LUCERNE AND THE LAND OF TELL.
The Lake--Avalanches--Pontius Pilate--Lucerne--Dance of
Death--Fishing--Storm on the Lake--Ramble among the Peasantry--Two
Dwarfs--On the Lake--Rifle Shooting--Chapel of William Tell--Scenes
in his Life--Altorf--Hay-Making--a Great Day.
In the Hotel de la _Concorde_, the "house of peace," I found a pleasant
chamber on the edge of the Lake of Lucerne; and so near that in its
lucid waters I can from my window see the large fish chasing and
devouring the little ones, just as big fish on land are doing
everywhere. In front, the lofty Pilatus rises in heavy grandeur, and the
Buochsherhorn and Stauzerhorn are in full view, with other peaks all
white with snow, while it is oppressively hot below. I spent the day
here at the foot of the mountain.
There is no life in this little settlement except when the boat arrives
with travellers for the Rigi: the mountain comes down so suddenly to the
shore that there is hardly room for dwellings, and a few inhabitants
only are scattered along on the water's edge. But it is on the shore of
the most enchanting lake in Europe, and at a point where some of the
finest views of this lake are to be had. We sat on the bank to see the
sun set, a sight of which one never tires; hundreds of travellers have
passed up or down the Rigi to-day, and of that whole number we are the
only two who have cared to rest here to study and admire the scenery,
and at the same time refresh ourselves for future pilgrimages.
There was a crash among the mountains just now: at first we thought it
the noise of a steamboat on the lake, but the roar became quickly
greater, and we knew that it was an avalanche of ice or of rocks that
had come down the side of old Pilatus. It was the first that we had
heard, and were very willing that the quiet of our evening should be
thus disturbed. Then as if nothing were to be wanting to make the
enjoyment of this scene perfect, the clouds marshaled themselves about
the Buochsherhorn and played off their lightnings around his head; while
torrents of rain came down on the lake below us, and the snow fell in
sheets on the loftier mountains in the South. This lake is subject to
sudden visitations of storms, and is therefore dangerous for skiffs
unless under the guidance of the native boatmen, who know the signs of
the weather, and put in for shore when they apprehend the approach of a
gale. The hoary mountain _Pilatus_ is said to have derived its name from
Pontius Pilate, who was driven away from Rome, became a wretched
wanderer here in this wild land, and finally in the horrors of a guilty
conscience plunged from one of the crags of this mountain into the lake
and perished. From its peculiar position and great height, 7,000 feet
above the sea, and the foremost in the Alpine chain at the North, the
clouds delight to gather about it, and so many are the storms which come
down from this point, the superstitious dwellers on the shores for a
long time supposed that poor Pilate was at the bottom of them all, and
the lake would never be safe till his troubled spirit was put to rest.
From the summit of the Rigi, the seven towers of Lucerne had caught my
eye, but they and the city they overlook and defend, appeared more
beautiful and exceedingly picturesque as I approached them by water from
Weggis. The old wall, of which the gates and towers are still remaining,
surrounds the land side of the town, which stands on a side hill rising
gradually from the water; and all outside of the wall the hill is dotted
with handsome dwellings embosomed in orchards and rich meadow lands; a
picture of quiet beauty and a spot for classic repose that a weary man
might almost be pardoned for coveting. The town itself has no
pretensions to taste in its architecture, but for beauty of situation on
the most attractive of all the Swiss lakes, it is without a rival. The
hotels are on the borders of the lake at the very landing, and the lofty
Pilatus on the right, the Rigi on the left, and the far loftier and more
majestic heights of the Alps in the cantons of Schwytz and Uri are lying
in full view of the _Swan_ Hotel, where I lodged, a capital house, which
I cordially commend.
