During the festival the houses of Zurich continued adorned with flags, transparencies, and evergreens, which were every day entwined with fresh flowers. Near the festive hall a triumphal arch had been erected, on which stood a colossal figure of William Tell in the act of menacing Gesler with the arrow, after having shot the apple from the head of his boy. Some of the critics would have us believe that Tell is not Tell, that no such person ever existed, but that he is a purely mythical character—the creation of Schiller’s imagination. Yet it matters little to the Swiss whether the hero was, or was not; all these thousands of marksmen who daily pass that triumphal arch are possessed by one thought, and many can not refrain from shouting, “Hurrah for Tell, father of the marksman! The Swiss of to-day is as skillful an archer, as daring and as free as thou wast!” Myth or not, Tell is the man of the people, the Washington of Switzerland—or, rather, Washington is the Tell of America; and these words of the dying Attinghausen—
“Hold fast together, then—for ever fast.
Let freedom’s haunts be one in heart, in mind!
Set watches on your mountain tops, that league
May answer league, when comes the hour to strike.
Be one—be one—be one”—
are never forgotten in these days by the inhabitants of Switzerland.
Around the hall there has sprung up a village of wood and canvas, and while the men are engaged with their rifles, the women and children crowd to see the circus, the menageries, rope-dancers, puppet-shows, “the giant Kentuckian,” “General Tom Thumb,” &c., and while every one amuses himself, there is no rioting, no impropriety, no beggary, no placards bidding us to “Beware of Pickpockets;” the people are as sound as their institutions.
At 8 o’clock in the morning the target shooting commences, closing at 8 in the evening. The target and signal men are promptly at their stations, and the members of the different committees for keeping order, arrive one by one. The marksmen are impatiently awaiting the signal shot. Spectators gather in from all sides. The signal is given, and in a moment the sharp crack of ninety-six rifles is heard. The firing is kept up incessantly till noon, when the sound of the cannon again calls to dinner. At about 10 o’clock the first steamers have landed their passengers from “beyond the water,” and the first trains have come in, bringing new guests to supply the place of those who leave, so that new faces and new acquaintances greet us every day. Here a fresh company of sharp-shooters from distant Ticino approaches, marching to the sound of music and preceded by their flag, and receive their welcome—there another company from Neufchâtel is escorted to the station and takes its departure homeward.
One of the most joyous occurrences of the festival—a silvery gleam in the general sunshine—was the reception of the marksmen from the four forest towns, Lucerne, Switz, Uri, and Unterwalden. They numbered full seven hundred men, noble specimens of the native Swiss, all picked men—“Kernmannen.” They were preceded by four of their number attired in the ancient national costume, who carried the very same bugles that for the last five centuries had called their forefathers to arms. The ancient banners followed. As they passed under the triumphal arch and beheld their father, Tell, their shouts, hurrahs, and vivas, knew no bounds. Their ranks were broken and each threw himself upon the breast of the nearest stranger—nay, brother. The very men that perhaps were adversaries in public life, or opposed to each other in political principles, were here united; the love of fatherland was a common bond of union. Thus, also, Schiller speaks through the mouth of Meier: