University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

—The Mountains.
Enter Hertman, 2 E. L. H.
Hert.
Hillio! hillio! Albert, hillio!

Enter Albert, 2 E. L. H.
Alb.
Tush, man! I am not deaf, that you should shout
So lustily as though you wished to bring
An avalanche upon our witless heads.
Did'st ever look upon so fair a scene? [Looking off, L.]


Hert.
On many, and oft on this. Marry, I love not
Your bleak unmannered mountains,
Whose boisterous storms shew not more favour
To the velvet mantle than the rustic cloth.
The sprinkling Old Pontius gave us but just now
Hath set me shaking like the Knapstein rock—
So let us on, or Stantz will not welcome us
To-night. See, the sun is in yon valley.

Alb.
(Who has been attentively looking at the prospect.)
Thirteen broad lakes! By Heaven, I marvel not
These Swiss are jealous of their rights and name,
Had I been born one, I had been more proud
Of these wild hills than all the marble dwellings
Kings are housed in.

Hert.
Methinks, Count Rudolph
Would not be over grateful for such thoughts.
But, prithee, on; I must to night be found
At Stantz. Come, Albert! thour't like a foolish girl
That loves whate'er is newest.

Alb.
I'faith, not I—
I love but what is nature. When could man
With all his reason's art, so grand a pile
Erect or fashion, as her gigantic thought,
Hath rais'd in these high hills? Where a carpet spread
Of such bright hues, or yielding texture,
As her luxuriant fancy
Hath wowen for these valleys? Where a dome
More lofty or more fair than these tall pine tops?

Hert.
A truce to sentiment. If thy philosophy
Can make these stones good cheer,
These streams convert to palatable wine,
Then would I tarry, shouldst thou preach till midnight
But as I doubt its power, I'd fain be stirring.

Alb.
Have with thee, then! Thou hast a soul too small
To gather pleasure but from sensual things;
That which can feed thy body's appetite,
And tend to profit, hath all charms for thee.
Hertman, thou'lt thrive when I shall be a beggar.

Hert.
Give me substantial things: they're my philosophy.

[Exeunt 1 E. R. H.

SCENE II.

—A Valley.
William, Antoine, Bertha, Gortz, and Peasantry, discovered.
[Music. William receives the congratulations of his friends.]
Ant.
(Comes down R. H.)
Thank ye, friends, thank ye.

Ber.
(Advances.)
My sister—
For now thou art so—though not more sister
Than my love had made thee, when first thy ear
Catches' the music of thy hunter's horn,
And seems to thee the sweetest melody
That ever gladdened it (for it will tell
Of safety to thy William), think of her
To whom its sound hath lent the chamois speed,
That love might satisfy each anxious fear
For him whose heart she could but share with thee.

[They embrace.
Ant.
(Observing William.)
He looks most nobly.

Ber.
Yes! my father's eye
Is mirror'd in his own. The fire of daring thoughts,
Good as they are daring, light it up, that
Tamer spirits cannot look upon it.
The eagle only gazes on the sun.

Ant.
Oh, fond idolatress! If thus the good
Which bounteous Nature gave thee at his birth
Is priz'd beyond all other good thou'st known,
How wilt thou worship when thy heart hath found
Its imaged self, as I have found in him.

Ber.
I cannot solve thy riddle, having forsworn
Love and its perils.

Ant.
At what convent's shrine?
Thou art no woman if thou canst not love;
Thou'lt be inconstant to thy vow, I'd swear it;
Thou'lt be in love ere long.

Wil.
(Advances.)
By St. Dominic,
Thou sham'st my love, sweet Bertha, by this care.

Ber.
No wonder, if thou'st felt all wedlock's fears.

Wil.
How hast thou grown a judge in Hymen's court
Who ever laugh'd at love? Thou'lt weep for't yet.

Ber.
A pair of seers! for Antoine has foretold
That I shall be in love.

Wil.
Then spoke she well;
Though not as wife should speak, her husband's thought.

Ant.
I am so newly wed, I have not learn'd
The mute obedience that a husband claims.
I cannot lose the wooer—at least not yet.

Wil.
Nor shall'st thou. Womens' reigns are short
As those of tyrants should be.

Enter Arnold, U. E. L. H.
Arn.
Right, boy, right.
[To Antoine.]
Thou hear'st how William loves a tyrant.
The time may come, and that ere one short month,
When tyranny will totter on the throne
It rais'd on Switzerland's liberties.
Couldst thou, in that hour of general sacrifice,
Tear thee from his neck, and bid him to the field,
Though phalanx'd thousands stood array'd in steel
Against our mountain warrior's uncas'd breast—
Whose only armour was the holy hope,
Of giving freedom to his native land?

Ant.
I could, and as I arm'd him for the fight,
(For he should need no armourer but myself)
I'd tell him that his life was Switzerland's:
Her gift, and if she claim'd it back, to pay it,
Though it would beggar my poor heart for ever.