We have been exploring the town to find what of interest may be in it,
though it is scarcely worth while for any man to look down for a moment
while he is in Switzerland, unless he is on the top of a hill. But
Lucerne has one peculiar feature of interest, in its covered bridges
adorned with curious paintings. In Berlin a gallery for the fine arts
was opened over a stable, and some poet ridiculed the idea by suggesting
the inscription "Musis et mulis," to the Muses and mules; but the
Lucerne people had the singular fancy of making their bridges over the
River Reuss, which divides their town in two, the repository of
paintings, some of them possessed of no artistic merit, and all of them
more or less injured now by the weather. The bridges are roofed, and
under the roof, about ten feet apart, these pictures in triangular
frames are fastened up, so that the foot passenger, (no carriages are
allowed,) may study them as he walks along. One series illustrates
scenes in Swiss history--another on the reverse of the same canvass, the
exploits of the patron saints of the town. These are on the
Kapell-Bridge which starts near the Swan Hotel, and runs across the very
rapid river Reuss, which here emerges from the lake. The Mill-bridge,
lower down the river, has a very rude imitation of the paintings of the
"Dance of Death," a series of pictures that are so often attempted, we
may be sure they once had power on the minds of men. The originals are
destroyed with the exception of the few fragments at Basle. The doggerel
verse into which the German text is translated, is about equal in
artistic excellence to the painting. The most remarkable bridge which
Lucerne once boasted was across the end of the lake, but it has now been
removed, the waters crowded back by the hand of art, and the large
hotels now stand on the site of the old Hof-Bruche.
In the arsenal is a sacred deposit of old armor, and relics of more than
doubtful authenticity, including the sword of William Tell, and the
battle-axe which it is said the Reformer Zwingle carried in his hand on
the field where he fell. A stranger may look at these and a hundred
other curiosities, with some interest, if he has not been already
surfeited, as I am, with the same sort of thing.
[Illustration: THE MONUMENT AT LUCERNE.]
They have one lion here that _is_ a lion--one of the noblest monuments
and magnificent designs that I have seen in Europe. We passed through
the Weggis Gate, and by a shaded pleasant walk in the private grounds of
General Pfyffer, came to a lonely, lovely dell. On one side of it a huge
precipice presents a bare rock face from which the water trickles into a
little lake at the base. This rock is fringed on the sides and over the
brow with shrubbery and trees, a graceful drapery, and in the solid side
of the rock the figure of a dying lion is carved out of the same stone.
A broken spear sticks in his side, and the blood oozes from the wound.
The agony of death is in his face, but his paw rests on a shield with
the arms of France, which even in death he is determined to defend. This
monument was designed by the great Thorwalsden, but was executed by
Ahorn, a sculptor of Constance, to commemorate the bravery of the Swiss
guards who were slain at Paris while defending the Bourbons in the
Revolution of 1792. This lion is nearly thirty feet long, and in just
proportions, making an impressive monument better than the deed
deserves. A representative of the Swiss guard wearing his uniform, is
present to expound the design to those who are not quick at finding
"sermons in stones."
A cool delightful walk of fifteen minutes from this sequestered spot
brought us into the grounds of a little convent, pleasingly situated on
the sloping banks, and among cultivated fields, now fragrant with
new-mown hay. An aged priest came by, and taking off his hat politely
saluted us as we passed. We paused at the door of the chapel; a single
lamp was burning before the altar, and one lonely nun was on her knees
performing her evening devotions. It was not in our hearts to disturb
the calm current of her thoughts, as she was gazing on the picture of
her Saviour, and we did not enter. So sweetly and gracefully did the
villas lie among the green fields and fruit trees, with the lake in
front of them and the snowy Alps on the other side of it, full in view,
but far enough to be in another clime, that I felt very much like
setting up a little convent there on a new plan, and sending over the
sea, for the community to people it.
_Aug. 24._--We had a storm on the Lake this evening. For two or three
days the weather had been very hot, so much so that I was not disposed
to go tramping, even for the sake of climbing up a hill into a colder
atmosphere. We had been lying off, too lazy to write, or to read. So we
went a fishing after dinner. The Apostles went fishing. They fished all
night, and caught nothing: we fished all the afternoon and had the same
success.
