Last week I was beating around the Lake of Four Cantons, and I saw Rutli and Altorf.Rutli is a remote little patch of meadow, but I do not know how any piece of ground could be holier or better worth crossing oceans and continents to see, since it was there that the great trinity of Switzerland joined hands six centuries ago and swore the oath which set their enslaved and insulted country forever free; and Altorf is also honorable ground and worshipful, since it was there that William, surnamed Tell (which interpreted means "The foolish talker"--that is to say, the too-daring talker), refused to bow to Gessler's hat.Of late years the prying student of history has been delighting himself beyond measure over a wonderful find which he has made--to wit, that Tell did not shoot the apple from his son's head.
To hear the students jubilate, one would suppose that the question of whether Tell shot the apple or didn't was an important matter; whereas it ranks in importance exactly with the question of whether Washington chopped down the cherry-tree or didn't.The deeds of Washington, the patriot, are the essential thing; the cherry-tree incident is of no consequence.To prove that Tell did shoot the apple from his son's head would merely prove that he had better nerve than most men and was skillful with a bow as a million others who preceded and followed him, but not one whit more so.But Tell was more and better than a mere marksman, more and better than a mere cool head; he was a type;he stands for Swiss patriotism; in his person was represented a whole people; his spirit was their spirit--the spirit which would bow to none but God, the spirit which said this in words and confirmed it with deeds.There have always been Tells in Switzerland--people who would not bow.There was a sufficiency of them at Rutli; there were plenty of them at Murten; plenty at Grandson; there are plenty today.And the first of them all--the very first, earliest banner-bearer of human ******* in this world--was not a man, but a woman--Stauffacher's wife.There she looms dim and great, through the haze of the centuries, delivering into her husband's ear that gospel of revolt which was to bear fruit in the conspiracy of Rutli and the birth of the first free government the world had ever seen.
From this Victoria Hotel one looks straight across a flat of trifling width to a lofty mountain barrier, which has a gateway in it shaped like an inverted pyramid.Beyond this gateway arises the vast bulk of the Jungfrau, a spotless mass of gleaming snow, into the sky.The gateway, in the dark-colored barrier, makes a strong frame for the great picture.The somber frame and the glowing snow-pile are startlingly contrasted.It is this frame which concentrates and emphasizes the glory of the Jungfrau and makes it the most engaging and beguiling and fascinating spectacle that exists on the earth.There are many mountains of snow that are as lofty as the Jungfrau and as nobly proportioned, but they lack the fame.They stand at large; they are intruded upon and elbowed by neighboring domes and summits, and their grandeur is diminished and fails of effect.
It is a good name, Jungfrau--Virgin.Nothing could be whiter; nothing could be purer; nothing could be saintlier of aspect.At six yesterday evening the great intervening barrier seen through a faint bluish haze seemed made of air and substanceless, so soft and rich it was, so shimmering where the wandering lights touched it and so dim where the shadows lay.
Apparently it was a dream stuff, a work of the imagination, nothing real about it.The tint was green, slightly varying shades of it, but mainly very dark.The sun was down--as far as that barrier was concerned, but not for the Jungfrau, towering into the heavens beyond the gateway.She was a roaring conflagration of blinding white.
It is said the Fridolin (the old Fridolin), a new saint, but formerly a missionary, gave the mountain its gracious name.He was an Irishman, son of an Irish king--there were thirty thousand kings reigning in County Cork alone in his time, fifteen hundred years ago.It got so that they could not make a living, there was so much competition and wages got cut so.Some of them were out of work months at a time, with wife and little children to feed, and not a crust in the place.At last a particularly severe winter fell upon the country, and hundreds of them were reduced to mendicancy and were to be seen day after day in the bitterest weather, standing barefoot in the snow, holding out their crowns for alms.Indeed, they would have been obliged to emigrate or starve but for a fortunate idea of Prince Fridolin's, who started a labor-union, the first one in history, and got the great bulk of them to join it.He thus won the general gratitude, and they wanted to make him emperor--emperor over them all--emperor of County Cork, but he said, No, walking delegate was good enough for him.For behold! he was modest beyond his years, and keen as a whip.To this day in Germany and Switzerland, where St.Fridolin is revered and honored, the peasantry speak of him affectionately as the first walking delegate.
The first walk he took was into France and Germany, missionarying--for missionarying was a better thing in those days than it is in ours.All you had to do was to cure the savage's sick daughter by a "miracle"--a miracle like the miracle of Lourdes in our day, for instance--and immediately that head savage was your convert, and filled to the eyes with a new convert's enthusiasm.You could sit down and make yourself easy, now.He would take an ax and convert the rest of the nation himself.Charlemagne was that kind of a walking delegate.
Yes, there were great missionaries in those days, for the methods were sure and the rewards great.We have no such missionaries now, and no such methods.
