CONTENTS

<table><thead><tr><th></th><th>PAGE.</th></tr></thead><tbody><tr><td>Poetical Address</td><td>3</td></tr><tr><td>ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE TWELVE MONTHS.</td><td></td></tr><tr><td>January</td><td>5</td></tr><tr><td>February</td><td>7</td></tr><tr><td>March</td><td>9</td></tr><tr><td>April</td><td>11</td></tr><tr><td>May</td><td>13</td></tr><tr><td>June</td><td>15</td></tr><tr><td>July</td><td>17</td></tr><tr><td>August</td><td>19</td></tr><tr><td>September</td><td>21</td></tr><tr><td>October</td><td>23</td></tr><tr><td>November</td><td>25</td></tr><tr><td>December</td><td>27</td></tr><tr><td>The Church-yard of Schwytz</td><td>29</td></tr><tr><td>The Bridal of St. Domingo</td><td>84</td></tr><tr><td>The Magic Mirror</td><td>133</td></tr><tr><td>Comfort in Death (extracted from the Papers of Colonel L—)</td><td>154</td></tr><tr><td>The Confessional</td><td>165</td></tr><tr><td>The Pastry-cook of Madrigal</td><td>182</td></tr><tr><td>On Making and Conciliating Enemies. By Augustus von Kotzebue</td><td>192</td></tr><tr><td>Ferdinand Franck; an Auto-biographical Sketch</td><td>195</td></tr></tbody></table>

iv

CONTENTS.

<table><thead><tr><th></th><th>PAGE.</th></tr></thead><tbody><tr><td>Genealogy of the European Sovereigns and Living Members of their Families</td><td>273</td></tr><tr><td>Reigning Sovereigns of Europe with the Date of their Accession</td><td>340</td></tr><tr><td>Lists of the Diplomatic Agents of the Principal Courts of Europe</td><td>343</td></tr><tr><td>POPULATION OF GREAT BRITAIN, ACCORDING TO THE CENSUS OF 1821.</td><td></td></tr><tr><td>I. General Summary of Houses, Families, and Persons in Great Britain, in 1821</td><td>362</td></tr><tr><td>II. Comparative Statement of the Population of the Counties and Shires of Great Britain, in 1811 and 1821</td><td>363</td></tr><tr><td>III. Table, exhibiting the Population of the Metropolis at different Periods, since the Year 1700</td><td>366</td></tr><tr><td>IV. Population of the several Parishes of the Metropolis</td><td>367</td></tr><tr><td>V. Population of the Principal Towns and Boroughs of England, Wales, and Scotland, in 1821</td><td>370</td></tr><tr><td>VI. Summary of Baptisms, Burials, and Marriages in the Metropolis and in England and Wales, in the Years 1811 to 1821, inclusive</td><td>376</td></tr><tr><td>Population of upwards of Seven Hundred of the Principal Cities in the World, exclusively of Great Britain</td><td>377</td></tr><tr><td>Historical Chronicle for 1822</td><td>388</td></tr></tbody></table>

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE British Public is here presented with the first attempt to rival the numerous and elegant publications of the Continent, expressly designed to serve as tokens of remembrance, friendship, or affection, at that season of the year which ancient custom has particularly consecrated to the interchange of such memorials. The Publisher flatters himself that as well from the nature of the literary department, in which it has been his aim to unite the agreeable with the useful, as from the execution of the graphic embellishments, this first volume of the FORGET-ME-NOT will be deemed not unworthy of the purpose for which it is intended.

vi ADVERTISEMENT.

The Plates consist of a highly finished
engraving, by AGAR, of a Madonna, after
GEMIGNANO, on whom the genius of his
master Raphael so largely rested, and
emblematical representations of the Twelve
Months, also engraved by AGAR, from
designs by BURNEY. These embellish-
ments, to which the names of the artists
alone must be a sufficient recommendation,
are accompanied with poetical illustrations
from the pen of an eminently popular
writer.*

In addition to the above-mentioned
Plates, there will be found at the beginning
of the volume an engraved wreath of the
flower, bearing the name selected for the
title of this work, with a blank for the pur-
pose of receiving a presentation inscrip-
tion.

It would be superfluous to enter into
any comments on the literary compositions
which form the chief portion of this vo-

* The author of the Three Tours of Dr. Syn-tax; the Dance of Death; the Dance of Life; and the History of Johnny Quæ Genus.

ADVERTISEMENT.

vii

lume; they must be left to speak for themselves; but among the documents introduced into the concluding sheets, the Publisher begs leave to direct the Reader's attention to the important Tables exhibiting the results of the late Census, compiled from the returns of the Population of Great Britain, just printed by order of the House of Commons. For some of the other useful articles of reference in this part of the volume, he professes his obligations to the *Gotha Almanac*, a work of acknowledged accuracy and of high reputation on the Continent.

It is intended that the FORGET-MEMORIOT shall be ready for delivery every year, early in November; and the Publisher has no doubt that, in the prosecution of his plan, he shall be enabled, by experience, to introduce improvements into the succeeding volumes, for which he shall neglect no means to secure the contributions of the most eminent writers, both at home and abroad—while his long and extensive connection with the Arts, and the credit with

viii ADVERTISEMENT.

which he has acquitted himself in his
various undertakings in that line, will, he
trusts, be a satisfactory pledge that his
best exertions shall not be wanting to give
to this Work a decided superiority in re-
gard to its embellishments, over every
other existing publication of the kind.

Address.

ANOTHER year is gone and past,
Nor life, nor time, was made to last:
As through the months which are no more,
So through the time now passing o'er,
I said, and say, each fleeting day,
FORGET ME NOT.

While the chill Winter's bound in frost,
And Nature's gayest beauty's lost;
While the crackling dry faggots blaze,
And echoing songs the Minstrels raise;
Through day or night, 'mid your delight,
FORGET ME NOT.

When Phœbus calls the blooming Spring,
And tells the nightingale to sing;
When other strains, and other measures,
Awake the soul to softer pleasures;
Amid the day, while zephyrs play,
FORGET ME NOT.

A

4

ADDRESS.

When Summer bids its bounty yield
The yellow harvests of the field;
When rural sports the heart employ
In many a festival of joy;
Amid those hours, in shady bowers,
FORGET ME NOT.

When Autumn's loaded branches shine,
And bursting clusters give their wine;
When the yearly sun grows old,
And heat begins to yield to cold,
While the leaves fall—within the hall
FORGET ME NOT.

Through every change and chance of time,
In life's first days, in pleasure's prime;
Or, in advancing years, when age
Begins to mark life's closing page;
Through the varying seasons all,
Whate'er my lot, FORGET ME NOT,
And keep my gift, although the gift be small.

5

January

HAIL, two-fac'd Janus! form'd to cast
On the old year for ever past,
The look that pleasure would employ
When fond reflection tells of joy,
That smil'd with its heart-cheering power
On many a fascinating hour;
Or shew'd the frownings that would share
The symbols of afflicting care.—
Thus, as thy two-fold look was hurl'd,
It gave a picture of the world;
For as the flame was seen to rise
Upon thy shrine in sacrifice,
Or when thy doors were seen to close,
Man liv'd in conflict or repose :
That was thy office, which the page
Relates in many a former age,
While Numa held th' imperial power
And through the Augustan, classic hour,
To when a Saviour's wondrous birth
Bade Peace, celestial, beam on earth,

6

And gave the universal plan
Of Heaven's supreme good-will to man.
—But Janus, in these latter days,
New themes may wake the poet's lays,
And Household Play-games may inspire
The tinklings of the humble lyre.
The month, to which thou giv'st a name,*
Will its more homely pleasures claim.
Th' expected New-Year's Gifts are thine;
And while thy gitt'ring altars shine,
Sweet Kings and Queens are made by thee
To aid the joyous revelry;
And many a volume is unroll'd,
In which th' instructive tale is told.

* The name of this month was derived from Janus, the double-faced deity, as it looks both into the Old and the New year.

7

February.

THERE was, as has been told, a time,
And we may tell the tale in rhyme,
When custom did this month employ
To heighten matrimonial joy;
We mean that joy, which, in due measure,
To parents yields parental pleasure,
And gives the bosom to possess
A mother's purest happiness :
When, as a chaste and fruitful wife,
She to the smiling babe gives life,
Who may in health and vigour grow,
With nature's best impressions glow ;
Nay, by due care, be understood
To gain whate'er is great and good.
Then he may noble service yield
If Mars should arm him for the field ;
Or 'mid the senate's walls defend,
As a firm advocate and friend,
The laws that make the crowd obey,
And shield their rights from tyrant sway.

