1872
WILLIAM TELL--THE RIGI IN THE GOOD OLD TIMES--PILATUS--ROSE
BUSHES FOR FUEL.
We spent this summer of 1872 at beautiful Bocken, an old castle-like
chateau, sitting high above the lake, ten miles out from the city. It
was once the home of the Zurich burgomasters, at the time when they
exercised the authority of petty kings. The scene from Bocken is very
grand. The chateau, with its big hall of knights, its old oak-paneled
dining-room, its brick-paved corridors and leaded, round-paned windows,
is very interesting. Paid 600 francs for the use of rooms all summer,
and reserved the right to return other summers. The days were fair,
and it seemed to me I had never seen so many clear, moonlight nights.
The lake, shining in the clear moonlight, lay 1,000 feet below us,
and, at times in the night, we could even faintly see the snow-covered
mountains of Glarus. It was a delightful summer at Bocken, and our joy
was doubled by the coming of our firstborn.
[Illustration: Bocken.--_Page 49._]
More than one of this summer’s excursions was to the scene of the
Tell legends on Lake Luzern. I knew the legends were already being
doubted, even by some of the Swiss, but I hoped, by diligent searching
among certain half-forgotten archives in the old arsenal at Altorf,
to find something new. I was not wholly disappointed; I saw a musty
document there that told of the building of the chapel to Tell on the
“Axenstrasse.” That was in 1388, only _thirty-one years after Tell’s
death_. The document gave the amount of wages paid to hands, the amount
of wine furnished the workmen, and a statement that one hundred and
fourteen persons who had known Tell were present at the dedication. On
the supposed spot of Tell’s birth, another stone chapel was erected in
1522. There is also in this museum a copy of a proclamation of four
hundred and ninety-four years ago, by the Council of Uri, ordering all
good Christians and patriots to make yearly pilgrimages to Burglen,
because it was the birthplace of William Tell. This document was
discovered in 1759, but was burned up in a fire at Altorf, about 1779.
The copy, however, is regarded as genuine. The question arises, why
did a poor little village community ever go to the expense of building
these chapels, if they had no certain knowledge of the existence of
their hero, and why were the citizens making these excursions to Tell’s
birthplace at that early time?
[Illustration: Buerglen, Tell’s Birthplace.--_Pages 50 and 191._]
In this old arsenal at Altorf are preserved the battle flags borne
by the Swiss at Morgarten in 1315, only eight years after the death
of Tell. The genuineness of these flags historians have not doubted.
Neither is the old Swiss story of that battle in dispute. If the
ancient Swiss could know of this battle, and save their flags, why
should they not also know the facts as to Tell, at the time they were
building chapels to him? If they do not, these chapels remain as
monuments to the utter foolishness of a people.
The tradition as to his shooting an apple from his boy’s head is of
no earthly consequence; true or untrue, it has no more to do with the
Swiss patriot’s having served his country than the story of the cherry
tree has to do with the patriotism of Washington. Tyrants, compelling
enemies to tests of archery under great risks, were nothing uncommon
in even other lands than Switzerland, and even this little incident
in Tell’s life may have been true. For myself, I am satisfied that a
patriot named William Tell existed, and that his hot-headed love of
freedom, and his recklessness, precipitated a revolution in the Alps.
In these later days his killing even a tyrant would probably brand him
as a common freak or an assassin. Time and history mollify many things.
The chapel at the Axenstrasse was about to fall into the lake, while
I was in Switzerland. Its restoration was decided on. Knowing that I
had interested myself in the Tell traditions, and at my request, the
authorities allowed me to take away the stone step in front of the
old altar, to place in the Washington monument. I secured official
testimony as to the block, had a proper inscription put on it, and sent
it to Washington as a souvenir of Switzerland’s greatest tradition. It
is now in the Smithsonian Institution, being regarded too valuable a
relic to hide away in the monument.
Now that we could speak the language, we made delightful excursions to
the mountains. I had determined to write a book on Switzerland,[1] and
regarded it necessary to see, not only the Alps, but Alpine village
life, and everything characteristic of the country. The result was
that we went on foot to almost every valley and village, and climbed
not a few of the famous mountains. I now became a member of the Alpine
Club. The Rigi we climbed oftenest of all. There was no such thing as
riding up, no easy railway carriages, then. People climbed mountains on
foot, and the names burned on our Alpine stocks had a meaning. Many and
many a Saturday noon we took the train at Luzern, climbed up the Rigi
through the woods alone, on the Arth side, and stayed there till Monday
morning. We usually got to the top in three hours. Daylight of Sunday
saw us out on the high plateau, looking at that great sight, the rising
of the sun in the Alps.
Living among the mountains was glorious then, and _cheap_. Many a time,
in those days, we have had lodgings and meals at four francs a day,
at the Rigi Staffell, where once the poet Wordsworth tarried. And at
Michaels Kreutz, a height near by, two and one-half francs for pension
was our usual expense. We traveled much in second-class cars. Everybody
did this, and we were in the mode. Often when I was alone in the
mountains, I went third-class even, and was as well off for sightseeing
as I would have been in a Pullman palace car.
The Alpine views from the Rigi in good weather are almost beyond
description. One must see them to realize their splendor. Chains of
snow mountains are in the distance, and thirteen blue lakes shining at
the Rigi’s foot. It is only six thousand feet high, but unsurpassed as
a point for seeing Swiss scenery.
Sometimes I went up Pilatus alone. It is higher than the Rigi, and
near by. The climb was five hours, and I always slept in the little
Senn hut, with the cowboys. The cattle, with their tinkling bells,
occupied half the stone building. Cool autumn nights I have sat there
till midnight, talking with the cowboys, before a big fire made of
dried Alpine rose bushes. There were simply acres of roses on Pilatus
then, and the Senns were glad to get rid of the shrubs by burning them.
I never felt in such perfect health in my life, as in the bracing air
on Pilatus Mountain, and the fact that tourists never knew the way up
there made life among the goats and the roses immensely enjoyable. For
years, ever since my imprisonment in the South, I had suffered horrors
with headaches and migraine. These frequent stays in the air of the
higher Alps were slowly curing them.