the House of Austria, encouraged by immunity, daily grew more and more
cruel, until, under the slightest pretext, they thrust Swiss freemen
into damp and dark prisons, keeping them there for life. Fearful
stories of the heartlessness of these bailiffs were noised abroad, and
no one could speak strongly enough of their greed, cruelty, and total
lack of principle.
The Swiss bore this oppression as patiently as they could, and until
their position became so unbearable that they perceived they must
assert and maintain their rights to freedom, or they would soon be
reduced to a state of such abject slavery as to be deprived of all
power of resistance. Walter Fürst, Arnold von Melchthal, and Werner
Stauffacher, the wealthiest and most respected citizens of the
cantons of Uri, Schwyz, and Unterwald, therefore met to discuss the
advisability of an uprisal, and, in support of their views, quoted
recent acts of wanton cruelty perpetrated by Austrian bailiffs. For
instance, one of these men had grievously insulted the wife of a
peaceful citizen, who, to defend her, slew the oppressor and was now a
hunted fugitive.
A young man of Uri was told he must surrender the fine team of oxen
with which he was ploughing, because the bailiff wanted them. As the
messenger coolly proceeded to taunt him and unyoke his oxen, the young
peasant, in a frantic effort to save the cattle, dealt a blow which
raised a terrible outcry among the bailiff’s servants. Knowing that
such an offence would be punished by life-long imprisonment in some
foul dungeon, if not by prolonged torture and cruel death, the young
man hastily fled. But the blow so thoughtlessly given was visited upon
his aged father, whose eyes were put out by order of the vindictive
bailiff.
Countless other examples of fiendish cruelty and wanton oppression
were not lacking, and when the three men parted, it was with the
understanding that they were to ascertain how many of their countrymen
were willing to help them. They furthermore arranged to meet again,
October 17, 1307, on the Grütli or Rütli, a plateau at the foot of the
Seelisberg, close by the Mythenstein, on the Lake of Lucerne.
One moonlight night, therefore, three bands of ten picked men, led by
Fürst, Stauffacher, and Melchthal wended their way to the Grütli, and
there beneath the open sky, and in sight of the snow-crowned mountains
tipped by the first glow of dawn, the leaders, clasping hands, raised
three fingers to heaven. In that position they solemnly swore to shake
off the yoke of the oppressor, their motto being, “One for all and all
for one.” This oath was fervently echoed by the thirty companions they
had brought thither, and ere they parted all agreed to be ready to rise
at a given signal on New Year’s Day, to drive the tyrants out of the
land for ever.
On the traditional spot where the Swiss patriots stood while
registering this solemn oath, three springs of crystal clear water
are said to have sprung. The legend further claims that in one of the
clefts of the Seelisberg the patriots sit, wrapped in slumbers which
will remain undisturbed until their country again has need of their
services.
Swiss peasants say that the Three Tells--for such is their popular
designation--have been seen several times. A young shepherd, for
instance, seeking a stray goat, once came to the entrance of this
mysterious cave, and beheld three men fast asleep. While staring in
speechless amazement at their old-fashioned garb and venerable faces,
one of the sleepers suddenly awoke and asked, “What time is it up in
the world?”
“High noon,” stammered the shepherd, remembering that the sun stood
directly overhead when he entered the cave.
“Then it is not yet time for us to appear,” drowsily remarked the
aged man, dropping off to sleep again.
[Illustration: THE OATH ON THE RÜTLI.]
The shepherd gazed in silent awe upon the three Tells, then, stealing
noiselessly out of the cave, carefully marked the spot, so he could
find it again when he wished to return. These precautions were vain,
however, for he and his companions searched every nook and cranny in
the mountain, without ever being able to find the entrance to the
cave of the Swiss Sleepers. But the natives declare that some simple
herdsman may again stumble upon it by accident, and many believe that
the guardians of their country’s liberties will come forth to defend
them in case of need.
Among the patriots who took the oath upon the Rütli, was a man named
Tell, son-in-law of Walter Fürst, and noted far and wide for his skill
as a marksman. Strong and sure-footed, Tell delighted in pursuing the
chamois over almost inaccessible heights, and along the jagged edges of
dangerous precipices, where a moment’s dizziness or a single misstep
would have hurled him down on the rocks hundreds of feet below. Tell
lived, with his wife and two little sons, in a hut at Bürglen, in Uri,
on the very spot where a chapel was built in his honour in 1522.