A2

8

Then as the Pagan ritual rul'd,
And Rome its sacred system school'd,
The more celestial names were given,
Ta'en from the calendar of heaven.
'Twas thus this month was known to claim
The lasting honour of its name
From sov'reign Jove's imperial dame,
Who was ordain'd by his decree
To guard Rome's infant progeny.*

* Februa, Februaca, or Fabrualis, all names of Juno, who was worshipped by the Roman women, to secure the protection of the goddess over their infant and rising children.

9

March.

THE merry months are pass'd away,
When song and dance, when sport and play,
By reason hallow'd, offered pleasure
To young and old in sober measure;
But in these days, now hast'ning by,
A truce is made with luxury,
And this dark time, though not so lasting,
Must share its doubtful feasts with fasting.
Such is the checquer'd state of things,
This picture our experience brings,
That good and evil we must bear,
And Lentern times alternate share:
Nor does this well-known truth appear
In bounded current through the year,
Nature displays it as we see,
In all its due variety.

The mountain top the prospect gains,
O'er the wide circumambient plains,
While the deep dale may shelter form
To save us from the coming storm.

10

Hence, then, we make the alternate stay,
And take reflection on our way,
To make the feast on what is good,
And fast where evil's seen to brood :
Ne'er to withhold our longing sight,
From what we know and feel is right,
And there please wholesome appetite ;
But check enjoyment's jovial song,
When'er the sensual taste is wrong.
Where the intemperate passion's blind
To the wise dictates of the mind,
It is but right to seek the rule
By which the warmer passions cool :
In short, while life is doom'd to last,
We may FEAST, and we must FAST.

11

April.

NEXT, April's varying month appears,
With sunny smiles, and show'ry tears,
When pregnant nature gives their birth
To the first fruits of teeming earth,
And does the growing spring prepare
To deck with charms the early year;
Then beckons eager May to come,
And shower around its fragrant bloom.

'Tis now the ravish'd eye may see
The progress of life's progeny;
Soon as the early mind is taught,
First to receive the gift of thought,
When, by right culture, 'tis endued
To feel the sense of what is good,
And asks affection to presage
The virtues of improving age.

Come, then, parental care! and give
The power to make those virtues live,

12

Which infant reason scarce knows why,
Forms the alternate smile and sigh,
Till reason whispers to explain
Why good gives joy, and evil pain :
While the fair April of the mind,
To its endearing prospects kind,
With kindred hopes that ne'er betray,
Hold forth to view a blooming May.

Improving nature thus proceeds,
From virtuous thoughts to virtuous deeds,
Borne onward by the wings of time,
From earliest years to manhood's prime,
Through the long track of growing age,
Till wisdom crowns the hoary sage.

13

May.

SAY, need we make the fond request,
Why May, of months, is thought the best?
Is it because all nature's gay,
That flowrets bloom, and zephyrs play?
Or is it then the passions move,
Or Muses ask to sing of love?
No, 'tis that, dreary winter past,
The spring, enliven'd, breathes at last,
And does in all its glow appear
To give the promise of the year.
This is the month, the laughing time,
When youth, exulting in its prime,
Snatches the hey-days' joyous hour;
Though oft beneath the fragrant flower
Some serpent Vice may seize the heart,
Or to th' incautious mind impart,
In many a tempting form so fair,
What may increase and fester there—
Of May, then; thoughtless youth beware!

14

Now to the Muse it doth belong
To sing the gay but moral song,
To weave the garlands sweet and fair,
That Reason's choice may seek to wear,
Which, not by wanton pleasure, made
Just to adorn the month and fade,
But in their varying forms appear
Throughout each season of the year;
And, as life hastens on its way,
Bid time to snatch an hour, and stay
To think an hour on blooming May.

Still let Remembrance keep in view,
The honour'd name of MONTAGUE.*
She op'd her sumptuous doors to bless
The sooty urchins of distress,
Who, through the year, could call on May,
To give them one auspicious day,
Which fed them well, and made them gay.

* Mrs. Montague's *May-Day* festival to the Chimney Sweepers, in Portman-square, will long be remembered-

15

June.

FROM the earliest time 'tis seen,
The love of liberty has been
Of ev'ry age a darling aim,
And hence this month derives its name.*

In every clime, in every race,
The noble principle we trace,
That leads to virtue, and to worth
And calls those genuine feelings forth,
Which forms, in long successive plan,
The noble character of Man.
We see the young ambition wait,
When Freedom opes the cottage gate,
Where humble learning gives the law,
And holds its fearful imps in awe—

* About this season of the year, the young people of
Rome, (Juniores) were assigned a period of recreation.

B

16

This the reward, that gives renown,
From horn-book page to laurel crown.
Thus, as we range the rural green,
The little infant train is seen,
Scatt'ring around in many a ring,
To hear the voice of freedom sing,
In accents of untuneful noise,
The gate unbarr'd for stated joys.

Nor does the ancient page deny,
In ev'ry form, the history
Of freedom, as its records show'r
Bright honours on the boasted hour
Of heroes, who now ride sublime
Upon the outspread wings of time;
And nations who still live in fame,
While freedom smiles upon the name,
And aids the glory of that throne,
On which old England builds her own;
Nay, feels the hope, that it may last
Till many an age is gone and past,
Free from convulsion's furious blast.

17

July.

WHEN freedom's standard was unfurl'd,
And Rome gave law to half the world,
The tyrant struck the alarming blow,
To lay the boasted fabric low;
And as he filled ambition's aim
To this fair month he gave its name.*
O, let it be our hope, our boast,
That freedom's duties ne'er are lost,
But bears its office to restrain,
Not render passing hours vain !
No, 'tis not giv'n to pass away
In listless idleness the day;
But our best virtues to prepare
For gen'rous toil and future care.
We must not use this precious treasure
In idle scenes of empty pleasure !

* Julius Cæsar reformed the Calendar, and this month, in consequence of that change derived its present name from him.

18

Freedom's the scene when the best powers
Of mortal man employ his hours,
The nobler virtues to extend,
And be of human race the friend :
'Tis that which wisdom's self has sought,
For which so many heroes fought,
And has through ages been the boast,
The darling pride of Britain's coast ;
And long be it our pride to tell
We use the heavenly blessing well.

19

August.

IN ev'ry state, in ev'ry age,
So sings the wisdom of the sage,
'Tis labour marks the mortal page :
It is we feel, or more or less,
Our mis'ry and our happiness.
Who will deny it is the one,
When ev'ry active duty's done ?
Who will refuse th' applausive meed
To fair and honourable deed ?
And who will the bright joy deny,
That springs from virtue's eulogy ?
Nor will th' inactive thought refrain
To leave a vacancy for pain,
When some so sleepy dullness low'rs
Around those vacant idle hours,
In which the listless sluggard knows
The yawning mis'ry of repose;
To which fond fashion may decree
The bootless name of Ennui.

B2

20

Think not, howe'er of wealth possest,
And though th' embroider'd sofa's prest;
Though all is ready to the hand
And the tongue speaks but to command;
Think not that labour, as it treads
The yellow fields and verdant meads,
May not within itself possess
A more substantial happiness;
A greater freedom far from pain,
Than fashion's gay, luxurious train,
Who haunt the crowded, sickly throng,
That does the sleepless night prolong?
They know not, no, in pleasure's dome,
The joys that wait on HARVEST HOME.

21

September.

LIFE has been call'd a sporting day
That does man's various skill display,
Ever employ'd to take his aim
At life's uncertain, fleeting game.

Ambition tries the upward flight,
Attacks the quarry on its height,
And brings the glitt'ring plumage down,
To make for pride a painted crown.

The man who seeks in wealth to shine,
Pores in the darkness of the mine,
Or lays his trap in ev'ry brake
Where trick or toil may treasure take.
His eager chase is ne'er at rest
While he can load the yawning chest;
Nor does he hope to gain repose
Till that same yawning chest o'erflows.

22

But valour's eye is seen to choose
A loftier game, his passion views
The laurel wreath, which forms a crown
That tells of honour and renown;
While his ear hears the trump of fame
That breathes the whistling of a name :
For this the warrior treads the plain,
Wet with the blood of thousands slain;
He looks to win a nation's praise :—
Such is the labour of his days.

