." The answer
pleased Gessler, who replied, "Thou art right," and, planning future
vengeance, he passed on with his escort.
The wife of Stauffacher, who had been standing near the new building,
but concealed from Gessler and his men, heard the conversation, and
reported it to her husband. The latter, filled with indignation,
without uttering a word, arose and started for the home of his
father-in-law, Walter Furst, in the village of Attinghaussen.
On his arrival Staffaucher was cordially welcomed by his father-in-law,
who placed refreshments before him, and waited for him to explain the
object of his visit. Pushing aside the food, he said, "I have made a
vow never again to taste wine or swallow meat until we cease to be
slaves." Stauffacher then related what had happened. Furst's anger was
kindled by the recital. Both men were roused to such a pitch that they
resolved, then and there, to free themselves and their countrymen from
the chains which bound them, or die in the attempt. They conversed far
into the night, making plans for the gaining of national independence.
Then they sought out in his hiding-place Arnold of Melchthal, the young
peasant whom Landenberg had so cruelly persecuted. In him they found,
as they expected, an ardent supporter of their plans.
The three conspirators, Stauffacher, Furst, and Melchthal, represented
different cantons; one belonging to Schwytz, another to Uri, and the
third to Unterwalden. They hoped to form a league and unite the three
cantons against the power of Austria. In pursuance of their plans, each
pledged himself to select from among the most persecuted and the most
daring in their respective cantons ten others to join them in the cause
of liberty.
On the night of November 7, or 17 (the date is variously given), in the
year 1307, the confederates met together in a secluded mountain spot
called Rutli. There they bound themselves by an oath, the terms of
which embodied their purpose: "We swear in the presence of God, before
whom kings and people are equal, to live or die for our
fellow-countrymen; to undertake and sustain all in common; neither to
suffer injustice nor to commit injury; to respect the rights and
property of the Count of Hapsburg; to do no violence to the imperial
bailiffs, but to put an end to their tyranny." They fixed upon January
1, 1308, as the day for a general uprising.
Events were gradually shaping themselves for the appearance of William
Tell on the scene. Up to this time his name does not appear in the
annals of his country. The bold peasant of Uri was so little prominent
among his countrymen that, according to some versions of the legend,
although a son-in-law of Walter Furst, he had not been chosen among the
thirty conspirators summoned to the meeting at Rutli. This, however, is
contradicted by another, which asserts that he was "one of the
oath-bound men of Rutli."
The various divergences in the different versions of the legend do not
affect its main features, on which all the chroniclers are agreed. It
was the crowning insult to his country which indisputably brought Tell
into prominence and made his name forever famous.
Gessler's hatred of the people daily increased, and was constantly
showing itself in every form of petty tyranny that a mean and wicked
nature could devise. He noticed the growing discontent among the
peasantry, but instead of trying to allay it, he determined to
humiliate them still more. For this purpose he had a pole, surmounted
by the ducal cap of Austria, erected in the market square of the
village of Altdorf, and issued a command that all who passed it should
bow before the symbol of imperial rule. Guards were placed by the pole
with orders to make prisoners of all who refused to pay homage to the
ducal cap.
William Tell, a bold hunter and skillful boatman of Uri, passing by one
day, with his little son, Walter, refused to bend his knee before the
symbol of foreign oppression. He was seized at once by the guards and
carried before the bailiff.
There is considerable contradiction at this point as to whether Tell
was at once carried before the bailiff or bound to the pole, where he
remained, guarded by the soldiers, until the bailiff, returning the
same day from a hunting expedition, appeared upon the scene. Schiller,
in his drama of "William Tell," adopts the latter version of the story.
According to the drama, Tell is represented as being bound to the pole.
In a short time he is surrounded by friends and neighbors. Among them
are his father-in-law, Walter Furst, Werner Stauffacher, and Arnold of
Melchthal. They advance to rescue the prisoner. The guards cry in a
loud voice: "Revolt! Rebellion! Treason! Sedition! Help! Protect the
agents of the law!"
Gessler and his party hear the cries, and rush to the support of the
guards. Gessler cries in a loud authoritative voice: "Wherefore is this
assembly of people? Who called for help? What does all this mean? I
demand to know the cause of this!"
Then, addressing himself particularly to one of the guards and pointing
to Tell, he says: "Stand forward! Who art thou, and why dost thou hold
that man a prisoner?"
"Most mighty lord," replies the guard, "I am one of your soldiers
placed here as a sentinel over that hat. I seized this man in the act
of disobedience, for refusing to salute it. I was about to carry him to
prison in compliance with your orders, and the populace were preparing
to rescue him by force."
After questioning Tell, whose answers are not satisfactory, the bailiff
pronounces sentence upon him. The sentence is that he shall shoot at an
apple placed on the head of his little son, Walter, and if he fails to
hit the mark he shall die.
