University of Virginia Library

THE SIEGE OF SOLEURE.

There can hardly be any traditions more interesting
to Americans than those which relate to Switzerland.
The love of liberty, which animated this brave and hardy
race for so many years, is of too kindred a spirit to our
own contest for freedom, not to awaken the most lively
emotions. We read their history, and we feel that they
are brethren—not from the common stock of Adam, but
from sympathy and that power of mind which proclaims
all men free.

The town of Soleure is situated amongst the mountains
of Jura, and along the fertile and romantic vale of
Balstal. It is the capital of the canton which bears the
same name, and is watered by the beautiful river Aar.
The town is small, but neat, and surrounded by stone
fortifications. It claims the honor of having been built
originally by our great father Abraham; and its public
repositories exhibit inscriptions and medals, that give it
the highest title to antiquity.

Perhaps it is not merely in moral qualities that some
resemblance may be traced between our favored land
and this land of beauty. We have rivers that may vie
with theirs in scenery and grandeur, nor can our mountains
be considered mole hills when compared with the
dark Jura or snow crowned Alps. Even the celebrated
fall of the Rhine must yield to our cataract of rushing
waters. That there is more of wild and sublime scenery
condensed in Switzerland is undoubtedly true; and he
who has stood on its summits and lingered in its vallies,
has enjoyed a happiness which will give new associations
to the romantic scenery of this western world.

Hugo Von Bucheg was a venerable burger and chief
magistrate of the town of Soleure. He had long been
regarded as father of the Council, and the people placed
their reliance upon him in every time of danger. His
habits were plain and simple. He had amassed no
wealth, for his services were given and not sold. One
treasure he possessed which he considered beyond all
price, and that was his only child, Ellen. She had
early lost her mother, and had spent her time almost as
she pleased, in wandering about the suburbs of Soleure,
gathering plants for her collections, and accumulating
a stock of health, energy, and cheerfulness. It must
not be supposed that this life of freedom was without
system. It was consistent with Swiss habits and opinions.
`My daughter,' said the old Bucheg, `is studying the
wisest book in the world—that of nature.' And so
thought Ellen; for, except a common school education,
she had had few advantages; yet her mind had expanded
beyond her years, and every object filled it with new
thoughts and associations.

She was yet at a tender age, when her father received
a most earnest letter from his only sister, who resided

in the valley of Lauterbrunn, entreating him to spare
his daughter to her for a few months, representing the
solitude of her own situation, and the want she had of
youthful and cheering society. The last plea he could
not resist, and Ellen was, for the first time, separated
from her father.

She found her aunt, who was a widow, sick and low
spirited. It was a new situation for Ellen. Hitherto
her life had demanded but few sacrifices; but now her
duties began, and day and night she was seated by her
bedside. Sickness often makes people selfish and unreasonable.
The invalid was unwilling to part with her
newly acquired solace for a moment, and Ellen could
only gaze upon the beautiful scenery around her, without
being allowed to plunge into its depths. It was not
till her health and spirits drooped, that she gained permission
to walk at sunset. At first the rapidity with
which she moved along was almost free from thought.
It was recoved liberty; and to gaze upon the heavens,
the waters, and the woods, to feel that she could leap
from rock to rock, could sing her favorite songs, and
disturb no one, was rapture.

As she was returning home, a neat little edifice, which
was built for a place of public worship, arrested her
eye. With slow steps she wound her way through the
burying-ground, and entered the door of the house.
It was perfectly plain, and had none of the picturesque
decorations of a Roman Catholic chapel. Ellen was
educated in the Reformed religion, and the place was
sacred to her. She knelt down and thanked the Supreme
Being for her recovered liberty. `My aunt is a good,
pious woman,' thought she, as she returned home, `and
will not object to my coming here to say my prayers
every night.' When she made the proposal, however,
the invalid objected.

`If you were a Roman Catholic,' said she, `there
would be some sense in walking a mile to say your
prayers.'

`But if I can pray better there than anywhere else,
where is the harm?' said Ellen.

At length the aunt consented, and it was the only
relaxation from constant attendance that she possessed.
Soon, however, Ellen found it expedient to repair to the
chapel to say her morning prayers, and she arose an
hour or two earlier, that she might be back in time to
take her station in the dark and confined chamber of
her aunt when she awoke.