The learned beat about and toil,
Enlighten'd by the midnight oil;
They rake amid the gloom of ages,
And trace the devious course of sages,
Who, 'mid time's old and fallen ruins,
Have hunted after ancient doings.
But happier, O, far happier they
Who take the calm, retired way,
Who, on the tranquil virtues bent,
Seek that best game, and find CONTENT.

23

October.

Now to the gladden'd eye appear
The bounteous fruitage of the year;
And here in higher lustre shine
The purple clusters of the vine,
The vintage harvest, that imparts
Its cheerful joy to human hearts;
Nay, with enliv'ning vigour fraught,
Will elevate the human thought,
Enliven genius with its power,
And change to smiles the sadden'd hour.

O juice benign ! feign would I claim
The power to consecrate thy name,
And, in my weak, my feeble verse,
Th' inspiring virtues to rehearse
Of Bacchus' fruits, which bard and sage
Have made a theme in ev'ry age,
Whene'er the jovial glass went round,
And social, temp'rate joys abound.

24

'Tis not when wholesome evenings pass,
The ruby sparkling in the glass,
That reason ever will controul
The bursts of the enliven'd soul.

Hail then, thou rich, inspiring juice !
Given, in our spirits, to infuse
The gay delight that softens strife,
And may disperse the frowns of life
That will, in spite of reason's power,
Intrude upon the passing hour.
Thus, while we view the cluster'd spoil,
The plenteous autumn's smiling toil,
Let us fair Nature's bounty bless,
Let us our grateful thoughts express,
And make it serve for happiness,
By filling up the glass, to prove
Our zeal for harmony and love!

25

November.

Is there a blessing above wealth ?
This all allow, and that is health :
And, if the well-known proverb's true,
This month bears but a sickly hue,
And of all others in the year,
Does in more threat'ning guise appear.
Is it that fallen leaves infuse
Unwholesome mixture with the dews,
Or that the chimney vapours meet
The hazy moisture of the street ;
And Phœbus, on his dim decline,
So seldom bids his rays to shine :
Whether 'tis nature that prepares,
Now Autumn's gone, its fetid airs
The vigour of the mind to shake,
And make the manly spirits quake ;—
Howe'er that be, or false or true,
Whether to truth or fancy due,
Reason and duty both combine
To make their off'rings at the shrine,

26

Where chaste *Hygeia* bears the sway,
And e'en *blue devils* must obey.—
If health then is the greatest blessing,
The best worth mortal man's possessing,
'Tis surely better far to dwell
On high-way side, in humble cell,
Where free from anguish and from pain
The smiling nymph is felt to reign,
Than on the downy couch to lie
With pale-fac'd sickness sitting by;
And 'neath some stately mansion fear,
November's threat'ning dews all hov'ring near.

27

December.

THOUGH now 'tis cold and winter drear,
With trees disrob'd of leaves appear;
Though nature's lively mantle's lost
In drizzly rain or chilly frost,
And eddying streamlets cease to flow,
Bound fast in ice,—when showers of snow
Scatter their silv'ry sleet around,
And verdure no more decks the ground,—
Yet Christmas comes and with it brings
The face that smiles, the voice that sings,
While plenty pours its welcome hoard,
And social pleasure crowns the board.
Then blazing hearths, to great and small,
Illuminate the festive hall;
While the brisk dance and lively strain
Bid mirth appear, nor bid in vain.

To Age the series now appears
Of many past revolving years :

C

28

*Youth* owns a season of delight
As time proceeds in rapid flight;
And *Childhood* is first taught to know
How the successive seasons flow;
Nay, sturdy labour we may see
Enjoy its days of liberty.

Religion, too, the time employs
In sacred feast and holy joys,
While the all-sacred doctrine's taught
With those benign instructions fraught,
Which teach the human heart to scan
The great, sublime good will to man.
The anthem was of heavenly birth
That sung the strain of peace on earth;
And man would never dare complain,
Did he fulfil th' harmonious strain;
But bid his worldly jarrings cease,
And make his life one scene of peace.

29

THE
CHURCH-YARD
OF
SCHWYTZ.

I HAD just arrived from the Vierwaldstädter
Lake at Schwytz. My soul was yet full of the
remarkable objects I had seen—Tell's chapel,
and the mead with the three springs rising near
the cottage in which dwelt that champion of
independence; the broad mirror of the lovely
lake bordered with rocks ten thousand feet
high; all the beauties of nature and the monu-
ments of olden time. I was lolling in the window
of my inn: opposite to me the Mythen towered
aloft with its double peak, and its wooden cross
pointing to the sky; it reminded me of the me-
lancholy fate of the overwhelmed valley of
Goldau, and that the place where I was re-
posing was every moment liable to a similar
calamity. Should this crumbling mass topple
from its aërial height, the town of Schwytz

30

THE CHURCH-YARD

must inevitably perish with every soul that it
contains; for it is situated close to the foot of
the mountain. The longer I contemplated it, the
more the venerable mass seemed to totter;
while the cross, planted by a bold hand on its
summit, bowed towards the little town, as
though to admonish the inhabitants to betake
themselves to those devotions befitting the last
moments of their existence.

I could bear to look no longer at the tre-
mendous crag which threatens sooner or later
to entomb the poor Schwytzers alive, as the
people of Goldau were a few years since sur-
prized and buried by its murderous neighbour.
I banished as well as I could the idea of the
possibility of speedy destruction from my mind;
it was just then growing dusk: I commended
my soul to Providence, and went out to enjoy
the beauty of the evening. The simple sound
of the bell of the Dominican nunnery apprized
me that the pious sisters were there offering
their prayers to him, who keeps the sea in its
appointed bounds, and assigns to the starry orbs
their courses through the dark firmament; and
with tranquil resignation I contemplated the
warm golden hues of a brilliant sun-set. Black
and silent stood the colossal Rigi in the fore-
ground: on its elevated summit yet glistened
the great cross in the reflected rays of the sun,
which had already sunk behind the lofty moun-

OF SCHWYTZ.

31

tain; while its foot was shrouded in vapour
and darkness.

With a feeling of inexpressible melancholy,
and a longing in my heart after I knew not
what, I slowly strolled towards Siti. The Fal-
lenflue to the eastward, and the Schönbuch and
Frohnalp to the south, all three enveloped in a
mantle of dusky gray, were my guides. But
it was not to them that I aspired; they be-
longed with their hoary heads to heaven, while
I was irresistibly attracted to earth.

At the extremity of the long avenue of trees
near Siti there is a summer-house. Hence a
path that is not much frequented leads east-
ward to a hermitage, situated in the heart of
the forest, where I purposed to pass the night,
if I liked the hermit. In early childhood I had
read of such hermits, and figured to myself with
enthusiasm the peaceful life of a pious ancho-
ret; and now I was going to see one for the
first time. I descended the hill through bushes
and underwood, and all at once an old man
stood before me—it was the hermit himself.
He had been performing his evening devotions
at the chapel only a few hundred paces distant
from his cell, and was returning to his solitary
habitation. I greeted him with silent reverence,
and he repaid the salutation without speaking.
“ Reverend father!” said I, “will you permit
me to accompany you to your hermitage?”

c2

32

THE CHURCH-YARD

"What is your business with me?" asked the old man, not in a surly, but yet not in a friendly tone.

"My business with you?—strictly speaking, none," rejoined I frankly, and with a courteous smile: "I come from the North, and have never before seen a hermit; I heard of you, and should like to have some conversation with you. Such men as you are wiser and more pious than we children of the world; ye live for solitude and devotion; your prayers are not disturbed by those excitements to sin, with which we are incessantly beset; and God is nearer to you, because ye are pure, and strangers to vice.—Are you happy here, pious father?"

"Happy?" repeated he slowly, stood still and looked stedfastly at the cross on the summit of the Rigi, yet faintly tinged with the fading radiance of eve. "My son," he again began, after a pause of a few moments, "have you ever seen one happy mortal?"

"Certainly, reverend father! I am myself happy, for no guilt oppresses my conscience; I am young and in good health; I have dear relatives and friends at home; I possess a competence; I am now come to visit your beautiful country, where nature is so enchanting, and where God so wonderfully manifests himself in his glory."

OF SCHWYTZ.

33

"Happy?" once more exclaimed the old man, dubiously shaking his hoary head. "Do you never sympathize in the afflictions of others?"

This question took me by surprise—I was at a loss for a reply.

