“Well, yes; but that was only one act in the tragedy. The desolation they caused in that part of the country was fearful. Above all, their total want of religion at that period can never be forgotten.”
“As for myself,” remarked Mr. C——, “though not a Catholic, I confess that I should much rather rely on the upright instincts of this pious population than on the crooked teachings of our modern philosophers. I have always noticed in every great political crisis that the instincts of the pure and simple-minded have something of an inspiration about them; they go straight to the true principles where a Macchiavelli is often at fault.” Herr H—— completely agreed with him, and the conversation soon became a deep and serious discussion on the tendencies of modern politics in general, so that it was late that evening before our party separated.
The first sound that fell upon my ear next morning was the splashing of a steamer hard by. It had been so dark upon our arrival the night before that we had not altogether realized the close proximity of the hotel to the lake, and it was an unexpected pleasure to find my balcony almost directly over the water, like the stern gallery of a ship of war. A small steamer certainly was approaching from the upper end of the lake, with a time-honored old diligence in the bows and a few travellers, tired-looking and dust-stained, scattered on the deck, very unlike the brilliant throngs that pass to and fro during the late hours of the day. But this early morning performance was one of real business, and the magical words “Post” and “St. Gothard,” which stood out in large letters on the yellow panels of the diligence, told at once of more than mere pleasure-seeking. What joy or grief, happiness or despair, might not this old-fashioned vehicle be at this moment conveying to unknown thousands! It was an abrupt transition, too, to be thus brought from pastoral Sarnen and Sachslen into immediate contact with the mighty Alps. Of their grandeur, however, nothing could be seen; for, without rain or wind, a thick cloud lay low upon the lake, more like a large flat ceiling than aught else. Yet, for us, it had its own peculiar interest, being nothing more nor less than the great, heavy, soft mass which we had noticed hanging over the lake every morning when looking down from Kaltbad, whilst we, revelling in sunshine and brightness above, were pitying the poor inhabitants along the shore beneath. There was a kind of superiority, therefore, in knowing what it meant, and in feeling confident that it would not last long. And, as we expected, it did clear away whilst we sat at our little breakfast-table in the window, revealing in all its magnificence the glorious view from this point up the Bay of Uri, which we have elsewhere described. Huge mountains seemed to rise vertically up out of the green waters; verdant patches were dotted here and there on their rugged sides; and, overtopping all, shone the glacier of the Urirothstock, more dazzlingly white and transparent than we had ever yet beheld it.
“Now, ladies!” exclaimed Herr H——, “I hope you have your Schiller ready; for the Rütli is yonder, though you will see it better by and by.”
“Why, I thought you disapproved of Schiller,” retorted the irrepressibly argumentative George.
“To a certain degree, no doubt,” replied Herr H——. “But nothing can be finer than his William Tell as a whole. My quarrel with it is that the real William Tell would have fared much better were it not for this play, and especially for the opera. They have both made the subject so common—so banale, as the French say—that the world has grown tired of it, and for this reason alone is predisposed to reject our hero. Besides, the real history of the Revolution is so fine that I prefer it in its simplicity. Schiller is certainly true to its spirit, but details are frequently different. For instance, the taking of the Castle of the Rossberg, which you passed on the lake of Alpnach: Schiller has converted that into a most sensational scene, whereas the true story is far more characteristic. That was the place where a young girl admitted her betrothed and his twelve Confederate friends by a rope-ladder at night, which enabled them to seize the castle and imprison the garrison “without shedding a drop of blood or injuring the property of the Habsburgs,” in exact conformity with their oath on the Rütli. You will often read of the loves of Jägeli and Ameli in Swiss poetry. They are great favorites, and, in my opinion, far more beautiful than the fictitious romance of Rudenz and Bertha. And so in many other cases. But every one does not object to Schiller as I do; for in 1859, when his centenary was celebrated in Germany, the Swiss held a festival here on the Rütli, and subsequently erected a tablet on that large natural pyramidal rock you see at the corner opposite. It is called the Wytenstein, and you can read the large gilt words with a glass. It is laconic enough, too; see: ‘To Frederick Schiller—The Singer of Tell—The Urcantone.’ The original cantons! Miss Caroline! let me congratulate you on being at last in the ‘Urschweiz’—the cradle of Switzerland,” continued Herr H——, as we sauntered out on the quay, pointing at the same time to some bad frescos of Swen and Suiter on a warehouse close by. Stauffacher, Fürst, and Van der Halden also figured on the walls—the presiding geniuses of this region. “Brunnen is in no way to be despised, I assure you, ladies; you are treading on venerated soil. This is the very spot that witnessed the foundation of the Confederacy, where the oath was taken by the representatives of Uri, Schwytz, and Unterwalden the day after the battle of Morgarten. They swore ‘to die, each for all and all for each’—the oath which made Switzerland renowned, and gave the name of ‘Ridsgenossen,’ or ‘oath-participators,’ to its inhabitants. The document is still kept in the archives at Schwytz, with another dated August 1, 1291. Aloys von Reding raised his standard against the French here in 1798; and he was quite right in beginning his resistance to them at Brunnen. It is full of memories to us Swiss, and is a most central point, as you may see, between all these cantons. The increase in the hotels tells what a favorite region it also is with tourists.”
On this point Mr. and Mrs. C——’s astonishment was unbounded. They had passed a fortnight at Brunnen in 1861, at a small inn with scanty accommodation, now replaced by the large and comfortable Waldstätterhof, situated in one of the most lovely spots imaginable, at the angle of the lake, one side fronting the Bay of Uri and the other looking up towards Mount Pilatus. The pension of Seelisberg existed on the heights opposite even then—only, however, as a small house, instead of the present extensive establishment, with its pretty woods and walks; but Axenstein and the second large hotel now building near it, with the splendid road leading up to them, had not been thought of. The only communication by land between Schwytz and Fluelen, in those days, was a mule-path along the hills, precipitous and dangerous in many parts. The now famed Axenstrasse was not undertaken until 1862; and is said to have been suggested by the French war in Italy. With the old Swiss dread of the French still at heart, the Federal government took alarm at that first military undertaking on the part of Napoleon III., and, seeing the evil of having no communication between these cantons in case of attack, at once took the matter seriously in hand. This great engineering achievement was opened to the public in 1868. It looked most inviting to-day, and we quickly decided to make use of it by driving along it to Fluelen, and thence to Altorf, returning in the evening by the steamer. Some were anxious to visit the Rütli; but Mr. and Mrs. C—— had been there before, and knew that it was more than an hour’s expedition by boat, so that the two excursions on the same day would be quite impossible; consequently, we chose the longer one.
It was just ten o’clock when we started; Mrs. C——, Caroline, Herr H——, and myself in one carriage, with George on the box, the others following us in a second vehicle. We had not proceeded far when Herr H—— made us halt to look at the Rütli, on the shore right opposite. We distinctly saw that it was a small meadow, formed by earth fallen from above on a ledge of rock under the precipitous heights of Seelisberg, and now enclosed by some fine chestnut and walnut trees. Truly, it was a spot fitted for the famous scene. So unapproachable is it, except by water, that even that most enterprising race—Swiss hotel-keepers—have hitherto failed to destroy it. Some years ago, however, it narrowly escaped this fate; for Herr Müller, of Seelisberg, is said to have been on the point of building a pension on the great meadow. But no sooner did this become known than a national subscription was at once raised, the government purchased it, and now it has become inalienable national property for ever.
“You may well be proud of your country, Herr H——,” exclaimed Mr. C—— from the other carriage. “I always look on that tiny spot with deep reverence as the true cradle of freedom. Look at it well, George! It witnessed that wonderful oath by which these mountaineers bound themselves ‘to be faithful to each other, just and merciful to their oppressors’—the only known example of men—and these men peasants, too—binding themselves, in the excitement of revolt, not to take revenge on their oppressors.”
“Quite sublime!” ejaculated George.