Slight as was the circumstance, it associated her mind
with all that was sublime and beautiful in devotion.
When the glorious sun arose, it was, to her, like the
Creator lifting the curtain of the night and coming forth
from the darkness of his pavilion. As she gazed on
the valley and cottages, and listened to the notes of the
shepherd's pipe, to the tinkling bells of the herds of
cattle, and heard their deep, sonorous voices, she broke
forth in the spirit of Milton;—

Nor were her associations less delightful at the hour
of evening. It was to gaze upon the groups of healthy,
happy children who ran to meet their parents returning
from a day of labor—to see the affectionate wife preparing
her little repast before the door, and all breathing
the language of domestic affection.

She had gazed late on this scene one evening, and
turned slowly away to pursue her path homewards.
As she proceeded, she perceived she should be obliged
to pass a herd of cattle which had no herdsman. Her
habits were fearless, and she did not hesitate. Suddenly
one of the animals sprung furiously from the rest, and

rushed towards her. She looked around, a frightful
death seemed inevitable. To escape by flight was impossible.
At that moment the report of a gun struck
her ear, the animal staggered, groaned, and fell dead at
her feet. A sickness came over her, and she knew
nothing till she found herself supported by a young man
dressed in a military uniform.

`You have saved my life,' she exclaimed.

`It was a fortunate shot,' said he, smiling. `I do n't
often make as good a one, for I have been out all day
and have not brought down any game. My uncle's
house is not very far distant; may I conduct you to it?'

`I must go to my aunt's,' said Ellen, `but I shall
need your assistance to get there.'

He raised her up and gave her his arm, and they
stood a minute to gaze on the powerful animal that lay
stretched before them. The ball had entered his heart.
Not a drop of blood was visible.

`This will make a feast in the valley,' said the youth;
`I will give a fête in honor of your safety; will you not
witness it?'

Ellen sighed to think how impossible it would be to
gain her aunt's consent. At the door the stranger
bowed and left her.

The impression upon the young girl's mind was deep
and lasting. That night her aunt's illness greatly increased.
A despatch was sent for her father, but, before
his arrival, his sister had breathed her last. She
went no more to the chapel, but returned to Soleure
with her father.

Two years passed away, and Ellen's recollections of
the stranger were yet fresh in her mind. `He saved
my life,' said she; `I hope I shall see him again.'
But new scenes were fast crowding upon her, and left
no room for the wanderings of imagination. Leopold,

Duke of Austria, was approaching Soleure with the
avowed resolution of besieging its walls. An inordinate
thirst for victory had taken possession of his mind.
He believed it glory to conquer even the innocent and
free, and he swore to his brother, the emperor, to plant
the Austrian standard on the towers of Soleure.

The attack had commenced, and Ellen stood gazing
on the scene. She neither wept nor spoke, but was
motionless as a marble statue. Her father cast one
glance on her, and hastened where his duty called.
The wailings of women and children for their husbands
and fathers, from whom they were for the first time
separated, the thunder of the cannon which made even
the earth tremble, the cries of exultation and despair,
mingled with the groans of the wounded, all struck
upon the ear of Ellen. She flew from street to street,
forgetful of her own safety, at one moment in search
of her father, and, the next, administering comfort to
those as wretched as herself.

At length the tumult ceased. The thunder of the
cannon was heard no longer, and the glad tidings were
communicated from mouth to mouth that the enemy
were repulsed and had retreated to their encampment.
Scarce had Ellen rejoiced in this intelligence, when she
beheld her father approaching, supported by his friends.
`Merciful Heaven!' she exclaimed, `you are wounded.'

`Come with me, my child,' said he, `and thank the
Supreme Being for this respite from our calamities.
My wound is nothing, but you will bind it up.'

With the tenderest care she applied the emollients
necessary, then, kneeling at his feet, bathed his hand
with her tears. At length her father requested her to
be calm and listen to him.

`We have,' said he, `this time, defended the walls of
Soleure and repulsed the enemy; but they will return
to the attack with new vigor. Our resources are exhausted,
our last ammunition expended, and the banner
of Austria will soon wave over the ruins of this devoted
place; but I have still my duty to perform, and to this
there is but one obstacle. I know what fate awaits you
from a rude and victorious soldiery in the heat of conquest.
There is but one resource—you must repair to
Leopold. He is brave and generous. You will be safe
from insult, and I, free to do my duty as a soldier.
Away! it is my command. Answer me not! Give
this letter to the duke. God bless thee, my dear, my
only treasure!'