"My conscience, too," continued the venereable anchoret, is not oppressed by guilt; I too enjoy health; I too have objects that are dear to me, if not at home, yet in the mansions of everlasting peace; I too possess all I need; to me too the admirable works of God afford great delight;—and yet I am not happy; for the distress and the woes of others often sink deeply into my heart; and it is but singly, and now and then, that the weary and heavy laden seek my cell—But you, who live amidst the busy world, have you yet seen no tears shed?—have you yet heard no sighs, no lamentations?—have you never yet felt the pain occasioned by the wish coupled with the inability to afford relief?"

So powerfully was I struck by these words, that I could not raise my eyes to look the speaker in the face.

"Who can relieve all?" replied I, by way of excuse. "A Croesus himself would be reduced to beggary at last."

"I perceive," said the hermit, "that you don't understand me; and you show how little sympathy you have hitherto felt with your suf-

34 THE CHURCH-YARD

fering fellow-creatures. Gold does not always relieve. The beggar is frequently—nay inviolably—happier than the afflicted in spirit. Comfort, counsel, indulgence, kindness—these are what you owe to your fellow-creatures, and so long as you fail to perform this duty to the utmost of your power, so long I cannot call you happy. Withhold not relief till it is solicited of you; as soon as you know that it is wanted, hasten to afford it, and expect no thanks; you do but your duty, for which you deserve none—but it is this very consciousness of having done one's duty that constitutes the highest happiness of life. God be with you !"

With these words this extraordinary man quitted me, and I had now seen a hermit. He proceeded in silence towards his cell; while I had no other alternative than to pass the night in the open air or to return to Schwytz.

I could scarcely recollect how our conversation had taken so singular a turn, and I felt as if the words of the venerable man had awakened me from agreeable dreams. I directed my passive steps toward the town, bringing with me a new view of life, but a gloomy and painful one—I was to seek out my afflicted fellow- creature, to offer him my assistance; and not even to expect his thanks in return.

I endeavoured at first to persuade myself that this was the language of an overstrained

OF SCHWYTZ.

35

ascetic; that such strictness as this might be
practised by a recluse in his lonely cell, though
not by a man living in the world and liable to
a thousand claims—but all my evasions would
not do. I felt but too sensibly that the her-
mit was right; only it seemed to me a very
difficult task for a man to come up to his
standard.

On the way back to my inn, I passed the
church; it stands in the town, on a little emi-
nence, in the centre of the church-yard, where
all the graves, according to the pleasing custom
prevailing here, are planted with flowers, so
that the whole, unlike our dreary cemeteries,
disfigured with stones and weeds and briers,
resembles a beautiful garden. Millions of
pinks and carnations of all colours perfumed
the atmosphere. Here and there small basins
of hewn stone peered above the flowers, and
these contained consecrated water for watering
them. I seated myself on the low wall sur-
rounding the church-yard to rest awhile.

Profound stillness reigned all around; the
living slumbered in the town, and here at my
feet the dead slept beneath their flowers. The
hermit's words again recurred to my mind; and
the solitude and silence of the tombs rendered
it the more susceptible to their impression. I
confessed to myself that pleasure had often
been my only aim; that there only I had taken

36

THE CHURCH-YARD

delight, where gaiety had called and mirth had
smiled upon me; that I had sought such persons exclusively, who were agreeable to me for their cheerful disposition, their humour, or their wit.—Now, in order to be happy, I was to seek the sufferer! To dry the tear of the mourner was to be my pleasure—to console the afflicted my delight. None, thought I, but a person accustomed to the rigour of a monastic life could impose such a task on the possessor of youth and health and a fondness for social enjoyments.

I rose from my seat undecided whether to
follow the precepts of the hermit or my own
wayward disposition, intending to walk round
the church among the flower-enamelled graves,
and then return to my quarters.

Behind the church there is a small chapel.
It stood open, and was lighted only by the faint
glimmer of one ever-burning lamp. I stepped
with one foot across the threshold; but I must
confess, it was so dark, so gloomy, and so cold,
in the little oratory, that an involuntary awe
prevented my farther advance.

I was about to retire when, by the sparing
light of the frugal lamp, I perceived a female
figure kneeling at the foot of the altar in fervent
prayer. My entrance disturbed her; she therefore finished her devotions, bowed to the crucifix, crossed her forehead and breast, and passed me in silence.

OF SCHWYTZ.

37

It was too dark to discover her features, but it was evident from her gait and manner that she was young. I followed her at a distance. She stopped by a grave, sunk slowly on her knees at the foot of it, and prayed: she then rose, and taking up water in the hollow of her hand from the nearest basin, sprinkled the flowers. I had meanwhile approached, and moved by this simple evening devotion, I asked in a low tone, who was buried there?

"My mother," replied she, weeping, and covering her face with her hands: she then proceeded across the church-yard towards the town.

I could not follow, sensible that it would be more agreeable to the stranger, if I left her to her devotion and her sorrow. Had she chosen to speak to me she would have staid; for she must have inferred from my question that I was desirous to know something more about her.

Of what use then, in this instance, was the anchoret's rigid precept? here would I gladly have dispensed consolation, and my sympathy with the sorrows of the stranger would certainly have alleviated her affliction; but she afforded me no opportunity for the exercise of my philosophy. I could not run after and force my kindness upon her. O, how just was the observation of the old recluse of the forest: So long as a man has not performed the duty he owes

38 THE CHURCH-YARD

to his suffering fellow-creatures, so long he
cannot be happy! At least I know I was not : I
was vexed, and out of humour ; but my concern
was not wholly free from a feeling of a very dif-
ferent sort.

Dark as it was, I had nevertheless remarked
so much dignity, taste and grace, in the contour
of the stranger's figure, in her dress, and in her
carriage, that I should have been very glad to
have exchanged a few more words with her ; and
yet the only two I had heard her pronounce were
sufficient to produce a thorough conviction, that
filial affection, piety and innocence, dwelt in
her bosom. Those two words—"My mother"—
yet resounded in the recesses of my heart ; and
then the harmony of her voice—I was certain
that I should be able, even after the lapse of
years, to recognize her by it among thousands.

It would have been an easy matter for me to
follow her to see where she lived, and then I
might have made farther enquiry ; but Schwytz
is a very small place ; had but a single indivi-
dual observed me going after her at that late
hour, ten to one but the circumstance had been
the common town-talk the next day. Still
easier would it have been for me to learn her
name and every other particular I wished to
know, had I but related my little adventure to
my landlady. But then she was a very shrewd,
sly woman, who would, to a certainty, have

OF SCHWYTZ.

seen farther than I wished she should, and who
would at last have made out things which
neither I nor the pious church-yard visitant had
so much as thought of. I determined therefore
to keep my secret locked within my own breast,
and reckoned upon the following evening, when
I concluded that I should find the stranger
again at the grave of her mother. I now knew
what my heart had wanted while I was strol-
ling to Siti: I had longed for something, and an
obscure feeling told me that I had now found
it. The Mythen, which I again contemplated
from my window, no longer appeared to be so
imminently dangerous; and should the loose
mass begin to quake, I would repair to the ha-
bitation of the dear girl, and if it buried us
both together, why then, methought, death in
her company—if die I must—could not be so
very terrible.

According to my original plan I should have
set out next morning for Zug, but this inten-
tion was now relinquished. The day was to
me an eternity. I went to see the arsenal, the
town-house, the hospital, the seminary, and the
cabinet of coins belonging to the chevalier Hed-
linger: thus passed the forenoon. After dinner
I took a stroll on the Urny, walking like one in
a dream, among cottages, and gardens, and
orchards; thinking of nothing but evening and
the stranger. I was angry at the slow progress

D

40 THE CHURCH-YARD

of the sun, which this day seemed as if it would
never sink behind the Rigi, and returned to
Schwytz a great deal too early. By way of
passing the time I sauntered again to Siti, and
beyond it towards the forest. My old acquaint-
ance, the hermit, was not there; but on the
steps of the chapel who should be seated but
the fair stranger !

I had not been able the preceding night to
discern a single feature of her face, because it
was much too dark—but I could have sworn it
was the same figure: for there were not two so
elegant and of such ideal perfection, I will not
say in Schwytz, but in Switzerland, or even in
Europe. She blushed when she perceived me,
probably recognizing the disturber of her last
night's devotions among the tombs.