Just before nightfall, the wind began to blow all of a sudden as if it
had broken out in a new place. It blew all ways at once. The little
skiffs that were out on the Lake pulled in for shore with all haste; and
in less time than I have taken to tell of it, the scene of calm beauty
which the Lake had presented, was changed to that of an angry
tempest-tossed sea. The whole valley was filled with black, fierce
clouds. Rigi was clothed with thunder. Pilatus was totally obscured. The
storm was coming from his quarter, confirming the superstition of the
natives, that his troubled spirit stirs the tempest. Through a single
break in the clouds I could see the sunshine playing among the valleys
away to the south, while darkness and gloom were all around us. The
contrast was striking and peculiar to this region, where the sudden
elevation of the mountains makes the transitions from one temperature to
another rapid. On the bosom of the Lake the reflections of the clouds
were exceedingly curious, giving almost as many colors as the rainbow
that now began to appear on the Rigi. It was a beautiful bow. No rain
had yet fallen here; but there on the side of that noble mountain on
whose summit I had spent the night, the blessed bow was resting; so
pure, so glorious, so full of sweet suggestions of God's promise, that I
looked on it as on the face of a friend in a strange land. It is just
such a bow as they have in America. The same sun and the same showers
make it, and the same God hangs it out there, the sign of his
faithfulness, the token of his love. Who can be afraid of a storm when
the rainbow appears? But it faded, as all bright things fade, and the
dark clouds grew darker, and a heavy clap of thunder in the west shook
the Alps, and another: not preceded by a streak of chain lightning
leaping like a red serpent in the clouds, but by a broad lurid sheet of
fire, filling the atmosphere, and then suddenly vanishing into darkness.
The rain now came down in sheets; the wind blew with increasing power,
and for a few moments it did indeed appear as if the prince of the
powers of the air had been suffered to reign, and he was doing his worst
while he was left unchained. The ignorance of the people could readily
be imposed upon, when such scenes as this are frequent; and I am told,
in former times so strictly was the ascent of Mount Pilatus forbidden,
lest a storm should be provoked by the intrusion, that a Naturalist,
Gessner, had to obtain a special license to pursue his investigations
there.
The storm was of short duration. The hundreds, induced by the clear
bright morning to go to the summit of Rigi for a sunset and a sunrise,
found it was not the entertainment to which they were invited. In full
view from my window, though five hours distant, I can see where the
clouds cap his head, the rain is pouring there in torrents, the western
and eastern sky is enveloped in mists that obscure all view of the sun,
and more than half of the time, there is as little to be seen from the
summit of Rigi, as in a cellar. The sun is shining brightly now on the
lake near me, and a great fleece, as if a thousand flocks had yielded
theirs for a robe, is thrown over the crown of the mountain, making a
veil that no glass can see through.
The next morning we set off for a walk into the country. The landlord of
the Swan assured us it would be a pleasant day, and as this prediction
was made at the risk of losing two guests in consequence, we were bound
to respect his judgment. We resolved to make an expedition into the
country behind Lucerne, cross some of the spurs of the mountains, come
around by the foot of old Pilatus, and so return to our lodgings. The
whole walk would be only about twelve or fifteen miles, and if we should
lose our way and make it a little longer, why so much the better.
