Gleanings From Germany/Liesli, the Maid of Solothurn

by Carl Gottlieb Samuel Heun

LIESLI,

 

THE MAID OF SOLOTHURN;

 

OR

 

THE CEMETERY OF SHWYTZ.

 

---

 

A SWISS TALE,

 

BY CLAUREN.

LIESLI,

 

THE MAID OF SOLOTHURN.

 

---

 

I had 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 some daring hand, seemed to decline its head towards the town, as if wishing to exhort the inhabitants beneath, to prepare themselves by devotion against the approaching hour. At length, unable to look up at the frightful, rocky height, which too surely must precipitate itself sooner or later upon the unfortunate inhabitants beneath, I sought to banish from my mind the appalling thoughts on the possibility of such a dreadful event, and recommending my soul to God, I rambled out into the open air, in order to enjoy the beauties of the evening.

The curfew of the Convent of the Dominican Nuns announced by its monotonous sounds that the pious sisters were offering up their prayers to Him who can restrain the waters within their limits, uphold the rocks upon their bases, and prescribe the bounds of worlds of stars, on their airy flight in the heavens. With a feeling of silent admiration, and with that submission with which weak man depicts to himself the throne of his Almighty Creator, I contemplated the horizon adorned by the setting sun. In the foreground arose to my view, gloomy and silent, Mount Rigi; on its summit, that seemed to touch the heavens, I beheld the great cross by which it is surmounted, still faintly gilded by the rays of the setting sun concealed behind the mighty Alps, while, at the foot of the mountain, all was night and darkness. My heart felt oppressed by painful emotion, and abandoned thus to my own reflections, and excited by some secret feeling, I turned my steps towards Siti, where, to the eastward, the rock of Fallenflue, and westward Mount Shoenbucherberg, together with the Frohnalp, veiled by the grey clouds, served me as guides; these were not, however, the objects which could satisfy the feelings by which I was so agitated. Their high and ancient summits seemed to indicate their close affinity with the higher celestial world above; and thus, feeling how I was enchained to the earth beneath, I shuddered at their frightfully awful elevation.

At the end of the grand avenue of trees near Siti, there stands a summer-house. Eastward a beaten path leads towards a hermitage, situated deep within the bosom of the wood: here I wished to take up my abode for the night, should the hermit and myself prove mutually pleased with each other. In my juvenile years I had read much of such hermitages, and with all the romantic imagination of youth, pictured to myself, in the most picturesque and seducing colours, these happy calm retreats and their holy inhabitants. As yet I had never had an opportunity of beholding such a spot, and now, therefore, wished to gratify my curiosity. Accordingly, I was proceeding down a declivity of the mountain, through the thickets and young brambles which opposed my descent, when my progress was suddenly arrested by the appearance of a venerable man; it was the hermit himself, who had just come from having offered his evening prayers in the chapel, some hundred paces distant from his hermitage, to which solitary dwelling he was now returning. I greeted him with silent respect and veneration, to which he as silently replied.

“May I, venerable father, be allowed to enter your holy dwelling?”—I enquired modestly.

“What is your object in making that request?” he replied, in a tone not altogether repulsive, though neither was it friendly.

“Why, I have no particular motive to satisfy.”—I replied, with a good-natured smile, “I am a native of the north, travelling through your beautiful country; I have never as yet beheld either hermit or hermitage, though both have often been the subjects of my youthful fancy and meditation; I feel desirous, therefore, holy father, of now satisfying my curiosity, by passing a short and instructive hour in your society. You are more wise and pious than we children of the world; you live in solitude and seclusion; you pass your time in acts of devotion; your silent prayers are not disturbed by those guilty agitations of mind to which we unhappily are too often exposed, and God is nearer to you, because you are more pure and guiltless of those misdeeds with which we too often have to reproach ourselves. Are you not here completely happy, holy father, in your retreat?”

“Happy!”—replied he, slowly, stopping of a sudden, and casting an expressive look of grave severity towards the pale-purpled sky, which still faintly gilded the cross on the peak of Mount Rigi. “My son,” he continued, after a silent pause, “hast thou ever, in thy life, beheld one happy mortal?”

“Yes, holy father, I myself am happy. I have nothing to reproach myself with, I am young and healthy, and at home I have a beloved family and dear and valued friends; I have what I require, and even more than sufficient to satisfy my wants. Nothing pains or disquiets my mind, travelling delights me, and I am now in your beatiful country, where, at every step, nature unfolds new charms, and where God has manifested his great and ever-reigning glory, in so wonderful a manner.”

“Happy!” replied the venerable man, doubtfully shaking his hoary head, “hast thou no share in the afflictions of others?”

To this question, which sounded so strangely in my ears, I could only reply by casting down my eyes in confusion.

“And I too,” continued he, “have no reproaches to make myself. I likewise enjoy the blessing of health; I also have my family and friends, if not here, yet in the eternal home of peace above; I too have all that I require; I also, like thee, enjoy pleasure in the survey of God’s beauteous creation, and yet—I am not happy. The pains, the wants of my more unhappy neighbours too often oppress and overcome my feelings; for to me come only such unhappy beings as seek to pour into my heart those troubles and afflictions with which they are so heavy laden, and under which they would otherwise sink. But thou, who livest within the wide range of this world, hast thou never yet beheld the flow of bitter tears descending down the cheek of sorrow? Hast thou never heard the troubled sigh, when issuing from the breast of affliction? Hast thou never yet experienced the painful sensation which follows the wish to help misfortune’s child, and yet the want of power to effect it?”

His discourse fell upon my conscience-stricken breast like a burning weight of fire, and my eyes were so chained to the earth, that I neither dared nor could look up. “Who can help all,” I exclaimed, wishing to excuse myself; “were one a very Crœsus, it would ruin and impoverish at last?”

“You do not comprehend my meaning, “replied he, sternly, “and only prove how little till now you have participated in the sufferings of your fellow-creatures. It is not gold that always serves to alleviate affliction, for often is the beggar far happier than he who aids, and who yet himself endures anguish of mind; it is consolation, counsel, mildness, patience, which you owe to your neighbour, and until you can fulfil these duties with all your zeal and strength, you cannot call yourself happy. Delay not with your help till it be demanded; as soon as you know it is required step forward with a zealous alacrity, but reckon not upon reward, you do only your duty, and cannot require thanks. The feeling, the consciousness of having done our duty is the highest recompense we can wish to enjoy here below.—God be with you!”—With these words this singular being left me, and thus I had for once beheld a hermit.

The venerable man proceeded silently towards his cell, and I saw myself forced to return again to Shwytz, or to pass the night under the canopy of heaven.

Plunged in deep reverie, I in vain endeavoured to recall the subject of my late discourse with the hermit; I felt as if his words had awakened me from the most flattering dreams.

Silent and thoughtful I returned home. I had just learned to consider this life in a point of view which was to me perfectly new, but which, presenting at the same time a very uninviting and cheerless prospect, only conveyed to me a dark and melancholy feeling. I was then, he said, to seek out myself the misery which prevailed amongst my fellow-creatures; to offer them my help and succour, and that without even the prospect or hope of reward, or thanks in return! I fain would have wished to persuade myself that the language of the hermit was only the result of an overheated zeal, arising from the ascetic life he led; and that though his strict doctrine might well be put in practice by a penitent anchorite in his solitary cell, yet it could never be suitable for a being living in and for the world, having so many and various occupations and duties to perform. But all these evasive thoughts and arguments did not serve to tranquillize my mind; on the contrary, I felt convinced of the truth of the venerable man’s words, though it appeared to me difficult to be as he wished man should be.

On the side of the road on the way back to my inn, I passed the principal church of the town of Shwytz, situated on a declivity. The churchyard, where, according to the laudable custom of the place, all the graves are bestrewed with flowers, may be compared to a garden, and presents a very different aspect to the melancholy abodes of the dead, disfigured by crosses, tomb-stones, and wild weeds, as in our part of the country. It was the season of the Alpine pink (dianthus plumarius), of which millions were blooming here in variegated colours, while their delicious odours perfumed the dusky evening air. Here and there the flowers were overtopped by little stands of stone, forming basins to contain the holy water, with which they were sprinkled.

Seating myself upon a part of the wall which surrounded the church yard, I contemplated the lonely scene around me, amidst the deepest silence. In the little town beneath were slumbering the living—and here I was surrounded by the dead, reposing beneath the flowers. Again the discourse of the hermit occurred to my mind, while the deep solitude which prevailed around, rendered me still more susceptible of reflection upon the true sense and meaning of his words. I confessed to myself, that hitherto I had only been seeking after pleasure, that amid its scenes alone I had found enjoyment, and that my senses had been most attracted and enchained by the sounds of merriment and joy.

I admitted too, that I had ever preferred the society of such as added to my pleasure and amusement by their wit and gaity, to those of a more serious and sedate temperament. But now, in order to become happy, I must seek out the afflicted, and to dry up the tears of the unhappy was to be my only pleasure, to console and assist the dejected—my only happiness. Those alone accustomed to the severe restrictions of a monastic life, could impose such laws and duties upon youth—upon a man anxious still to enjoy the world and its many pleasures. I rose from my seat on the wall, still undecided within myself whether or not to listen to the exhortations of the morose hermit, or to follow my own more congenial and inviting inclinations, intending to pass through the flowery graves around the church, and then to return home.