It came to pass, shortly after the patriots had met on the Grütli,
and before the time set for their uprisal, that Gessler, an Austrian
bailiff, one of whose castles rose in sight of Hapsburg, determined
to ascertain by a clever device how many men in Uri were loyal to his
master. He therefore set up a pole in the market-place at Altorf, upon
which he hung a hat,--the emblem of Austrian power,--bidding a herald
proclaim aloud that all must do homage to it under penalty of death or
life-long imprisonment.
The freemen of Uri were justly incensed when they heard this decree,
and by common consent avoided passing through the square. When
compelled to do so, they resorted to various stratagems to avoid
obeying Gessler’s orders without forfeiting life or liberty. One of
their devices was to send the priest to take up his position with the
Host directly under the obnoxious Austrian emblem. Of course, all who
now passed by reverently bent the knee; but it was quite evident, even
to the guards, that the homage was paid to the Sacrament alone, and not
to the imperial hat.
Living only a short distance from Altorf, but ignorant of all that
had recently happened there, Tell came down to the village one day,
leading his little son by the hand. Unconscious alike of pole, hat,
and guards, he strolled across the square, and was greatly surprised
to find himself suddenly arrested for defying Gessler’s orders. While
protesting his innocence, and striving to make the guards release him,
Tell saw Gessler ride by; so, turning toward him, he loudly called for
justice. The bailiff immediately drew near, and standing in the midst
of the crowd composed of his attendants and of the startled inhabitants
of Altorf, he sneeringly listened to Tell’s account of his unjust
arrest.
Now, it happened that Gessler had often heard Tell’s skill as a
marksman loudly praised, and that he had long wished to see an
exhibition of it. He therefore seized this opportunity for gratifying
both his curiosity and his cruelty, and promised to set the prisoner
free, if he shot an apple from the head of his child at a distance of
one hundred and fifty paces.
At these words a murmur of indignation arose in the crowd, but such was
the fear inspired by the cruel Gessler that none ventured to interfere
in behalf of Tell, whose prayers and protestations proved alike vain.
Seeing no other means of escape, and urged by his child, who of his own
accord ran to place himself against a linden-tree on the spot where
the fountain now stands, Tell tremblingly selected two arrows from
his quiver. One he hastily thrust in his bosom, the other he carefully
adjusted in his crossbow; but when he would fain have taken aim, the
weapon fell from his nerveless hand. Still, a sneer from the bailiff,
and an encouraging call from his boy, steeled Tell’s heart for this
awful test of skill. A moment later the child came bounding forward,
proudly exhibiting the apple transfixed by his father’s dart.
Just as Tell, still dazed by emotion, was about to turn away, Gessler
called him back to inquire why he had drawn two arrows from his
quiver, when only one shot was required to prove his proficiency. Tell
hesitated; but when Gessler assured him that he could speak without any
fear for his life, he hoarsely answered,--
“Had I injured my child, this arrow would have found its goal in your
heart, for my hand would not have trembled a second time!”
Beside himself with rage at these bold words, Gessler now bade his
guards bind Tell fast, and convey him immediately down to his waiting
boat at Flühlen, adding that while he would keep his promise not to
kill Tell, he would nevertheless thrust him into a dungeon where
neither sun nor moon would ever shine upon him, and where snakes would
prey upon his living body.
[Illustration: TELL ANSWERS GESSLER.]
Placed in the boat, with fast-bound hands and feet, his useless
weapons close beside him, Tell despairingly watched the bailiff embark
and the shore near Altorf slowly recede. But when the rowers tried to
round the Axenstein, a sudden tempest swept down on the lake, whipping
its waters to foam, and bringing skiff and passengers in such imminent
danger that there seemed no hope of escape. The boatmen, remembering
that Tell was the most clever steersman on the lakeside, now implored
Gessler to let him help, and the prisoner, freed from his bonds,
quickly seized the rudder.
With strong arm and fearless gaze he stood there, and boldly directed
the boat toward a broad ledge of rock forming a natural landing-place
at the foot of the Axenberg, at a point where the lake is nearly seven
hundred feet deep.