Ellen sunk upon her knees and pressed her father's
hand to her lips; but he rushed from her into his room,
and his sobs were audible.

When he came out he gazed upon the bridge over
which Ellen was to pass. Her slight figure was faintly
visible, preceded by a flag of truce, and at length faded
away.

`Now I am childless,' said he; `I have only to die
for my country.'

Surrounded by the chiefs and nobles of his army, sat
Duke Leopold, upon a seat adorned with gold and
purple, which served him for a throne, deliberating
with them upon the most effectual means of attacking
Soleure. The curtain of the pavilion was raised, and
an officer entered and informed him, that a young
woman, the daughter of Bucheg, requested admission.

Leopold looked exultingly upon his nobles. `Has
he sent his daughter to melt our purposes?' said he;
`does he think that youth and beauty can beguile our
resolution? Let her enter, and we will show her that
our blood is warmed only by glory.'

Again the curtain was raised, and Ellen, dressed in
the plainest manner, entered. She approached the
duke and bent one knee to the ground. `Noble prince,'
said she, `I come to you as a petitioner to claim your
protection;' and she placed her father's letter in his
hand.

The duke looked earnestly at her, as did also his
nobles with still greater curiosity. The effort of courage
was over. Her eyes were cast down, and her whole
frame trembled with emotion.

`My lord!' said the duke, addressing an old man
who stood near, `support this young woman to a seat.'
He then unfolded the letter, and read;—

A deep silence prevailed. At length the duke said,
`Upon the line of our encampment let the banner of
the Austrian army be planted, crowned with a green
garland. By this token the magistrate will know that he
has not mistaken Leopold. Count, to you I confide this
young maiden; I know your integrity; your gray hairs,
bleached in the service of your country, are a pledge
of security. Yet one more I desire—it is your son.
I take him for a hostage. You know that I love him

as if he were my own. Therefore, by the value of this
pledge, he will know how highly I estimate my protection,
given to the daughter of Bucheg. But where is
the young count?' continued the duke; `I miss him
unwillingly from among my friends.'

`He is at his post,' answered the father; `I expect
him every moment. In the mean time suffer me to express
my thanks for the confidence you place in me, as
well as for your kindness to my son.'

The old count now took the hand of Ellen, and said,
`You have heard, my dear child, the command of the
duke. I hope you will trust yourself to me.'

As he spoke, his son entered the pavilion. He gazed
at the scene before him in speechless astonishment.
Ellen, too, seemed overcome by her situation. The
deepest blushes suffused her face and neck, while her
eyes were cast down and her heart beat with violence.

`You wonder, my young friend,' said the duke, `how
this fair creature came among us rough warriors; but
you will be still more astonished when you learn that
you must welcome her as your sister. She is the only
daughter of the magistrate of Soleure. Her father has
confided her to me, and I give her in trust to yours, and
thus is the mystery explained. But I am convinced the
young lady must need rest and refreshment. Therefore
I request you to see that she is properly lodged
and guarded.'

With what delight did the young count receive this
command! A tent was immediately devoted to the protegé
of the duke, and Ellen, once more alone, exclaimed,
`I have found him at length—the preserver of my life!
whose image for three years has filled my waking and
sleeping hours! Alas! how have I found him? in arms
against my country, against my father and my fellow
citizens! Already his name has inspired me with terror,

for he has been first in the attack. What is my worthless
life in comparison with the liberty and safety of my
country? Oh! how have I wasted years in the expectation
of meeting its preserver, and now I find him my
bitterest foe.'

Her tears fell in torrents. There is no calamity so
hard to bear as that which overthrows years of self-delusion.
Ellen had lost no actual good; but the castle
she had erected was now laid prostrate, and she stood,
desolate, amongst its ruins.

The darkness of night came on. The rain had descended
for several days and it now fell in torrents.
Yet still the young count walked as centinel around
the tent which contained his father's charge. He had
recognised in her the beautiful girl that he had so fortunately
befriended in the valley of Lauterbrunn, and
though, since that event, he had often thought of her,
his was an active and busy life, and he had not, like
Ellen, wasted days and years in castle building. Man
yields to present emotion, but woman can live on ideal
happiness. He fully believed that he should see her no
more, and had ceased to think of her; whereas she had
considered her destiny as united to his, and looked forward
with confidence to the moment they should meet.
It was not with indifference that the young man now
beheld her. A tide of passion rushed over his soul.
Perhaps he read his influence in the depth of her
emotion. He gazed upon the tent she occupied, and
wished it were his duty to share it with her. `But this
can never be,' thought he. `To-morrow, soon as the
morning dawns, I must be first to prostrate the walls of
her native place, and perhaps I am doomed to destroy
her father. Would that I had never seen her, and then
I should have gone cheerfully to the battle!' A new
idea struck him. Perhaps Ellen might have influence

enough to persuade her father to surrender, without
risking fruitless opposition; at least he would make the
attempt. With cautious steps he approached the curtain,
and spoke in a low voice.