Behind the church I beheld a small chapel, which I found open, and but feebly illumined by a lamp. I stepped forward through the porch, but I must confess I was seized with a certain feeling of terror, which prevented me from advancing farther; there appeared to reign a silence so mysterious and gloomy in the house of prayer, and there proceeded from within such a cold, shuddering atmosphere, as if issuing from the grave, that my farther entrance was completely stopped. I was on the point of retiring, when I observed by the dim light of the lamp a female figure kneeling at the foot of the altar, piously engaged in prayer: she appeared interrupted by my entrance, and, accordingly, finishing her devotions, she slowly arose, bowed before the altar, and devoutly crossing herself, passed by me in silence. The darkness hindered my distinguishing her features, but by her gait and deportment I could easily perceive that she was young. I followed her at a distance till she stopped and remained standing at a grave bestrewed with flowers, where she dropped slowly upon her knees and prayed; she then arose and sprinkled the flowers with the holy water out of the basin that was near her. I had in the meanwhile approached closer, and, deeply affected by this simple and pious act of devotion, enquired of her softly, who it was that lay buried under this sacred and hallowed mound of earth?

“My mother!” she replied, weeping; and, concealing her face with her folded hands, she slowly pursued her way across the church-yard towards the town.

I could not, dared not follow; I felt how far preferable it must be for her to be left alone, and allowed the uninterrupted indulgence of her sad and pious feelings. Had she wished to have spoken to me, she would have remained and prolonged the conversation, for my question sufficiently indicated the inclination I felt to learn further about her. Of what use then to me, I said, was the strict rule of the hermit? I would fain have comforted her, and the interest I might have shewn would most assuredly have assuaged her grief, but she had defeated my charitable purpose; yet, to pursue, detain, obtrude myself upon her, I could not. Still I felt how right and just the venerable man had spoken, for as long as man felt he had failed in his duty, he never could be happy. I was melancholy and discontented with myself, though I must confess that the feelings excited by this adventure were not of that undisturbed pure nature which they certainly ought to have been.

Although it was dark, that had not hindered my remarking, from the outlines of her figure, her dress, and motion, so much nobleness, so much elegance and grace, that I could fain have wished to have exchanged a few more words with her; though still the brief reply I had received from her was sufficient to convince me that nought but filial love, piety, and innocence, could dwell within that bosom.—My mother!—these two words still seemed to sound within the deepest recesses of my heart; by the melody and the sweet accent of that voice alone, amidst thousands, after the lapse of years, I should have known her again. It would have been easy for me to have followed her, to have learned where she lived, and informed myself further respecting her situation; but the town of Shwytz is so small, that had I been perceived following her, by a single person, the next day it would have been published all over the town. I might, however, have learned both the name and history of the young girl from my hostess, had I related my little adventure to her; but being a very sly and cunning woman, she would no doubt have seen further than I wished her to see, and would have surmised and imagined things regarding our nocturnal meeting which certainly neither I, nor my fair and pious unknown, ever dreamt or thought of, when at the foot of her mother’s grave. I, therefore, kept the secret securely locked in my own breast, and was sanguine in my hopes of again meeting her to-morrow evening on the same spot. I began now to interpret the vague, undefinable desire with which my heart was agitated when wandering towards Siti. I had longed and wished for something, and a mysterious feeling seemed to indicate to me that now I had found it. The Mythen, which I again began to contemplate from my window, did not now appear to my view so awfully dangerous; for should it begin to totter, I could seek out the dwelling of my pious unknown, and were the menacing rock to crush us with its ponderous weight, still I thought if die we must, that death would be no longer appalling when shared with her.

I had purposed quitting Shwytz the ensuing morning, and continuing my route to Zug; but a feeling far more powerful than curiosity prompted me to stay, and thus enchained, I found myself insensibly approaching the spot among the graves, where at evening I hoped again to meet the young maiden.

The day appeared to me eternally tedious. I surveyed all that presents itself to the curiosity of the traveller, and attentively observed all the young fair ones I met in the course of my walk, but could not find any amongst them who at all resembled her I sought.—Thus passsed off the morning.

After dinner I ascended the Urny; I wandered among the cottages and fruit gardens as in a dream, possessed by one only object, and dwelling on my fair unknown and the hour when I hoped again to see her. Passing through the vineyards at the foot of the Urny, which are said to produce excellent wine, these grapes, thought I to myself, have time enough to ripen yet, and I felt vexed at the lingering of the sun, which seemed determined to delay his setting behind Mount Rigi.

Long before the appointed time, I returned to Shwytz, but there being nothing to hope at the church-yard, I again bent my steps towards Siti, and thence onwards to the wood of the hermitage. I arrived at the chapel; my old acquaintance the hermit was not there, but, seated on the steps, I beheld my interesting unknown. Yesterday, from the darkness of the evening I had been unable to distinguish her features, but that she was the same figure I had then beheld, I could have sworn by a thousand oaths; for not in the whole of Shwytz, nor even in the whole universe, could two beings possess that delicate grace, or that nobleness of form, which in her were so conspicuous.

Now it was I conjured the setting sun to relax his rapid course, and with deep uneasiness beheld him retiring behind the mountain; for with his purple hue vanished the same beauteous tinge from the cheeks of the blooming girl beside me, with which my presence had overspread them, doubtless from her recognising in the intruder the nocturnal wanderer among the graves of the reposing Shwytzers.

“What are you doing here?” I enquired, in a friendly tone, of the beauteous maiden; to which she modestly replied, “she was waiting for the hermit.” Yes, ’twas she indeed! the two words she had pronounced the evening before seemed at the enchanting sound of her voice again to thrill through my soul. I had seen the most celebrated picture galleries of Europe; I had admired the Madonnas of Raphael and Guido; but amongst the whole of these collections my eyes had never beheld a head so angelically beautiful as that which now presented itself to my gaze. How poor, how weak, how incompetent are the efforts of the greatest painters to embody an image of so much perfection! Such skill appertains to the Creator alone. That regular oval form, the mild lustre which shone so sweetly in her soft sloe-black eyes, half hid by their long lashes; that pure innocence of soul which beamed from them; the smile of love upon her rosy cheeks, those ruby lips, that row of teeth vying with ivory itself; no—never could the hand of the painter produce or pourtray so many charms. I was motionless with surprise, and gazed upon the beauteous being with silent wonder and admiration. Such blooming firmness of tint was never attained by the vulgar Flemish school; that colouring was not Italian, which too often mars, with gaudy daubs, faces on which the Almighty by his creating breath had breathed the soft carnation hues of life and youth.

She appeared at most to be sixteen, and yet what fulness displayed in her bosom, what grace in her neck, how beautifully rounded her arm; indeed, the whole of the enchanting figure was so perfect, and so finely formed, from the silken flowing hair, to the small and pretty foot, that I inwardly determined, should many such beings bestow their visits upon the hermit, to turn anchorite myself.

The young and beautiful creature was seated at the foot of the steps leading to the chapel, employed in culling the flowers from some herbs in her lap, and placing them in a basket at her feet. I sat down next the basket, under the pretence of examining the flowers, and awaiting the arrival of the hermit.

Once I had seen in the collection of the Messrs. Boisserée, in Heidelberg, a German altar-piece, where the principal figure was a Madonna, whose beautiful countenance made an indelible impression upon me. The painting was upon a ground of gold, and in the celestial countenance of the holy virgin there was mingled so much of earthly beauty, as made it difficult to decide whether it belonged to this world or to heaven. It seemed to me as if the sweetly animated countenance beside me had served as a model for the painter, so much did the Madonna resemble her; and, as if to complete the illusion, the golden ground of the painting seemed now represented by the horizon behind the Rigi, which, gilded by the setting sun, appeared like a burning altar of the Most High.

The sweet maiden must indeed have imagined I had lost all power of speech, for since my first question, and my assurance of having also to wait for the hermit, not a sound had escaped my lips, so lost had I been in contemplating the magic charms of this lovely creature. Even nature was dumb, and appeared also to have shared in the general expression of silent awe and admiration at the scene of celestial splendour and magnificence around us; the deepest silence reigned all over the forest; the air and leaves were motionless.

Who speaks much feels little; I was intoxicated with feelings of the most rapturous joy and delight.

At length I awoke from my trance, and enquired how long it was since her mother was laid under the flowers which she yesterday sprinkled with holy water.

“It was one year yesterday,” she softly and seriously replied, as from her virgin bosom heaved a painful sigh. Her eyes, filled with tears, seemed to rest upon the ocean of fire in the west; as if to express, that, with her mother, the sun which had illumined her life had descended into the darkness and obscurity of night, like the sun of creation now vanishing from our view.

“Have you no father left?” I asked, deeply affected by this expressive and silent look of sorrow and melancholy.

She shook her lovely head, bent it still lower upon her work, and after a pause, answered,

“My father died when I was a child.”

“And have you no relations, no friends?”