"What are you doing here?" said I fami-
liarly; and she modestly replied, that she was
waiting for the hermit. Yes, it was she—for
the two words she had pronounced were again
present to my soul, when I heard the silver
tones of her voice. I have seen the most cele-
brated galleries in the world, but such an
angelic face I never yet beheld. That regular
oval, that mild lustre of the soft black eye, that
smile of love on the rosy cheek; those balmy
lips; those rows of snow-white teeth, and tha
air of modesty and innocence which pervaded
the whole—what pencil can pourtray !

OF SCHWYTZ.

41

The maiden could not be more than sixteen
at the utmost, and yet so fully formed was the
whole lovely figure, from the silken locks to the
neat little foot, that if such damsels only visited
the hermit, I would have turned hermit that
very day.

The enchanting girl sat on the lowest of the
three steps that lead to the chapel: she had
some herbs in her lap, from which she was
plucking the flowers; these she put into a
basket that stood beside her. Upon pretext
that I had occasion to wait for the hermit, I
seated myself by the basket.

I remember having once seen in the royal gal-
lery at Dresden, a picture by Gemignano, the
principal figure in which is a Madonna.* This
admirable performance made an impression
upon me that will never be erased. In the face
of the Virgin Mother the earthly was so inti-
mately combined with the heavenly, that it was
difficult to decide whether it partook more of
the human or the angelic. I could have fancied
that my lovely neighbour had sat for that pic-
ture, so close was the resemblance.

The girl must certainly have supposed that I
had lost my speech, for since the question with

* Of this beautiful picture, which might be mistaken for the
work of Raphael himself, a large print, engraved in a mas-
terly style, in the line manner, by Garavaglia, has been re-
cently published by Messrs. Schenck and Co. of Brunswick.

EDITOR.

42

THE CHURCH-YARD

which I first accosted her, and the assurance
that I would wait for the hermit, not a syllable
had escaped my lips, so absorbed was I in the
contemplation of her charms. Nature, trans-
ported with the magnificence of the evening
scene, was equally silent: stillness pervaded
the whole forest; not a breeze, not a leaf
stirred. Whoever speaks much, feels little;
and for my part I revelled in an ocean of the
most delicious sensations.

At length awaking from my reverie—"How
long," said I, "has your mother reposed
beneath those flowers which you last night
watered?"

"A year, yesterday," replied she in a low
voice, while a deep sigh heaved her virgin
bosom.

"Is your father living?" asked I, deeply
moved by the painful emotion visible in her
lovely face. She silently shook her head, held
it down lower over her work, and said, after a
pause, that she had lost him while an infant.

"Have you no relations—no friends?"

"At Schönenwerth, in the canton of Solothurn—perhaps you may know the convent of St. Clara there—I have an uncle; I have today received an answer to a letter which I wrote to him, and came to shew it to the hermit, and to ask his advice, and now he is not at home!"

OF SCHWYTZ.

43

"And what does your uncle write?"

"He is himself in very indifferent circumstances," answered she, forgetting her own distress—"he has a large family and can scarcely find them bread." She again sighed, and with her hand brushed a tear from her eye.

In these few words she had unintentionally revealed to me her whole situation.

"What will you do then?" enquired I, in a tone of sympathy.

"I don't know," said she sorrowfully, and with difficulty repressing her tears. "The hermit is to tell me what I am to do—and now he is not here!"

"He will tell you to pray and to put your trust in God."

"Ah, Sir, that I have not neglected to do, and I know that the Lord will hear me. Hitherto I have lived upon what my mother left me: it was but little, for she was poor. Now it is all gone, and nobody cares about me: but God is yet my God, and will not suffer me to want. I will begone—only I know not whither."

"And what can you do for a living?" said I, looking at her hands, than which no lady's of the highest rank could be more delicate.

"I can scarcely tell what I can do," replied she, looking somewhat confused, and still smiling: "not much indeed—yet others can live by it: when I am once away I shall find means to

D 3

44 THE CHURCH-YARD

earn a subsistence. Here I have nothing but
the ashes of my lamented mother. Two girls
from this place have obtained situations a great
way off, one at Vienna, the other at Berlin;
why should not I hope to be equally fortunate?"

I gazed on the beauteous maiden in silent
astonishment: her childlike simplicity and her
decided resolution, her determination to go into
the world and the high ingenuousness of her
innocence, formed a singular contrast. She had
not once looked at me during this whole con-
versation, neither did she make the least scruple
to sit with me in the twilight, unseen by human
eye, or express the slightest degree of curiosity
to know who I was.

At length she rose, shook the stalks of the
herbs from her lap, and took up the basket con-
taining the flowers she had been picking, with
the intention, as she said, of putting them down
before the hermit's habitation. She had gathered
the herbs that she might not be idle; and the
poor hermit exchanged them in the town for the
necessaries of life. She tripped towards his
hut, with as much grace as if she had been a
pupil of Vestris himself. I had striven with
all my might to suppress the flame that raged
within my bosom, or at least to conceal from
the girl near what a Vesuvius she had been
sitting.

I was fearful lest there might be another way

OF SCHWYTZ.

45

to Schwytz, in which case my lovely neighbour
might not come back to me: and there I sat in
a suspense as painful as if a kingdom had been
at stake. From this anxiety I was relieved on
seeing her pour out the flowers on the bench in
front of the hermitage, and return towards the
chapel. I rose and went a few paces to meet
her. While she was gone to the hut, I had
taken three louis d'ors out of my purse, and
these, as I walked along by her, I dropped un-
observed into her basket.

Twice, on our way back to Siti, was I on the
point of offering her my arm, and had not the
courage; for she gave me a look, as though she
would decline it. In the middle of the vast
orchard which leads from Siti to Schwytz, she
turned off into a more direct road to the town,
probably that we might not enter it together.
On bidding me good-night, she reached me her
snowy hand, which I raised to my lips and
kissed with fervour.

"Pray don't, Sir," said she, in a tone of en-
treaty; "it is not becoming with a poor girl
like me."

"Shall I see you again to-morrow?" asked
I, at the same time gazing on her black eyes,
as stedfastly as though I would have read in
the bottom of her soul what were her feelings
in regard to me.

"By all means, Sir, if it will give you plea-

46

THE CHURCH-YARD

sure,” answered she, with an unaffected simplicity and kindness, which a city coquette can have no conception of, much less assume.

“I shall think of you all night,” said I, laying her right hand on my tumultuously throbbing heart.

“And I of you,” replied she, smiling. “You speak so fine that I should never be tired of hearing you. It is already late, and I know not how the time has glided away. Here in the whole town there is not one that I like to talk with so well as you.”

“Where shall I see you again, and at what time?”

“The people here,” rejoined she familiarly, “are very comical: though we have said nothing but what any body might have heard, yet if one of them knew that we had been alone together, they would all think ill of us. And what have we been talking about but death, and praying, and virtue, and a future state?”

That I had told her in the overflowing of my heart that she looked like an angel, and that there was an ocean of bliss in her soft black eye—about all this the sly creature never said a single syllable.

“Well,” I repeated in an urgent tone, “when and where shall I see you?”

“Leave that to chance, Sir,” said she, checking my importunity. “If you wish me but half

OF SCHWYTZ.

47

so well as I wish you, I am sure you will not
desire that the people here should think ill of
me; and this they infallibly would, if I were
to be seen alone with you."

"And how, then, to chance?" asked I,
throwing my arm round the enchanting girl;
for the idea of parting so soon from the lovely
 creature operated like a cramp upon all my
 nerves, which so affected my arm, that it invo-
luntarily encircled and pressed her to my
bosom.

"The day after to-morrow I am to leave this
place, and then I shall never—never see you
more. By right I ought to have set out to-day;
but the hope of meeting with you detained me;
it urged me to ramble the whole day in the en-
virons of your town; it suggested the walk to
the hermitage, and there on the steps of the
chapel I actually found you engaged with your
healing herbs. Have you none for me, to allay
the anguish of this throbbing heart when I
think of parting from you, angelic creature?"

A city beauty would have considered this de-
claration of love as a mere compliment; but the
simple Swiss damsel took the words in the true
sense in which they were intended and spoken.

"And did you look for me? Did you stay
here on my account?" asked the lovely girl,
while a sweet smile of flattered self-satisfaction
played upon her rosy lips. I then described to

48 THE CHURCH-YARD

her frankly, and without reserve, the profound impression which the scene of the preceding night, at the grave of her mother, had made upon my heart; the desire which it had excited to become better acquainted with her; and my good fortune in having realized this wish. I acknowledged that I was captivated by her charms and her moral worth, and repeatedly solicited her to grant me her company the following day.