Enter Eberhard, from Cottage, U. E. R. H.—[He salutes the Group.]
Arn.
My boy! she is worthy of thee and thy love.
O liberty! how priceless is thy worth—
How vast, how indefinable thy greatness,
When love of thee can win young hearts away
From e'en their natural idolatries!

Eber.
Arnold—children, I feel so blest—so gay,
That joy asks more than smiles to tell its fullness.
My cheeks are wet, but they are gladsome drops
That down them stream.

Arn.
And so we hail them, brother,
For though they seem the offspring of some grief,
We know them to be gladsome, and do greet them
As the dark shadows of the coming storm,
When the earth thirsts for moisture, though they mar
Awhile the sky's serenity.

Omnes.
The Lammergeyer!

[All the Characters cross to U. E. L. H. William strings his bow and is about to shoot,]
Arn.
Hold, boy! the bouquetin descries her enemy,
Look, friends! how well the little goat defends
Her offspring's safety! The lammergeyer
Extends his deadly talons idly forth,
But dares not strike; the weaker looks the stronger:
Round and round he whirls, but still he meets
The steady gaze of the poor bouquetin,
And quails before it, for it looks resolve;
And he that fights alone to gratify
His carrion appetite, doth dread the contest,
For now he's to the hills again!
Men! men!
That tamely crouch beneath the Austrian's frown,
Do not your pale cheeks burn with honest shame
That a poor goat, should from mere instinct, strike
For that your reason tells you is most good,
But trembling at the danger of a death,
Forego the good from terror of the ill.

[A shriek is heard without.
Voices.
(Without.)
The vulture hath borne a child into the mountains!

Arn.
To'ards Mount Pilate his flight appears directed.
Be wary of your steps—we cannot spare a man.
[Some of the Peasantry rush up the rocks U. E. R. H.
'Tis vain! 'tis vain! he bears him to yon craig!
Ah! now he strikes!
No! no! he seems to totter on the ledge's brink
As though he were the victim. He falls! he falls!
And on the slippery path a mountaineer
Appears.
His garb is not of Switzerland;
He must be Austrian—no, no; he has a hunters step;
And we owe Austria nothing—but our hate.
Enter Albert U. E. R. H. [The Woman rushes forward, followed by Peasantry.]
One who was never wont
To mock his thoughts by words, doth thank thee, sir.
Switzerland may need him.

Alb.
No words, I pray ye,
But let your thanks be shewn in the resuming
Of your sports.

Eber.
(L. H. corner.)
You bleed, sir?

Alb.
It is not worth a thought;
I prithee heed me not to mar your festival.

Arn.
The thoughts alone of blood would do it, sir.
Our men are only shadows of their sires;
They almost sicken when the chamois falls,
Lest they should fall so, and leave a world
They scarce dare speak above their bated breath in.
We'll in, sir, lest this colour blanch their cheeks.
[Bertha advances L. H. C.
Come hither, child—
This gallant youth hath ta'en some little hurt,
And we must play the leech.

Ber.
Most readily.

Arn.
(Crosses behind to R.)
Now, please you with us, Bertha is well skilled—

Alb.
Bertha! my mother's name was Bertha!
She lov'd the mountains, too, and oft would stray
With me alone, e'en when I was a child,
Away into the hills, and seat her on some craig
And weep, like an imprison'd bird that thirsted
For its native woods and their free air again;
And as I climb'd some jutting rock, whose height
I now o'ertop, (which to my puny strength
Did then appear a mountain) she would smile
And say her boy should be a hunter.

Arn.
(Earnestly.)
You were born—

Alb.
Methinks at Kyeburg,
For there my earliest recollections concentrate.
My father was an Austrian.

Arn.
Enough, enough!
Your wound bleeds freely. I'll lead the way.

[Exeunt Arnold, Bertha, Eberhard, and Albert, into Cottage —Gortz, who has been busy with the group, advances L. H.]
Gortz.
Now, neighbours, prithee range yourselves.
Antoine and William lead off—myself and Bertha
Follow next, But where is Bertha?

Wil.
Gone to assist my father in an act
Of duty—to attend the wounded Austrian.

Gortz.
And keep the dance waiting?

Wil.
No need of that,
Good Gortz—you shall take Antoine's hand.
I know not why, I cannot but be sad.

Gortz.
Yes, but Antoine is not Bertha. Prithee think,
I have expended a long week's earnings
In ribbons, hose, and buckles; all are new;
Thrice nigh broke my neck, in practising
The most engaging steps upon the peak;
Up at sunrise to arrange my points
That I might lack no grace these things could give,
And now I'm not to dance with Bertha?
Is it not sad—grievously sad, William?

Wil.
Most sad, to thee who hast no thought or hope
Beyond a holyday. I'faith, I know not
But thou art happier in thy folly.