“Yes, in Shoenewerth, in the canton of Solothurn. You may perhaps be acquainted there with the charitable foundation of St. Clara-Werra: there I have an uncle. I wrote to him lately, and to-day I have received his answer. It is for the purpose of confiding it to the hermit, and receiving his advice that I am here, but he is not yet come.”

“What says your uncle?”

“He himself is unfortunate,” she replied, forgetting her own unhappy state, “he has many children, and no bread to give them.” Sighing again she held her hand before her eyes, as if beholding before her some yawning precipice that turned her giddy.

Thus, without intending it, she had made me acquainted with her condition.

“What will you do, then?” I enquired anxiously.

“I know not,” she said, with emotion, whilst she struggled to restrain her falling tears; “the good hermit would have told me; but he is not here.”

“He would have told you,” I replied, “that you should pray to God, and put your trust in him.”

“Ah! dear sir, that is what I daily do; and I trust that he will grant my prayer. Hitherto I have lived upon what was left me by mother, but that was little, for she was poor;—now that is gone, and I am left destitute. I have no one who can assist me; but my God will not leave me to perish miserably. I must leave this place, though I know not where to turn my steps in the wide world.”

“And what are you able to do?” I enquired, as I looked at her delicate little hand, the lily whiteness of which could not be matched by any courtly dame.

“I know not myself what I can do,” she replied, smiling abashed, and looking downwards half ashamed. “It is but very little; others, however, gain their living, who know not much more, and could I only once leave this place, no doubt I might find a chance of procuring some situation where I may faithfully employ my time. There is nothing but the ashes of my dearly-beloved mother to keep me here. Two young girls of Shwytz, who left this place some time since for Vienna and Berlin, are now happy and well situated there; why may I not also meet with the same good fortune?”

I gazed upon the lovely girl with silent wonder; her infantine simplicity formed a singular contrast with the firmness of character she displayed in her determination of venturing into the wide world. During our conversation she had not once dared to turn her eyes towards me; she continued to gaze upon the crimson sky of evening beneath us, and appeared totally unconscious and unembarrassed at her situation, thus in confidential conversation with a stranger in the dusk of evening, and in the middle of a lonely forest; neither did she seem to entertain the slightest curiosity to know who I was.

She now rose, and shaking from her lap the stems which she had picked off the herbs, took the basket containing the flowers, for the purpose, as she said, of placing it at the door of the hermit’s cell. She had culled and prepared these herbs, in order to employ the time while waiting for the poor recluse, who, it appears, formed them into wreaths, and gave them away in exchange for provisions in the town. She advanced towards the hut with an air as if she had studied under the Graces themselves.

I followed her with my eyes and felt myself consumed by a raging fire, which seemed every minute to increase. I endeavoured, with a force almost supernatural, to quench the ardour of my feelings, so as at least to prevent, as much as possible, the innocent girl from knowing how near she had been seated to a burning volcano. I abstained from following her, though at the risk of never beholding her again; for another, shorter path, leading from the hermitage to Shwytz, rendered it unnecessary for her to return by the more circuitous route leading to the chapel.

I remained seated there with an anxiety and agitation greater than if the losing or gaining of an empire was to be the result; she, however, shook out the flowers upon the bench at the hermit’s door, and returned again towards the chapel. Transported with joy I rose from my seat, and advanced a few steps to meet her. During the time of her absence I had taken from my purse three pieces of gold, which I now, secretly and unobserved, whilst walking by her side, dropped into her basket.

We wandered back towards Siti. Twice had I been upon the point of offering her my arm, but could not summon courage, fearing from her appearance, that she would decline my offer, and then I should have felt ashamed of myself. To such as have visited Switzerland, and have become acquainted with the customs and manners of its inhabitants in the various cantons, and have also heard the energetic though simple language of the mountaineers in those parts, my familiar style of addressing her will not appear surprising.^[1]

When in the middle of the alley of trees, leading from Siti to Shwytz, she was on the point of quitting the high road, and directing her course straight towards the town, apparently for the purpose of avoiding entering the place at the same time with myself. She then bade me adieu, and presented me her pretty, swan-white hand; I drew it to my lips and impressed a burning kiss upon it.

“Do not do that, dear sir,”—she said in a tone of entreaty, “it suits not a poor maiden like me.”

“Shall I see you again to-morrow?”—I inquired, gazing on her black eyes, as if to read in the bottom of her soul, whether or not she shared with me in any slight degree that feeling by which I myself was so overwhelmed.

“With all my heart! if it will give you pleasure,” she replied, in a tone and manner so natural, and so angelically mild, as could never have been expressed even by the most refined coquette; indeed all the arts of coquetry itself could never have equalled the effect of these pure and simple words.—“I shall think of you all night long,” I said, placing her beautiful hand upon my deeply agitated heart.

“And I too, shall think of you,” she replied smiling,—“you talk so sweetly, that I could listen to you for ever. It is already very late, and still I know not how the time has passed away; I know you not, and yet in the whole place there is not one I like to speak with as I do with you.”—

“Where and when, then, shall I see you again?” I asked.

“Alas,” she replied, “I know not. The people here,” continued she confidentially, “are so very curious. Surely, any one might have listened to our conversation, and yet should any person know that we have been here alone, what a stir it would create; although we have talked of nothing, save of death and of prayer, and the hope of a happier life on the other side of the grave!”—That I had, however, in the enthusiasm of my overwhelmed heart, told her, that she was the most charming girl I had ever beheld—that she appeared to me as an angel from heaven—that in her mild, though penetrating sloe-black eye there beamed an ocean of bliss—of all this the cunning girl mentioned not a single syllable.

“Well, then, where and when shall we see each other again?” I repeated earnestly.

“Leave that to fate, dear sir,” she replied, calming my agitated feelings, “if you wish and think half so well or so kindly of me, as I do of you, you will not, I am sure, desire that evil should be said or thought of me, and this I never could escape were I found alone with you.”—

“But, how then, leave it to fate?” I asked; and threw my arms around her, for the thought of soon being forced to leave this angelic creature, without a hope of seeing her again, seemed to contract my whole nerves together, even to my very arm, which, by an involuntary impulse, drew her tenderly to my breast. “The day after to-morrow,” I said, “I must leave this place, and then I never—never more shall see you! Indeed, I ought to have set out this very morning, but the hope of finding you once more, has kept me back; it has led me all the day around your neighbourhood, it has guided me on the way to the hermiiage, and there, busy in preparing the herbs on the step of the chapel, I again found you. Those roots must surely contain some hidden charm to cure a mind diseased. Ah! perhaps they may afford relief to me as well; for the thought of parting with you, and for ever! creates within my heart an agonizing pain. May I then hope, that you will spare me also some, which, prepared by your sweet hands, cannot but afford a soft and healing balm?”—Thus then, was made my declaration of love in the first hour of our meeting! With a city dame, this would have appeared a mere effusion of gallantry, an ordinary complimentary phrase of little import; but the lovely simple Swiss girl took my words in that true sense and honourable meaning with which they had been uttered.

“You have sought for me, you have remained here on my account!”—she exclaimed, while an enchanting smile of flattered self-satisfaction played upon her ruby lips.

I then ingeniously informed her, of the deep impression the scene on the evening before at the grave of her departed mother, had made upon my feelings; of the desire and interest that had been excited in me to know more about her, and expressed the happiness I felt at having attained this. I confessed to her the admiration and wonder which her virtue and her charms had created in me, and concluded by intreating her, in the most urgent manner, to let me once more, the following day, speak with her, if it were only to bid her a long and last adieu!

The idea of parting is ever attended with a charm which works upon the feelings and heart in a peculiarly forcible manner. How often does it happen, that in assemblies where a certain coldness and stiffness of character may have prevailed the whole evening, at length, when the moment of separation arrives, these feelings yield to others of a more free and cordial nature. From the most charming and youthful part of the fair sex, I have ever more particularly loved to take leave, as they are then inclined to lend a more favourable ear to one’s wishes, and to grant more readily the wished-for boon, which perhaps at other times might have been sought in vain. The pain of parting affects woman’s heart still deeper than man’s; she remains behind, a prey to all those acute feelings in which a faithful and tender bosom delights to indulge.

With a dark presaging feeling, and an inward conviction of its truth, I accordingly said, that, at the latest, I could only stay until to-morrow; for when she saw that only one day remained between us and our parting, she surely could not deny it me; and in this, as it proved, I had judged rightly.

“And do you really leave the day after to-morrow?” she asked in a tremulous voice, “Ah! yes, once more in this life I must see you. Well, then, to-morrow I will see you, but we must meet far—very far from this neighbourhood, and very early, when all are asleep. Would you like to mount the Engelstock, or mount Ruffi, or would you rather ascend the peak of Rigi? There I will point out to you, the chalky Alps and the Nagelflue mountains; aye, and you shall there behold objects which will cause you to remember our Canton all your life.”

“Then we will ascend the Rigi,” I exclaimed, joyfully, and the thought of admiring beside this maiden, with rapturous feelings of delight and wonder, God’s magnificent creation, from the pinnacle of the gigantic Rigi, excited sensations of the most delicious nature.