The idea of parting has a peculiar charm for the human mind; but the heart of woman feels the pang of separation more keenly than that of the other sex, for she loves more truly. With an obscure feeling of all this, I therefore told her, that I could stay no longer than over the morrow, hoping that when she saw there was but a single day between us and parting, she would not be able to deny me that. This time I was right in my calculation.

"Must you go so soon as the day after to-morrow?" said she with emotion. "Well, I must see you once more in this life. I will attend you then to-morrow, but we must meet far from this place, and very early, before people are stirring. Will you visit the Engelsstock, or the Ruffiberg, or the Rigi? I will shew you the calcareous Alps, and the Nagelflue mountains; and you shall see things that will make you remember our canton as long as you live."

"Let us go to the Rigi," replied I joyfully,

OF SCHWYTZ.

49

revelling by anticipation in the felicity of contem-
templating the magnificence of nature by the
side of such a female, from the summit of the
giant mountain.

“ Be it so,” said the roguish girl, “ and if
you have courage enough I will take you where
you shall learn to climb, but you shall be re-
warded for your trouble; you shall see fourteen
lakes and the Jura, the peaks of the St. Gott-
hard, the ancient city of Zurich, fourteen can-
tons, innumerable towns and villages, and high
above the clouds, the everlasting snow of the
majestic Jungfrau.

“ But the principal object that I shall see to-
morrow, you have forgotten to mention,” said
I, pressing her hand to my lips.

“ The principal object!” asked she, thought-
fully, at the same time stroking my cheek with-
out seeming to be aware of it.

“ Yourself, enchanting girl—yourself you
have not yet mentioned.”

“ How can I be worth mentioning, when
speaking of that world which you will see from
the Rigi. My name is Liesli. You will not
find a syllable,” added she, smiling, “ about the
Schwytz girl, Liesli, in any of the books that have
been written concerning our beautiful Alpine
country ; but they all tell you of our mountains
and our lakes ; every body knows them.”

“ Liesli, my dear, dear Liesli !”

50

THE CHURCH-YARD

" Don't you like the name ?"

"On the contrary, I could watch all night, look at nothing but you, and say nothing but Liesli. Liesli, my sweet, my lovely Liesli !"

"Good night, sir!" said Liesli, extricating herself somewhat anxiously from my grasp; "it is already dark night, and we must be up early, or else, if the sun gets above us, we shall find climbing rather fatiguing."

Having hastily described the place where we were to meet at four o'clock next morning, she slipped out of my hands like an eel, and away she went.

Long did I stand fixed to the spot gazing after her. I could faintly perceive, at a considerable distance, her white figure under the dark trees, till at length it entirely disappeared. Like one intoxicated, I pronounced her name amid the solemn stillness of night; I extended my longing arms towards her, and whom should I catch in my embrace but—the hermit. I started back some paces in amazement.

"Whence come you ?" asked he, in a tone which sounded as if he was not in the best of humours.

"Ah! is it you, reverend father?" rejoined I, recovering myself; "I could not at first tell who it was, for it is so dark here under the trees, that you can scarcely see your hand before you. I am coming from your cell; I wanted to see you."

OF SCHWYTZ.

51

"I have been from home the whole day," replied he, "was any one else there enquiring for me?"

"Not a soul," answered I—for there was no occasion to let the old man know that I had been meanwhile chatting with Liesli. With what confidence one may tell lies in the dark; it is on this account I suppose that the devil is styled the prince of darkness. The lie glided so smoothly from my lips, that I could not help chuckling within myself.

"I have brought something for you," said the old man, putting into my hand a small paper packet; "but don't open it till you get home; for it is of value, and here you might perhaps drop something out of it. Will you give me a call to-morrow morning?"

"With pleasure," I replied, that he might stay at home and wait for me; otherwise, if he went abroad he might chance to meet me with Liesli. "My thanks for your valuable something I will bring you to-morrow," added I, "rather sarcastically; for of what value could be the gift of a poor hermit, for whom Liesli had been just gathering herbs that he might exchange them for victuals! Probably a delicate mode of begging, thought I—a gudgeon thrown out for a salmon.

"Good night then," said he, "and pray late and early that you may not fall into temptation,

E

52

THE CHURCH-YARD

and that the evil one may have no power over
you. The world is plunged in wickedness; and
he who there imagines that he shall enjoy him-
self on the morrow, is often caught in his own
net, and then supposes that it has been placed
for him by others.—Farewell!

With these words he departed, proceeding
straight towards his hermitage, while I hastened
after the beloved white figure, which, however,
I did not see again. Liesli had probably been
long in bed, when I arrived at my inn, and
called for a light to satisfy my curiosity by
examining the valuable present of the poor
recluse.

The packet contained neither more nor less
than my three louis d'ors. I was petrified with
astonishment.

Was the hermit a sorcerer? Was Liesli a
phantom?—Were—God forgive the thought!—
Were the old hermit, nothing but skin and bone,
and the lovely Liesli in all the fullness of a thou-
sand charms, one and the same person!—How
came the old man by the money?—What did he
mean—for now every one of his words seemed
to be pregnant with meaning—by his pointed
allusion to people who think to enjoy themselves
on the morrow?—If, as I verily believed, the
hermit and Liesli were two distinct persons,
what had they to do with one another?—What
business had the old emaciated recluse with the

OF SCHWYTZ.

53

blooming maiden, and the hermit beyond Siti
with the flowery graves at the foot of the My-
then ?—Or, could the girl, for heaven knew
what reason, personate a hermit.—But no, no,
no, this was morally impossible : the hermit was
a head taller than Liesli; his eye was hollow
and languid, his voice tremulous, his skin
wrinkled; all this no mask could imitate, no
illusion attain.

Thus did I puzzle my brains and hit upon
the most absurd conjectures. To my fevered
imagination the most probable seemed to be,
that Liesli was a mere apparition—her whole
figure was so delicate, so elegant, so ideal; in
her eye there was something so celestial; her
voice had sounded like that of one speaking to
me from heaven; her gait rather resembled the
motion of a seraph than the step of a mortal;
and her face might have served the painters, in
the golden age of the art, as a model for their
angels and cherubs. Her body—no, that was
purely human—it had all the plumpness of
youth and health; and the blood that mantled
her cheek poured in a warm and living current
from the heart.

I went to bed, but amidst these doubts and
perplexities was unable to close my eyes. At
length towards morning I fell asleep. On
awaking, I found that I had overslept myself,
and arrived at the place of rendezvous half an

54 THE CHURCH-YARD

hour after the time agreed upon. There stood
the Rigi; but I saw nothing of Liesli.

Amidst a thousand self-reproaches, doubts, and
conjectures of all kinds, I waited a long pain-
ful hour. The everlasting Rigi still stood before
me, but the young and lovely Liesli came not.

This is a trick of the hermit's, said I to myself,
and his words recurred to my mind. Yes
indeed, I did expect this day to enjoy myself;
and I imagined too, that the old man had spread
for me the net in which I was caught, the net
of the most inexplicable doubts. The hermit
might well prophecy; for the whole contrivance
was his own. He, and no other, had disap-
pointed me of the felicity I had promised my-
self from the excursion to the Rigi in the society
of Liesli. There, on its lofty summit, where
the rising sun was just tinging the great cross
with his first rays; there, so much nearer to
heaven, in the presence of God, and before the
face of free Switzerland, I would have embraced
the girl with chaste affection, and asked her
whether she would be mine and share with me
joy and sorrow, and, when the Lord should be
pleased to call me, deck my grave like her mo-
ther's with flowers, and pray for my repose.
Such was the resolution I had formed in the
night, when, after long puzzling myself, I had
acquired the conviction that Liesli was not a
supernatural being, but pure flesh and blood.
And now the moment, in which I would have

OF SCHWYTZ.

55

invited all nature to witness the solemn contract,
was fled, perhaps irrevocably fled!

Nothing could equal my vexation. Where
could I look for Liesli? Where was it likely to
find her? Had Liesli been there? Had she con-
cluded from my accidental delay, that I should
not come at all? A hundred such questions oc-
curred to me, and I was more and more angry
with myself, with my ill-luck, with Liesli, with
the hermit, and in short with every thing.

In the first place I resolved to question the
hermit, how he had come by the money.—Of
course he could have received it from nobody
but Liesli—then to make enquiries concerning
the girl, and discover, if possible, the nature of
their connection; and if I found that he had any
influence over her, to acquaint him frankly with
my views and determination.

