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just arrived at Shwytz, from the Lake of Wahlstadt; my soul was still absorbed in the recollection of the majestic and sublime scenery I had just beheld. The chapel of William Tell—the river Matte, the hut where the free-man had dwelt, together with the wide and glassy surface of the charming lake, surrounded with rocks ten thousand feet in height—all the appearances of this vast and majestic creation, with the imperishable relics of past memorable times—all continued to present themselves to my imagination, adding more and more to the already exalted emotions excited by the grand spectacle.

Seating myself at the window of my inn, I beheld before me, rising and towering to the heavens above, Mount Mythen, with its double peak, and the wooden cross planted upon its highest summit. It appeared every moment, as if some dreadful catastrophe similar to that which destroyed the Valley of Goldau, would here be repeated; the ancient Mythen hung threatening over the little town, and large time-worn apertures were observable in the body of the rock. By the breaking asunder of this mass, in its airy elevation, it must be feared that certain destruction awaits the devoted city, situated, as it is, at the foot of the rock.

The longer I looked the more did it appear as if this ancient edifice of nature was tottering: the cross erected by