“Good,” said the roguish girl,—“and if you have courage, I will lead you up over the ladder to the small chapel, dedicated to our Queen of the Snow^[2]; there you will have to learn to climb and scramble; but for that, however, you will be amply rewarded afterwards. You will from thence behold at once no less than fourteen lakes; you will see into the very heart of Swabia, and amidst the whole will rise to your view mount Jura, the Horns of St. Gothard, and the ancient town of Zurich, fourteen cantons, innumerable cities, towns, and villages; and, high above the clouds, the eternal snows and glaciers of the glorious and stately Jungfrau—all will present themselves to your admiring gaze.” “But, the chief and most beautiful object which I shall behold-to morrow, you have still forgotten,” said I to her, as I pressed her rosy fingers to my lips.

“The chief and most beautiful object?”—said she, thoughtfully, as she slowly stroked my face with her hand, without appearing conscious of it in her absence of mind.

“Yourself, charming girl; you have not named yourself to me yet.”

“What am I, when the world and the many wonders we shall behold from the Rigi are in question. If you would know my name”—continued she, smiling, “they call me Liesli; of poor Swiss Liesli you will not read one word in all the books that have been written upon our beautiful Alpine country, but all will tell you of the mountains and the lakes—these are known by every one.”

“Liesli, my dear, lovely Liesli!”

“Does then my name please you?”

“Please me! ah yes! How willingly would I this night renounce all hope of rest, could I but have thee near me, to gaze upon thy lovely countenance; methinks I could for ever repeat thy name—Liesli, amiable, lovely Liesli?”

“Good night, dear sir!” said Liesli, disengaging herself timidly from my arms, “the night is now wearing on apace, and we must set out very early to-morrow, else should the sun have got the start of us, we may have reason soon to complain both of fatigue and heat when climbing up the mountain.”

She then hastily pointed out to my view the spot where we were to meet the following morning at four o’clock, and then glided from my arms as swift as an arrow from a bow.

For a long time after I remained transfixed to the spot, whilst my eye followed her rapidly proceeding on her way, and I could distinguish her white, aerial form gliding through the dark avenues of the trees to a great distance, till, at last, I could perceive her no more.

I softly pronounced the beloved name of Liesli to the silent breezes of the night; and spreading out my arms towards her vanishing figure, embraced—the hermit! I was seized with terror and astonishment, and retreated back some paces; for the contrast between the coarse and heavy garb of the anchorite, and that of the light-flowing drapery of the lovely Liesli, was too great, too overpowering.

“Whence come you?” he enquired, in a tone indicating dissatisfaction.

“Ah! is it you venerable father,” I exclaimed, recollecting myself: “I hardly knew you, it is so dark and gloomy amidst these trees, that one can scarcely distinguish the nearest object. I have just come from your hermitage, where I wished to pay you a visit.”

“I have been absent all the day,” he answered; “was any one, besides you, inquiring for me?”

“Not a soul,” I replied, for there was certainly no need to inform him how in the interim I had been so happily engaged with Liesli. I know no time so favourable for uttering a falsehood, as the hour of night; it is for that reason the devil is designated the ‘prince of darkness.’ The lie slipped so smoothly over my tongue, that I was really completely pleased and satisfied with my address.

“I have brought with me something for you,” said the old man, slipping into my hand a small folded paper; “do not, however, open it till you have returned home, as it is of value, and here you might lose it. I shall, doubtless, see you to-morrow morning?”

“Most certainly, holy father,” I replied, in order that he might await my coming at the hermitage, instead of wandering out, and thus in the end meet me and Liesli together. “My thanks for this which you have confided to me, and which is of such great worth, I will bring with me also to-morrow,” I added ironically, for of what great value could that be which the poor hermit had put into my hand; he, for whom Liesli but a few hours before had gathered herbs, that he might exchange them for provisions.

“May your sleep be sweet and tranquil,” added he, seriously, “and pray late and early, that you may not fall into the snares of temptation, and that the wicked one may have no power over you. The world is full of suspicion, and there are many who depend upon the happiness which to-morrow may bring them, and yet, being often caught in their own net, fancy all the while it has been laid for them by others.—Good night, stranger.”

With these words he left me, and proceeded on his way to the hermitage. I, however, hastened after the beloved shadow of Liesli, but no further traces of her were to be perceived. No doubt she had long retired to rest, and was enjoying the sweet repose of innocence when I had reached the inn, where, excited by my impatient curiosity, I ordered a candle, and immediately began to examine the contents of the valuable present which I had received from the hands of the poor hermit.

What was my surprise, when I beheld my own three pieces of gold—I was completely petrified! Was, then, the hermit a conjuror? Was Liesli merely a being presented to my imagination by some deceiving malignant spirit? I shuddered as I thought that the old emaciated form of the anchorite, and that of the beautiful Liesli, blooming in all her charms—might be one and the same! How came he in possession of the money? Now it was I called to mind his words at parting; what could he mean by saying “those who hope to be happy on the morrow”—what should these words portend? What could the old man have to do with the blooming girl? What had the hermit of Siti to do at the flowery graves at the foot of the Mythen? Or, had the young maiden acted the character of an anchorite? Did she conceal her youthful charms beneath the coarse garb of an hermit? But no, no, that was impossible; the recluse was above a head taller than Liesli, his eyes were sunk and hollow, his voice was tremulous, his skin withered—there was no mask—no illusion there!

I completely lost myself in the most silly surmises, of which the most probable appeared to be, that this truly angelic girl was a supernatural being who had appeared to me. Her whole appearance shewed marks of so much delicacy. She was so light in her movements, in her eye there beamed an expression more than mortal; her voice so melodious, sounded to my ears as if coming from an angel in heaven; her step had more of the air of a seraph than of an earthly being, and her smile resembled that given by the painters of the golden age of art to their angels and cherubs. The form—ah no! that was purely human, reality itself; her limbs so finely rounded—her skin so delicately soft and tender; and the blood which coloured the veins of her beauteous cheeks flowed warm and full of life from the heart.

I lay down to rest, but could not sleep. The Mythen, which, from my bed, I could plainly perceive towering to the black heavens above, seemed to totter and tremble; I could not close my eyes, for at each moment I imagined I beheld it descending to bury me in its ruins, without either flowers or wreath to decorate my grave. At length, towards morning, I fell asleep; overfatigued, I exceeded the appointed hour of the meeting.

Hastily rising, and dressing myself, I flew to the spot, where I arrived breathless—fifty-five minutes past the time! The Rigi was there, but Liesli—not! I waited at the place of meeting, reproaching myself severely, forming a host of suppositions and doubts. I calculated upon a thousand difficulties and hindrances, and that, too, during a fuli and anxiovs hour. The ancient Rigi still remained stationary before my sight, but the beautiful and charming Liesli came not.

This, then, is the work of the hermit, I said to myself; he is the author of this painful disappointment, recalling his words to my recollection. Yesterday I fancied to myself the happiness I should experience this morning—but now I felt convinced that the hermit had laid the net in which I was caught, a net of the most unaccountable doubt and mystery. Well, indeed, might he pronounce his prophecy, for all this was, no doubt, of his contrivance: he it was, and he alone, who had prepared for me this harrowing disappointment, and thus so suddenly and so completely blasted all the pleasure I had anticipated in ascending the Rigi with Liesli. The small ladder which I was to have ascended with her, had appeared to my fancy as Jacob’s ladder of angels; in imagination I had climbed with her to the very heavens, and having arrived at that eternal sojourn, had drawn the ladder up after us, and contemplated from the abode of angels the busy scene of tumult and agitation below, utterly regardless of all that was passing there.

But now, alas! I found myself standing awake before mount Rigi, on the summit of which mountain, where the rising sun saluted with his rays the great cross, I had hoped, thus elevated nearer to heaven, in the presence of God, and in the face of free Switzerland, her native soil, to enfold in purest love my dear and lovely Liesli. I would have besought her to be mine, to share with me in my joys and sorrows; and when recalled to dust by my Maker’s decree, I would have asked her also to bestrew my grave with flowers, as she did her mother’s, and for me too as fervently to invoke the mercy of the Supreme Being.

All this I had thought and determined within myself during the night, when, after much reflection, I was at length convinced that Liesli was no supernatural, but a human being; and now the moment which was to have crowned my happiness, of which I would have summoned all nature to be a witness, was flown away—perhaps for ever!

I felt myself overwhelmed with the bitterness of my disappoinied feelings. Where was I to seek Liesli? Where should I find her? Had she been here at all? Or had she perhaps concluded from my delay that I would not come? I put a thousand questions to myself, and was only the more chagrined and vexed, both with myself, with Liesli, and the anchorite.

At length, I resolved that the hermit, above all, should explain to me how he had yesterday obtained possession of the three gold pieces, though it could naturally be from no other person but Liesli herself. I then wished to interrogate him further respecting the young girl—to learn in what connection he stood towards her, and then, should I discover that he had any influence over her, I would candidly avow my views and intentions.

I hurried back to Shwytz, and from thence by Siti to the hermitage; the recluse, however, was not there. I awaited his return at the door of his cell the whole of the day without any nourishment, until late at night.