I hastened back to Schwytz, and thence to
Siti and the hermitage. The hermit was not at
home. I staid the whole day till late at night,
without eating or drinking, before the door of
his habitation. It was to no purpose. I re-
turned to Schwytz quite out of humour.

All day, at the slightest noise, I had flattered
myself with the certainty that Liesli was com-
ing; and a thousand times had I been disap-
pointed. Whoever is acquainted with the pangs
of love, and has waited but one hour in his life
for the girl of his heart, will be able to estimate

E 3

56

THE CHURCH-YARD

the tediousness of this miserable day. Late in
the evening I went into the church-yard to the
chapel, in which I had first beheld Liesli, and to
the grave of her mother. She was nowhere to
be seen. It was a mild delicious summer night :
the dews of eve gemmed the flowers on the
graves, and their perfume impregnated the
whole atmosphere. Not a breath of air was
stirring; all around was still and silent, while
lightning flashed along the horizon. Ah! that
my sweet Liesli would but join me! I figured
her to myself reclining on my bosom. The dis-
tant lightning was reflected in her eyes; her
soft round arm encircled my neck; my heart
beat close to hers; from her lips I imbibed life
and love—But Liesli came not. I stole sorrow-
fully home.

The following day was passed in the same
miserable manner. To-morrow, said I to myself,
I will repair once more to the hermitage, and if
I cannot then find its inhabitant, nothing shall
prevent me from seeking Liesli herself. In this
small place it will not be long before I discover
the girl. What I would have said to her on the
summit of the Rigi, I can tell her just as well in
her humble chamber.

Again I waited the whole day before the door
of the hermit; but he never made his appear-
ance. I now considered myself as released from
all those duties which, I know not wherefore, I

OF SCHWYTZ.

57

fancied that I owed the hermit. It had hitherto
seemed to me as if he had some authority over
Liesli; the girl wanted to ask his advice, and
she had given him the money, that he might re-
turn it to me. There must, of course, be some-
thing between them. Could I but win the old
man, Liesli would be mine. Such was my con-
clusion, and on this account I had waited three
days, each of which was an eternity. More I
could not require of my forbearance. Had the
hermit concealed himself from me, or was he re-
ally from home?—What was that to me? I had
now done with him. I would go for one moment
to the church-yard, and if I did not meet with
Liesli there, I would enquire the girl's abode of
my landlady, and proceed thither this very day.
My patience was now completely exhausted,
and I was resolved to remain no longer in sus-
pense.

Liesli was not there. How changeable is
man! I now felt quite pleased at not meeting
with the girl. On the threefold disappointment
of my hopes I founded a sort of right to go to
Liesli, and in her apartment, unseen by all the
world, a dialogue of this kind might certainly
be carried on better than on an elevation of
5876 feet, on the top of the Rigi, on the margin
of a perpendicular abyss, which no one could
look down without shuddering; and better than
here in the public church-yard, where the graves
were not exactly adapted for bridal beds.

58

THE CHURCH-YARD

The hour which I had determined to wait
here, the last hour, had expired. I rose from
the low wall on which I had been sitting, when,
in the dark, I perceived something black ad-
vancing between the graves towards me. My
blood curdled—the hermit in his cowl stood
before me.

"You have been at my cell?" he began, in a
voice that sounded as though it issued from a
sepulchre.

"Yes, reverend father," I replied, gazing in
astonishment at the incomprehensible man.
How did he know that I had sought him? Why
did he come at the very moment when I was
going to seek Liesli? Which way did he come?
It was, positively, just as if there was a subterra-
neous passage from his hermitage to the church-
yard! " I have waited for you three days,"
continued I, " but to no purpose."

"I know it," replied he, mildly. "A herdsman's boy saw you and told me so. You would make enquiry of me concerning the girl you met with on the steps of the chapel. Why should you care about the orphan? But answer me not—truth doth not always proceed from your lips.—You seek the girl, but desist from your search; you will never find her. Her dying mother charged me to watch over the welfare of her child. The morning, on which you had appointed to ascend the Rigi with Liesli, she

OF SCHWYTZ.

59

went away to her relations. I had informed them of the death of her mother, and it was not till the anniversary of her decease that I received an answer, and money to defray the expences of her journey. The evening that you sought me and found Liesli, I was in the city making the necessary preparations for her departure. When you gave her the three louis d'ors she knew nothing of the matter. It was not till the next morning before day-break that it was communicated to her. As she quickened her steps after quitting you, she heard the money rattle in her basket, and naturally concluding, that none but you could be the donor, she gave it to me, as I just then happened to meet her, to be returned to you. In the art of giving you have yet made but little proficiency."

"Liesli gone!—and whither, reverend father, is she gone? If you be a real friend to the girl, tell me; it will be for her advantage. The intentions of my heart are honourable: I would offer it to the girl, together with my hand and fortune."

"You would?" replied the recluse, somewhat sarcastically. "You have known the girl but a few hours, and you would offer her your whole life? But are you sure that this virtuous maiden, rich as she is in knowledge and in charms, would deem you worthy of her love? Or do you suppose, that every thing in the world is to be purchased with your paltry gold?"

60

THE CHURCH-YARD

"You seem to have taken a dislike to me, reverend father."

"I cannot like any one," replied he, keenly, "who strives to deceive me with falsehoods. I asked you the other evening, when I met you in the avenue, whether any person besides yourself had been enquiring for me at my cell. 'Not a soul,' was your answer, and not five minutes before, my honest Liesli, who never yet was guilty of a lie, informed me that she had been conversing with you all the evening. I asked you whether you would call on me the next morning. 'With pleasure,' was your reply, though you had agreed with Liesli, as she had just told me, to go with her the same morning to the Rigi. What had I done to you, that you should deceive me and tell me lies? He that lies will steal. Should I not act foolishly, if I were to inform the thief, where I have deposited the treasure committed to my charge?'"

The two confounded lies! I was so angry with myself that I could almost have beaten my head against the wall. My greatest triumph would now have been to retaliate on the old man who had played me such a scurvy trick, and robbed me of the happiness of my life, of my Liesli—but I had no opportunity; there was nothing to fasten upon.

"Well," said I at length, bitterly mortified, "if you are so faithful a votary of truth, which

OF SCHWYTZ.

61

I, too, honour and revere, tell me without reserve
how Liesli expressed herself concerning me.
With so ardent and so pure a passion as glows
in my heart for Liesli, I cannot but be anxious
to know what are her sentiments in regard to
me."

"You are the girl's first acquaintance: to
this circumstance you must ascribe it, if Liesli
has allowed you a greater degree of familiarity
than was, in fact, becoming."

From this turn of the sly hermit, my vanity
inferred that I was not indifferent to the girl.

"Once more," I rejoined, rather more boldly,
"cannot you acquaint me with Liesli's place
of abode?"

"No," replied he, hastily, and peremptorily.

"Consider," said I, "You will once have to
answer for this refusal to the girl, and to your
own conscience."

"You value yourself very highly," tauntingly
replied the hermit: "you must certainly sup-
pose that Liesli cannot live without you and
your money. And, yet at this moment, she is
perhaps richer than you—You are still young,"
added he, after a pause, in a rather milder tone;
"Liesli's person has perhaps fascinated you,
and allured you into a resolution which you
might hereafter repent. If, at a year's end, your
sentiments in regard to Liesli be still the same
as at this moment, come back to me, and we

62

THE CHURCH-YARD

will talk farther of the matter.” I was considering whether it might not be possible to bring the old man to more reasonable terms, when he took from his cowl a paper, in which he had carefully enveloped an Alpine rose; he delivered it to me. “You have just challenged my conscience,” said he, with a smile. “Liesli sends you this as a token of remembrance. The girl plucked the flower on the way to the place where we parted, bedewed it with her tears, and made me promise to deliver it to you. Do you now doubt my conscience?”

“No, no?” cried I, joyfully pressing the flower to my lips. “And now, that you too may have no doubt of my honour, I no longer desire to know where Liesli is; in a year I shall return and demand her at your hands.”

“Time will shew,” calmly rejoined the recluse, and took leave of me with a request that I would not call again at his cell, as he was going from home, and should be long absent. “But, father!” cried I, “if we should never see each other again! A year is a long time. You are aged and infirm. God may remove you from this world —.”