`Who calls?' said Ellen.

`It is your guard, Count Papenheim,' said he. `May
I ask a conference with you? I have business to communicate
respecting your father.'

Ellen made no reply, and, raising the curtain, he
entered. The traces of tears were still on her face.

`I come,' said he, `to inform you, that early tomorrow
morning we attack the walls of Soleure. They
must fall, all opposition will be useless. The lives that
are dear to you may be sacrificed in their defence, and
the blood of your citizens deluge the streets; but it is
all in vain. I come, then, to beg you to use your influence
with your father to spare this useless conflict.
Write, and I will see that he has the letter before
morning. Tell him that we know the state of the town;
that it is without ammunition, and that the walls are
tottering. By resisting, ruin is inevitable, by capitulating,
he may obtain honorable terms.'

When the young man entered Ellen had flung herself
on a seat, pale, trembling, and shrinking from his view;
but, as he proceeded, the color mantled in her cheeks,
and when he had ended, she stood erect. `Rely not
too much on the weakness of our resources,' said she;
`it is for freedom we are contending, and every man feels
that he is a host. Do you think that if my father would
listen to terms, he would have sent me, his only child,
among his enemies for protection? No! he will shed
the last drop of his blood for his country, and were I to
propose capitulation, he would spurn my letter. You
must do your duty; but remember that it is against the
innocent you war, and make not the life you once preserved,'

continued she, bursting into tears, `valueless,
by taking that of my father.'

It is said there is wonderful power in woman's tears,
and so it would seem, for the young man appeared for
a moment to forget his errand. At length he said,
`I give you my solemn word that your father's life, as
far as it is consistent with my duty, shall be guarded
with my own.'

`You will know him,' said she, `by his white hair,
by his firm, yet mild demeanour, by his resolution to
die rather than yield. But,' added she, with dignity,
`every citizen resembles him in this determination; all
are my fathers or brothers.'

A loud noise was heard at a distance. The soldier
rushed from the tent. A fearful strife had begun, of a
nature which baffled the might of man.

It is well known with what overwhelming fury the
Aar sometimes rushes along, destroying and laying
waste the country through which it passes. Six days of
incessant rain had increased its waters to an alarming
height, and besides deluging the country around, its
waves rose alarmingly high, and spurned all restraint.
The greatest consternation prevailed throughout the
army. All were in motion. The only hope that remained
was from the bridge that bound both shores.
It was built of stone, and they hoped it might resist the
force of the waters, and, to secure this object, was their
immediate aim. It was necessary to load it with immense
weight, and Leopold ordered men and horses to
this post. `It is our only chance,' said he; `if the
bridge gives way we are lost.'

The danger every moment increased. Nothing could
exceed the horror of the scene. The darkness of the
night making more terrible the groans and cries of those
who waited on the shore the frightful death that was

approaching. The Austrians, who had so lately threatened
immediate destruction to the devoted town of
Soleure, stood with their conquering banners in their
hands. What mighty arm could now help them in their
need! There was but one, and that seemed already
raised for their destruction.

It was now that the danger reached its crisis. The
bridge tottered to its base, yet it still stood, when, as if
to mock their fruitless efforts, the wind suddenly arose,
the few remaining soldiers rushed on it, and, amid the
howling of the storm and the cries and exclamations of
the army, the bridge suddenly gave way, and the waters
rushed over them!

Now were the gates of Soleure thrown open and the
inhabitants issued forth with desperate resolution. In
a moment the wild and tempestuous Aar was covered
with rafts and boats. Fearless of the death that threatened,
they pursued their object, and, by their flaming
torches, discovered the victims who were sinking.
Every measure was used, and the greater part saved,
conveyed to the town, and the gates immediately closed.