As the boat drew near this place, Tell suddenly let go the rudder,
and seizing his bow and arrows, sprang ashore! This spot, since known
as Tellsplatte, is one of the most interesting sites on the Lake of
Lucerne, and in the chapel commemorating this feat there are several
paintings representing various phases of the legend.
Gessler’s boat, hurled back among the seething waves, tossed about in
great danger, although his boatmen now made frantic efforts to save
their own lives. Dreading the bailiff’s vengeance should he manage to
escape, Tell hastened over the mountains to the Hohle Gasse, or Hollow
Way, a narrow road between Küssnacht and Immensee, along which Gessler
would have to pass to reach home.
There, crouching in the bushes on the steep bank, Tell patiently waited
to see whether his enemy would escape from the perils of the storm.
Before long the bailiff appeared, riding at the head of his troop,
and evidently meditating in what way he could best effect his revenge
upon Tell. His wicked plans were all cut short, however, for an arrow
from Tell’s bow put a sudden end to his tyrannical career. The spot
where Tell stood and where Gessler fell has long been marked by a
small chapel, decorated with a painting representing this scene. After
ascertaining that Gessler was really dead, Tell fled, making his way
back to Bürglen, where he cheered friends and family by the assurance
that the tyrant could never trouble them again.
The story of Swiss independence and of Tell’s brave deeds has been so
ably dramatised by Schiller, that a grateful people have carved his
name on the Mythenstein, where it may be seen by passengers on the
boats constantly plying to and fro on the Lake of Lucerne.
Besides the three picturesque chapels known by the name of Tell, where
anniversary services are held every year, and the huge statue erected
at Altorf, on the very spot where he shot the apple from the head of
his son, Tell’s name has been honoured in poetry, painting, sculpture,
and song. His death was on a par with the rest of his life, for when
far advanced in age, he fearlessly sprang into the Schächen to save
a drowning child. The sudden plunge into the ice-cold waters of this
mountain stream, and the great exertion required to stem its current,
so enfeebled the old man that he soon died.
“And thus the great life ended;
God!--was it not the best
Of all the deeds of valour
That won a hero’s rest?
So mused I by the Schächen;
So say we, true and well
That the last deed was the best deed
That closed the life of Tell!”
HENRY MORFORD.[10]
[10] Poems of Places--Switzerland: Longfellow.
Tradition claims that Gessler’s cruel treatment of Tell precipitated
historical events, for when the men of Uri, Schwyz, and Unterwald
heard that Gessler was dead, they gave the agreed signal for a general
uprising. Then they simultaneously attacked all the Austrian bailiffs,
slew or drove them away, and razed their castles to the ground, after
freeing their captive countrymen.
This rebellion roused the wrath of the Emperor Albert, who immediately
set out from Hapsburg Castle to put it down with a heavy hand. But
while crossing the Reuss, in full view of his castle and retainers,
Albert was murdered by his nephew John and by four Swiss noblemen, the
only persons who were with him. Then the murderers fled, leaving the
emperor to breathe his last in the arms of a peasant woman who happened
to be near.
It is said that, wandering among the mountains, John finally reached
Tell’s cottage at Bürglen, where he stopped to beg food. Here he
confessed what he had done, and was sternly reproved by Tell, who
proved to him that murdering a relative in revenge for personal
injuries and for the sake of selfish gain, was very different from
killing a tyrant in self-defence and for the good of one’s country.
All but one of Albert’s murderers escaped justice; but not content with
slaying that victim in the most barbarous way, his wife and daughter
persecuted all the friends and relatives of those who had taken part
in the crime. More than a thousand of these unfortunates are said to
have perished, and it is claimed that Agnes, the emperor’s daughter,
personally superintended some of the executions, and rapturously
exclaimed, “Now I am bathing in May dew!” when she saw their blood flow
in torrents.
On the spot where Albert died--the site of the old Roman
Vindonissa--his widow and daughter erected the famous Abbey of
Königsfelden, which was richly decorated with historical paintings
and stained-glass windows. About two centuries later the abbey was
secularised, and it is now used as an insane asylum; but the principal
objects of interest there are still shown to admiring tourists.