In vain! Completely exhausted and disappointed I returned home. The whole day long I had flattered myself with the certain hope, at the least rustling of the leaves, of beholding the light form of Liesli issue forth, but a thousand times was I deceived. Whoever has felt the torment of love, and has passed in his life but one hour in waiting for the object he adores, such a one alone can form an idea how tedious and how long this agonizing day appeared to me.

Late at night I repaired again to the church-yard. I entered the chapel where I had beheld Liesli for the first time, and then I visited the grave of her departed mother, but the object of my search was no where to be met with. The night was beautiful and serene; the evening dew refreshed the flowers with which the graves were bestrewed, and perfumed the air with the most delicious odours; the atmosphere was unagitated by a single zephyr; all around there reigned the deepest silence, whilst quick successive flashes darted across the firmanent and illumined at intervals the heavens above. Oh! how did I wish at this moment, that the form of my sweet Liesli might appear to bless my sight! I painted her in my imagination reclining in my arms; the reflection of the distant lightning seemed to add new lustre to her eyes; enclasped by her soft and beautiful arm, I felt the beating of her heart against my agitated breast, whilst from her sweet lips, I inhaled life and love; but she came not!—Melancholy and depressed, I retraced my steps back to the inn.

The following day I recommenced the same fruitless and unavailing search. To-morrow, I thought, I will once more proceed to the desolate hermitage, and should it then be still deserted, nothing shall deter me from seeking her myself; the place is small, and surely I shall find some one from whom I may gain some intelligence respecting her; for, what I wished to say on the top of mount Rigi, I can as easily impart to her in her own dwelling, at its foot; there I will declare my thoughts and wishes. I again passed the whole of the day at the hermit’s door, but he remained altogether invisible!

I now considered myself as free from all that restraint and obligation, which, though I knew not why, I imagined I owed to the hermit; he had until now appeared to me as possessing great power and influence over Liesli’s action. She had come to receive his advice, she had given him my three pieces of gold, for the purpose of returning them to me; some connection, therefore, must exist between them. If I had succeeded in gaining the hermit over to my side, then was Liesli mine. Some such anticipation had entered my mind, and it was this hope, and this alone, which had made me wait three successive days. Whether the hermit had concealed himself from me, or whether he were really absent, what was that now to me? I had renounced all farther intercourse—I had done with him. One short moment more in the church-yard, and should I again be disappointed in finding Liesli there, I resolved to ascertain her residence of my landlady; my patience was now indeed completely exhausted. I was determined to put my purpose into immediate execution, and thus finally attain the object of my wishes. I hastened to the cemetery—but Liesli was not there! How changeable, how versatile a being is man! I felt inwardly happy at not finding her! Supported and encouraged by three successive failures of my fond hopes, I began to persuade myself that I had a right—that I was authorized, nay, obliged to seek her.

In her dwelling, unobserved by the whole world, such conference suited far better than on the summit of the Rigi, 5786 feet above the surface of the earth, at the brink of a deep, tremendous precipice, the aspect of which filled the soul with shuddering awe; or, than in this solitary abode of the dead, whose graves but ill attuned with the feelings of youthful lovers.

The hour I had proposed passing at the chapel, the last hour was expired! I arose from the low wall where I had been seated, and was on the point of retiring, when among the graves, even in the midst of the darkness of night, I could distinguish a black figure advancing towards me. My blood ran cold through my veins, for suddenly, concealed in his cowl, stood before me—the hermit!

“You were at my dwelling?” he inquired, in a tone of voice which sounded as if issuing from the tombs around us.

“Yes, venerable father,” I replied, gazing at the mysterious being before me with wonder and astonishment. How could he have learned that I was inquiring for him? Why did he come now, just at the moment when I was on the point of seeking Liesli? Whence could he come? It seemed as if some secret, subterraneous passage communicated between the hermitage and the church-yard. “I have awaited your coming these three days,” I continued, “but in vain.”

“I know it,” he replied, in a milder tone, “a herdsman perceived you, and informed me of it. You wish for further information respecting the maiden whom you met at the steps of the chapel. What is the orphan to you? But answer me not, for the truth does not always proceed from your lips. You seek the maiden, but you may spare yourself that needless trouble—you will not find her. Her mother, in her dying moments, charged me to watch over her happiness and welfare. On the very morning when you imagined you would climb mount Rigi, Liesli departed.—She is gone to her relations, whom I had previously informed of her mother’s death, and from whom, after an interval of twelve months, I received money and instructions to send the orphan to them, provided with the necessary attendance. On the evening when you came to me, and met with Liesli, I had gone to the town for the purpose of making the proper arrangements for her departure. When you gave her the three gold pieces, she knew nothing of her intended journey; she only received intelligence of it from me on the following morning before day-break. Hearing, after leaving you in the alley of trees, the sound of money in her basket, she most naturally concluded that you alone could be the donor, and therefore delivered it to me, in order to return it to you. In the art of giving, you have as yet made but very little progress; your present has humiliated and shamed, more than it has pleased or gratified the maiden.”

“What, Liesli gone?” I exclaimed “Ah! tell me venerable father, whither is she gone? If you are indeed her friend, then tell me, for it concerns her own happiness. My intentions are good and honourable, for I wish to offer her my heart and hand, with all my fortune.”

“You,” said the hermit, half ironically, “you, who have only known her a very few hours, you would offer her your whole life? How do you know, whether this virtuous girl, who is so rich in all the gifts of person and intellect, holds you worthy of her love? Do you then think that with your despicable money all may be procured?”

“You do not seem to wish me well, venerable father.”

“I can never wish them well, who seek to deceive me by falsehood! On that evening, when I met you amidst the trees, I asked you whether any other persons had been inquiring for me at the hermitage during my absence? ‘Not a soul!’ you replied, and yet, but five minutes before, my upright Liesli, who never stained her lips with an untruth, had told me that she herself had been with you the whole of the evening! I asked you if you would come to me the following morning? ‘Yes, with pleasure,’ you replied, although you had already agreed with the maiden, as she informed me, to ascend mount Rigi with her that same morning. What had I done, to merit such deception from you? Whoever lies will also steal; should I not act very foolishly were I to tell the thief, where I had placed the treasure confided to my care?”

Those two unfortunate lies! I could have torn my tongue from my head, so vexed and mortified was I.—My greatest wish at this moment was, to have been able to reply with feelings of conscious innocence and indignation to the hermit, who had thus deprived me of my earthly happiness—my adorable Liesli; but this was impossible, for I felt too well how justly and truly he had spoken.

“Well,” said I, at length, completely disconcerted, “if you are indeed such a severe minister of truth, which I ever highly honour and revere, tell me, without reserve, how Liesli expressed herself about me; for to me, glowing as my heart does with such a pure love for her, it cannot be indifferent to learn, if I may hope and depend upon a reciprocal attachment.”

“You,” returned he, after some hesitation, “are the first acquaintance she has formed as yet. To this circumstance alone you must attribute a confidence and friendship towards you, more perhaps than was proper for her to shew.”

My vanity took advantage of this concession of the hermit, and I concluded that Liesli was not wholly indifferent to me.

“Once more,” I inquired somewhat bolder, “can you not inform me of the maiden’s present abode?”

“No!” he answered, in an abrupt and decisive tone.

“Consider it well, holy father; you will have to answer for this denial at some future period, both to the maiden, and also to your own conscience.”

“You hold yourself at a very high price,” he replied, “and, doubtless, you imagine that it will be impossible for Liesli to exist, without you or your dollars. Liesli may, perhaps, at this very moment be far richer than yourself.—You are still young,” he added after a pause, in a milder tone, “you are no doubt infatuated by Liesli’s beauty, and are perhaps thus led to a determination, which, at a later period, you will have cause to repent. Should you, at the expiration of a year, still think of her as at this moment, then come again, and we will communicate together further upon the subject.”

I remained for some time ruminating whether it might not be possible to persuade the old man into a more reasonable stipulation, when he drew from between the folds of his gown, an Alpine rose, most carefully secured—this he presented to me, and said with a smile, “You have just now doubted the uprightness of my conscience; to prove your injustice I present you with this rose which Liesli sends you as a token of remembrance. She plucked it on the road side before we separated, and bedewed it with her tears. I was obliged to promise her that I would faithfully deliver it into your hands. Now, do you doubt my honour?”

“No, no!” I exclaimed joyfully, pressing the rose to my lips,—“and that you may not doubt my honour, I will not even wish to know where Liesli is, but after the twelve months are expired, I will come and demand her from your hands.”

“That, time will shew,” replied the hermit calmly, and bidding me farewell, requested me not to come again to him, as he would be absent for a considerable time.

“Father!” I exclaimed with emotion, “what if we never see each other again! Twelve months is a long time; you are old and stricken in years, God may call you to himself, and then what shall I do?”

“Apply to the proper civil authority in this town where my papers will be found after my death; they will furnish you with more particular information.”—With these words he presented me his hand with a manner and air, as mild and kind as at first had been harsh and unfriendly. It appeared as if he had some presentiment that we should never meet again, which alas! proved subsequently but too well founded.

