The little village of Fluelen that lies at the eastern end of the Lake of Lucerne is chiefly attractive to visitors from that city because it lies on the opposite and most distant arm of the star-shaped water. The white paddle-steamers with their scarlet pennons ply during the season several times a day between the two places. They lie about three hours apart, and those who do not make the circuit of the water nor take their luncheon on board, where it is expensive, alight at Fluelen. There, between two boats, three hours can pleasantly be spent on either side of dejeuner. The vin ordinaire of the village is a mellow wine, and half a litre, enough for two discriminating persons, could be had (last September) for one and fourpence. Sitting on a balcony of one of the cafés that are studded hospitably about the little place, one’s eyes expect to find nothing whereon to linger save the unfenced railway station, about a small gaunt chateau, the narrow quay, the winding street, and the view of the lake about the roots of the mountains. One does not wish for more, but there is such a thing as curiosity.

Therefore, especially if one has gone ashore earlier, at Tellplatz, an hour’s pleasant walk on the hither side of Fluelen, along the famous Axenstrasse road that tunnels the mountain-side with natural windows such as are seen in old cloisters, one’s eyes are persistently drawn from the mountain to the village at its foot, where they focus themselves upon a little white church, much stained by weather, whose incredibly thin and tapering red spire stands expectantly like the horn of a bright snail, just protruded.