It was just eight in the morning as we left and wandered slowly through
the streets with our Alpen-stocks or pike staffs in hand. We paused at a
church door or two, and looked in, where a few were paying their silent
devotions before the altar, with a single burning lamp, and passing out
of the gate underneath one of the seven old feudal towers, we took the
bank of the river Reuss, and walked by a pleasant path, expecting every
moment to find a bridge, as our road was to lead us off to the west, and
we must cross the stream to reach it. I asked a little girl, tending two
babies in a cottage door, if there was any bridge in that direction, and
her ready answer "Nein," or _no_, sent us about in a hurry. Here was the
first mile thrown away, and retracing our steps, we crossed at the
bridge near the wall, and taking the high road toward Berne, were soon
in the midst of rural Swiss valley scenery. A path for a mile or more on
the bank of the river, shaded by a row of fine trees, led along by the
side of the carriage road, but we kept the track, having little desire
to miss it again. Three miles of easy walking brought us past the
village of Lindau to a bridge over a deep and frightful gorge, through
which a mountain stream is rushing, fifty or sixty feet below the
bridge. Here it is compressed in one place to a passage it has worn for
itself through the solid rock, and not more than three feet wide, but
the bed of the ravine gives evidence that the torrent when swollen with
melting snows in early summer, or by heavy rains, may be terrible, so
that this massive bridge, though very short, is required to resist its
force. The sides of this ravine were so precipitous that we did not
attempt the descent: but finding a path up the mountain, and learning
from a peasant whom we met that it would take us over into a vale, we
struck into it, and climbed. The roots of trees in some places made a
flight of steps up which we walked, and all the way it was so steep that
to get on required resolution and wind. But the ascent though sharp was
very short, and in a few minutes we reached a well made winding way,
that led us into a lovely vale. Thirsty if not weary, we called at the
door of a little dwelling and asked for milk. The farmer and his wife
were sitting on wooden benches by a table, taking their meal; what meal
it was we could not determine, as it was ten o'clock in the morning; too
late for breakfast, too early for dinner. They had an earthen pot of
weak coffee or something of the same color, and pieces of brown bread
which they dipped in and ate, taking a drink of the fluid now and then,
and apparently enjoying their frugal meal. The old woman gave me a "Yah"
in answer to my request for milk, and taking a glass tumbler from a
closet, she wiped the dust out of it with her fingers, and going into a
dark room, the dairy likely, she brought me a draught of as sweet milk
as ever wet the lips of man or boy. The cottage was not clean, I am
sorry to say it. I looked up a flight of stairs, and the appearance of
things there did not suggest to me the idea of taking lodgings, but
giving the woman a bit of silver for which she thanked me in German, we
walked on, refreshed with the milk and the moment's rest while getting
it.
A little farther on, and a fine mansion with castellated towers, stood
on the rising hill commanding a wide prospect of mountain scenery, but
the road did not lead us near to it. Perhaps the proprietor of the
valley has his home up there, and the tenants below may not be thriving:
certainly it looks as if wealth, state, comfort, and elegance were in
those old halls and having had milk in the cottage, I presume we might
have wine in the mansion.
We soon lost sight of every sign of a dwelling, and walked on through a
pine forest, the saddest of all forests to tread in: the sighing of the
air through the tree tops making a music "mournful to the soul." A water
course, in hollowed logs carried through the woods, led on to a mill by
the way-side, into which we entered to see a novel operation, and as
queer a little miller as any body ever saw. The water turned an overshot
wheel outside of the mill, and this turned two large wooden cog wheels,
which raised two beams and let them fall, up and down, upon pine bark,
which was thus pounded up fine enough to be used for tanning. But the
miller who fed the mill with the bark was a man dwarf about three feet
high, well enough proportioned, a stout healthy fellow, forty years old.
He looked up and laughed us a good morning, and went on with his work,
which made such a noise that it was useless to converse. And just as we
left the mill we met a woman not more than three feet long, so nearly
the same age and size, we could not but think they might be another
remarkable pair of twins, who would have made the fortune of any body
bringing them to America for exhibition.
We were now in a manufacturing valley. The fine water power was improved
to drive looms in a mill where twenty girls were weaving, and when we
passed, which was at eleven o'clock, they all quit for dinner, and
trooped by us in rows of six abreast: hearty looking girls with no hats
on, their hair braided, and hanging in two strips half way to their
feet. They seemed to be very happy among themselves, and modest and well
behaved as we walked along with them for a while. Other establishments
for working iron were in the same neighborhood, and a village called
_Kriens_, had some beautiful houses in it--one of them with twelve
windows in a row in front, and three stories high, a fine mansion; and
all of them were surrounded with flower gardens, tended with care, and
glowing with splendid dahlias, and other flowers. The best houses I have
yet seen in Switzerland are covered instead of clapboards, with small,
round-end shingles, put on so neatly as to look like scollop shell work.
