The reclining figure of this dying lion, so familiar to all from pictorial representations, is twenty-eight feet in length, and, as it lies transfixed with the broken lance, and in the agonies of death, sheltering the French shield and fleur de lis with its great paws, forms a most appropriate monument, and one not easily forgotten.
Lake Lucerne, the Lake of the Four Cantons, is the most beautiful in Switzerland, and the grandeur and beauty of the scenery on every side are heightened by the historical associations connected with the country bordering on its waters; for these cantons are the birthplace of Switzerland's freedom, and the scenes of the struggles of William Tell and his brave associates. It was a beautiful summer's morning when we embarked on board one of the little steamers that leave Lucerne four or five times a day, and steamed out from the pier, leaving the long string of hotels, the range of hills above them, with the curious walls and watch-towers, behind us, and grim old Mount Pilatus with his necklace of clouds standing guard over the whole.
We again pass the green slopes of the Righi, and in the distance the great Alpine peaks begin to appear, printed against the sky. Soon we come to Burgenstock, a great forest-clad hill that rises abruptly from the very lake to the height of over three thousand four hundred feet; we pass beautiful slopes rimmed with a background of lofty mountain peaks; here is the picturesque little village of Waggis, from which many make the ascent of the Righi; next we pass a beautiful little crescent-shaped village, and then come in sight two great barren, rocky-looking peaks named Mythen, nearly six thousand feet high; and the boat rounds up to the pier of Brunnen, a lovely situation, where many tourists disembark and others come on board. Shortly after leaving here, we pass a perpendicular rock, nearly a hundred feet high, on which is inscribed, in huge gilt letters, an inscription signifying it is to "Frederick Schiller, the Bard of Tell." Just beyond this a passenger directs our view to a green field, and a few scattered chalets. That is Rutli, what little we can see of it, and where the founders of Swiss liberty met, and bound themselves by oath to free the land from the invader.
The steamer glides close to the shore, and gives us an opportunity of seeing Tell's Chapel, situated upon a rock on the shore, and marking the place where Tell sprang out of Gessler's boat, as is told in the stories of the Swiss hero. Leaving this behind, we soon come in sight of Fluelen, our point of destination, situated in the midst of a surrounding of grand Alpine scenery. Between two great peaks, in full view, we can see a glacier, with its white snow and blue ice, and a great peak, with castle-shaped summit, looms up seventy-five hundred feet, while behind Fluelen rise two other peaks nearly ten thousand feet. We are circled by great Alps, with their snowy crowns and glaciers gleaming in the sunlight.
Landing at Fluelen, we engaged for our party of five a private open carriage, for the journey through St. Gothard Pass, instead of taking the great cumbrous ark of a diligence that was in waiting. By this means we secured a vehicle very much like an open barouche, roomy, comfortable, and specially designed for the journey, with privilege, of course, of stopping when and where we liked, driving fast or slow; in fact, travelling at our own convenience. This is by far the pleasantest way of travelling the mountain passes accessible to carriages, and where a party can be made up of four or five, the expense per head is but a small advance on that charged in the diligence, a dusty, dirty, crowded vehicle, with but few positions commanding the view, which is what the tourist comes to see.
Crack, crack, crack! went the driver's whip, like a succession of pistol-shots, as we rattled out of Fluelen, and, after a pleasant ride of half an hour, rolled into the romantic little village of Altorf, embosomed in a lovely valley, with the huge mountains rising all about it.
Altorf! William Tell! "Men of Altorf!"
Yes; this was the place embalmed in school-boy memories with all that was bold, heroic, brave, and romantic. Here was where William Tell defied Gessler, dashed down his cap from the pole, and appealed to the men of Altorf.
Pleasant little Swiss town. We ride through a narrow street, which widens out into a sort of market-place, at one end of which stands a huge plaster statue of the Swiss liberator, which is said to occupy the very spot that he stood upon when he performed his wondrous feat of archery, and one hundred and fifty paces distant a fountain marks the spot where his son Albert stood awaiting the arrow from his father's bow, though some of the Swiss insist that Albert's position was thirty paces farther, where a tower now stands, upon which some half-obliterated frescoes, representing scenes in Tell's life, are painted.
We descended from our carriage, walked over the space of the arrow flight, and called to each other from the opposite points; pictured to ourselves the crowd of villagers, the fierce soldiery that pressed them back, the anxiety of the father, the twang of the bow, distinctly heard in the awe-struck hush of the assemblage as the arrow sped on its flight, and then the shout that went up as the apple was cleft, and the boy, unhurt, ran to his father's arms.