“God be with you,” said he, mildly; and, blessing me, “may he let the light of his countenance shine upon you, and be favourable to your wishes of deserving the love of the virtuous Liesli.—Amen, Amen!” Upon this he left me, proceeding by the road across the graves till I saw him—no more! He was now gone—Liesli was gone—I knew not even who she was, and I had one whole year yet to wait!

Now that she had left, my enquiries could not affect her reputation, and I hastened back to my inn with the most anxious curiosity. I intended first of all to question my landlady, a very talkative woman, about the hermit, and then I imagined the conversation would naturally turn upon Liesli.

The Anchorite, I found, stood very high in her estimation, and was greatly respected; his advice was sought by all the afflicted; he devoted himself to the service of every one, of whatever station, with unwearied zeal and activity; his course of life was pure and unstained, his reputation known to all around, both far and near.

I listened attentively to every word, and with shame I confessed to myself how easily I had yielded to suspicions unfavourable to the character of the hermit, and how much I had wronged him in harbouring a doubt as to his real worth and honesty of principle. To me the hermitage had seemed too favourably situated and too well adapted for pursuing, under the mask of sanctity, a very different plan in private. “Strangers or such persons,” continued my landlady, “with whom he felt dissatisfied, he treated in a distant and harsh manner, but such as he knew, and was satisfied with, whatever their condition, he addressed in a more confidential and friendly tone.” This reminded me how laconic his manner had been, at the commencement of our conversation, and how brief were his replies; and I felt satisfied and pleased to think, that he had afterwards shewn me more confidence aad kindness.

“Is the young person whom I have sometimes seen in his company a relation of his?” I inquired, describing Liesli’s appearance so exactly, that any person who had seen her but once in their life, could not have failed to recognize her again in the faithful picture I drew of her.

“Aye, aye,” continued the landlady, with a knowing smile, “there you would no doubt like to take the hermit’s place! Don’t you think she is a beautiful girl? Here, in Shwytz, we have many pretty girls, it is true, but not one so lovely. You doubtless mean Liesli, with the large black eyes, and such a sweet, amiable countenance?”

“Yes,” I replied, overjoyed at being able to converse with some one on the sweet topic of my Liesli, “who, who is she, pray?”

“Why, nobody can tell. On the first of October, so far as I can remember, during the unhappy period of the war in 1799, when Suwarow and Mortier, with Soult and Massena, laid waste the whole country with their armies, a most furious and bloody skirmish took place in the valley of Mutta. About a mile from hence is situated, as you no doubt know, the bridge of Ibach. The Russians had advanced as far as this bridge, where, however, they were surprised by General Lecourbe, who having landed at Brunnen, fell upon their rear, and put them all to rout. It was shortly after the termination of this combat that they brought hither a young and beautiful woman, whose husband, an officer of high rank, had been left dead on the field of battle. This, it appears, had so much affected her, as to drive her, in the first agony of the moment, to attempt her life. Whether he had been in the French, Russian, or Austrian service, was never ascertained, for the mere mention of her husband, to whom no doubt she had been most tenderly attached, had the most alarming effect upon her feelings. Many well-disposed people here, pitying her situation, endeavoured to sooth her by every possible attention. She obtained her livelihood by giving instruction in the French and Italian languages, as well as in music, though this was barely sufficient to keep her from want. It was reported that she came from Solothurn, though her friends had dropped all further intercourse with her, which neglect she had probably brought upon herself by marrying an officer without their consent. About six months afterwards she gave birth to that same Liesli, who it appears you have already seen. Her mother devoted all her time to her education, and to instilling into her mind virtuous and pious principles; indeed her child was so beloved by every one in the place, that had she even been related to any one of our families she could not have been dearer to us. Now, since her mother is dead, she has been under the protection of the hermit, who has provided for her, and may God bless the orphan, and grant her, all her life, that happiness she so richly merits.” Involuntarily I squeezed the hand of the landlady, with a feeling of gratitude, for the pious prayer she had just uttered for the sweet girl, and felt overjoyed at hearing so much good proceed from an impartial mouth respecting her, though I was still ignorant of what I so particularly wished to be informed.

When alone in my apartment, I tormented myself in forming every possible conjecture on her present abode and fate. The hermit, then, had provided for her merely from duty and friendship, and from motives purely disinterested. I certainly considered myself capable of doing any thing for such an angel, but I never could believe that another would do the same, and felt jealous at the thought that Liesli had confided her happiness to his hands and not to mine. My blood rushed to my cheeks; I resolved to set out immediately for the hermitage and should I not succeed by gentle means, the mouth of a loaded pistol presented to his breast should prove a sufficient inducement for him to confess where he had placed my treasure. Simple fool that I was, how had I allowed myself to be duped and misled by his artful sophistry! How must he laugh at my simplicity and inexperience! Who knows what were his views or intentions with respect to the maiden. Age does not always withstand folly: so long as no one had stood in his way he had left the young girl to herself, but now that the unsuspecting creature had, perhaps, in her simplicity betrayed to him her partiality for me, he tears her from my arms, confines her in some subterraneous corner of his hermitage, and retains her there a prisoner until I may have turned my back upon the frontiers of the Canton, which, having once reached, I may then travel as far as I like, seek as long as I please, and torment myself as much as I choose—to him that will be quite immaterial. He will only laugh at me in his sleeve, while Liesli remains his, with all those many thousand charms, which would only have bloomed for me, had not the dissembling monk obtruded himself between us.

With the dawn of day I stood before the door of the hermitage. I knocked, pushed, and stamped, calling out a thousand times the name of Liesli—but in vain, no answer was returned, not a sound was heard. At length a herdsman’s boy, attracted by the noise I made, descended from the mountain above, and informed me that the hermit was gone upon a long journey, and, as he had told all his acquaintances in the neighbourhood, would not return for some months.

Liesli was thus then lost to me! There were no means, no hopes of regaining her! Switzerland had now no longer any charms for me; I had climbed enough amongst her mountains and glaciers; I was as weary of sailing along her beautiful lakes, as of tasting her wines and cheese. To her beggars I had given alms, and her innkeepers had enriched themselves at my expense; her maidens—but not one word of the women of Switzerland! Each time when the discourse fell upon them, and I was questioned as to my opinion of them, and how I liked them—my heart was cut in twain. Away, away, therefore, from that country in which the greatest earthly happiness had smiled upon me, only to disappear, with increased and merciless scorn!—Yet, I had no sooner passed the gigantic, heaven-piercing Alps, than I felt myself attracted thither again by some irresistible desire, for well did my heart in secret tell me that Liesli must still be among her native mountains, else whence could this nameless feeling proceed?

The thought alone of once more returning to Switzerland after the expiration of the year, sustained my sinking spirits. I already enjoyed in imagination the pleasure I should experience on my visit to the hermit, and should he attempt to escape me by the least evasion, when summoned to fulfil his promise, he certainly should never escape my hands alive.

In the mean time, after my return home to my friends, I had to endure the torment of all their sneers and jeers. “Well, to be sure,” said they, scornfully, behind my back; “now that he has seen the world a little, there is nothing here which is good enough for the gentleman. Whenever we, who contentedly remain at home, bless our stars to think that we have such a happy land to live and enjoy ourselves in, and which, surely, God has not in his goodness rendered quite a desert, there sits master Hermann, turning up his nose in contempt, as if our high hills in front of the windmill-gate were, in his opinion, not worth looking at. Well, dear heaven, they are certainly not glaciers; but pray do potatoes grow upon his favourite ice-tipped hill, as they do here round the windmill? Why the man will at last become a glacier himself, he is so cold and frosty in his manner!”

I let the good people talk on, and whenever anxious to procure myself a real reviving feeling of joy, I frequently and secretly used to retire, bending my steps towards the top of the highest of their potatoe hills, and, turning myself towards the distant land where dwelt my Liesli, and addressing myself to the zephyrs playing around me, I besought them to convey to her my affectionate greetings, and most ardent wishes.

Three months were still wanting to complete the appointed time—the year, at the end of which I was to renew my enquiries at the hermitage; when, just at this period, an obstacle presented itself, so as to render it doubtful whether or not I should attain the object of my most anxious desires. The unwelcome hindrance which waylaid me so unexpectedly, was nothing more or less than a skin of parchment, covered and decorated with chancery scrawls and calligraphic figures, bearing my nomination from government to a situation at once honourable and lucrative. My friends congratulated, whilst they at the same time envied me, though I would most willingly have parted with place, and every honour and title it might bring with it, for a trifle, nay, even gratis; for now, no longer must I think of a journey to Switzerland! What would the prince, what would my superiors in office say to my requesting leave of absence for three months, just after my appointment? I did not, however, altogether renounce the hope of obtaining it; love surmounts every obstacle. I resolved to inform the minister candidly, that I intended to marry, and request permission to go and fetch my bride home from her native country.

