XIII.

THE RIGHI CULM.

FROM the top of the Righi is seen one of the most celebrated views in all Switzerland. The magnificent prospect it commands is not owing so much to its height (it being only 5700 feet above the level of the sea) as to its isolated position. It rises like a cone up from Lakes Lucerne and Zug, with a forest round its waist, and a lofty precipice for its forehead sloping away into green pasturages.

I went by way of Kussnacht, in order to visit the spot where William Tell leaped ashore from the boat that was conveying him a prisoner to that place, and sent an arrow through the heart of Gessler. By this route it takes seven hours to reach the Culm of the Righi from Lucerne. I had started with many misgivings, and with depressed feelings. The companions of my travels had had enough of mountain climbing and of Switzerland, and here resolved to start for England. It requires no common resolution to break away from all one's companions in a strange land, and turn one's footsteps alone towards the Alps. But the Righi I was determined to see, and the surpassing prospect from its summit, even though I waited a week to enjoy it.

But all this was forgotten for a while as I entered the Hohlegasse or narrow way where Tell lay concealed, waiting the tyrant's approach. I could imagine the very look of this bold free Swiss, as concealed among the trees he drew the silent arrow to its head, and sent it on its mission of death. The shout of a free people was in the twang of that bow, and the hand of Liberty herself sent the bolt home; while in that manly form that went leaping like a chamois over the hills, was the hope of Switzer

land. From this hallowed spot I began the tvilsome ascent of the Righi with no companion but my guide. It was a bright summer afternoon, and stripping off my coat and handing it with my cloak to my guide, I nerved myself for my four hours of constant climbing. When about half way up, I sat down and looked back on the scene. There was Lucerne, from which my companions were just about starting for England and for home. Away from it into the very bosom of the mountains went the sweet Lake of Lucerne. Close at my feet, apparently, nestled the little chapel of Tell, built on the spot where the patriot slew the tyrant; while far away swept the land of the Swiss. As an American, I could not view the land of Tell and Winkelried, and look down on the shores where the "oath of the Grutli" was taken, and Switzerland made her first stand for freedom, without the deepest emotion. There slept the sweet Lake of Lucerne calm and tranquil as the heavens above it. But there was a night when its waters were lashed into fury by an Alpine storm, and close beside those old rocks struggled a frail vessel hopelessly with the tempest. The lightning, as it rent the gloom, showed ever and anon its half-buried form amid the waves. The torn sail was shivering

in the blast, while the roar of the billows on the rocks fell distinctly on the ears of the appalled listeners, as they looked to each other for help in vain. A tyrant stood trembling on its foam-covered deck, and asked if there was no help. A stern proud prisoner was brought before him, and looked calmly out upon the frightful deep. "Unbind him," said the tyrant—" he alone can save us." The chains were knocked off; and with the same calm, silent mien, he seized the helm and guided the leaping vessel safely amid the rocks. The boat is ashore, but where is the prisoner? Fled? aye, fled! but not for safety alone. The night covers him, and the tyrant has entered the narrow gorge on his way to his home. A sharp twang as of a bowstring, a quick, hissing sound through the air, and Gessler falls back in the arms of his attendants, with an arrow in his bosom. "Das war Tell's Schoss !" exclaimed the tyrant and died. Then rang the battle cry of Freedom along these shores, and from her hundred mountain vallies came pouring down the hardy Swiss. With the sword of Tell to wave them on, they bravely battled

their way to freedom. Blessings on thee, bold Swiss! thy name is a watchword for freemen and ever shall be. Around it cluster the fondest memories of the patriot, and children love to speak it aloud. But ah, how degenerate has the race become! Corrupted and debased by the French, their freedom and their honesty have departed together.

I turned to ascend the mountain again. Crossing a narrow level pasturage, I was greeted with the tinkling of bells, and the clear voices of shepherd boys singing in a shrill falsetto their wild Alpine chorusses. As I drew near the top, I passed a boy leaning against a rock, and making the air ring with the tones of his Alpine horn. A few moments after a cloud of mist swept over the mountain, burying every thing in twilight gloom and chilling my blood like the sudden entrance to a damp vault. The sun, which a moment before shone over me in unclouded brightness, was snatched from my sight, and I stumbled on in a cloud to the house on the top. The wind swept by in gusts, making the mist dive and plunge and leap through the air like mad spirits. Now it would rise towards me as I looked over the precipice, like the smoke from some vast furnace, and then plunge again into the gulfs below, while the fragments writhed and twisted together as if tortured into agony by some invisible agency. I had scarcely entered the house before a cold chill seized me that seemed impossible to shake off, and which the good woman of the house had the kindness to tell me, unless I did, would end in a fever in the morning. I should have brought some dry clothing with me, but forgot it. Fire and water, brandy and wine, were tried in succession, but still I kept shaking. As a last resort I cleared the largest room in the house, and then wrapping my heavy cloak around me, began to leap and run and throw myself into the most difficult postures, to the no small wonderment of the quiet Swiss. But in half an hour I had the satisfaction of feeling the blood flow warmer and hotter through my veins, while the perspiration stood in drops on my forehead. I had conquered, and after resting a while, went out to the verge of the cliff which shoots its naked wall two hundred feet clear down to Lake Zug, and endeavoured to pierce the cloud that had changed day into night. I knew it was not yet sundown, and hoped I might see its last rays falling