"My lord," cries the agonized parent; "what horrible command is this
you lay upon me? What! aim at a mark placed on the head of my dear
child? No, no, it is impossible that such a thought could enter your
imagination. In the name of the God of mercy, you cannot seriously
impose that trial on a father."
"Thou shalt aim at an apple placed on the head of thy son. I will and I
command it," repeats the tyrant.
"I! William Tell! aim with my own crossbow at the head of my own
offspring! I would rather die a thousand deaths."
"Thou shall shoot, or assuredly thou diest with thy son!"
"Become the murderer of my child! My lord, you have no son--you cannot
have the feelings of a father's heart!"
Gessler's friends interfere in behalf of the unhappy father, and plead
for mercy. But all appeal is in vain. The tyrant is determined on
carrying out his sentence.
The father and son are placed at a distance of eighty paces apart. An
apple is placed on the boy's head, and the father is commanded to hit
the mark. He hesitates and trembles.
"Why dost thou hesitate?" questions his persecutor. "Thou hast deserved
death, and I could compel thee to undergo the punishment; but in my
clemency I place thy fate in thy own skillful hands. He who is the
master of his destiny cannot complain that his sentence is a severe
one. Thou art proud of thy steady eye and unerring aim; now, hunter, is
the moment to prove thy skill. The object is worthy of thee--the prize
is worth contending for. To strike the center of a target is an
ordinary achievement; but the true master of his art is he who is
always certain, and whose heart, hand, and eye are firm and steady
under every trial."
At length Tell nerves himself for the ordeal, raises his bow, and takes
aim at the target on his son's head. Before firing, however, he
concealed a second arrow under his vest. His movement did not escape
Gessler's notice.
The marksman fires. The apple falls from his boy's head, cleft in twain
by the arrow.
Even Gessler is loud in his admiration of Tell's skill. "By heaven," he
cries, "he has clove the apple exactly in the center. Let us do
justice; it is indeed a masterpiece of skill."
Tell's friends congratulate him. He is about to set out for his home
with the child who has been saved to him from the very jaws of death as
it were. But Gessler stays him.
"Thou hast concealed a second arrow in thy bosom," he says, sternly
addressing Tell. "What didst thou intend to do with it?" Tell replies
that such is the custom of all hunters.
Gessler is not satisfied and urges him to confess his real motive.
"Speak truly and frankly," he says; "say what thou wilt, I promise thee
thy life. To what purpose didst thou destine the second arrow?"
Tell can no longer restrain his indignation, and, fixing his eyes
steadily on Gessler, he answers "Well then, my lord, since you assure
my life, I will speak the truth without reserve. If I had struck my
beloved child, with the second arrow I would have transpierced thy
heart. Assuredly that time I should not have missed my mark."
"Villain!" exclaims Gessler, "I have promised thee life upon my
knightly word; I will keep my pledge. But since I know thee now, and
thy rebellious heart, I will remove thee to a place where thou shalt
never more behold the light of sun or moon. Thus only shall I be
sheltered from thy arrows."
He orders the guards to seize and bind Tell, saying, "I will myself at
once conduct him to Kussnacht."
The fortress of Kussnacht was situated on the summit of Mount Rigi
between Lake Lucerne, or the Lake of the Four Cantons as it is
sometimes called, and Lake Zug. It was reached by crossing Lake Lucerne.
The prisoner was placed bound in the bottom of a boat, and with his
guards, the rowers, an inexperienced pilot, and Gessler in command, the
boat was headed for Kussnacht.
When about halfway across the lake a sudden and violent storm
overwhelmed the party. They were in peril of their lives. The rowers
and pilot were panic-stricken, and powerless in face of the danger that
threatened them.
Tell's fame as a boatman was as widespread as that of his skill as an
archer. The rowers cried aloud in their terror that he was the only man
in Switzerland that could save them from death. Gessler immediately
commanded him to be released from his bonds and given the helm.
Tell succeeded in guiding the vessel to the shore. Then seizing his bow
and arrows, which his captors had thrown beside him, he sprang ashore
at a point known as "Tell's Leap." The boat, rebounding, after he
leaped from it was again driven out on the lake before any of the
remainder of its occupants could effect a landing. After a time,
however, the fury of the storm abated, and they reached the shore in
safety.
In the meantime Tell had concealed himself in a defile in the mountain
through which Gessler would have to pass on his way to Kussnacht. There
he lay in wait for his persecutor who followed in hot pursuit.
Vowing vengeance as he went, Gessler declared that if the fugitive did
not give himself up to justice, every day that passed by should cost
him the life of his wife or one of his children. While the tyrant was
yet speaking, an arrow shot by an unerring hand pierced his heart. Tell
had taken vengeance into his own hands.