“In that case apply to the magistracy of this town, to whom my papers will be transferred after my decease; and these will furnish you with farther particulars.”

As harsh and rough as he had at first been,

OF SCHWYTZ.

63

so kindly and cordially did he shake me by the
hand at parting. A presentiment that we
should never meet again must have pervaded
his soul. " God be with thee!" said he, in a
benedictory strain. " May he make his face to
shine upon thee, and be gracious to thee in thy
purpose to deserve the maiden's love! Amen,
Amen!" Hereupon he pursued the way he had
come between the dewy graves, and I never
saw him more.

He was gone—Liesli was gone—I was to
wait a year, and did not even know who Liesli
was. The girl was no longer here, and now
any questions I might ask could not injure her
reputation. I hastened, therefore, with impat-
tient curiosity to my inn. I first sounded my
landlady, who was a talkative woman, concern-
ing the hermit, under the idea, that, as a matter
of course, something would be said about Liesli.

She entertained a profound respect for the
hermit. All the distressed solicited his advice;
he served every one he could with unwearied
assiduity; his conduct was pure and exem-
plary, and his reputation extended far and
wide. I caught every word from the lips of the
panegyrist, and confessed to myself with shame,
that I had harboured a secret suspicion, that the
hermit was not to be trusted. To me his cell
seemed admirably situated for practising impo-
sition under the cloak of sanctity.

I

64

THE CHURCH-YARD

"Is that a relation of his whom I have several times seen at his hermitage?" asked I, and then described Liesli so precisely, that whoever had but once seen her must have recognized my portrait.

"Aye, aye," jocosely replied my hostess; "you had a good mind, I dare say, to turn hermit too—there's a girl for you, indeed! We have many pretty lasses in Schwytz, but not one that comes up to her. You mean Liesli, with the large black eyes, and ——"

"Yes, yes, the same," cried I, interrupting her, transported with joy at having somebody to talk with concerning my beloved Liesli. "But who is this girl?"

"Why that, indeed, nobody can tell exactly. In that dreadful year, 99, when Jellachich, Swarrow and Massena, Soult and Mortier, were in these parts, there was once warm work—I believe it was on the first of October—in the Multa-valley. About a mile hence is the bridge of Ibach—you probably know it: so far the Russians had pushed forward. General Lecourbe, who had landed at Brunnen, fell upon them in the rear, and put them to flight. Immediately after the action a young and handsome lady was brought in; her husband, an officer of distinction, had fallen, and in the first moment of her anguish for his loss she had attempted to make away with herself. Whether

OF SCHWYTZ.

65

he had belonged to the French, the Russians,
or the Austrians, no human being could ever
learn; for the mere mention of her husband was
sufficient to drive her quite distracted, so des-
perately had she loved him. Benevolent people,
here in the town, were very kind to the poor
 creature. She gave lessons in French, Italian,
and music, and earned enough to live in a very
frugal way. She is said to have been from the
environs of Solothurn; but none of her relations
took any notice of her while she was here; she
had probably offended her family by going with
this officer. Half a year afterwards she was
delivered of a child, the same pretty Liesli you
have seen. The mother brought up the girl in
the fear of God, and all of us in the town loved
her as our own child. Now her mother is dead,
the hermit has procured her a situation; he has
taken her along with him, and God bless the
maiden, I say, and prosper her all the days of
her life!”

I involuntarily pressed the hand of the hostess
in return for her prayer for Liesli's future pro-
sperity, and was rejoiced to hear so good a
character of the dear girl from such an impar-
tial reporter; but I was still ignorant of what
I more particularly desired to know.

When alone in my chamber, I harassed myself
with all possible conjectures respecting Liesli's
condition and abode. Was it likely that the

66

THE CHURCH-YARD

hermit would provide thus for the girl, merely
out of duty and friendship, and without any
selfish motive? I was confident that I was my-
self capable of rendering any service in the
world to this angel, but could not believe the
same thing of another. I was jealous, because
Liesli had entrusted the direction of her lot to
his hands and not to mine. I could feel all my
blood rise into my cheeks. I determined to go
again, the next morning, to the hermit's, and a
loaded pistol clapped to his breast, would no
doubt induce him to confess what he had done
with the lovely damsel. Simpleton that I was,
I had suffered him to treat me like an infant in
leading-strings. How the sly old fellow must
chuckle! who could tell what designs he might
himself have upon Liesli! age is no security
against folly. While there was no obstacle to
these designs, the girl was left to herself; but
the moment he discovers that I am not wholly
indifferent to the innocent creature, he tears
her from my arms, shuts her up in some subter-
raneous dungeon about his hermitage, and
keeps her concealed there till I am beyond the
frontiers of the canton: then I may go whither-
soever I please, seek and fret, and worry my-
self as much as I like—'tis all one to him—he
laughs in his sleeve, and Liesli is his—with all
the thousand charms that would have bloomed
for me alone, had not the hypocritical friar
thrust himself between us.

OF SCHWYTZ.

67

Day had not yet dawned, when I was at the door of the hermitage. I thumped, I knocked, I stormed, and called Liesli by her name—no answer, no sound whatever was to be heard. A cow-boy, disturbed by my incessant noise, came down from his alp, and informed me that the hermit had gone a journey, and, according to the report of all his acquaintance in the neighbouring country, he was likely to be absent for several months.

Liesli was lost to me—that was evident—lost beyond hope, beyond retrieve. I was now disgusted with Switzerland. I had had enough of clambering its mountains and glaciers, of sailing upon its lakes; of bestowing alms on its beggars; of contributing to enrich its innkeepers; I had seen enough of its girls—but, for heaven's sake, not another word about the girls of Switzerland! It was like plunging a dagger into my heart, when in company the conversation turned on the Swiss girls, and any one asked me, how I liked them. Away, away from the country, where the highest earthly felicity presented itself to me, and was so cruelly, so abruptly, dashed from my grasp! And yet, no sooner had I turned my back on its sky-capped mountains, than I felt so powerful an attraction to this region of rocks, that I was several times on the point of turning back. I was sure that Liesli was still among the giant mountains of

F 3

68

THE CHURCH-YARD

her native land, else whence this unaccountable
longing that pervaded my bosom ?

The idea of re-visiting Switzerland at the ex-
piration of a year was the only one that sup-
ported my soul in this severe trial. I figured to
myself with exultation the first interview I
should then have with his reverence the hermit.
I vowed to myself that he should not escape out
of my clutches alive, if he had recourse to the
slightest subterfuge respecting Liesli.

Meanwhile, I was not a little tormented by
the people about me. “ A pretty thing indeed !”
said they sneeringly, behind my back—“ now,
after he has seen the world, there is nothing at
home good enough for my gentleman. While
we, who have never been abroad, can find
charms in our own country, which nature has
not quite forgotten in the general distribution
of her gifts ; there he sits mopping, and turns
up his nose at our humble hills, as if they were
the work of moles or pismires. They are no
glaciers to be sure ; but then, do potatoes grow
upon his Swiss ice-craggs, as upon our eminences?
Why the man himself will be a glacier at last,
so cold is he growing to all around him.”

I let them talk, and when I wished particu-
larly to enjoy myself, repaired privately to the
loftiest of their potatoe-alps, and turning to the
distant region where dwelt my Liesli, I im-
plored the zephyrs that played about me, to waft
to her my kisses and my wishes.

OF SCHWYTZ.

69

It wanted just three months till the period,
when I intended to call the hermit to a strict
account. A powerful obstacle now interposed
between this purpose and the probability of its
accomplishment. This obstacle presented itself
in the shape of an appointment to a situation
under government. My friends congratulated,
and the mob envied me; while I would have
given the document, together with the great
seal, and all the calligraphic embellishments,
for a trifle, or indeed gratis; for now a journey
to Switzerland was out of the question. What
would my superiors say, if, only three months
after my appointment, I were to apply for leave
of absence; and yet I could not totally abandon
the bold idea. Love renders all things possible:
I thought of frankly informing the head of the
department, that it was my intention to enter
into the state of holy matrimony, and to solicit
permission to fetch my wife home from her
native country. But—in case I should not find
Liesli, and I were to return home without a wife,
what could he suppose, but that I had met with
a rebuff. Might not this injure me in his esti-
mation, and in that of all my acquaintance? or,
could. I enter into my story of Liesli and the
hermit with a man of business, buried among
official papers, and a total stranger to love
affairs? I had, nevertheless, made up my mind
to pursue the latter course, when, quite unex-

16

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