By the light of the torches, Leopold beheld what was
going forward. He saw his army in the hands of the
enemy and not a possibility of preventing it. `Shame!
shame!' he cried, `unheard of cruelty, to sieze such a
dreadful moment of public calamity to satisfy their murderous
thirst for human life, to condemn their fellow
beings to a second death! My brave soldiers and companions!
would that you had sunk beneath the wave!
It is frightful! it deserves revenge and shall have it—
bloody revenge. The walls of Soleure shall be laid
prostrate, and every citizen pay with his life this horrible
outrage; and as for Bucheg—ha! well thought of,'
cried he, starting up, `have I not the weapon in my
hand that will pierce his heart? The ungrateful wretch!

Did I not receive his daughter with the tenderness of a
parent? did I not give my word to protect her? His
baseness exceeds human comprehension. Go,' he exclaimed
to one of his attendants, `bring the girl here.
Her father shall bitterly repent of his outrage.'

`My noble lord, and prince,' said the young Count
Papenheim, his eyes sparkling with fire, and his cheeks
glowing with emotion, `I am the youngest of your
guards; but if none else will speak, I will beseech
you, for the sake of your plighted word, not to withdraw
your protection. You are just and good; do not in a
moment of anger commit a deed that you will forever
repent.' At this moment Ellen appeared. She was
pale, and evidently suspected some new calamity awaited
her. The father of the young count gazed sternly
upon him. `What means this unwonted excitement?'
said he. `Is it for mercy only you plead? I marked
your confusion the first time you saw this young woman
in the pavilion of the duke; what am I to believe?'

`My dearest father,' said the count, seizing his hand,
`it was not the first time that I had seen her. It was on
a visit to my uncle in the valley of Lauterbrunn that I
met her. I knew not her name, and though I have often
thought of her, had given up all expectation of seeing
her again. I see, my prince,' continued he, raising his
eyes to the duke, `that you hear my acknowledgment with
scorn and suspicion. It is now too late for concealment.
I love her, and, kneeling, implore your mercy for her.'

The duke looked angry and perturbed, and cast
gloomy and threatning glances around him. His nobles
spoke not a word. All was still; even the storm was
hushed, and the roaring of winds and waters had ceased.
Ellen had supported herself to the utmost, but, overcome
by terror and emotion, was sinking to the ground,
when the young count rushed forward to support her.

`Away!' exclaimed the duke, `they shall both be
put under guard.'

At that moment a page entered and informed the
duke that his army were returning with the magistrate
at their head.

`Oh! my father!' exclaimed Ellen, springing forward.

The duke and his nobles gazed upon each other with
astonishment. `Let him enter,' exclaimed the duke,
sternly.

In a moment the venerable Bucheg appeared before
him. `My lord,' said he, `I deliver to you the men
whose lives we saved. All that their forlorn situation
required we have administered. I come in the name of
my fellow citizens to restore them to you as fellow men.
To-morrow it will be our hard lot to fight them as foes.
But I have one condition to make. Twelve of our citizens
have lost their lives in saving your army. Their
families are left destitute. Should you enter our town
as a conqueror, protect the widows, orphans, and aged
parents of these victims to humanity. When Soleure is
no longer free I shall be no more; but I die willingly
for my country, confiding in the protection you have
promised to my daughter.'

Overcome by the magnanimity of Bucheg, the duke
sprung from his seat, and threw his arms around him.
`My heart will cease to beat,' said he, `and the blood
to flow in my veins, when I enter Soleure as a conqueror.
Witness, thou, its venerable magistrate! and you,
ye nobles! hear me, when I declare to you, what I will
repeat in the face of the world. In the name of the
emperor Frederick, I declare Soleure a free and independent
state. To-morrow morning I will enter its walls,
not as a conqueror, but as a guest, and, with your permission,
plant upon its walls my banner, that it may
remain as a token of my friendship and gratitude to future

generations, and towards the noble magistrate, the
father and protector of his country's freedom.

`But I have another duty to perform. Count Papenheim!
my old and well tried friend! will you grant a
request from your prince?'

A smile from the old man said more than words.

`My new found friend!' said he, addressing Bucheg,
`will you take this young man, whom I love as a son,
for your son-in-law? If your daughter declines, I have
nothing more to say.' The look of joy, of tenderness,
of blushing modesty, that she cast on the young count,
as, with a soldier's impetuosity, he threw his arms around
her, spoke no aversion even to the unprepared father.

`Take her, then,' said he, `it is all mystery, but I
trust in the goodness of that Being who has already
changed our mourning to joy.'

From this time Soleure has been joined to the Helvetic
League, and acknowledged as a free and independent
state.