* * * * *
ALBERT was succeeded by two emperors who, not belonging to the Hapsburg
race, were inclined to help the Swiss. But their brief reigns having
come to an end, another Hapsburg was raised to the imperial throne, and
on the 15th of November, 1315, made a determined attempt to conquer the
Swiss. The latter, however, were lying in wait for his army, which they
suddenly attacked while it was hemmed in between Lake Ægeri and the
mountain at Morgarten. Far from expecting such an impetuous onslaught,
the imperial forces, notwithstanding all their boasted panoply of war,
were completely routed by an inferior number of poorly armed patriots.
The latter, impelled by long-pent fury for all the wrongs they had
endured at the hands of the Austrians, fairly swept them into the lake,
where many of the knights were drowned.
Ever since then, at midnight on the anniversary of the battle, it is
said the lake suddenly begins to boil, and that its seething waters
assume a bloody hue. Then, from the depths of the lake, the spirits
of all these drowned warriors arise, still clad in full armour and
bestriding their huge battle steeds. Led by Death on his pale horse,
brandishing his scythe and hour-glass, the dead knights march in solemn
procession around the lake, plunging back into its waters when the
clocks in the neighbouring villages strike one.
A memorial chapel, containing a painting representing the famous
encounter at Morgarten, marks the spot where the battle was fought, and
solemn anniversary services are held there every year. This memorable
victory won so many adherents for the Swiss in their own land, that
before long the Confederation numbered eight instead of three cantons.
* * * * *
SEVENTY years after Morgarten, the Austrians made a second attempt to
conquer the Swiss, but they were again defeated at Sempach, on the
lake of the same name, near Lucerne. At first it seemed as if this
battle would prove fatal to the Swiss, for the Austrians were armed
with long pikes, which enabled them to make havoc in the ranks of their
opponents, whose weapons were too short to reach them.
Perceiving his companions fall around him, without being able to strike
a single blow, Arnold von Winkelried suddenly determined to break the
enemy’s ranks. Calling loudly to his friends to look after his wife and
children, this hero seized an armful of the long Austrian spears, and
driving them into his own breast, fell, crying, “Make way for liberty!”
His countrymen, pouring into the breach he had thus made at the expense
of his life, attacked the enemy with such fury that they soon won a
brilliant victory.
The battle of Sempach is commemorated by a monument, upon which stands
the simple inscription: “Hier hat Winkelried den seinen eine Gasse
gemacht.” 1386. (Winkelried here made a way for his friends).
At Stanz, in Unterwald, the birthplace of Winkelried, a fine statue
represents his heroic death. The Austrian spears clasped in a last
embrace, he turns his dying glance upon his countrymen, urging them
to rush over his prostrate body against their country’s foe. On the
anniversary of the battle a ghostly voice is heard in the castle at
Richensee, dolefully calling, “Conrad! Conrad!” In answer to this cry,
a knight in black armour, with ghastly wounds in head and breast,
suddenly appears on the ruined tower, and as though responding to a
roll-call, gruffly answers, “Here, Austria!”
This apparition is said to be a lord of the castle, who fell at
Sempach, fighting for Austria as bravely as one of his ancestors who
lost his life in that cause at Morgarten.
* * * * *
AN outpost of the mighty Alps, Mount Pilatus, on the boundary of the
cantons of Lucerne and Unterwald, is one of the most picturesque
features of that region.
[Illustration: LUCERNE, WITH MT. PILATUS.
(Old View.)]
In the days of Roman occupation a light-house (_lucerna_) is said to
have shone on the spot where the Wasserthurm now stands, and to have
given its name to canton, lake, and town. At that epoch Mount Pilatus
was known as Mons Fractus, Fracmont, or the Broken Mountain, owing to
the jagged crag-like appearance of its summit. This descriptive name,
however, was gradually supplanted by another, equally appropriate, that
height--seldom free from clouds--being called Mons Pileatus, or the
Capped Mountain. Every storm coming from the north or west gathers
around this majestic peak, which serves as a natural barometer for all
the people dwelling within sight of it. According to a very old and
equally popular rhyme, the weather probabilities are that the day will
be fair if the clouds merely rest upon the mountain top; when they
extend part way down, it is well to be prepared for sudden changes;
but should trails of mist reach far down Pilatus’ rugged sides, it is
considered an infallible sign of a coming storm. In its oldest form
this rhyme runs:--
“Das Wetter fein und gut
Wann Pilatus hat ’nen Hut;
Trägt er einen Degen
So gibt es Regen.”