So we walked from one to another hamlet, studying life in these secluded
places, where the habits of the people are quite as unsophisticated as
if they had never been a mile from home--the children did not know of
such a place as Lucerne, though not five miles off--but there was peace,
order, thrift, and contentment--the mountains rise suddenly from behind
their dwellings, and shelter them from the winds, and God watches them
in the winter when the deep snow fills this vale, and they are as
contented as if they knew that people live on the other side of the
hills. Some of the cottages were beautifully covered with grape vines,
trained between the windows, and giving them an appearance of luxurious
growth, that might be adopted in our country far more than it is. The
vine thus cultivated occupies no space that could otherwise be used, and
is an ornament and protection, while it yields delicious and abundant
fruit.
Our walk this morning of five hours brought us through this valley and
back to Lucerne by one o'clock, and if there had been any good reason
for it, we could have done a dozen miles more toward night. We had been
brought more immediately into contact with the country people, and saw
more of their way of life, than we would in a month of travel on the
thoroughfares. None of the places we visited are even named in the guide
books, and we thus had the pleasure of breaking out of the beaten path,
and finding one that was new and interesting.
_Lake of the Four Forest Cantons._
Lake Lucerne is called the Lake of the Four Forest Cantons, a longer but
a very appropriate name, as its shores are washed by four and only four
of the Cantons of Switzerland--Lucerne, Uri, Unterwalden, and Schwytz.
Above all the lakes of the country, and perhaps of the world, it is
distinguished for the majesty of its scenery and the grandeur of its
historical associations.
Speaking of the classic history of the lake and mountains around it, Sir
James McIntosh says:
"It is upon this that the superiority of the lake of Lucerne to all
other lakes, or as far as I know, to all other scenes upon earth,
depends. The vast mountains rising on every side, and closing at the
end, with their rich clothing of wood, the soft spots of verdant
pasture scattered at their feet, and sometimes on their breast, and
the expanse of water unbroken by islands, and almost undisturbed by
any signs of living men, make an impression which it would be
foolish to attempt to convey by words. The only memorials which
would not disgrace such a scene as those of past ages renowned for
heroism and virtue, and no part of the world is more full of such
venerable ones."
The shores of this lake are the scenes of William Tell's illustrious
deeds, and the theatre also of modern deeds of valor not surpassed by
those of ancient times. It was the contemplation of the moral as well as
the physical sublime in this region, that led the same elegant author to
write:
"The combination of whatever is grandest in nature, with whatever is
pure and sublime in human conduct, affected me more powerfully in
the passage of this lake, than any scene which I had ever seen.
Perhaps neither Greece nor Rome would have had such power over me.
They are dead. The present inhabitants are a new race who regard
with little or no feeling the memorials of former ages. This is
perhaps the only place in our globe where deeds of pure virtue,
ancient enough to be venerable, are consecrated by the religion of
the people, and continue to command interest and reverence. No local
superstition so beautiful and so moral anywhere exists. The
inhabitants of Thermopylae or Marathon know no more of those famous
spots than that they are so many square feet of earth. England is
too extensive a country to make Runnymede an object of national
affection. In countries of industry and wealth the stream of events
sweeps away these old remembrances. The solitude of the Alps is a
sanctuary destined for the monuments of ancient virtue; Grutli and
Tell's chapel are as much reverenced by the Alpine peasants as Mecca
by a devout Musselman; and the deputies of the three ancient cantons
met, so late as 1715, to renew their allegiance and their oaths of
eternal union."
