It was once the capital of a miniature
republic, shut up between the Alps and the Lake, and accessible on the
land side only by foot-paths. The whole force of the republic did
not exceed six hundred fighting men; and a few miles of circumference,
scooped out as it were from the bosom of the mountains, comprised
its territory. The village of Gersau seemed separated from the rest of
the world, and retained the golden simplicity of a purer age. It had a
small church, with a burying-ground adjoining. At the heads of the
graves were placed crosses of wood or iron. On some were affixed
miniatures, rudely executed, but evidently attempts at likenesses of
the deceased. On the crosses were hung chaplets of flowers, some
withering, others fresh, as if occasionally renewed. I paused with
interest at this scene; I felt that I was at the source of poetical
description, for these were the beautiful but unaffected offerings
of the heart which poets are fain to record. In a gayer and more
populous place, I should have suspected them to have been suggested by
factitious sentiment, derived from books; but the good people of
Gersau knew little of books; there was not a novel nor a love poem
in the village; and I question whether any peasant of the place
dreamt, while he was twining a fresh chaplet for the grave of his
mistress, that he was fulfilling one of the most fanciful rites of
poetical devotion, and that he was practically a poet.
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