But what if I did not succeed in finding Liesli? And, should I return home without a wife, would not the minister most naturally conclude I had received a refusal? Might not this be extremely injurious to me in my new appointment? Ought I to explain to a man of such high importance, buried amidst his diplomatic duties, the tale of my love to the Swiss maiden, and my adventures with her and the hermit? Yet, in spite of this reasoning, I had just determined on putting mv plan into execution, when I received, quite unexpectedly, the most decisive orders to proceed immediately with dispatches from my court to that of St. Petersburgh.

St. Petersburgh and Switzerland, separated by a distance of four hundred leagues from each other! Were I to go to Russia, then must my Liesli be for ever lost to me; the hermit would then regard all the professions which I had made as the mere childish effusions of a romantic brain, and, accordingly, conclude from my absence that I had really forgotten her. Besides, in this interval, more than twenty offers might be made to her, and her heart be continually besieged by suitors; and could I blame her for giving her hand to another? If I went to Switzerland I must previously demand my dismission, and thus renounce all the brilliant prospects which presented themselves to me, for I could not possibly furnish any pretext whatever sufficiently strong, to excuse my declining to execute the mission confided to my charge. This appointment, too, was so distinguished and honourable, and attended with such certain prospect of rapid and sure advancement, that it would have been acting completely contrary to every principle of honour and advantage, had I endeavoured to avoid undertaking the journey.

Still, in order not to sacrifice the happiness of my life, namely, the possession of Liesli’s hand, to the service of ambition, I devised, in the anxiety of my feelings, a desperate remedy. Laugh not, ye happier mortals, who are blessed with the dear presence of your sweet fair ones, at the plan I was forced to pursue.

I wrote to my good landlady in Shwytz, and made her my confidant. I informed her of all that had passed between Liesli, the hermit, and myself, entreating her to deliver to the former the letter I enclosed, or, should she not be acquainted with her abode, to consign it to the care of the hermit.

In the enclosed letter I offered to Liesli, in a brief but aftectionate manner, my hand and heart, as a sincere pledge of eternal love. I sealed the letter, and committing it to the post-office, congratulated myself upon my dexterity in thus managing my affairs, and, in some measure tranquillized in mind, I set out for St. Petersburg.

I determined within myself not to bestow one look upon any female whatever; no, not in the whole of that immense empire, with all its various provinces in Asia and America, should a lover be found so true and faithful as myself. I inwardly vowed that my heart should return with me unaffected, and yet—I gave it there away!

On the celebration of the nuptials of the Grand Duke Nicholas Pawlowitsch with the Princess Alexandrina Feodorowna, I attended the whole of the ceremony, commencing with the marriage to the ball in the saloon of St. George. Before the end of the ball the Emperor, accompanied by the Empress, repaired to the palace of the newly married couple; they were followed by the young and amiable pair, the Empress mother, and the whole court in grand gala.

It was indeed one of the most brilliant sights I had ever seen in the whole of my life. The illuminated streets swarmed with the crowding population; the throng of gazers, many of whom, from a true hearty feeling, might perhaps have drank a glass too much to the health of the young couple, was truly impenetrable. At the moment when the court was passing, the cries, the exclamations, and the hurrahs of the pressing crowd had reached their greatest height. The command of the police officers to keep order and make room, only added to, and finally completed, the confusion and distress.

All were squeezing, screaming, and pressing against each other. For myself, I had received into my arms, through the pressure of the crowd, a stout, coarse, market-woman, who was immediately followed by the weight of a fat, heavy Finlander upon my poor toes, a Droschki driver thrust his elbows into my ribs, a long-legged Polish count lay upon my back, and to end all, a little Samojad-looking chambermaid supported her elbows upon my loins. Thus pressed and attacked on all sides, I was carried on by the crowd, in spite of all opposition, when suddenly another rush of the multitude threw into my arms a young and beautiful lady—that lady was Liesli! I uttered an exclamation of joy and surprise, which, however, no sooner escaped me, than a second rush separated us again! Maddened and desperate, I threw off the market-woman, turned over the Finlander, kicked down the Droschki driver, and upsetting the whole group, with the little chambermaid to boot, most strenuously endeavoured to free myself from their fangs, and to dash forward and regain hold of Liesli; but in vain! They clung to me like bees, and instead of herself, I succeeded only in gaining—her shawl! I called out Liesli! Liesli! but my voice was completely lost amongst the multitude, the charming apparation had vanished from my sight! My way was in fact so completely obstructed by the crowds of Kalmucks, Wogulians, Barabinzelians, Tunguselians and Tschetschewzelians, that nothing further could be heard or seen—and I thanked heaven that I had been so happy as to catch even the shawl.

A Kalmuck, standing near me, and who had seen how I had effected this seizure, how much trouble and exertion the attaining of this prize from amidst the crowd had cost me, secretly gave a knowing wink and grinned at me, as if to testify his approbation, and to applaud the address I had shewn. At this moment, also, pressing his way through the immense legions of the various semi-barbarous tribes and nations under Russian domination, appeared a supple Frenchman, who gave me to understand, pretty intelligibly, his inclination to purchase the rag, if I would part with it at a moderate price; as I, however, pretended not to hear or understand his debasing offer, the crafty knave mumbled between his teeth as he left me, about the police being very near at hand, and that they would soon know how to deal with those polite people who spared the ladies the trouble of carrying home their shawls. This hint, however, I did not allow escape me without profiting by it, for, indeed, what had I further to do here? Liesli would not certainty return again. I determined upon pursuing her, but where should I find her amidst this throng of half a million of people—and in the middle of the night too? I had happily succeeded in escaping from the claws of the Frenchman and the police—but no where could my eyes in any direction meet the form of Liesli. Fatigued and half dead with exhaustion, I returned home, with my prize under my arm.

My landlord’s family, who had also been to witness the grand spectacle, had just returned: I showed them the shawl, and related how I had obtained it. The wife and daughters held up their hands in wonder and admiration at the splendour of the pattern and fineness of the texture. In their estimation it was worth at least a thousand ducats, and they congratulated me upon my good fortune. But at this I was only the more melancholy and alarmed, particularly as they went on praising the real Turkish texture, its softness, and the tasteful arrangement of colours which it displayed, for now I felt convinced that the noble and graceful creature that had been thrown into my arms by the crowd, had not been my Liesli; for, how could that poor girl, who, but a short twelvemonth before, had held her hands before her eyes to avoid the sight of the precipice, which, when contemplating her helpless situation, seemed to yawn before her, how, I say, could she have come to be the owner of such a splendid article? How, indeed, could she have come here at all?

I could hardly close my eyes the whole of the night. At one moment I wished to persuade myself that it was indeed Liesli whom I had seen; then again, I would fain have wished it might be a mistake; for, were it herself, no doubt she was either become the wife of some very rich man, or else she had acquired the dreadful art of selling her angelic charms—but no! I exclaimed to myself—I will not entertain such a thought for a moment—it is not possible!—That young girl—that innocent creature, who but twelve months ago, so devoutly and artlessly prayed at her mother’s grave, can never have sunk so low.

The following morning I made it my first business to drive to the newspaper-office, for the purpose of inserting an advertisement, and making publicly known my having found the shawl, and informing the owner, where and in whose hands it was to be met with upon application. Thus, there was no doubt the riddle would be soon solved, for I had determined not to surrender the shawl into any other hands but those of the lady from whose neck I had snatched it, and, indeed, I found the mystery already explained, and myself most bitterly disappointed.

The publisher had scarcely cast his eyes upon my advertisement, when, with much pleasure depicted upon his countenance, he informed me, that the very moment before my arrival, a servant in the household of Count Barczikoff had brought him an advertisement for insertion, in which he had promised the finder of the shawl two hundred rubles as a reward, to which was added, a particular description of it. The shawl proved to be the same, and, therefore, not my Swiss girl, but a Countess Barczikoff was the owner of my honourably acquired property! The residence of the count was also most particularly described, near the Kasan Church in the Newski-Line; and, accordingly, without delay, but with a desponding heart, I proceeded thither.

From the grandeur of the building outside, and its magnificence internally, I immediately perceived, that the lady of the house might well possess a shawl of a thousand ducats value. I announced myself as the finder of the prize which I brought with me, and trembled with sad apprehension at the thought of beholding the image of my Swiss maiden. With the most intense anxiety I looked towards the door through which the owner of my precious booty was to enter, and which, opening at length, did indeed introduce to my impatient gaze the well-known form of—Liesli! She knew me immediately; the crimson blush of surprize and astonishment spread itself over her beauteous countenance, and a stifled cry of joy was the welcome of her heart to me. I forgot St. Petersburgh and Russia altogether; I felt myself transported again to Switzerland. I thought no more of the Countess Barczikoff; I had no other than my Liesli, my sweet adorable Liesli before me.—We put a thousand questions to each other in one breath, to which we neither of us waited for a reply, and it was not until the expiration of half an hour that we could succeed in calming ourselves sufficiently to communicate to each other the events of the past year.