In the course of time this jingle has undergone sundry modifications,
until the English version now reads:--
“If Pilatus wears his cap, serene will be the day;
If his collar he puts on, you may venture on the way;
But if his sword he wields, at home you’d better stay.”
With the introduction of Christianity, and the substitution of the
vernacular for the Latin language, the original meaning of _pileatus_
was entirely forgotten. The natives therefore soon began to claim
that the mountain was named after Pontius Pilate, the unscrupulous
governor of Judea who sentenced our Saviour to death. Little by little
this belief gave rise to the picturesque legend connected with this
locality, which, owing to numerous accretions, is singularly complete
and interesting.
In the second century after Christ, there already existed an apocryphal
Epistle of Pilate, containing his account of the trial and condemnation
of Jesus Christ.[11] Warned by his wife, Procla, who had “suffered many
things in a dream because of him,” and by sundry miracles enumerated
in his epistle, Pilate, convinced of the divine origin as well as of
the innocence of the Prisoner brought before him, nevertheless weakly
yielded to the threats of a few among the Jews, and condemned our Lord
to an ignominious death. A moral coward, Pilate next sought to escape
the natural consequences of his pusillanimous compliance by publicly
washing his hands, and solemnly crying, “I am innocent of the blood of
this just person; see ye to it.”
[11] For the Pilate legend see the author’s “Legends of the
Virgin and Christ.”
Pilate’s report and various other rumours concerning the death and
resurrection of Christ, together with frequent bitter complaints of
extortion and misgovernment, finally reached the ears of Tiberius.
Moved by anger and curiosity, this emperor immediately summoned the
accused official to Rome to render a minute account of his stewardship.
But before Pilate could reach the Eternal City, Tiberius died and was
succeeded by Caligula, who, equally incensed against the faithless
governor, loudly boasted that he would make very short work of his
trial. The Roman courtiers were therefore seized with unbounded
astonishment when they beheld their savage master treat Pontius Pilate
with every mark of extreme courtesy, and heard the mild and gentle
tones in which he addressed him. But no sooner had Pilate left the
tribunal than all Caligula’s wrath flamed up anew, and he peremptorily
ordered the delinquent governor to be brought in again.
When Pilate stood before his irate judge, the latter, suddenly and
mysteriously soothed, once more overwhelmed him with tokens of the
highest favour instead of punishing him as he wished. The courtiers’
wonder grew apace, nor did it diminish when, after Pilate’s second
exit, the emperor breathed forth curses and threats even more violent
than before. Summoned a third time with the same baffling result,
Caligula, convinced that Pilate must be protected by some amulet of
great power, bade his courtiers carefully search the Judean governor
ere they brought him into his presence for a fourth and last time.
In executing these orders, the courtiers discovered that Pilate wore
under his usual garments the “seamless robe” of Our Lord, which he had
purchased from the soldier to whom it had fallen by lot. Stripped of
this talisman, Pilate stood before Caligula, who, no longer restrained
from anger and vituperation by the presence of the holy relic, poured
out all the vials of his wrath upon the prisoner’s head, and sentenced
him to an ignominious death.
To avoid the jeers of the Roman mob, and the disgrace of a public
execution, Pilate is said to have committed suicide in his prison
by stabbing himself with his table-knife. His corpse--as was then
customary in cases of self-murder--was cast into the Tiber. But the
waters, refusing to suffer such pollution, rose with unprecedented fury
and overflowed their banks, while the thunder rolled, the lightning
flashed, and the earth shook with such violence that all hearts were
filled with awe. The terrified Romans therefore hastened to consult
their oracles, and learning that the dreadful tumult was occasioned by
Pilate’s corpse, they quickly withdrew it from the Tiber, whose fury
immediately subsided as if by magic. To dispose of the body,--which
could not be buried in the usual way,--it was now cast into the
Mediterranean Sea. But there, too, its presence caused such dire
commotion that to ward off further misfortunes it was again removed.