The death of Gessler was the signal for a general uprising. The
oath-bound men of Rutli saw that this was their great opportunity. They
called to their countrymen to follow them to freedom or death.
Gessler's crowning act of tyranny--his inhuman punishment of Tell--had
roused the spirit of rebellion in the hearts of even the meekest and
most submissive of the peasants. Gladly, then, did they respond to the
call of the leaders of the insurrection.
The legend says that on New Year's Eve, 1308, Stauffacher, with a
chosen band of followers, climbed the mountain which led to
Landenberg's fortress castle of Rotzberg. There they were assisted by
an inmate of the castle, a young girl whose lover was among the rebels.
She threw a rope out of one of the windows of the castle, and by it her
countrymen climbed one after another into the castle. They seized the
bailiff, Landenberg, and confined him in one of the dungeons of his own
castle. Next day the conspirators were reinforced by another party who
gained entrance to the castle by means of a clever ruse. Landenberg and
his men were given their freedom by the peasants on condition that they
would quit Switzerland forever.
The castle of Uri was attacked and taken possession of by Walter Furst
and William Tell, while other strongholds were captured by Arnold of
Melchthal and his associates.
Bonfires blazed all over the country. The dawn of Switzerland's freedom
had appeared. The reign of tyranny was doomed. William Tell was the
hero of the hour, and ever since his name has been enshrined in the
hearts of his countrymen as the watchword of their liberties. Even to
this day, as history tells us, the Swiss peasant cherishes the belief
that "Tell and the three men of Rutli are asleep in the mountains, but
will awake to the rescue of their land should tyranny ever again
enchain it."
Lamartine, to whose story of William Tell the writer is indebted,
commenting on the legend says: "The artlessness of this history
resembles a poem; it is a pastoral song in which a single drop of blood
is mingled with the dew upon a leaf or a tuft of grass. Providence
seems thus to delight in providing for every free community, as the
founder of their independence, a fabulous or actual hero, conformable
to the local situation, manners, and character of each particular race.
To a rustic, pastoral people, like the Swiss, is given for their
liberator a noble peasant; to a proud, aspiring race, such as the
Americans, an honest soldier. Two distinct symbols, standing erect by
the cradles of the two modern liberties of the world to personify their
opposite natures: on the one hand Tell, with his arrow and the apple;
on the other, Washington, with his sword and the law."
"WESTWARD HO!"
When the current serves, the unseen monitor that directs our affairs
bids us step aboard our craft, and, with hand firmly grasping the helm,
steer boldly for the distant goal.
Philip D. Armour, the open-handed, large-hearted merchant prince, who
has left a standing memorial to his benevolence in the Armour Institute
at Chicago, heard the call to put to sea when in his teens.
It came during the gold fever, which raged with such intensity from
1849 to 1851, when the wildest stories were afloat of the treasures
that were daily being dug out of the earth in California. The brain of
the sturdy youth, whose Scotch and Puritan blood tingled for some
broader field than the village store and his father's farm in
Stockbridge, New York, was haunted by the tales of adventure and
fortune wafted across the continent from the new El Dorado. "I brooded
over the difference," he says, "between tossing hay in the hot sun and
digging gold by handfuls, until, one day, I threw down the pitchfork,
went to the house, and told mother that I had quit that kind of work."
Armour was nineteen years old when he determined to seek his fortune in
California. His determination once formed, he lost no time in carrying
it out. As much of the journey across the plains was to be made on
foot, he first provided himself with a pair of stout boots. Then he
packed his extra clothing in an old carpetbag, and with a light heart
bade his family good-by.
He had induced a young friend, Calvin Gilbert, to accompany him in his
search for fortune. The two youths joined the motley crowd of
adventurers who were flocking from all quarters to the Land of Promise,
and set out on their journey.
Tramping over the plains, crossing rivers in tow-boats and ferryboats,
and riding in trains and on wagons when they could, the adventurers,
after many weary months, reached their destination. During the journey
young Armour became sick, but was tenderly nursed back to health by his
companion.
"I had scarcely any money when I arrived at the gold fields," said
Armour, "but I struck right out and found a place where I could dig,
and in a little time I struck pay dirt."
He entered into partnership with a Mr. Croarkin, and, with
characteristic energy, kept digging and taking his turn at the rude
housekeeping in the shanty which he and his partner shared. "Croarkin
would cook one week," he says, "and I the next, and we would have a
clean-up Sunday morning We baked our own bread, and kept a few hens,
too, which supplied us with fresh eggs."
The young gold hunter, however, did not find nuggets as "plentiful as
blackberries," but he found within himself that which led him to a
bonanza far exceeding his wildest dreams of "finds" in the gold fields.
He discovered his business ability; he learned how to economize, how to
rely upon himself, even to the extent of baking his own bread.