The father of Liesli, the only son of Count Barczikoff, had served in the army which went to Switzerland, where he fell in a severe conflict, at the bridge of Ibach. The count had never sanctioned the marriage of his son with Liesli’s mother, who was a poor Swiss girl from Solothurn, and accordingly, on that account, would never acknowledge her as his daughter-in-law. The hermit, however, who had, previously to her mother’s death, received from herself the full particulars of Liesli’s family affairs, announced to the count her death, and succeeded so far in touching his heart, that, enfeebled as he was by age and declining health, he no longer viewed the prejudices of birth with the same jealous eye as heretofore, and, at length, decided on sending for Liesli, acknowledging her as his grandchild, and the heiress to his large and extensive possessions. Thus he endeavoured to repay with kindners to the child, the severity he had shewn to the mother. The hermit, as was his manner, had never mentioned a single word of all this to Liesli. On the very morning that she had agreed to ascend Mount Rigi with me, he had come early, at two o’clock, and awoke her from sleep, desiring her to follow him. She had candidly confessed to him the appointment she had made with me that morning, but he strictly opposed her meeting me.

Here my little countess skipped over the affair of the pieces of gold, which, in conjunction with the story I had told the hermit the evening before, served doubtless to irritate him, and I, myself, could find no possible ground for touching upon that well-meant piece of folly. He was, accordingly, angry and displeased, and had declared most positively that no meeting of the kind should or could take place; she must follow him; he was appointed by her mother as her tutor and guardian, and, therefore, thus empowered he must insist upon her unhesitating obedience. She, accordingly, accompanied him to the first stage, from whence they drove to Zurich, where, at the Sword Inn, he committed her to the care of a young lady, who was in readiness to travel with her to Russia, in the capacity of governess. It was then that he imparted to his ward the particulars of her situation and fate, and, greeting her as Countess Barczikoff, informed her, that her grandfather was awaiting her arrival with the utmost impatience.

The hermit had already, through means of a banker at Zurich, provided for clothes, equipage, attendance, and every thing necessary for her, according to the desire and command of the old count; and, at the expiration of one hour, the hermit accompanied the astonished girl to the carriage, where, she could hardly recover from the stupor into which this sudden change in her situation had thrown her.

“And from this moment,” I exclaimed, “were the ladder, and Mount Rigi, and your poor, disconsolate friend entirely forgotten!”

“No, no!” replied the lovely girl, with the same true Swiss candour which she had always displayed, “on the very morning of my departure I besought the hermit from the carriage to give to you—did he not deliver it?”

“What, the Alpine rose?”—I exclaimed, with a grateful feeling of rapture, “Ah! yes, that I still retain—never has it been out of my possession; it ever has been, and ever shall remain sacred near my heart. But did he perform all that he was requested to do?” I inquired, in a tone of eager impatience, devouring with my eyes the beauteous mouth from which I so anxiously awaited a reply.

She appeared embarrassed, and for some time hesitated to reply; but as I still continued to press her, with a downcast look she said, “I observed the venerable man was not altogether prepossessed in your favour, and I, therefore, entreated him not to feel displeased with you, and insisted upon his informing you, where I was, should he meet with you, and also upon his writing to inform me, whether he had spoken with you.”

Scarcely was she able to give utterance to the last few words; a burning crimson overspread her whole countenance, which appeared to me as the aurora of all my hopes and happiness. I was, as it were, standing upon the pinnacle of my most ardent wishes.

“And has the hermit written?” I asked, as I pressed her hand to my palpitating heart.

She silently nodded with her sweet Madonna head, in the affirmative.

“And did he write all? Every thing?”

The countess replied to this at length, by raising her eyes towards me with an indescribable expression of sweetness, in which the softest confusion was mingled. I threw myself at the feet of the angel with a feeling of the highest delight.

“The year, the term fixed by the hermit, has at length expired,” I said. “During this period you, and you alone, my adorable Liesli, have lived in my heart—it is now for you to decide; let me then know my fate.”

She was, however, only able to reply by tears of tenderness; she entreated me to rise, and she then continued, seriously and solemnly:—

“My dearly beloved friend, you are the first and only being for whom my heart has pleaded; you swore love and fidelity to me when I was poor, and upon you I will rely; in you I will confide. It was in the little chapel of Shwytz, and whilst engaged in prayer, that I first beheld you: at the grave of my dear, unhappy mother, I first spoke with you. From that time the silent mountain became dearer to me—then it was that I first began to comprehend and feel the power of the Creator of the mighty universe—then it was I began to appreciate the wonderful productions of his hand, and viewed the scene of nature around me with feelings hitherto unknown and unfelt. Every thing I beheld appeared to me in a new and different light; and now I acknowledge the goodness of the wonderful providence which has brought us here together at the very extremity of Europe, as if to prove that pure and faithful love will meet with an asylum every where. Oh! my dear and blessed mother, should your invisible spirit still deign to hover near me, oh! bless I beseech you our union.”

Overpowered and fainting, she sank upon my deeply agitated breast, whilst the big tears, rolling down her beauteous cheeks, bespoke the agitation of her heart, and denied all further utterance. I was on the point of enfolding the sweet form of my betrothed bride within my arms, with the most rapturous delight, when the side-door opened, and in stepped—her grandfather! Well might the old count feel alarmed and astonished at finding his granddaughter in the arms of a stranger! I trembled with fear, as if the angel of paradise, with his flaming sword, stood before me.

My beautiful betrothed, however, having now recovered her strength, immediately introduced me to him as the friend of whom she had already spoken, and of whom the hermit had so often written, and, but lately, communicated further particulars. She then modestly, and with blushes added, that I was the friend with whom she now this very moment had renewed her former vows of faith; and, sinking on her knees, with filial piety and love, she fervently entreated her grandfather’s paternal blessing.

The count, however, whose aged blood of seventy years, flowed somewhat slower than ours, said, with a smile, that there was certainly no need of such very great haste, seeing the case was not so desperately pressing; and, giving me a most hearty welcome, he turned towards Liesli, and raising her up, affectionately patted her cheek, soothing her with the assurance that we should have no reason to be dissatisfied with him after he had known me a little better, and found me as worthy as he wished and hoped.

I was now obliged to relate the whole history of the shawl, of the finding of which it appears the servant who announced my arrival had already informed him, but which, however, both Liesli and myself had entirely forgotten, lost as we both had been in the subject of ourselves. Liesli had not observed me, nor had she heard my cries in the crowd; and had I not ventured as I did, upon the rash and sudden act which left her shawl in my grasp, most probably I should have left St. Petersburgh without having seen her—thus, on such slender threads, hangs so often our happiness or misery!

Henceforward I was a daily visitor at the residence of the count. It is an old and well known fact, that a grandfather can rarely refuse any thing to his granddaughter, and, indeed, not in all the fifty-one governments of Russia could such a yielding, doating, and excellent grandfather be found as was the old count. Liesli was the idol of his heart; whatever she wished was granted, nay, had she even demanded the lives of the many thousand peasants and vassals contained on his vast estates, he could not have refused her his consent.

After eight weeks had thus flown past, the old count one morning entered the room with a smiling countenance. He had just received letters by an extraordinary courier from the hermit, who had communicated in them the most satisfactory and complete information respecting myself, my circumstances, situation, and character. It concerned the happiness of his beloved ward, and the hermit had accordingly laid aside his cowl, and in the garb of a private gentleman had set out on a visit to my native country, to collect in person every information respecting my family and connections.

It was easy to be perceived, from the agreeable expression of the old count’s features, that the hermit’s enquiries had turned out to my advantage. At first he began to joke, and pretended to hint, that from the contents of the letters he had just received, my presence appeared very necessary and much desired in Germany. As, however, at this intelligence, the tears began to appear in the eyes of his endearing grandchild, he approached her, and putting his arm round her waist, exclaimed, in his peculiar tone of kindness and affection, “Nay, my dear child, you must not weep, but rather smile and be happy. Behold” he continued, pointing exultingly to the letter, “now, I not only believe, but I am convinced that this young man is worthy of you. There,” he said, in an affectionate and faltering tone, taking the hand of Liesli, and conducting her to me—“there, take the child of my only beloved and lamented son, who fell for his country, and who now reposes in Liesli’s mother’s native land, far, far distant from us. You are both good and virtuous, live as happy together as I once did with my Anna Iwanowa; may God bless you, and may he ever watch and protect you.”

Overwhelmed with joy and surprise, we embraced the good old man, and since the last eight days the incomparable Liesli has been my wife.

The ensuing spring we intend visiting the venerable hermit, and the grave of my Liesli’s mother in the churchyard at Shwytz. From thence we shall proceed to my native country, and the rest—time will unfold.

*****

The foregoing pages I have extracted from the letters of my happy friend, the Baron Hermann von —————. How blest is he who gives his hand and heart to a poor girl, so rich as to bring the beloved husband a marriage dower of innocence and virtue! From such the blessing of Heaven will never be withheld.

The good hermit in the meanwhile has departed this life—for a better!

1. In order to explain this passage more clearly, it is necessary to add, for the information of such readers as may not be acquainted with the German language, that the Germans have three modes of addressing the second person singular, one of which is du or thou, the style here employed in addressing Liesli—which is only used to such as are relatives, to children, confidential friends, or to menials. The different character of the English and German languages in this respect has not allowed us to retain this distinction in the translation.—Tr.
2. Founded in 1689, by Zay of Art, and much visited by Pilgrims.