VIEW AT EVENING

73

over the magnificent panorama which I knew was spread out below me. It was all in vain: that cloud closed round the summit like a gloomy fate, and shut all out of sight. But suddenly, as I was gazing, a lake of fire, miles away, burst on the view; one half red as flame, and the other half midnight blackness, streaked with a murky red. The next moment it shut again, and in another direction another fiery surface flashed up into the awful blackness, reminding me more than anything I ever saw, of what a distant view of perdition might be. This strange spectacle was caused by the cloud opening before me and revealing a portion of a distant lake, while the mist was still dense enough to refract the rays of the sun, giving that dark smoky red you sometimes see on the edge of a thunder-cloud, as it rolls up at sunset after a scorching day. I sat up till late at night reading Schiller's William Tell, and then retired giving directions to be waked up early in the morning to see the sun rise. I had many misgivings, I confess, about the morning, and the verse composed once by an Englishman who made the ascent, and which were the last words uttered by my companions as I bade them good bye, were constantly running in my head.

Seven weary up-hill leagues we sped

The setting sun to see:

Sullen and grim he went to bed;

Sullen and grim went we.

Nine sleepless hours of night we passed

The rising sun to see:

Sullen and grim he rose again;

Sullen and grim rose we.

I passed the hours sleepless enough, and when I rose to look out in the morning, an impenetrable mist seemed to wrap every thing. I was just crawling back to bed again when I thought I would take another look. Passing my hand over the glass, I found what I had taken for mist was simply the vapour condensed on the window. A clear blue sky was bending overhead.

In a few moments I was standing on the brow of the precipice and watching with intense interest the scene around me. On my right, stood cold and silent, white and grand, the whole range of the Bernese Alps. Close under me, hundreds of feet down, lay

the waters of the Zug, and yet so close to the mountain on which I stood, that it seemed as if I could kick a stone into it. On the left spread away the glorious Swiss land, sprinkled over with villages and lakes. Behind me was the Lucerne throwing its arms away into the heart of the mountains, while forests, rivers, towns, hills and lakes, formed together a panorama three hundred miles in circumference. While I stood gazing, awe-struck, ɔn the silent majestic scene as it lay motionless in the gray light of morning, a golden streak spread along the East. Brighter and brighter it grew till the snow-peak nearest it caught the same fiery glow, and stood tipped with flame over the world of snow below. Suddenly another peak flashed up beside it, and then another and another, till for nearly a hundred miles, from the Sentis to the Jungfrau, the whole range of giant summits, stood, a deep rose colour against a blue sky, while vast snow-fields and glaciers slept in deep shadow between. I stood bewildered and amazed, gazing on that hundred miles of rose-coloured mountains. It seemed for the time as if the Deity had thrown the robe of his glory over those gigantic forms on purpose to see how they became their gorgeous apparelling. Gradually they paled away as the blazing fiery ball rolled into view and poured a flood of light on the whole scene, waking the landscape into sudden life and beauty. It is impossible to describe such a scene. The whole range of the Bernese Alps before you, with its peaks, and glaciers, and precipices, and snow-fields, and gorges, is a scene in itself which has no parallel in the world, while the sudden change from ghostly white to a transparent red, fading gradually away into a delicate rose-colour, renders the spectator unable to seize any one thing which would give speciality to the whole. I have never felt the utter powerlessness of words and feebleness of all comparisons, as in attempting to describe such a scene as spreads away on the vision from Mount Righi at sunrise.

But cast your eye round the horizon now the full light of day is on it. To the west the country opens like a map, with the whole canton of Lucerne in view, while far away, a mere pool, glitters the Lake of Sempach, whose shores are one of Switzerland's glorious battle fields. The eye passes on over Lucerne