Filled with such emotions as these and fresh from the perusal of these
fine passages I left Lucerne on a lovely morning in August, the
atmosphere pleasantly cooled by the previous storms, and now a glorious
cloudless sky hanging over this mountain sea. On a little island, and
strange to say the only island in the lake, a monument of wood once
stood to the memory of William Tell, but it was struck by lightning and
has disappeared. Near it the bay of Kussnacht sets up, where is a chapel
to mark the spot on which the arrow from Tell's unerring bow drank the
heart's blood of his enemy and tyrant Gessler; and a ruined castle said
to have been the prison to which Tell was destined when he made his
memorable escape of which we shall soon speak. But the boat put up into
another bay on the other side under old Pilatus and landed passengers
who were taken into the small boats which ply continually among these
bays, and distribute the passengers at the several points from which
they would make their excursions into the country. Pilatus rises in
gloomy grandeur from the very shores of the water, and its bifurcated
peak soon is lost sight of, while but one presents itself. Rugged,
barren and uninviting as it is, there are those who yet make the ascent,
and from this landing, though the ascent is far more difficult, and the
view from the summit far less satisfactory than the Rigi.
We now returned to Kussnacht bay; and if the great shooting match which
occurred last Monday had been coming off to-day, we would go ashore to
see it. Once a year the marksmen of the canton assemble for a trial of
their skill with the rifle, and there is also an annual festival, when
the best from all the cantons assemble for the federal shooting match.
With music and banners and processions, with garlands and arches of
victory and feasting and drinking, they keep up this custom from
generation to generation; and the riflemen of the Swiss and Tyrol
mountains, like their ancestors of the bow, have no rival. The military
displays were very miserable. Having just come from France, Prussia, and
Austria, where the army was evidently the pet of governments, and the
curse of the people, I was pleased to see that the Swiss had no need of
armies, and the military procession was sorry enough. But the music was
stirring, and the Swiss feel it a part and parcel of their patrimonial
inheritance, to be roused by its strains to noble deeds, or melted to
tenderness by its subduing power. The lake had assumed to the eye, when
looking down upon it from one slope of the Rigi, the form of an X, and
now the two promontories that divide it come within a mile of each
other, and are called the Noses, which we pass, and enter the bay of
Brochs, where the Horn of that name and Stawzer rear their lofty heads.
We touched at Bechenried, and then swept the width of the lake again to
_Gersau_, a little cluster of houses at the foot of a gently-receding
hill, one of the most remarkable spots of land in the whole world, in
the fact that for four hundred years the people of this village, shut
out from the rest of mankind by these mighty ramparts of mountains, and
having but three miles long and two wide of territory, maintained an
independent democratic government of their own. The French invasion of
1798 destroyed their freedom by uniting them to the Canton Schwytz. The
mountain-side is covered with orchards, in the midst of which neat
cottages nestle sweetly. All the land they have has been washed down
from the mountains, and it would not be strange if trees and cottages
and people should one day be washed into the lake together. Such a
calamity would carry off the old gallows, still standing, but which the
government had no occasion to use during its independent existence. Here
the scenery of the lake becomes in the highest degree sublime. We stop
for a moment at Brunnen, where goods are deposited that are to go over
the Alps by St. Gothard into Italy, and on one of the warehouses you see
three men painted in bold colors, and their names affixed, the heroes
who with Tell achieved the deliverance of Switzerland in 1315. On this
spot the alliance was formed between the three cantons of Uri,
Unterwalden and Schwytz. Now the vast mountains rise more
perpendicularly from the lake: a solitary rock stands a few feet from
the shore on the promontory opposite, and passing it we seem to be
issuing into a new lake altogether. Away on the ledges, or table land on
the heights, stands a little church, and a few dwellings are scattered
around, but we lose sight of them, and are now in the midst of a
solitude of water, mountain, snow and sky, the grandeur and sublimity of
which it is equally impossible for me to exaggerate or describe. No
road, not even a footpath can be made along the base of these rocky
mountains that literally stand in the water, and thence rear their heads
so far into the upper air that the fields of snow lie there in full
view, forever whitening in the sun. A little recession from the shore
gives lodgment for soil enough to make a secluded bosom in the hills;
and this _oasis_ is a sacred spot in Swiss history, for here in the dead
of night, the three confederates met to form their plans to deliver
their country from the Austrian yoke. This is Grutli, and every American
who passes the spot will feel a sympathetic thrill of joy to look on the
birth-place of a country's freedom. Nearly opposite to Grutli, the
steamboat slackens its speed, and moves slowly and solemnly by a small
chapel, with an open front, and filled with rude paintings of scenes in
Swiss history. This chapel is to commemorate the spot where Tell leaped
ashore from the boat in which the tyrant Gessler was conveying him from
Altorf to his dungeon in Kussnacht. A storm came up with such fury that
Gessler, being frightened, and his oarsmen failing, ordered the chains
to be taken off from Tell, that he might guide the skiff ashore. He ran
it to this rock, leaped ashore, and made his escape. Before the despot
reached his castle, Tell had waylaid him and sent an arrow to his heart.