Gortz.
True, William, true—still I am no fool.
I know if I've a tight shoe I can but
Take it off; and if I had a ducat
I should need change from a breastknot. You see
I'm no fool, though loving folly.
But Arnold dreams all day, and talks it too,
Of cutting Austrian throats: and now, forsooth,
One bleeds, and he must tend him—and Bertha—

Wil.
Peace, fool! his acts outreach thy reason.

Gortz.
Fool! fool! If I've a tight shoe I can but
Take it off. Fool! If I had a ducat
I should need change from a breastknot, I, fool!

Enter Hertman, U. E. R. H.
Hert.
Where is my friend? In this chalet?

Gortz.
To answer that one needs must know his name.
Is that a fool's question, prithee?

Hert.
His name is Albert. Can thy wit answer?

Gortz.
Wit, sir! wit! I lack not wit. Had I a—

Wil.
If it is he who bravely struck the vulture,
He is within.

Enter Antoine.
Gortz.
Having his wounds dressed.
[Exeunt William and Hertman.
I had had wit enough to have said “thanks,”
Had I questioned and he answered. Faugh!

Ant.
Prithee, Gortz, be not so angry. Whose taste
But thine could have such ribbons cull'd
From out the mercer's store: or having cull'd,
Their tints in contrast could have so arrang'd?
Whose hose like thine—

Gortz.
And thou might add—leg, too.

Ant.
The hose and leg are both upon a par.

Gortz.
Thou think'st me, then, no fool, nor witless?
If I've a ducat—

Ant.
None could so wisely spend it.

Enter Arnold, Hertman, Bertha, Albert (with his arm bound), and William, from the Cottage.
Arn.
Our tracks, then, lie together. I'll be your guide
To Underwalden—and what our homely
Chalet can afford shall gladly be your friend's.
We owe him much for Switzerland.

Alb.
Your thanks have more than paid me.

[Distant thunder.
Hert.
Methinks, friend,
That your hills give but a boisterous welcome
To us of the city.

Alb.
(To Bertha.)
How such fair flowers
Can blossom 'midst your tempests, doth exceed
The depths of my philosophy to solve.

Ber.
We love them; for they have rocked our cradles,
Have been the partners of our childhood's hours,
And taught us to look up to him who guides them,
And estimate the worth of human power.

Arn.
Aye, Bertha, they have taught us this, and more;
They've taught us that their master only should be man's,
And we deem the hearts that are so fitted
To these hills should be their only rulers.
I've stood upon the mountain top, and seen
The calmness of a summer's evening chang'd
Into a war of tempest. Flash after flash
Lighted up chasms the bright sun never blest
And the loud thunder, like yon mountain stream,
Bounding along, kissing each jutting rock,
In fearful love, and a hundred echoes
Told to a hundred more the tempest secret,
Until their lusty voices congregated seem'd
To syllable the word that wak'd the world!
And then, anon, the elemental sport
Hath chang'd to sunshine, and the vale beneath
Seemed freshen'd by the game. At many a porch
Some hardy mountaineer stood with his eyes
Towards heaven, in silent thankfulness
That God had only told him of his power.
I've stood on that same peak and gazed beneath.
No sound was heard but the soft hum of men;
The warm sun was beautiful, and the glad soil
Shone with its smiles, but every eye around
Was earthwards bent in thoughtful sadness.
For man hath warr'd with man, and tyranny
Hath built her altar there, and every gift
Of goodliness and joy she asks as sacrifice.

Hert.
(Impatiently.)
We will resume our course.

Arn.
I ask your pardon, sirs. I had forgotten
The courtesy I owe ye; but in that valley
My father's father's bones are mingled,
And every flower which springs in beauty there
Hath root in some affection. These hills,
Which unto you appear but shapeless piles
Seem to my eyes beyond the sculptor's art.
Yon mountain rivulet's unvarying song
Hath for my rugged ear a melody
Which shames the silvery language of the harp.
Shall not the land which holds such spells as these
Be lov'd with all the heart's idolatry?
This land is mine—and though th'oppressor's will
Hath made a wilderness where all was fair—
Though Austrian pride— [Hertman points to the badge of Austria upon his arm.]
—True—the storm hath
Pass'd away. [As they are going William and Antoine kneel.]


Wil.
Your blessing, father!

Arn.
May he that form'd the hills keep ye who tread them
Free! that your young hearts may have no pause
In your joyful songs of gratitude to him
Who made ye in his semblance!
Thus, I bless ye!
And now, farewell! nor in your songs forget
The praises of the immortal Tell!

[Arnold ascends the rock with Bertha, Albert, and Hertman]
CHORUS.
Long as our hills shall be,
We must remember thee,
Tell! Tell!

Echo.
Tell!


Hark, how the rocks reply,
To brave Tell's memory—
Remember Tell!

Echo.
Tell!