This chapel was "built in 1388, by the Canton of Uri, only thirty-one
years after Tell's death, and in the presence of one hundred and
fourteen persons who had known the hero. Once a year, mass is said, and
a sermon preached in the chapel to the inhabitants of these borders, who
repair hither in boats, forming an aquatic procession."
We were at the head of the lake in a few minutes. I was willing that it
should be extended for hours, but the little village of Fluellen was
reached, and here we go ashore. The village stands in a marsh, which is
formed at the entrance of the river Reuss into the lake, and in
consequence the people are subject to goitre and cretinism, those
terrible diseases so peculiar to this country. It is not desirable to
stay here any longer than is necessary to get away; and there is nothing
to attract the stranger. We took the first carriage we found, and rode
on to _Altorf_. At the hotel two young women came out to receive us, as
men waiters would do in another country. It was a novelty to be thus
received, and giving a hand to each of the damsels I was assisted from
the carriage and escorted into the house. One of them, a fine-looking
girl of eighteen, in a picturesque and becoming dress, white spencer and
short sleeves with a dark skirt and bracelets, insisted on taking my
knapsack, which I declined giving up, and leaning on my Alpen stock, I
had so much of an argument with her that the travellers formed a circle
about us and looked on. While dinner was preparing I walked out to the
open square in which that scene was enacted which has been more famous
than any other in Swiss history. Here by this fountain was the tree to
which the son of William Tell was bound, with the apple on his head, and
at the other fountain the father stood, to obey the infamous order of
the tyrant to shoot with his cross-bow the apple from the head of his
lovely boy. A statue of the father surmounts the fountain. The old
village has all the signs of decay, and I found it difficult to believe
that here the crowd had gathered five hundred years ago to behold that
dreadful spectacle--here stood the monster who had given the cruel
order, here fell the arrows from beneath the garment of Tell, which he
declared he designed for the tyrant if his arrow had slain his son. I
walked out of the village into the narrow meadow under the brow of
overhanging mountains, and admired the industry that has terraced the
slopes and wrung all the support it would yield from the soil. A row of
targets was here, with evidences that the people having long since laid
aside the cross bow, are now experts with the rifle: and as this village
is the capital of the canton of Uri, it is the rallying place for those
trials of skill in which they take so much delight. The tree on which
Gessler's hat was hung, with the command that the people should bow down
to it, stood here till 1567, when it was removed and a stone erected in
its place.
The valley of Schachen, which we enter on leaving Altorf, delighted me
with the beauty of its meadows, in which the Swiss peasants were making
hay under a burning sun, while the mountains rising from the edge of the
fields were white with snow. The men and women at noon when we passed
were resting from their toil, and lying around on the mown grass, the
very picture of slow and easy hay-makers. We crossed a rapid stream
foaming in its downward course, in which William Tell was drowned while
nobly striving to save the life of a child; and a little further on we
passed the village in which he was born. Thus in a single day which is
not yet half gone, we have seen the various spots in Switzerland made
classic by the deeds of William Tell and his compatriots, and the places
where that illustrious though rustic hero was born, where he performed
his great exploits, and where he perished in the midst of one not less
noble than any other that sheds honor on his name. It was a great day to
have passed through all these scenes, and I can say, without affectation
that my solitary walk in that ruined town of Altorf moved me more than
the contemplation of any battle field in Europe.